On Halloween night, the club brought eight strangers together in an empty classroom for Truth or Dare. The rule: confess to a “murder.” Not wanting to ruin the mood, I made up a clumsy crime story. The gloomy guy next to me muttered about pushing his cousin into a well as a kid. A sweet-faced freshman timidly admitted to poisoning her friend’s moisturizer with acid over a crush. Another, bookish student calmly described dissolving his stepmother over a denied allowance. I thought everyone was just trying too hard to fit in. After the game, we returned to our dorms. The next morning, police sirens woke me. The academic building was sealed off. My advisor, pale with terror, informed me the seven others from the game were all dead—each matching their confessed “crimes.” On my desk, police found a blood-drawn smiley face and a note: “Eight players, seven confessions. Only you, the liar, are spared.” 1 The incessant wail of sirens and the murmur of a crowd below my window finally dragged me from sleep. My head was splitting, as if I’d chugged a bottle of cheap vodka the night before, even though I’d only had a few sips of a soft drink. I stumbled to the window and peered down. My breath hitched. The quad below was a sea of flashing blue and red lights. Police cars were everywhere. The old, decrepit academic building where we’d been last night was wrapped in yellow caution tape, its entrance swarming with uniformed officers, their faces grim. A crowd of students huddled at a distance, whispering, their expressions a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. My heart began to pound a nervous rhythm against my ribs. What happened? A fire? A break-in? Just then, a sharp, urgent knock rattled my dorm room door. Standing outside was Mr. Davison, my advisor, his face a shade of gray I’d never seen before. Flanking him were two police officers, their sharp eyes sweeping over my small room. “Ivy Morgan?” Mr. Davison’s voice was hoarse. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine, Mr. Davison. What’s going on down there?” I asked, confused. The older of the two officers spoke, his tone all business. “Miss Morgan, please get dressed and come with us. We have some questions for you.” A cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I followed them downstairs, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body. The closer we got to the old academic building, the stronger the smell in the air became—a faint, cloying mix of sweet rust. They led me to a makeshift incident room in a nearby administrative office. More police were inside, and the air was thick with a tension so heavy it was hard to breathe. “Ivy Morgan, did you attend a freshman mixer in room 304 of the academic building last night?” a senior-looking officer asked. The insignia on his shoulder told me he was in charge. I nodded. “Yes. It started around ten, I think.” “And after it ended? Where did you go? Who were you with?” “It was almost midnight when we finished. We all just went back to our dorms. I walked back alone, got ready for bed, and went to sleep.” I answered honestly, the knot of dread in my stomach twisting tighter. “Officer, what happened?” The senior officer exchanged a look with my advisor. Mr. Davison swallowed hard, his voice trembling when he spoke. “The seven other students… who were in room 304 with you last night… they… something happened to them.” My mind went blank. A roar filled my ears. “Happened? What do you mean?” “It means they’re all dead,” the officer said, his voice cold and blunt, each word a shard of ice in my ear. “Time of death is estimated between one and three this morning. Causes of death… vary. But they were all brutal.” Seven people… all dead? The seven students who were alive just last night, laughing and making up horrible stories… gone? 2 My legs gave out, and I nearly collapsed. A female officer caught me just in time. “We’ve checked the security footage,” the senior officer continued, his eyes locked on mine, leaving no room for evasion. “You were the first to leave room 304, and you did go straight back to your dorm. But we need you to recount every detail of last night, especially that ‘game.’” I sat in the chair they offered, my hands ice-cold. A policewoman handed me a cup of hot water, but I couldn’t feel its warmth. I forced myself to calm down, to remember. I started from the beginning, from the moment I walked into that classroom. When I got to the strange icebreaker game—“Truth or Dare”—I paused, then explained the rule: We all had to confess to a ‘murder’ we’d committed. Across from me, the officer’s brow furrowed. “So, you were playing a game… where you described murders you’d committed?” His voice was laced with disbelief and suspicion. “Not real murders!” I explained hastily. “We all knew it was just a role-playing thing, like a murder mystery game! Our club is the Suspense and Detective Society, and it was Halloween night. A game like that is supposed to be thrilling…” “Fun? Thrilling?” a younger officer, taking notes, muttered under his breath, his eyes wide with incredulity. I swallowed, unable to respond. I just kept talking. I told them about the cliché hit-and-run story I’d made up. Then about the gloomy guy, Kevin, who had mumbled about pushing his smarter cousin into a well. Then the sweet-faced girl, Tina, who had timidly confessed to mixing acid into her friend’s face cream. And finally, the nerdy guy, Ryan, who had adjusted his glasses and calmly described dissolving his stepmother with chemicals. “…I just thought they were all being overly dramatic,” I said, my voice trailing off as I saw the expressions on the officers’ faces grow darker and darker. The senior officer held up a hand, stopping me. “Are you sure… that these stories were ‘made up’?” “Weren’t they?” The chill that had been creeping up my spine shot straight to the top of my head. He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he took several crime scene photos from a folder and slid them across the table. He covered most of the images with his hand, but the small corners that were visible—a twisted limb, an unnatural discoloration, a blurred, dark red background—were enough to make my stomach churn. “According to the preliminary report,” the officer said, his voice low and steady, every word a hammer blow to my nerves, “Kevin’s body shows signs consistent with death by drowning.” “Tina’s face was severely corroded by a chemical agent. An overturned jar of face cream was found next to her.” “And Ryan… what’s left of him is a partially dissolved mass of human tissue, consistent with exposure to a strong acid.” My breath caught in my throat. A wave of cold washed over me, freezing me to the bone. Could it be? The stories they told last night… they weren’t stories at all? They were their deepest, darkest, bloodiest secrets. “No… that can’t be! How is that possible?” I stammered, shaking like a leaf in a storm. “Who would confess to something like that? Especially in a game?” “We’re wondering the same thing,” the officer said, his gaze as sharp as a scalpel. “Why would seven people, on the same night, during a game, suddenly confess to deeply hidden crimes? It doesn’t make sense.” A terrifying thought crossed my mind. I shivered. “Officer, is it possible… that the classroom is haunted? I mean, everyone on campus knows that building is spooky!” Yes! That had to be it! What else could explain how so many people were killed in one night, each in a different, specific way? But my suggestion only made the officer’s expression more grim. He leaned forward slightly, the pressure of his presence almost suffocating me. “Ivy, during the game, did you notice anything unusual? Anyone being coerced? Or perhaps something that might have affected their state of mind? Like… food? Or a drink?” A drink? I suddenly remembered the club organizer, a student council member named Mark. He had handed out cups of a strange-colored juice. It had a weird, bitter taste. I’d only taken a few sips before putting it down. “Yes! There was a drink!” I said, grasping at the straw. “Mark gave everyone juice! It tasted strange! Maybe there was something in it?” The officer immediately made a note and spoke into his radio. But the preliminary feedback came back quickly. The remaining juice had been collected for testing, but other sealed bottles of the same brand found at the scene appeared to be fine. And besides, the drinks had been purchased by Mark. And Mark… he was one of the dead. His cause of death… decapitation. His head had been stuffed inside his own stomach cavity. The officer turned his gaze back to me. “Even if the drinks were drugged, getting seven people to confess to murder simultaneously is… highly improbable. Ivy, think carefully. Did anything else happen during the game? Anything at all? For instance… what did you do?” I shook my head frantically, my thoughts a chaotic mess. Something special? What could I have done? I was just another player! Just then, there was a knock on the door. Another officer entered and handed the senior officer a clear evidence bag. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It was a piece of lined paper, torn from a notebook, folded in half. It was stained with dark red, irregular speckles. The senior officer put on a pair of gloves and carefully unfolded it. His pupils contracted slightly. Then, slowly, he turned the paper so I could see it. Drawn on the paper, in the same dark red, almost black, dried liquid, was a crooked, childish smiley face: :). And below it, written in the same substance, were a few chilling words: “Eight players, seven confessions.” “Only you, the liar, are spared.” 3 A cold, formless fear wrapped its fingers around my heart and squeezed. I couldn’t breathe. “What… what is that?!” My voice was a high-pitched squeak. “We found this inside the desk where you were sitting—third row, by the window, in room 304.” The officer’s voice was like ice. “Preliminary tests confirm the substance on the paper is human blood. It was written sometime between ten and twelve last night, during your game.” He stared at me, his gaze trying to pierce through to my soul. “Forensic analysis has confirmed that the handwriting on the note is yours, Ivy. Now, would you care to explain… what this ‘bloody note’ is all about?” Blood rushed to my head, then receded just as quickly, leaving me ice-cold. Human blood? “No, that’s not right! That was a prop we used in the second half of the game!” I shrieked, scrambling backward in my chair, trying to get away from the ominous piece of paper. “Mark told me to write it! He gave me the ‘paint’! I didn’t know it was blood!” “Mark told you to write it?” the officer repeated, his eyes narrowing. “But the blood on this note belongs to him.” He paused, each word landing with the weight of a sledgehammer. “‘Seven confessions’ refers to the seven victims who confessed to their crimes. And ‘you, the liar’… Ivy, you were the only one who claimed your murder story was ‘made up.’” “Because it was!” I was on the verge of tears. “Officer, you can check! I’ve never been in a car accident in my life, let alone killed someone! Anyone who knows me can tell you that!” “We will, of course, verify your story,” the officer said, his tone unwavering. “But the facts are this: seven people who confessed to murder are dead, and their deaths mirror their confessions. The one person who claimed to be lying survived, and a note with a very specific message was found at her seat.” He leaned forward, his arms braced on the table, creating an intimidating posture. “It’s too much of a coincidence, Ivy. It’s so coincidental that it feels like a carefully orchestrated… declaration.” I stared at him, bewildered. “What… what does that mean?” The younger officer closed his notebook and interjected, “It means there was no mysterious mastermind. The so-called ‘game’ was a setup, designed by you.” “You used some method we haven’t yet identified—maybe drugs, maybe psychological manipulation—to induce the seven victims to confess their deepest secrets while in a suggestible or uncontrolled state.” “Then, after they confessed, you executed them, one by one, in a manner corresponding to their secrets.” “Finally, you faked this note to deflect suspicion onto some supernatural force or a non-existent ‘judge,’ thereby clearing your own name. Because you knew your story was the only fiction, making you ‘innocent’ and thus, ‘spared.’” The string of accusations exploded in my head like a series of bombs, leaving me shattered and cold. “You’re crazy… You’re all crazy!” I screamed, tears finally breaking free. “Me, alone? One girl? How could I possibly kill seven people in one night, in seven different ways? It’s not possible!” “Oh?” The senior officer let out a cold, humorless chuckle. “Is it really not?” He produced another file.
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