Board exams are often described as a rite of passage, a mix of caffeine-fueled nights and nervous energy. But my first board exam experience in 2024 wasn't just stressful; it was a descent into a psychological abyss that I still struggle to explain.
The venue was an ancient, colonial-era school on the outskirts of the city. Its damp, salt-streaked walls and high, vaulted ceilings felt more like a mausoleum than an educational institution. As I navigated the echoing corridors to find my room, a heavy sense of dread settled in my stomach. When I finally found my desk, I noticed something chilling: carved deeply into the dark wood was a single sentence: "The ink bleeds, but the soul cries louder."
The bell rang at 10:00 AM, a sharp, metallic toll that sounded like a funeral knell. For the first hour, the only sound was the frantic scratching of pens. But as the clock struck eleven, the atmosphere shifted. The temperature in the room plummeted. I could see my own breath misting in the air, despite the sweltering heat outside.
Suddenly, a girl three rows ahead of me stood up abruptly. Her chair screeched against the floor, a sound that set my teeth on edge. She didn't say a word; she just stared at the blank wall, her body trembling violently. Before the invigilator could reach her, she let out a guttural, bone-chilling scream—a sound that didn't seem human. As she was ushered out, I caught a glimpse of her answer sheet. It wasn't filled with equations or essays; it was covered from margin to margin in dense, frantic scribbles of a single eye, thousands of them, staring back at me.
Disturbed, I tried to focus on my paper, but the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and crawl. I felt a cold pressure on my shoulder, like a heavy, frozen hand. I turned around, expecting to see an examiner, but the boy behind me was slumped over his desk. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, and he was whispering in a language that sounded like dry leaves skittering on a grave. Every time I tried to write, my pen felt like it was weighing a hundred pounds.
The most disturbing part came during the final ten minutes. The sunlight turned a sickly, bruised purple. Looking out the window, I saw the school courtyard filled with figures in tattered clothes, standing perfectly still and looking up at our classroom window. Their faces were featureless voids.
When the final bell rang, I bolted out of the room, leaving my sweater behind. I later heard that the girl who screamed had no memory of the exam, and the boy behind me had been hospitalized with a sudden, unexplained fever. To the world, it was just a stressful day of testing. To me, it was a glimpse into a reality where the pressure of performance tore a hole in the fabric of the mundane, letting something ancient and hungry peek through. I passed the exam, but a part of my mind remained trapped in that cold, shadowed hall.
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