Most Likely To…
You’ve heard of the Mandela Effect, right? It’s that weird phenomenon where a bunch of people collectively misremember something. Like how some people swear up and down that the Monopoly Man used to have a monocle. (He didn’t.) Or how others vividly recall Ed McMahon handing out big checks for Publisher’s Clearing House (He never did.) The name of the Mandela Effect comes from the fact that a surprising number of people claim to remember Nelson Mandela dying in prison in the ’80s—when in reality, he lived until 2013. Some conspiracy theorists take this as proof that reality is somehow…glitchy—that we’re sliding between timelines where history plays out slightly differently. For myself, I always thought the Mandela Effect was no big deal. People’s memories are fuzzy, end of story. So what? But then it happened to me. My high school class held their 10-year Reunion in our school’s gymnasium. The gym was decked out like a high school dance—a DJ spinning records, streamers dangling from the ceiling, a long table for refreshments. There were poster-sized photos of our cultural icons on the walls: Adele and Idina Menzel, Black Lives Matter and the Babadook. Above the refreshment table hung a gigantic banner proclaiming, “Class Of 2015: We’ll Never Forget!” I entered the gym just as the DJ was cuing up Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy.” On the floor, several dozen late 20-somethings sprung into action, lip synching Iggy’s opening rap furiously—as if they were still in “da Murda Bizness.” I shook my head, feeling a surge of embarrassment for them. I’m not sure why, but I felt a nervous lump in my throat as my gaze scanned the room. I felt a bit out of place. I mean, sure, I’d gone to school with these people for four years, but that felt like a lifetime ago. So many of the faces looked like strangers—like I’d never met them before. But I shrugged it off: my wife, Jennifer, said she’d felt the same estranged vibe when she’d gone to her reunion last year. I guess, no matter how close we get to people, time eventually makes strangers of us all. I headed toward the refreshment table, eyeing the punch bowl. I chuckled as I mused whether anyone had spiked it. I was getting confused looks from people as I passed them, as if they didn’t recognize me. That felt unsettling, but it sort of made sense, since I didn’t recognize them, either. Then I bumped into a woman I recognized—literally. “Sorry!” I shouted, straining to be heard over the pumping music. I did a double-take. “Hey! You’re Hayley, right?” Hayley nodded weakly, but said nothing. She gaped at me, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Mike!” I said, reminding her of my name. “Mike Collins!” “Y-yeah,” she replied, her face contorting into the same confused stare I’d already seen on a half-dozen faces. Then she turned on her heel and scurried off, her chestnut hair rippling behind her like a cape. Weird, I thought. But then a memory swam into my consciousness. It was a distant hazy image: Christmas break. A beer-lubricated party in a suburban basement. Hayley and I on a couch—blitzed, making out, and very horizontal. I chortled. No wonder she was freaked out, I thought. Nothing like seeing a long-forgotten hookup to throw cold water on your night! I was still laughing when I found myself face-to-face with another blast from the past: Bobby Reynolds.“Hey!” I exclaimed excitedly, offering a fist bump. “How you been?” But Bobby didn’t seem happy to see me. “Um, fine?” he answered, his eyes shaded in perplexity. “Mike Collins,” I said, figuring that Bobby had forgotten my name. Bobby said nothing. I let out a frustrated huff. “Okay,” I declared, “I’ve been getting weird vibes from people since I got here. What is it? Has my face really changed that much?” Bobby squinted. “It’s just that…,” he intoned, his gaze falling to the floor, “it’s just that…I thought you were dead.” “No friggin’ way!” I cried, “where’d you get a dumb idea like that?!” Bobby shook his head. “I don’t know. I just thought…” He shrugged. “I mean, everyone kind of assumed—” I cut him off: “Well as you can see,” I snapped, stretching out my arms, “I’m not dead!” “Sure, bro,” Bobby said. He stood stock still for a second, then patted my shoulder. “Take care, okay?” I watched Bobby shuffle away. This was messed up. Dead? Me? Where’d such a stupid rumor come from?! My mouth went dry. I made my way to the refreshment table, and ladeled some red punch into a plastic cup. I gulped the punch greedily, relieved as the sugary drink coated my throat. I looked up. Dead ahead of me, on the wall, were a series of poster-sized photos—blowups of various students’ yearbook photos. I studied the picture of a familiar Latina, her hazel eyes alive with fire. Her face exuded ambition, like she was eager to take on the world. There was a placard posted beneath the picture: “Most Likely To Succeed,” it read, which had been her superlative in our class Yearbook. I nodded. I remembered Trini Lopez—how driven she’d been, and how frighteningly smart. I vaguely recalled seeing a newspaper article about her a few years back. She was now an attorney at the Federal Communications Commission, or something prestigious like that. My eyes roved down the line of pictures and placards. Our class jock had been dubbed Most Likely To Win A Gold Medal. Our class clown? He’d been Most Likely To Host Saturday Night Live. And so on, until… At the far end of the wall was my photo. I squinted to read the placard beneath it: Most Likely To Die First. “What the hell?!” I gasped. But then I cracked into a grin. No wonder everyone thought I’d died! Someone saw my photo with the stupid placard, thought it was true, and spread the moronic rumor. Mystery solved. My relief was only momentary, though. Because, yes, we’d voted for a “Most Likely To Die First” for our yearbook—it had been a joke, a bit of teenage gallows humor. But I knew the unlucky student we’d chosen had been someone else, not me. I racked my brain for a name. Who’d it been? Who was our Most Likely To Die First? A smile crept to my face as the image of a chunky, happy-go-lucky kid surfaced in my thoughts: Brad Barman. He’d been the kid who’d taught me to use a beer bong. The parties at his house were legendary—bacchanalia popping with teenage sound and fury. In retrospect, it was amazing that we’d survived the parties he hosted without getting arrested—or worse. Just then, a raven-haired, serious-eyed young woman approached the punch bowl. I recognized her in an instant: Jessica Rosenbaum, our Class Secretary. She’d been the one who’d organized our reunion. “Jessica,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She darted around, spooked. Once again, I found myself on the receiving end of an unnerving stare. I ignored it. I pointed to my picture. “Jessica, what’s up with this?! Why do you have my picture above Most Likely To Die First?!” Jessica kept staring. I pressed on: “Most Likely To Die First was Brad Barman! Remember?!” Bewilderment seized Jessica’s face. “Who?” My frustration boiled over. “Oh, come on!” I cried, “the joke’s over! Brad Barman! You have to remember him! His parents were never home! We went to his house for keg parties! We called him Last Call Barman! How could you forget?!” Jessica stepped back, intimidated by my onslaught. “I don’t know,” she muttered, then slinked away. I hurled my empty cup into the trash. I’d had enough of this scene. I was going home. I was driving too fast, but I didn’t care. My hands clenched the steering wheel as the car zoomed along the shadowy road. I took one deep breath after another, in an effort to calm myself down. I thought about my wife’s mantra: “Always look for the funny side of life.” But what was so damned funny about a room full of people thinking you were dead? Then an anecdote sprang to my thoughts. I’d majored in English in college, and one of my favorite writers was the humorist Mark Twain. Once upon a time, newspapers got false word that Twain had died, and promptly printed the story. But one amused journalist, who knew that the rumor was false, reached out to Twain for comment. “I’ve heard on good authority that I’m dead,” Twain had deadpanned, “but rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated.” “Greatly exaggerated!” I hooted. Twain’s raw wit boosted my mood, as it always did. I decided that, when I got home, I’d tell Jennifer about how I “died” at my reunion—then ask her if it was too late to take out a life insurance policy on me. Laughter overcame me. Maybe I laughed too hard, because just then I felt a headache coming on. I spotted a mini-mart and decided to take a break. I parked my car and entered the store. I scooped up a Gatorade and travel-pack of Tylenol, then stepped up to the front. The cashier—a sleepy-eyed young man wearing a blue shirt and jeans—studied me. His name-tag read “Chad.” “You okay, man?” Chad asked. “You look a bit pale.” I snickered. “It’s been a long night,” I explained, “a weird, long night.” “I’ll bet,” Chad replied and rang me up. Outside, I washed down a couple of the Tylenols with Gatorade and got back into my car. The headache went away as I drove the rest of the way to my house. Home sweet home. I inched my car into the driveway and killed the engine. I walked toward my house slowly, contemplating how I’d tell Jennifer about my surreal evening. Our mailbox stood atop a pole by the sidewalk. I noticed that its flag was still up. As usual, my wife had neglected to take in the day’s mail. With a sigh, I sauntered over to it, opened it, and drew out the mail. I leafed through the letters and bills as I paced toward the house. I froze. The mail—it was all addressed to Brad Barman. A shiver sparked through me. I looked up at my house. A woman peered out of the front window. She looked baffled. It wasn’t Jennifer. Numbly, I staggered back to my car and drove away, my thoughts a blurred jumble. I don’t know what to do. I’m sitting in the parking lot of a pancake house; I’ve been here for the last two hours. I’ve sent out texts to all my contacts, but so far, no one’s replied. That’s why I’m posting this. I need help. I’m leaving my phone number at the end of this post. If someone—anyone!—went to Hall High School ten years ago and remembers me, please call me. My name is Mike Collins, and I’m not dead. Credit: Tim Chambers Ko-Fi Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.