The day started off like any other Tuesday. I had History class right after lunch. Out of all the college professors, the history professor is the… shall we say… the most mysterious. Professor Moordoor had pale grey hair that was always slicked back. He had an old face that hinted at him being a handsome man in his younger years. He seemed to wear a different suit every day, (all of them were black, though. Every. Single. Time.) If this doesn't sell you on the old professor's quirkiness, Professor Moordoor had an unhealthy obsession with the dead. He had books upon books in his office on necromancy and ancient burial rituals. Even in his own classes he would spend far too much time focused on the deaths that happened to occur in every lesson that he taught.
This probably means that I should have kept my distance from this maniac, but I was a college student. A college student that was failing history. So that afternoon after class, I took a visit to Professor Moordoor's office.
I knocked on the door. "Come in," Professor Moordoor says in his baritone voice.
I gingerly push the door open and step inside. The office looks as it usually does. Two bookshelves on either side of the side, lined with books on matters pertaining to the deceased and the afterlife. In front of me, the professor sits at his desk. He's holding a book, but I cannot make out the title, however. He must have caught me looking because he shuts the book and places it into his lap.
"How may I help you this evening?" Professor Moordoor asks me with a blatantly fake smile.
I told him what I'd need help with. The whole exchange takes about 30 minutes. At the end of the conversation, Dr. Moordoor stands up. He must have forgotten that the book was in his lap because the book falls from his lap and lands, open at my feet. I am unable to resist the urge and I steal a glance at the book. I was expecting to see medieval torture, bones and things of that nature. But my eyes behold a pocket watch. A bronze pocket watch with silver tracings. The watch face only has one number on it. One large number 8 in the dead center. That was all I was able to see before the professor snatched up the book and hurled it across the room. He reaches out his hand for a handshake. I step back, confused my the gesture.
"Have a good evening, Aster," he says with an eerily warm smile.
I reach out to shake his hand, and as soon as I make contact, something bizarre happens. There is a green flash, and the professor is gone. I started to feel dizzy. My legs gave out and my body hit the floor. Oddly enough, I don't feel the impact. I feel unconscious, but my eyes and brain are wide awake. I tried to push myself up, but I could not move. The professor's voice echoed loudly throughout my head. Now that you know young Aster, I might as well put you to good use. I can't have you causing trouble for me now, can I?
My body begins to move, but I'm not the one in control. I got up and walked over to the door. I threw the door open and walked out. I had no idea where my body was taking me. I walked out of the office building and stood there. I stood in place for about 30 seconds until I heard footsteps behind me.
"You there," the voice said. The voice sounded like it belonged to a middle school boy.
My body turned itself toward the voice. The voice did in fact belong to a young boy. He seemed to be about 14.
"I saw you interacting with Moordoor," the boy continued. "Are you working with him?"
I tried to respond to the boy, but my body was no longer my own. Instead, I began to approach the boy and the professor's voice returned. Do you see that boy? I want you to kill him. My body advanced faster then. The boy begins to turn to run, but I tackle him to the ground. I have tried time and time again to forget the evens that happened next. I grabbed the boy's head and repeatedly slammed him into the pavement. The event is still fresh in my mind. The blood, the feeling, the screaming. All of it. My name is Aster Umera, and I am a murderer.