All of Us in Our Laboratory Are Dying in the Manner of Nursery Rhyme Lyrics!

Professor Black called me into the research office while I was sorting through the paper I'd turned in last week—a half-assed piece on the psychological suggestion effects of folk legends, just good enough to scrape by for credit.

"Ethan, come here." He couldn't even be bothered to use my full name. He just stared at me with the same look people use on janitors.

I walked over to his desk.

He dropped a manila envelope onto it. The flap was sealed with a blood-red stamp, and the edges were yellowed and curling, like it had to be at least thirty years old.

"St. Mary's Orphanage. 1984. Inside is a complete record of a nursery rhyme. When that song first spread back then, forty-seven people died."

I didn't say anything. I waited for him to continue.

He tapped the desk with one finger.

"All you need to do is analyze the text. And remember this—under no circumstances are you to read it out loud, and absolutely do not sing it. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"I don't think you do." Professor Black leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth curling into something mocking.

"You foreign students always think you're smarter than everyone else, but honestly, this project should've gone to someone more reliable. Unfortunately, the lab budget is tight, so you're what I've got."

I took the envelope without expression.

"Don't screw it up, Ethan. Get out." He waved me off.

I had barely taken two steps when the office door swung open.

Luke Harrington strode in, his blond curls styled perfectly, a frat pin clipped to his chest.

His father sat on the university's board of trustees. He himself was a programming prodigy in the computer science department, and the only person in this research group who ever dared talk back to Black.

"Professor, I hear you're working on some new project again?" Luke grinned with theatrical disbelief. "What century is this? You seriously still believe this stuff?"

Professor Black's face darkened. "Harrington, this is none of your business—"

"Let me see." Luke snatched the envelope right out of my hands, tore the seal open, and pulled out the yellowed sheet of parchment inside.

Written on it in black ink were five lines of lyrics, crooked and shaky, like a child had written them:

“A rag doll in the mire”

“Swinging high up to the sky”

“The rag doll drifts upon the water”

“Once it sinks, it won't be seen again”

“No one's allowed to speak first”

"That's it?" Luke raised an eyebrow. "This is your 'forbidden nursery rhyme'? Professor, you need to see a psychiatrist."

"Put that down!" Professor Black shot to his feet. "I'm warning you—"

"I want to see for myself." Luke was already at one of the lab workstations, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Let's see if the latest AI voice synthesis can turn this 'terrifying nursery rhyme' into something real."

I stayed where I was.

Professor Black rushed over to stop him, but he was too late.

A progress bar popped up on the screen. Luke picked the top-rated option in the child voice bank—a voice sample from a seven-year-old girl.

Three seconds later, a bright child's voice came from the speakers:

"A rag doll in the mire..."

The voice was too clear, too clean to feel real. Every word sounded like it had been soaked in ice water, carrying some eerie, unnatural rhythm.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

The others in the lab had come out too, drawn by the sound.

"See?" Luke shut off the audio, then turned and gave Professor Black an exaggerated bow.

"The world's still turning. Nobody died. Maybe stop wasting my dad's money on this garbage."

"Especially when it comes to who you hire..."

He glanced at me. The meaning was obvious.

Professor Black's face had gone gray with fury, but in the end he said nothing. He only waved us all out.

...

That night, back in my dorm, I lay in bed thinking of the whole thing as nothing more than a weird little interruption. I was already planning to continue the research tomorrow.

Then at 4:30 in the morning, my phone exploded with a ringtone.

I jerked upright. The screen said Chloe—she was the psychology department's golden girl, and the assistant on this research project.

"Ethan..." Her voice on the other end was warped with sobbing. "You need to come... the construction site by the south gym... Luke..."

"What happened?"

"He's dead!" Chloe was nearly screaming. "Oh my God, Ethan, he died so horribly..."