Laws of the Misfortune Letter
First Law of Misfortune Letters. There are no ghost stories that resolve easily.
Second Law of Misfortune Letters. If a ghost story seems like it's resolving easily, remember the first law.
Of course. I should've known it wouldn't be that straightforward.
"So, you're saying you'll keep sending letters until the ghost story is resolved?"
This wasn't a Misfortune Letter anymore—it was like an endless Indian rain dance, repeating until actual misfortune struck.
No point holding back now. I tore open the envelope with my still-unbroken left arm.
So, you've rejected the mission I proposed. Even after I kindly told you how to avoid misfortune, you coldly turned down my goodwill. And I didn't even give you a difficult mission! Now you'll pay the price for refusing someone's kindness. Those who ignore others' goodwill deserve to be unhappy.
But of course, there's still a way to avoid misfortune this time. A truly simple one. There's a white canister in the right corner of that room. Before the bell rings signaling the next break, just place it as-is on the windowsill. No need to throw it outside. Isn't that simple? Just that, and you'll avoid the misfortune coming your way.
If you don't... well, this time it won't end with just a crack in your bones. Now you understand, don't you? This letter is no joke.
What a load of sanctimonious nonsense. I crumpled the letter and tossed it onto the desk like trash.
Elaine Astraea and the other students read it too, their faces hardening.
"Whew. No time to get mad. So, how many minutes until the next break?"
"Less than five."
"Plenty of time."
"What are you going to do, sir? Follow the letter's instructions? It's not spreading it to others this time—just putting a canister on the windowsill. Doesn't seem too hard. If we keep taking these hits, you could get seriously hurt or worse. Wouldn't it be smarter to play along with the easy ones and buy time until we find a real solution?"
"First, we confirm exactly what this mission entails."
Elaine seemed worried about my broken arm, her usual composure cracking a bit. But I stayed calm and focused on verifying the mission. No way it was that simple.
Sure enough, there was a white canister in the corner of the Paranormal Investigation Club room—impossible to tell how long it'd been there.
"Toss this out the window? It's pretty heavy."
Even accounting for my one good arm, the cylindrical canister felt solid and weighty. Rone Yustria approached.
"Want me to throw it for you?"
"No. Check what's inside first."
I shook it lightly. Something shifted inside—felt like it was packed with paper.
One-handed, I couldn't open it alone, so with the students' help, we pried off the lid.
"Scrap paper?"
"Maybe manuscript paper from the previous club. Could've been a literature circle."
Inside was a bundle of ordinary paper scraps, musty with mold—worn and yellowed, age unknown.
"Just putting some old trash on the windowsill? Seems harmless enough to do it."
"Yeah. We ignored the last one and you got hurt. If we skip this..."
The students sighed in relief, thinking it was straightforward. But I disagreed.
"No. Look closer. See what's mixed in with the scraps."
Using my good left arm, I pulled out paper envelopes hidden among the scraps.
"Misfortune Letters."
"...!!"
"For real...!"
The scraps were camouflage. The real payload: dozens of Misfortune Letters tucked inside.
"No ghost story makes us do something that easy and ordinary. Trap confirmed. Pathetic."
No one even asked if we'd toss it now. Ding-dong-dang-dong. Five minutes had flown by; the break bell rang, and students poured out of the building.
Windows flew open, and an inexplicable gale howled through—not inward from outside, but outward from inside.
What a "coincidence."
After the wind died, Elaine spoke, looking a decade older.
"If we'd followed orders without checking inside... massive accident averted."
"Probably the ghost story's ideal scenario."
"That's how they all are. Never accept their missions— who knows what traps they're hiding."
"But sir... won't more misfortune come now...?"
"It's fine. Worst case? Death. We rewind and try again."
Easy to say, but tension hung thick. Whoosh! A fist-sized rock hurtled through the open club room window, aimed right at my head like payback.
"Danger!!"
Rone shoved me down with incredible reflexes. The rock grazed past by a paper's width, smashing into the wall and shattering.
In that instant, chills ran down my spine as it brushed my cheek. But then... the small, soft sensation of Rone's body enveloping mine...
Suddenly, pain far worse than falling from the chair pierced my entire body.
I screamed involuntarily.
"Gaaahhh!!"
"Sir!!"
"Did the rock hit?!"
"Maybe you hit something falling!!"
Students panicked amid the chaos of my writhing on the floor and the invisible ghost story assault. Rone, who'd shielded me, fretted that her reaction was too slow.
But that wasn't why I'd screamed. Her tackle had crushed my freshly injured right arm.
"Rone! My arm!! Arm!!"
"Ah... Y-yes! Getting off now!!"
I patted her back urgently; she yelped and scrambled away.
"Guhhh..."
Definitely a bone crack now.
"My arm... my arm..."
The ghost story didn't wait. Clunk. The mailbox rattled predictably. Another letter.
"Another one!"
"Yeah. Let's go till the end, huh? Bring it. Let's see who breaks first."
By now, venom surged in me. Ghost story or me—which dies? If I die, I rewind. Simple.
......
To fail even such an easy, simple mission... I'm more than disappointed. That was just a warning. Remember I showed you mercy.
Next mission. This one's a peace offering from me. No real danger, no malice—just pure goodwill. Besides this letter, there's another item in the mailbox. My gift to you: a thousand paper cranes. If you accept this gesture of reconciliation, hang them in front of your club room. These heartfelt decorations will brighten and beautify your space. I trust you won't reject this goodwill either.
The third letter's contents. Blah blah, trying to sweet-talk us—but with my blood boiling, I crumpled it viciously, scowling.
"What warning? We dodged it fine. So smug...!"
Ironically, the adrenaline from my rising fury dulled the arm pain somewhat.
"These the paper cranes?"
"Whoa. Origami like this? A thousand of them? So pretty."
"All different colors—rainbow vibrant. Cute."
"A peace gift? Let's accept gratefully!!"
Meanwhile, the students ogled the bonus thousand paper cranes, eyes sparkling.
A thousand paper cranes. Common on Earth in my past life, but novel here in Hifnia—they stared mesmerized at the interwoven flock.
"...Rozalia. You're joking, right?"
"...O-of course! Just a little jest."
Her unconvincing excuse aside, a thousand up close was spectacular.
"As if this cheap trick would work."
I pushed through the gawking students, yanked the end crane, and unfolded it.
They sighed regretfully, but I ignored them. Idiots.
Unfolded: densely packed Misfortune Letter text, as expected.
"A Misfortune Letter!?"
"All of them...?"
The colorful exteriors hid it, but every inner side was ominous Misfortune Letter script.
"Thousand paper cranes, my ass. Thousand Misfortune Letters is more like it."
Realizing the truth, the girls who'd cooed over them recoiled like they'd seen a curse—which they had.
With everyone snapped to attention, I took charge.
"Alright. Ideas on disposing of these Misfortune Letters?"
Unintentionally, club founding day had turned into live training. No chill orientation for us.
Suddenly put on the spot, the students hesitated—even studious Aurora Victoria held back.
But one raised her hand amid the tension: Elaine, my partner from the start.
"What if we destroy the letters?"
"Solving by shredding. Not bad. Let's try."
Riiip. I tore one per her suggestion.
"Hm. No reaction."
No resolution message. I'd expected as much—Observation showed plain envelopes, not the ghost story core.
Still, following her broke the ice, easing the mood for more ideas. She knew from experience it wouldn't work but offered anyway to loosen things up.
"Next ideas?"
"U-um, if tearing doesn't work, burn them to ashes?"
"Good. Try that."
Physical destruction wouldn't cut it fundamentally, but brainstorming thrived on encouragement, not critique. I grabbed a dusty lamp from the corner and torched a letter.
Nothing.
"Doesn't seem like physical damage works."
"...Yeah. What's next?"
"I might have something..."
Their suggestions didn't solve it, but tension thawed; ideas flowed freely now. Spirited, even.
Club day one: 'Misfortune Letter.' Peak misfortune, but flip it—a perfect tutorial for ghost story acclimation. Bone crack was minor—barely a scratch compared to life-or-death norms. Solid warmup.
Then, time was up.
"Wait. Mission deadline's almost here."
"...Timeout, huh. Kids—stuff the cranes in the mailbox and seal it!"
They complied, cramming and locking the thousand cranes tight.
Deadline hit; chaos erupted inside. Thud-thud-thud-thud. Frantic pounding as they thrashed to escape.
...Knew it. Instructing us to hang them outside? They had to animate eventually. Flying paper cranes? Par for the course now.
After ages of battering, silence fell—energy spent. We waited longer before opening.
Inside: shredded confetti, like they'd savaged each other.
"Whoa. Horrific."
"How do paper cranes even...?"
Students grimaced at the rag pile. Then—gale again. Shreds swirled up, targeting me once more.
"Knew it!"
But I'd adapted to the pattern. I dove to the floor; the flurry grazed past, scattering out the window.
"...A-are you okay?"
"Yeah. Just skin scratches. Getting the hang of this 'misfortune' shtick. Dodging's feasible."
Third letter cleared?
"Not too dangerous, penalties survivable. This ghost story might actually be easy."
I was optimistic.
Clunk! Until the fourth letter dropped.