Getting into Woolford University, producer of some of the greatest academic talents of the century, was a daunting challenge that bore an uncanny resemblance to the gladiator fights held in ancient Rome: Granted, there was no crowd cheering me on when I faced the warriors and exotic animals known to most as the admissions office, but the process as a whole was nothing but nerve-racking.

My grades were nothing short of excellent and I didn't fear they'd be my downfall, no; my Achilles heel was the competition, armed with grades to rival my own and the best parts of their personalities put on display, teeth bared in ruthless snarls, ready to tear apart anyone who came between them and their desired WU admission. We were roped into a battle to the death, me and those faceless strangers, those empty names on the list of potential candidates suited for studying physics at one of the best universities in the country, but that was nothing I couldn't handle. I didn't need to be better than all of them. Being a little better than the best loser was enough.

And intense as the battle was, I emerged victorious, leaving a carnage of students' tears and broken dreams in my wake.

Or perhaps that was nothing but a perverted power fantasy to help me cope with the town of Woolford being a major disappointment.

Yeah. That had to be it.

Ecstatic as I was over being accepted into WU, I'd neglected doing proper research before acquiring my accomodation. I'd found myself a room, the cheapest one I could get, which I could rent from an old lady in a house too big for her alone. This house, as the internet told me, was located in one of Woolford's suburbs, Baxton.

Had my mother told me I'd better find myself a room in a part of town that didn't have an awful reputation? Yes.

Had my best friend, who hadn't even had a lick of desire to attend WU himself, given me the exact same piece of advice? Yes.

Had I listened to either of them? Most certainly not.

Big mistake.

The view I had from my room in the attic alone was to die for. Who didn't delight in seeing all those lovely brick houses that hadn't seen any maintenance since 1974? Those outdated, ugly street lamps and depressing overhead power lines? Didn't the tiny, unkempt front lawns full of children's toys and old trash make for a scenic picture? And the Jolly Roger flag flying outside the house I shared with my landlady, dancing in the wind, was a bizarre cherry on top of the gross cake that was Baxton.

Mrs. Rhodes, upon being asked why she flew a pirate flag instead of a normal one, had laughed at me, producing a strange sound reminiscent of a pig's grunting. "Let an old widow have her fun, Ollie," she'd crowed, and when I told her to call me Oliver, she'd only laughed some more.

All of this confirmed the suspicion I should have felt earlier: I was stuck in a cesspool full of crazies and crooks.

But, I told myself, I hadn't come to Woolford for Baxton, for its deranged inhabitants and bleak atmosphere. I'd come for WU, a place of prestige, more suited to talented people like myself. And when I went there to see St Gilmore's College, where my classes would be taught, I was met with not one, but two welcome surprises.

The first was that the college was as beautiful as I'd expected it to be. It was rather early in the morning when I passed it while jogging, which meant it felt like I had the whole place to myself. The building was modern, but not in the dark, gritty way often seen in industrial concrete buildings; this one had lots of windows, turning it into a place full of light. It was a pretty sight, especially with the lush, green grass of the park with its tree-lined avenues for an entourage. I almost felt tempted to lie down, not caring about the dew that would stain my clothes, and watch the sun rise.

"It looks nice, doesn't it?" said a voice from behind me, and as I, startled, turned around to face the speaker, I found that the college's beauty paled in comparison to her.

She was tall, or at least, not much shorter than me, and her eyes, light brown, contrasted beautifully with the pale colour of her skin. On a less beautiful girl, that paleness would have looked unhealthy and unnatural, but this one made it work. Her hair, brown as well, looked dark with wetness, hanging straight past her shoulders. I figured she'd taken a morning shower; she wouldn't have gone for an early swim in Woolford's canal, after all.

"Y-yeah," I stammered, "you look nice… It, I mean, it looks… Nice… Yeah…"

I'd expected her to purse her thin lips in disapproval and walk away after that fiasco, but her angelic self took mercy on me. My world lit up when she laughed, and I liked that sound a whole lot better than Mrs. Rhodes's hoarse cackling.

She introduced herself as Amelia Gardener, second-year archeology student at WU, and I developed an acute passion for archeology. We talked. We clicked... I thought. The two of us walked through the park together, undisturbed by the rest of the world, and she told me all she knew about the University and her experiences there; from student gossip to descriptions of the other college buildings, she took me by the hand and guided me through each topic. And I let myself be captivated by this girl, by her charm and laid-back calmness and those impeccable looks of hers.

"What do you like the most about WU, if you're willing to share?" I asked like a true gentleman as we sauntered along, enjoying each other's presence, and Amelia twirled a lock of damp hair around her finger and gave me a mysterious smile.

"The quiet," she confessed, soft brown eyes sparkling. "The peace. Look around, Oliver. Who do you see here?"

I looked. I looked at the grass stretching on and on into infinity, untrodden, devoid of human souls. I looked at the small ditch of water to our right with all those lily pads drifting on its surface; a beautiful sight with no one to see it but us. And in the distance, St Gilmore's College loomed with all its large windows, through which I could see no movement inside whatsoever.

Who do you see here?

The answer was no one, not even Amelia. When I wanted to turn back to her to comment on her beloved peace, I couldn't see her, couldn't find her. She was gone.

Had she seriously ditched me without even giving me her number?

It soured my mood, it really did, but I was above throwing tantrums over a girl sneaking away from me like a damned ninja. Without another word, I turned to go away, feeling a sudden longing for noise of any kind. I wouldn't stay here, loitering in Amelia's kingdom of quiet; a quiet not even singing birds dared to touch.

~~~~

They talked about me, the people of Baxton. Their whispers followed me, like intrusive paparazzi or stalkers in the dark. Their gazes lingered on me for too long; I could feel them on me, studying, sizing me up like a pig for slaughter. But when I caught them in their rude act, they'd avert their eyes to the ground and their forked tongues would still. They'd go about their day as if they weren't aware of my existence and never would be, as if I wasn't worth even the slightest amount of their time.

No warm welcome for Oliver Crewe. I blamed Mrs. Rhodes. Mrs. Rhodes and her bloody deranged Jolly Roger flag. She must've been talking about me behind my back, to her sneaky, gossipy fossils of friends she had tea parties with on fridays. Look at him, look at little Ollie, all alone in town to attend his prestigious University. Look at him and laugh.

Who do you see here?

I knew what I saw. I saw a hundred faces, wary or conniving, but none of them friendly. I saw every odd stacked against me, with no hope of change in that aspect until my first term at WU started. And I saw the Woolford Canal as I leaned against the steel railing of a bridge. I stared at the scene playing out below me;  a dirty homeless prick was throwing small stones at ducks swimming around in the canal.

What had those animals ever done to him?

"Hey," I called out, annoyed. "What's your problem, douchebag? Those are ducks, not bowling pins!"

The man's sunburned, dirt-stained face turned to me as he regarded me with wide, brown eyes, raising his eyebrows, which were grey with dust. "I know," he called back at me as his hand moved to rub his left leg absentmindedly, as if it were an old wound that had never healed. "But I had to get your attention now, didn't I?"

My attention? I didn't understand why he needed it, but I wouldn't spoil the lunatic's fun. "You have it. What do you want?"

The man bared his teeth into a smile; yellow teeth as ugly as Baxton itself. He'd lost some of them, but given the state of what was left, I figured he was better off with no teeth at all.

"Why don't you come down here, boy? Makes it easier to talk."

I laughed, baffled. "Come down so you can beat me up and rob me?"

"No." The man's smirk never faded as he sat down and made himself comfortable in the grass. "So I can tell you why everyone whispers behind your back. So I can tell you why they all give you the side-eye."

Those words caught me off-guard. I'd known I was being talked about, and this man, this man I'd never seen or spoken to before, knew more about it? My curiosity rose, and I felt tempted to take him up on his offer.

The man kept staring up at me. "So are you coming down or not?"

Oh, what the hell. He had the answers to questions I had, and obtaining those seemed worth the risk. What could this guy do to me, anyway? The only things he seemed to have going for him were the intensity of his gaze and the strong, unpleasant odour of his body. As for the rest, he was thin, which must've stemmed from a consistent lack of proper food and made him look fragile. I'd never been in a serious fight, but I figured I could take him on.

Thus, I made my way towards the homeless man who never took his eyes off me, joining him beneath the bridge. "Okay, pal," I began when I stood next to him, "why don't you start by telling me how you know people are talking about me?"

"Old George Langley knows everything there is to know about Bax's gossip," the man replied, and I scrunched up my nose; his breath reeked of unclean water and raw meat. "But unlike the rest of 'em, I'm not a fan of talking behind folks' back. I prefer telling you what's up, even if it's gonna shock you."

I bit my lip and narrowed my eyes. "I doubt there's anything you can tell me that I'd find appalling."

The honourable Mr. George Langley laughed at this statement. Loudly. He pulled blades of grass from the ground around him with those bony, dirty fingers he had. "Apalling," he echoed, snickering. "A fancy word for a simple man like myself. You're a university kid, that much I know. But here's what's wrong: What's a university kid doing here, in this town that doesn't have a university?"

This man was out of touch with reality. Big time. "What do you mean?" I asked, struggling to keep my disdain out of my voice. "Woolford University is among the most renowned in the world. I'm lucky to be able to attend it."

Crazy George gave me a serious look. "Was. Damned institution closed over a decade ago. Shame, I suppose, for those of us who are big on academics."

All I could do was blink in confusion. "I… What?"

"Go see for yourself," Crazy went on, "and you'll understand soon enough. Every college or other building belonging to WU has been closed and abandoned. Take Gilmore's, for example. All those overgrown walls and broken windows… They prove I'm telling you the truth."

The truth? The truth? He wasn't telling me the truth. He was fucking with me. I'd seen St Gilmore's College with my own two eyes, and it had been a pretty, modern building in the middle of a wonderful park. It couldn't be anything else.

I gritted my teeth. "Go fuck yourself, man, or at least take your bullshit to someone else. I've seen Gilmore's. It's nothing like what you just described. If you think that building's in shambles, you're either high or fucking psychotic."

George sighed, sounding exasperated, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as he stood up, rising to his full height to face me. Up close, he looked a lot more intimidating; not that I'd let him scare me.

"What you've seen isn't real," he said, and there wasn't a single hint of humour in his tone. "It's an illusion. Ordinary trickery. She- It fooled you, boy. It does that at times, when it's hungry. I know it, and so do the people of Woolford, and you should know it too."

If it didn't imply I actually believed the nonsense he spouted, I would have asked him what he meant with those words. Instead, I snorted in disbelief, ready to turn on my heels and leave the man alone with his lunacy after laying down facts to tear his ludicrous statements to shreds.

"You're batshit insane," I protested, feeling almost smug. He could shove his talk of illusions and hunger up his ass. "WU isn't closed. There are other students attending it, so it's not just me. I met one the other day, Amelia Gardener. She's living proof you're deranged, like everyone in this shithole."

I turned to leave without waiting for a reply; Crazy George remained silent, and I knew I'd won our verbal face-off. How could I have lost? There was no way I could attend a university that no longer existed. Something like that could only happen in fiction.

But before I could leave the homeless man's domain underneath the bridge behind me, I felt a stinging pain in my legs, and my body collided with the grass. I'd been tackled to the ground. Stars danced before my eyes, which widened in fear and shock, and my face hurt; most of all my nose, out of which a tiny stream of blood trickled, red liquid mingling with the Earth below.

And Crazy George Langley held me down, bringing his face close to mine, the stench of his breath and body almost making me gag. "That doesn't prove anything, boy. Amelia Gardener has been dead for over a decade."

That twisted, yellow smile made its way onto his face again.

"I know because I killed her."