The Student Who Wasn't Human

Chapter 1

It was my second semester at the University of Michigan when she walked into my life. Clara Whitaker - a transfer student from some backwoods town in Maine. I'll never forget the first time I saw her - sitting alone in the lecture hall, pale hands folded on the desk, staring straight ahead with eyes so dark they looked like bottomless pits. When I sat next to her, she turned her head with this eerie, fluid motion - almost reptilian - and flashed me a smile full of perfect white teeth... too perfect. "You're finally here," she whispered. Like she'd been waiting for me. Her apartment was a tiny studio in this crumbling building near campus, the kind landlords call "historic charm" but really just smells like mildew and something... older. First thing I noticed - blackout curtains covering every window, even at noon. The walls were covered in these weird symbols painted in what looked like dried blood, though she swore it was just ink. "Protections," she said, running her long fingers over the designs. Her nails were always perfectly manicured, but with this reddish tint underneath, like she'd been clawing at something - or someone - too hard. At first everything seemed normal. Or college-normal anyway. We'd spend nights "studying" in that cramped apartment, though I'd always wake up exhausted. But after I moved in? That's when things got weird. I started waking up with bruises I couldn't remember getting. Tiny cuts on my arms that looked like claw marks. And always this metallic taste in my mouth, like I'd been sucking on pennies all night. Clara began insisting I take this "special tonic" she brewed every evening. Thick, dark liquid that smelled like wet earth and left my throat numb. "Family recipe," she'd say, watching me drink every drop with those unblinking black eyes. "Good for exam stress." I deteriorated fast. Went from varsity rugby to looking like a walking corpse in weeks. When my parents finally saw through Clara's excuses, they didn't recognize their son. "You're pushing yourself too hard," Clara would coo each morning while stirring that damned brew. Sweet words, but her eyes... they shone with something that wasn't concern. It was anticipation. Hunger. The night I tried to escape started like any other. Clara gave me my "medicine" and tucked me in like a child. But this time, instead of passing out, I got hit with this sharp stomach pain that kept me awake. When I was sure Clara was asleep (though now I wonder if she ever really slept), I crawled out of bed. My legs shook like a newborn foal's. The apartment was dead silent except for Clara's breathing - too slow, too measured to be human. That's when I saw the salt. Piles of it forming a perfect circle around our bed. More salt scattered at the doorway like a barrier. My fogged mind barely processed what it meant, but my body knew danger. With superhuman effort, I reached the door. The knob was freezing under my fingers. So cold it burned. When I finally turned it, this blast of icy air hit my face - first fresh air I'd tasted in months. "Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?"

Chapter 2

Her voice came from right behind me, so close I felt her breath on my neck. Breath that reeked of rotting meat and graveyard dirt. When I turned, Clara stood there - but not the college girl I'd known. Her skin was... moving, like something underneath was trying to get out. Her eyes weren't just dark now - they were completely black, no whites, no irises. And that smile... Christ, it stretched too wide, showing teeth that were now needle-sharp and too many, like some deep-sea predator. "Back to bed," she whispered, and even though every instinct screamed to run, my legs carried me back to that salt circle like an obedient dog. What happened next is fragments: copper taste in my mouth, the sound of my own whimpers, something cold and wet slithering under my skin. My parents saved me, alerted by a neighbor who heard "weird noises." When they found me, I weighed 100 pounds and my skin was covered in these symbols doctors called "ink" but could never fully wash off. Clara was gone. The apartment empty except for the wall symbols and this lingering stench of spoiled meat. Cops never found her. Years later, visiting campus, I saw her. Sitting on our old bench, chatting up some wide-eyed freshman. He was smiling, hanging on her every word, with that same dopey look I must've had. When our eyes met, Clara smiled. Not my college girlfriend's smile - the thing wearing her skin smiled. A promise that she'd never stop, was always hungry, would always find new bright young things to consume. Worst part? Some deep part of me still longed to step back into that salt circle.