As students were dropped off each morning this week, they noticed something a bit peculiar. Large mounds of dirt had appeared on the field to the right of them as they walked toward the school. Initially, nobody knew why they were there until the school announced it was to build a fence for a softball field. “That’s odd,” a cynical Senior observed, “I’ve never known this school to care about the softball team.”

That’s where it should’ve stopped. But not for Noah Eliot Tigay Meyerhoff, no, not for me. I just HAD to go looking for trouble. See, I, as the diligent newsperson that I am, decided to take on some investigative reporting. I took my camera, and I went out onto the field to peer into the ditches myself. What I saw out there, in the dead of night, shook me to my core. Underneath the mounds, there were people—dead people—staring back at me. I tossed my lantern to the ground and broke into a sprint, swearing I would never tell a soul. But that night, as the faces swirled around in my mind, I realized that I knew these kids! They were my classmates, from my APUSH Class! That is, they were my classmates before they were utterly murdered by the Cold War SAQs.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw them at school the next day. You might have noticed them, too. The kids with lifeless eyes tiredly shuffling down Q-hall are not just exhausted, they are the restless dead. They’re the students staring into endless space during the lecture on the Chesapeake Bay Colonies, with nothing on their mind but hunger for brains and the House of Burgesses. Not all of them became zombies, though. A few lost their physical bodies altogether, their spirits tied to our mortal world only because of some unfinished business.

That’s why, if you listen closely in the bathrooms, you can hear someone mindlessly reciting their Incubator product pitch. True story: I stepped out of English one day to wash my hands, and while I was in there, the lights all shut off. Freaky. But then, a chill ran up my spine and I heard the voice of a nervous boy whispering. “Don’t you just hate when you’re haunting some classroom but the kids just run away immediately?” He asked. “Well, Not anymore. Say hello to the ‘Active Threat in X-Hall,’ that forces kids to stay in their classroom while you levitate their desks.”

Anyway, the ghostbusters will not return my calls anymore. They say that this is all “perfectly normal,” and that I need to “calm down.” Am I crazy?

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