The college was old, its brick walls weathered with time, each stone holding secrets that no one dared speak aloud. But there was one secret that everyone knew—the history department. The building had long been rumored to be cursed, but it wasn’t the building itself that caused the students to stay away. It was the professor.

Dr. Winslow was a legend, though not in the way one would hope for an academic. His tenure had been secured decades ago, long before most of the students were born, and yet he seemed to never age, his pale face set in a permanent frown, his eyes like twin pits of darkness. He was brilliant, yes, but there was a sharpness to his intellect that often felt like a weapon aimed directly at the souls of those unlucky enough to be his students. It was rumored that he’d eaten the ambitions of many who dared to challenge him—and now, the students whispered, it was too late for anyone who signed up for his class.

The first day of the semester had arrived, and Carla Thompson, a bright-eyed senior, found herself in the lecture hall early. She had heard the rumors, of course, but she hadn’t believed them. She was smart—top of her class. Nothing to worry about.

Then, the door creaked open.

Dr. Winslow entered, his footsteps like echoes in the cold, cavernous room. The students shuffled in, but no one dared sit in the front row. Carla, not one to be intimidated, took a seat near the middle, where the light was just right. She could feel his eyes on her from the moment she sat down. It was as if he could see straight through her, straight into her deepest insecurities. She shivered, but forced herself to smile.

The lecture began, and Carla tried to focus, but there was something wrong. Dr. Winslow’s voice, though smooth and hypnotic, was like something from a nightmare. His words twisted in the air, slithering around the students, filling their minds with dark thoughts—thoughts of failure, of being unworthy. It wasn’t just the lesson that haunted them; it was the way he spoke, like every sentence was a slow torture. Carla’s mind began to spiral, doubts creeping in like cold tendrils. She wasn’t good enough. She’d never be a great historian. She’d never do anything meaningful.

But it wasn’t until the lights flickered that she realized something was terribly wrong.

When they came back on, Dr. Winslow wasn’t standing at the front anymore. He had somehow—impossibly—moved to the back of the room, looming like a shadow. He grinned, his teeth too sharp, and for the first time, Carla saw something hideous behind his eyes: hunger.

The students were all too focused on the lecture to notice, but Carla could feel it—something was feeding off their energy, their ambitions. She looked around, realizing that every student in the room was a mere husk of themselves, eyes glazed over, too caught in the professor’s grip to break free.

Carla was different, though. She had always been different. She’d been warned by older students about Dr. Winslow, and she had seen the signs—the ones he left behind in his office: old, brittle newspaper clippings about his past, stories of failed students who disappeared without a trace, their names erased from history.

She knew what he was. He wasn’t just a professor—he was a parasite. A creature who fed on ambition, on dreams, on the very essence of a person’s will to succeed. He wasn’t alive, not in any real sense. He had been kept on the faculty by some ancient contract, some unholy tenure that bound him to the institution. And every year, he drained more students dry, their spirits slowly fading as they submitted to the will of the Tenure Troll.

But Carla wasn’t about to let that happen to her.

She stood up, her hands shaking, but her resolve solid. She had something no one else in that room had: a backdoor in her own psyche—a diary from her childhood that she had once written her deepest dreams and goals in. A diary of pure, untainted hope.

It had been locked away for years, hidden under her bed, gathering dust. But in this moment, she knew what she had to do. She ran from the classroom, ignoring the professor’s voice, which now seemed to echo from all directions.

In the darkened hallway, Carla pulled the old diary from her bag, the pages brittle under her fingertips. She didn’t need to read it—she just needed to burn it. She found a small matchbook in her pocket and lit the corner of the first page. The fire flickered, but it didn’t burn the paper. Instead, the flame grew brighter, feeding on the very essence of the professor’s power.

She didn’t look back.

As the flame consumed the last page, a deafening roar filled the hallway—Dr. Winslow’s screams as his grip over the students shattered. The Tenure Troll was gone, erased from existence, burned away by the purity of Carla’s hope and resolve.

When she returned to the lecture hall, it was empty, the desks and chairs all in their places. Dr. Winslow was nowhere to be found.

But Carla knew something else. She had passed the test. And that meant no one would ever fall under the professor’s spell again.