The Bully Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Event

Joe arrives early at the banquet, nerves jangling beneath his polished exterior. The hotel’s ballroom glows with forced nostalgia—school colors drape the walls, round tables shimmer under crystal chandeliers, and centerpieces of old memorabilia cast long shadows across white cloth. Forced laughter bounces off too-bright lights.

As old classmates file in, name tags like warning labels, Joe scans the room for the bartender but sees only familiar faces—each one a ghost from his past. The air hums with tension, and the faint sting of expensive perfume.

Dinner blurs past. A slideshow of high school memories flickers across a giant screen, awkward photos and cheerleader grins. Joe and Fred sit together, excluded from the laughter and inside jokes. For them, nostalgia is a knife.

Fred leans close, voice low. “I hope that bartender’s magic is real.”

Joe leaned closer, forcefully pulling Fred aside. “It is real. I met him earlier today. Everything will go as planned.”

Fred’s eyes widened, skepticism etched across his face. “How can he do this? Who is he?”

“You remember when we went back to the bar? They said he was a spirit… a ghost,” Joe replied, trying to downplay the fear creeping into his voice.

Fred’s sarcastic nod barely contained his disbelief. “You’re not trying to tell me…?”

“He is not a ghost, but a Warlock. A male witch. Yep. I saw it. I felt it,” Joe insisted, his voice firm despite the unease pooling in his gut.

Before Fred could respond, the program organizer approached Joe, eyes shining with something like awe. “You’ve been chosen—Most Admired. Would you say a few words?”

Joe stands, heart thundering, as applause swells. He basks in it, shaking hands, soaking up the admiration. Onstage, he begins to speak—about his journey, his success, how anything is possible if you want it badly enough. Faces in the crowd smile back, eager, hungry. For the first time, he feels seen.

But as he talks, the energy shifts. Applause turns mechanical. Laughter sounds off-key. Smiles freeze, eyes glass over. Joe falters, glancing at Fred, who stares back, pale and uncertain.

The lights flicker. The air thickens, heavy as a shroud. The MC gestures for Joe to stay, asking him to speak again. He does—stretching his speech, hunting for the old warmth in the crowd. But the faces are rigid now, masks of adoration with nothing behind them.

When he steps down, the crowd parts. People murmur, eyes averted, groups closing up as he approaches. All that worship, all that attention, slips away as if it had never been.

Across the room, Joe glimpses the bartender at the exit, watching with a slight, unsettling smile. He mouths words Joe can’t hear.

Be patient.

Joe seizes Fred’s arm. “Look, it’s happening.”

Fred just shakes his head, lips pressed thin. “Something’s wrong. This isn’t what we wanted.”

Before Joe can reply, a tremor ripples through the room. The lights stutter, shadows crawl. The crowd’s faces contort—their admiration warping into something sharp, almost predatory. Applause swells again, frantic and hollow, as if the room itself is devouring him.

Joe’s triumph curdles into panic. The music skips, dancers freeze mid-step, and for one breathless moment, everyone’s eyes fix on him—hungry, empty, endless.

A cold dread settles in Joe’s gut, and all he can do is stand there, soaking in the adoration he wished for, as the nightmare begins to unfold.