Page 6 of You Belong Here

BEFORE: THE RULES

It was a tradition up there, on the campus. The first howling of the year—a call to move after the long stillness. A chase through the woods. A game for bragging rights. A chance to prove you belonged.

It started with a whistle. Something sharp and piercing.

Heads rising, eyes locking from across the classroom. A small smile.

A warning that it would be coming.

Throughout the day, the sound would gradually deepen as the strong winds funneled into the valley—blowing in the colder weather from the north, pushing out the stagnant humidity.

It was the promise of change, ushering in the windy season.

By night, the whistle would turn to a howl. And it would be time.

The students all knew the rules, passed down in whispers: Don’t get caught by the seniors in masks. Don’t be last. Don’t be scared. Don’t cry for help. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

If caught, you had to give your name and make your way back to the dorms in the dark—alone.

The seniors kept their own tallies, for after. And each year, the winner’s name would be etched into the bottom of a growing list. A secret piece of history.

From the woods, we could hear the first of the freshmen scrambling from their dorms, shadows in the night.

We knew where they were heading. It was the same every year.

They gripped one another as they raced blindly through the woods toward home base: the ruins of the old president’s house on the far edge of the campus property, where a fire would be burning in the half-standing chimney just inside the stone perimeter, to guide the way.

The supply barn beside it, no longer in use by the school, would be stocked full of warm beer and the type of liquor designed only to burn your throat going down.

A celebration, for those who made it.

In town growing up, we had learned those same rules—they were whispered up and down the halls of our high school.

It was a tradition, a game, for us, too.

We knew how to access the power panels of the campus buildings, turn them off, blame it on the wind. We knew how to move through these woods in the dark. We knew this place much, much better than they did.

Ours were the footsteps that made them walk faster, that turned them around, that separated them from a group and got them disoriented.

We didn’t touch them. We never did.

But we got them lost, kept them on edge—followed them and declared our own wins.

Every year, for one evening, these woods were full of college students racing through the night, heading for the far edge of campus.

They never seemed to notice that they weren’t the only ones out there.