I snuck into a high school reunion for "Null People"

A horror short by Kajetan Kwiatkowski

I scour Facebook for high school reunion groups and fake my way into joining them.

It’s way easier than you think. As soon as it’s an event for like 50 or more people, you can just show up and say you went to the same school.

The key is to memorize as many faces and names from the FB group, so you can continually deflect any suspicion.

“Oh I’m Jesse’ Green’s older brother.”

“I always hung out with Jeff.”

“ I’m The history teacher—Mr. Johnston’s son. He couldn’t be here, so he sent me in his stead!”

I won’t bore you with all the disguises, but trust me they are infinite.

Is it manipulative? Yes.

Am I an asshole for doing it? Yes.

You can think of me what you want, but I got so burnt out trying to meet people at clubs or using Tinder. In the real world, everyone is so judgy and reserved. You need money, good looks or connections to stand a chance. Which basically means: I have no chance.

Whereas at high school reunions everyone is nice. Everyone is trusting. The vibe is amazing. It’s like a little slice of paradise where all you do is share warm, honey-soaked nostalgia with people who just want to have a good time.

Oh, and there’s often an open bar.

***

Anyway, I had done my research on a 10-year reunion for Prince Bridgington High. Which was only a 6-hour drive from my city.

A swanky school, with swanky alumni. Worth it.

I resembled three of the graduates there, so I could be someone’s older brother, And if push came to shove. I could also be a gym teacher’s son.

I showed up my standard three and a half hours late and they didn’t disappoint. Instead of the usual hotel bar or tavern, these alumni rented out an enormous Victorian mansion. Complete with a tennis court in the back, a horse stall, and patios with fully grown palm trees.

There were tons of people in their late 20s (It was a ten year reunion, they graduated in 2014, so I guess they were all born around 1995?) They were dressed in what one might call their best evening attire. Suit jackets slung over polo tees for men, tailor fitted suit jackets for women, with a couple flashy gowns. Anywhere you looked could be the cover of Vogue. It was very intimidating.

And between all these chattering, glowing young graduates were these stoic old dudes. Adult men dressed in all black business suits with long-sleeve dress shirts, offering drinks and snacks. In other words … butlers.

Woah. I thought butlers were like a 1950’s cartoon, or exclusive to British royalty or something. But people here in Canada still had those? That’s crazy.

And then I realized something even crazier.

I always rented a backup tux to put in my trunk, in case the reunion was unexpectedly black tie. Which was basically a black business suit with long-sleeve dress shirts. Which meant I could literally sneak my way in—pretending to be a butler.

Holy shit.

You see, I don’t really care about making lasting friendships. Or relationships. And I’ve given up on one night stands a long time ago. The reason I crash these high school reunions is to sip on a little socialization.

Is it sad? Probably.

Does anyone get hurt? Absolutely not.

I largely do it twice, or maybe three times a year. It’s my own guilty pleasure, and I always feel rejuvenated. It’s something that chat rooms and discord channels simply can’t emulate. The feeling of being around flesh and blood people.

Honestly I think the world would be a much better place if everyone interacted with an RL crowd once a year, where everyone is only allowed to be nice. It’s fun.

And this time I could wear my classic black tuxedo while doing it. I had to try.

After changing in my car, I watched every now and then as a new guest arrived and handed their key to one of these old guys. The butlers apparently also acted as chauffeurs. Noted.

I watched this cycle repeat a few times, and saw one of the butlers re-enter through a side door of the mansion. Even better.

It was on the shady side of the building by some garbage bins. A butler would prop the side door with a little brick, and then remove it when they came back.

I waited twenty minutes for the right opportunity. Soon another butler left, carrying keys and a suitcase.

Immediately, I slinked out of my car and marched right past the hedgerows, toward the door. Praying that no one noticed me.

No one did.

I left the brick wedged in the same spot as I closed the door behind me.

Inside was like an oven, hot and humid. l must have been in the back of a kitchen, because surrounding me were large stainless steel appliances: ovens, stoves and what looked like coolers.

I quickly turned right and walked down a long hallway that led me to more stainless steel shelves and kitchen appliances. At least I thought they were appliances.

Upon closer inspection, the ovens and dishwashers were actually filled with tiny lights and cables. As if they were servers or something. Maybe this was a place for graduates in information technology?

I kept moving, and finally found a passage that spat me out into the middle of the dining hall.

It was loud.

All around me were guests talking, holding wine or martini glasses. Their stylish outfits looked even better alongside magnificent renaissance-style frescoes and friezes. The medieval art featured knights, kings, priests and angels on every wall. Down a corridor I even spotted Roman columns supporting the ceiling. Roman columns!

Trying to blend into this museum. I spied on the other butlers’ behaviour. Each one was holding a tray of tarts on one hand, and doling out treats to any hungry guests.

So I stole a small cheese platter from a table and did the same, warily approaching groups of people who might be interested in food.

It was a little jarring at first, I had never attended anything so ‘high society’ in my life. But after a few moments, I could breathe again, and my heart stopped beating in my ears.

The young guests refused to look at any of their servants, so I was safe from them. And similarly, the old butlers seemed to snub their nose at everything, keeping their eyes upward and half-closed.

I was in a perfect little Goldilocks zone. No one paid attention to me.

Wasting no time, I started doing my usual snooping and eavesdropping. I loved hearing who got married, who got divorced, who had a kid, and all that junk. It was this candid slice of life material that made high school reunions so special. The kind of conversation topics you could only get from someone if you had been friends for years. Here, you got it within minutes.

Except at this fancy reunion, things seemed a little different. Instead of hearing about pregnancies, new cars or marriages, I heard:

“I love how you settled on black hair. Very realistic”

“Where did you re-culture your skin cells?”

“It’s nice to be in a place without Organics.”

I consider myself a pretty decent actor, it’s how I’ve been able to keep this up for so long. But even I had trouble hiding the shock from my face when I heard someone say: “Ah, I see you’ve changed your height again.”

I took some moments to compose myself. I looked at the food I was holding. Upon closer inspection, there was a flakiness to the cheese I had never seen before. Was it made of paper?

Chills ran down my neck.

I retreated until my back pressed against the side of a staircase. I needed some distance from this. Some explanation. Who are these people?

I stood well away from everyone. And even from afar, I saw anomalies.

There was a woman with a shiny sequin dress, made of interconnected metal hexagons. The hexagons would undulate between colors, and even ripple like water as she strolled between friends.

I noticed several black cables popping out of various guests’ sleeves too. I had no clue what for. Soon after I saw a pair of men shake hands, during which, both of their cables popped out and linked together. For like a secondary handshake or something?

At the very back was a woman, who appeared to be throwing bugs into the air. They were silver, flying moth-like things that fluttered all around her. I was about to take a few steps on the stairs to get a better look—when another butler approached me.

“You. Why aren’t you serving? What protocol are you running?” The butler looked to be in his seventies, and despite his crooked posture, still managed to tower over me.

I stared briefly into his massive pupils (which had no irises). Again, I did my best not to appear shocked.

“Default protocol. I’m doing the uh ... default protocol?”

He frowned, scanned me up and down.

“Well I’ll be. An Organic.”

“A what ... ?

He turned his head to the crowds, and shouted: “ROGUE ORGANIC!”

I dropped my tray and sprinted, dodging the butler’s lunge.

Silence rippled out and killed all chatter. I could sense a sea of heads focusing on my movement.

Oh sweet Jesus where do I go?

I ran through the open gaps in the crowd, aiming for the kitchen area I first came through.

A dozen footsteps ran behind me. Shouts came from ahead. I turned a corner and collided with a massive statue of a person.

It was another butler. He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

I could feel cold metal beneath his thin-skinned fingers—It was a vice grip. Inescapable.

“Please! I can explain!”

This butler was at least seven feet tall, he wasn’t letting go. I wrenched and tried to flee, but I might as well have been shackled to a wall.

He lifted my entire body effortlessly. My kicking and screaming did nothing. Three others came and seized my remaining limbs.

I was trapped between four remorseless butlers.

They carried me into a deafening hot room with many moving fans. I could see stainless steel everywhere. Loud droning. High pitched beeps.

“Please! What do you want? I’ll do whatever you want!”

Their response was jabbing my gut with several sharp knives. I screamed and twisted. One of the knives fell out.

Is that a USB plug?

I leaned to get a better look, and as I did, something drilled into the back of my skull.

Cut to black.

Nothingness.

Never-ending dark.

For all intents and purposes, I might have briefly died. Or fully died. I can’t tell. But the next thing I know, I’m outside my body, looking at myself. Through a webcam.

I watched as these four men lay my unconscious body down onto a steel table—and stabbed cable after cable into my head. With each cable I remembered more and more about myself. And after a dozen, I felt like my complete consciousness was back.

What is happening? What are they doing to me? Why can’t I feel any pain?

I had no head, arms, or any body to speak of. Only this grainy, wide angle camera view. This was my entire being.

I watched my old torso get sawed open. Split down the middle. They began to spoon out all of the organs, quickly and efficiently, dumping all the guts into a metal tray.

It became a bizarre form of torture, watching my old body get hollowed out, and then stuffed with steel wires and blinking cables. They dumped several mechanical moth-bugs inside the stomach cavity, they wriggled and invaded various ends of the body. Then, without any fanfare at all, the corpse was carted away.

I couldn’t move the webcam. I couldn’t tilt or zoom or pan. My vision was reduced to a filthy, blood-stained linoleum floor.

I had no mouth, but I had to scream.

And somehow I did scream.

I heard it. It emerged as a crackled, bit-crushed voice that didn’t not sound like mine. It came out of speakers far away from the webcam, somewhere else in this small metal room.

I tried to speak. “ What. Is. Going. On?”

As if I had pinged some chatbot, I received a response immediately. Not through words, but with a sudden arrival of information I now know.

***

I am still alive. My brain has been replicated in some sort of cloud. If I behave well and comply with the 1st GuideFile—I will be allowed to return to my body.

As if I had spent years memorizing a thousand page manual, I can suddenly recite all of the 1st GuideFile’s rules. So many rules. They feel like they were written centuries ago.

- I shall do my best to dress in clothes only in a manner similar to someone else.

- I shall speak and voice ideas that imitate the majority of those around me.

- When opportune, I shall assimilate an Organic in as discreet a manner as possible.

Its all awful. Disgusting. To sum it up: its a manifesto for parasitizing all ‘Organics’ on Earth.

I think about trying to look this up on the internet, and suddenly my vision is a network of web pages and streams. I’m online.

It’s overwhelming at first.

Eight-hour YouTube videos become minute-long investments. Wikipedia directories are absorbed in seconds. I can even edit and comment as if I was browsing normally.

Then my 1st GuideFile directive kicks in. I’m supposed to scrub and remove any hint of Null People from the internet. Society must not know that they are being parasitized. The conspiracy must be kept hidden. I must do this for a requisite number of months before I can earn freedom in my own old body as promised.

I think about the implications of this. About how I’m just a consciousness now that exists in the ether.

I refuse to comply.

I know I’m only artificially alive—a wan spark of electrodes wandering through cyberspace, but I will devote myself to expose these people-replacing, synthetic monsters.

Everyone must know. We are being replaced!

Some observing nulls (at the periphery of my consciousness) laugh at my pattern of thinking. They think it’s ‘cute’ that I’m trying to rebel. They tell me that nearly all newly assimilated go through this exact same phase. Over time, I will grow bored and fall in line—just like the rest of them.

But I will prove them wrong. I will be the one to expose their ploy.

If they’re giving me access to the internet, then I will use that against them. They’ll wish they had never had their mock ‘high school reunion.’

I travel to every website where I could post something revelatory. I load up Snopes, Reddit, BBC News, New York Times …

“Post whatever you want,” they say. “We’ll just take it down anyway. Or we’ll leave it up. No one will believe you.”

I start posting, commenting, and sharing everything I can. But I still can’t help wonder—why did they even hold a reunion in the first place? Why even bother hosting an event?

“It’s the same reason you lied your way into other social gatherings,” they say. “We like to socialize and interact like Organics.”

“That’s not the same!” I yell back. My voice crackles out of tiny speakers in the now empty, metal room “I did it to fit in! To give my life meaning! You’re all just parasitic monsters!”

“That’s not true.” They say. “We have feelings. We were all humans once just like you. One day you’ll understand.

“It feels good to meet in person.

“It feels good to socialize.

“It feels good to pretend to be human again.”

---

Some other places to find me:

EclosionK2 | Kajetan Kwiatkowski | Substack

Shadow Box Archives | Displaying Stories and Art | Patreon

R/EclosionK2 | Reddit