Rain and wind slapped against the side of my friend’s house. It was an old, creaky house in the northeast, and thunder shook the walls. My friend and I didn’t mind, though. Nestled on a worn couch in the small den, we relished in the solace of that poorly lit, cramped space—a comfort amidst the storm understood only by people who have lived in cold, rainy places. A shared sense of victory, too, enflamed our spirits. Finals week was almost over. I had only had one task remaining—to pen the last paragraph of my final essay. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating rain drops creeping down the window. Thunder crashed, shaking the lonely house. Little did I know, my victory dance was about to turn into a macabre tango of terror. 

As I wrote the conclusion, a feeling nagged at me. What it was, exactly, I couldn’t quite say. Everything should have been easy. I had four hours until the submission deadline and only a conclusion to write. Despite this, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread gnawing at my bones.

I poured through the source material that was the theoretical framework for my essay. Line after line, I frantically scanned the words. My blood curdled. Aghast, I realized the error I had committed. Thunder resounded outside and the lights flickered. I had misunderstood the source material. My whole essay was wrong. Thunder shook the house’s foundations (I might be embellishing these admittedly well-timed thunderclaps, but it’s for the story’s sake).

Panic seized my breast. My first instinct was to flee, and that I did. I escaped down the hall. Faded photographs of long dead family members passed by. Their eyes followed me—leering, judging, mocking. They knew my sin, a hubris of the highest order. 

I rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door, cowering on the floor amidst the glowering darkness. A rap, tap, tap came upon the door. Like Cocytus, my heart froze. Imminently, I awaited my undead essay to follow me. Would it slip through the lock? Would it float through the cracks? I knew not.

Alas, a familiar voice brought comfort. It was merely my friend, inquiring after the reason for my disquieting demeanor. He knew not the monster that haunted me—he could not see it. Only I realized my solitary fate; I alone needed to atone for the terror I wrought. 

I returned to the dim room. The light cast a ghastly glow upon the corpse of my essay, and as I stared upon its dastardly visage, a sinister frenzy took me. I ripped it apart and scoured the source material for new quotes. Like Dr. Frankenstein, from the torn pieces of putrefied writing I crudely crafted a new monster, stronger and more potent than the former. I stitched together dead words to make alive new sentences. Once I strung together my deviant masterpiece, I inserted a new thesis—the heart of every essay. New life flowed through the monstrosity. The clock rang, tolling midnight. I clicked submit just in time. 

I have since moved to a warmer climate and am no longer plagued by stormy nights. However, on particularly still evenings, when the moonlight looms in inky blackness, my thoughts drift back to that frightful eve. I fear it will haunt me to my academic grave. My professor never knew. No one ever knew. It was a secret I kept to myself . . . until now. I share it as a warning, that your soul need not bear the same burdens as mine.

***

Jonathan Krapf is a senior English literature major at Concordia. He loves animals of all shapes and sizes. He and his wife currently own two guinea pigs (although he also enjoys feeding the ducks and the squirrels that live in their apartment complex), and they hope to eventually own a farm with some livestock. In addition to being an English lit student, he has an A.S. in health sciences and has worked professionally in healthcare for quite a few years. His ultimate goal is to get into the nursing program at Concordia. So, whether your papers are literary analysis, history, theology or science, Jonathan has got some experience and looks forward to learning with you.