For James Parker, the final exam in Professor Hill’s Advanced European History class should have been a walk in the park. After all, he’d spent countless hours memorizing dates, names, and events, certain that nothing could throw him off course. But as the heavy wooden door to the classroom creaked shut behind him, he realized, for the first time in his life, that something felt… wrong.

The room, dimly lit by harsh fluorescent lights, was eerily quiet, almost too quiet. His classmates were seated at their desks, their eyes glued to the bluebooks before them, their pens poised like soldiers awaiting orders. But James couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting, lurking, just beyond his sight.

He settled into his seat and flipped open his bluebook with the practiced ease of someone who had taken more than his fair share of exams. The crisp, pristine pages greeted him, their stark whiteness almost blinding in contrast to the dull gray of the room.

He looked around for Professor Hill. The man was always a little off, a little too rigid in his posture, a little too intense when he lectured. But today, he wasn’t in his usual position at the front of the room. The podium, once laden with history books and dusty lecture notes, was now bare. And yet, a strange chill hung in the air, as if his presence still lingered.

James couldn’t focus. His eyes kept drifting back to the bluebook. It was as if the pages were… pulsing. At first, it was subtle, a slight shiver of the paper. But soon, he noticed the ink beginning to bleed, trickling down the edge of the page. The ink darkened, spreading like a slow-moving stain, creeping its way down the corners, dripping off the page like blood from a wound.

His heart thudded in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, reaching to flip the pages, desperate to find a place where the bleeding had stopped.

But it only got worse.

The ink—no, it wasn’t ink anymore—was thick, dark, and red. The red stains spread, covering entire sections of the bluebook, as if the pages were alive, feeding on the very ink that had once filled them. The edges curled, folding in on themselves as if recoiling from the grotesque transformation.

James looked around. His classmates were too absorbed in their own exams to notice anything unusual, their faces pale and drawn, their pens scribbling furiously. The room smelled faintly of dust and bleach, but something else was starting to mingle with the air, something foul, like blood. The sound of pens against paper grew louder, but it didn’t mask the soft, wet sound coming from his bluebook. A low, sickening squelch.

Unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific sight, James tried to steady his breath. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the growing sense of dread. “It’s just a trick of the light,” he muttered to himself, though the words did little to soothe his racing heart.

The bluebook suddenly jerked in his hands, as if something underneath the paper was trying to break free. The blood—if it even was blood—began to pool in dark red puddles, soaking through the pages like some kind of invasive parasite. And then, with an audible snap, the pages began to curl backward, as if they were trying to escape.

James stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over. The room seemed to tilt, everything blurring as he scrambled to steady himself. The floor seemed to grow unstable beneath him, and he staggered toward the door, desperate for air, for something—anything—that could break this nightmare.

But as he reached for the doorknob, his eyes caught something in the reflection of the glass: a figure standing at the front of the room, too tall, too thin, and too still.

It was Professor Hill.

But his eyes—his eyes were black. Hollow. Empty.

And in his hands, he held a bluebook, its pages oozing blood.

James screamed and threw open the door, stumbling into the hall, but the walls of the corridor stretched endlessly before him, each turn leading him right back to the same room, the same exam. No matter how many times he ran, he was always drawn back to that cursed bluebook.

The door slammed shut behind him, and everything went silent.

Except for the sound of the dripping ink.