“We all want to belong,” my roommate Kyle said. “But maybe not that bad.”

I should’ve listened.

Phi Epsilon Phi—the most exclusive frat on campus—was practically myth. No one I knew had even seen their house up close. But somehow, I got an invitation to Rush Night. A sleek envelope under my dorm door. No return address. Just a time, a place, and a weird wax seal with a skull and candle.

I thought it was a prank. Or a mistake. But Kyle said, “Dude, this is your shot. Maybe they want you.”

The house was on the edge of campus, hidden behind ivy-choked gates. When I knocked, the heavy door creaked open by itself.

Inside, the Phi brothers were already in robes, chanting in Latin (I think). The air smelled like old books and… something rotten.

“Welcome, pledge,” said the Chapter President. “Tonight, you’ll take the Oath.”

They led me downstairs—no, beneath downstairs—into a basement carved into stone. Candles lined the walls, flickering. At the center: a chalk circle filled with bones, books, and a purple robe draped over what looked like a mummified skeleton sitting on a stone throne.

“This is He Who Founded,” the President said reverently. “He watches over our fraternity. And feeds on the strength of our convictions.”

I should’ve bailed then. But peer pressure is a beast.

They handed me a scroll. Told me to read it aloud. Halfway through, the air got cold. The candles blew sideways. The mummy’s eyes glowed. No joke—glowing green orbs.

I dropped the scroll. The President hissed, “You must finish the vow! Or your soul remains unanchored—easy prey.”

My knees shook. My stomach churned. And I remembered something stupid.

Earlier that week, during freshman orientation, we’d been forced to sit through a presentation on the Student Handbook. A professor had said, “The Honor Code is more than policy. It protects the soul of scholarship.”

It had sounded like metaphor. But what if…?

I pulled out my pocket copy (we all got one). I opened to the Honor Code and read it aloud, shaking.

Something snapped. The circle cracked. Wind blasted through the chamber. The robed brothers shrieked and scattered.

The mummy—”He Who Founded”—crumbled into dust.

I sprinted out of that house so fast I left one shoe behind. Kyle met me back at the dorm with a blanket and hot cocoa. (He’s that kind of roommate.)

We filed a report anonymously. The frat got investigated. Campus security said it was just hazing stuff. But they didn’t explain the ashes, the old bones, or the purple robe now in the university archive marked: DO NOT TOUCH.

Sometimes, I think I hear chanting when I walk near the old Phi house.

But I stick to the Honor Code. Always.