UCSD Gothic: Attempt to lower a staircase.
You jump up and try to catch one of the steps but your hands miss by a wide margin. “Help! Please!” you say to the retreated eyes from the second-floor window. “They’ll get me if you don’t!” The blinds remain stubbornly shut.
You look around and spot the fallen lamppost again. Hopefully, it’ll be enough. As you approach, the bulb lights once more and you can more clearly see that the post has been split in half, the metal bit clean through and the wires encased spilling out in a frayed, intestinal mess. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see black somethings approaching from their hiding spots and you dash the rest of the way to the fallen post, taking the strangely warm metal in your solid grip.
It’s lighter than you expect as you carry it as fast as you can to the building and prop it against one of the wooden stilts. The pole isn’t long enough to reach the second story but it doesn’t matter; you have a better goal in mind.
You back up a few steps and, trying to ignore the nearing scuffle of hundreds of small feet zeroing in on you, you sprint your way back to the post. Your breath catches in your throat as your foot almost slips off the smooth metal but you steady yourself enough to make it up halfway before pushing yourself off with as much force as you can manage. The lamp post crashes to the ground, growing dark with your absence but you don’t care. With your hands outstretched above you, you grab hold of the staircase with enough momentum to break the rusted chains keeping it aloft and both the staircase and you swing back to the solid ground.
The stairs fly beneath your feet as you take them two, three steps at a time. Within moments, you’re on the second floor and knocking on the door to the dorm you last saw those eyes watching. “Let me in! Let me in!” you say. “They’re coming!”
The door opens to a shocked face, fear written across it. “How did you get up here? The stairs were raised — ” The Sixth student doesn’t finish, flinching as it looks to where you have just come. “You didn’t raise the stairs back up,” they say. “You’ve doomed us all.”
Before you can say anything, two things happen at once. The door slams in your face and the sound of scurrying from below changes as the first of the creatures mounts the stairs up to the second floor. In seconds, it is upon you, a dozen others following. Their teeth plunge into your flesh, needle-sharp, and your scream pierces through the night fog.
YOU HAVE DIED.
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