"What are you carving?" I asked Derick, who was intently focused on his desk.
"Oh, this? It's Mr. Smiley. What do you think?" he replied, glancing up with a hint of pride.
"Is he smiling?" I asked, squinting at the uneven lines and vague expression.
"Of course! And he'll come to life," Derick said, his eyes sparkling with conviction.
"Sure, like I'll get a gift from Santa one day," I shot back, my sarcasm hanging in the air.
Derick had his fantasies. I had always wondered why he was so gullible—he believed almost everything he heard, and not just on the surface, but with deep conviction.
"All he needs is blood," Derick continued, his tone taking on a spooky seriousness as he fixed his gaze on the carving.
"Did you hit your head or something? Tell me, why do you always believe in such superstition?" I asked, starting to feel a little uneasy.
"I read a book about summoning spirits. It said if you create something, believe in it, and write 'come alive' backwards, it'll work," he explained, ignoring my question, enthusiasm dripping from every word.
"Of course you read a book. Don't believe everything you read—and definitely don't practice what you don't understand," I cautioned him.
"I thought you didn't believe. Why then are you scared of something that doesn't exist?" he asked, looking at me with an interrogative eye.
"I'm not scared," I mumbled, though looking back now, I can admit I was terrified. Even though I didn't believe in these things, I felt scared of this particular one. The fear was like dirt under your fingernails—you just couldn't get it off.
"Tonight, at midnight, we wake Mr. Smiley," he declared.
I rolled my eyes. "You can summon spirits all you want, but count me out." But then my mouth moved faster than my mind. "Actually, on second thought, let's make a bet. If it doesn't work, you'll give me fifty bucks."
"Deal! Same goes for me," Derick said, his confidence unwavering as we shook hands.
This guy must be crazy, I thought—and by "this guy," I meant me.
That night I was deep in sleep, only to be jolted awake by a light tap.
I groggily opened my eyes to see Derick standing over me, and then I remembered our bet. "Oh my God, this guy is sick in the head. Why did I make such a stupid mistake? And I can't back out now—he'll think I'm scared," I moaned in annoyance.
I quickly got dressed, and we headed outside, only to hear a murmur in the silence: "Don't wake up Mr. Smiley."
"Did you hear that?" Derick asked, eyes wide.
"What? He's just talking in his sleep. Are we doing this or not? I want to get back to sleep," I replied, still half-asleep.
The chill in the air woke me up as we approached the classroom. It was eerily quiet—no crickets, no sounds of the night. Following my best friend to summon a spirit felt absurd, but the feeling that I couldn't back out was strong, and I was no coward. Still, there was something strange about Derick's unwavering belief.
We entered the classroom, and I switched on the lights. "Okay, Mr. Sorcerer, how does this work?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"We need blood to write the words," he said matter-of-factly.
"Fine, but you do it. I'm not about to cut myself for this nonsense," I smirked.
"I wasn't asking," Derick said, pulling out a small knife and advancing toward me.
"Whoa! Whoa! What the hell? I'm not letting you cut me," I said, shaking my head as I stepped back. That was when I saw it—the look in his eyes. That was not the Derick I knew, and then I felt that fear I had felt earlier again.
"How about we both use our blood instead?" I suggested, raising my hands in surrender.
Derick thought for a moment, then nodded. I reluctantly took the knife, closing my eyes. I counted to three and made the cut. I handed the knife to Derick, who followed suit, using a handkerchief to soak up the blood.
I could feel every ounce of the pain, and it stank.
He wrote the words "EMOC EVILA" on the desk. Suddenly, a wave of realization hit me: we were performing a blood ritual. I was now tied to whatever would happen next—me and my generations.
The lights began to flicker—on, off, on, off—then everything plunged into darkness.
I could have sworn my heart stopped beating. Now there was no shame in showing fear, I thought.
The desk absorbed our blood, the outline of Mr. Smiley forming eerily beneath the surface.
Then we heard a horrid laugh, followed by words that echoed in the room like thunder: "WHY... DON'T... YOU... SMILE?"
I screamed, turning to run without looking back.
At that moment, I realized I was a fool not to believe—and a bigger fool to allow this to happen.
And I've been running ever since.
The next day, Derick's mutilated body was found—his head partially severed, his eyes carved into Xs, his mouth carved into a twisted grin. The school buried it, trying to avoid the press and public scrutiny.
And that's how it all began—or so I thought.
I dedicated my life to studying what I had unleashed, only to discover we hadn't created Mr. Smiley—we had released him. My research revealed the truth: our ritual had broken seals placed generations ago.
The school began experiencing deaths every academic year. Students claimed to have seen horrible things. One townsfolk even said he once saw the trees moving. We had done exactly what I was afraid of—practiced what we didn't understand. And I was responsible for it all.
For fifteen years, I was plagued by visions of Mr. Smiley hunting me.
It took another ritual to free myself, one that cost my parents' lives. Not that I sacrificed them—no, not at all. Mr. Smiley killed them, trying to bind me to him. He wasn't willing to let me be, and so I decided to take the fight to him. The battleground would be where it all began.
As I recount the events that followed our conjuring, brace yourself. This journey isn't for the faint of heart; it's horror beyond anything you've heard or seen. It's real.