Reversing the Misfortune Letter
Return to sender. The Misfortune Letter. Yeah, that was it. They say the more complicated a puzzle looks, the simpler the solution often is. A way to end this ghost story—which we'd barely even been able to respond to, let alone solve—had finally dawned on me. I shared my idea with the students.
"...Write a letter? Now?"
"That's right. You fight a Misfortune Letter with a Misfortune Letter. We just write one of our own, exactly like that Angel of Misfortune wanted."
"But you said that would only strengthen the ghost story, not resolve it."
Naturally, Elaine and the others pushed back against my plan. And who could blame them? Spreading a Misfortune Letter far and wide was precisely what the ghost story craved—and everything a ghost story craved was designed to destroy humanity. Compromising with it was out of the question. But that only applied if we blindly did what it wanted, didn't it?
"Sure, if we sent it to other people. But what if we sent it to the ghost story itself? Say, straight to the Angel of Misfortune."
"Ah! Then it'd self-destruct with its own power!"
Once the task was clear, everything fell into place smoothly. The students quickly found a sheet of stationery in the corner of the club room and crafted a Misfortune Letter on the spot. They pieced together the contents from all the letters we'd received so far, formatting it to match the standard template. The core of a Misfortune Letter was the mission and the penalty. Complete the mission to avoid the penalty—but to dodge the penalty, you had to complete the mission. So, how to craft one that would definitively kill the Angel of Misfortune?
The answer was simple.
Mission: Kill yourself within the next minute.
Penalty: If not, you will die.
Either way, death. For the envelope, we wrote "Paranormal Investigation Club" as the sender and "Angel of Misfortune in Hell" as the recipient—the exact opposite of every letter we'd gotten. Slap on a stamp, drop it in the mailbox, and done.
With a thunk, I dropped the completed "Misfortune Letter" into the club mailbox alongside the students.
"Does this mean we've solved another ghost story?"
"Yeah. Once the resolution message pops up, we rewind time to erase Rone's injury, and it's over for good."
"Phew. If the first ghost story club's this brutal already... I'm mentally exhausted."
"Shh! Don't you know it's not over till it's over? Keep quiet!"
We waited after dropping the letter. One minute. Two. Five. But no resolution message appeared.
"...Something's wrong."
The confidence and anticipation that we'd essentially solved it had gone ice-cold. Had I overlooked something? A bad feeling crept in. The resolution message was taking far too long. I'd even added a detailed note inside limiting it to one minute, worried about the ghost story dragging things out. There was no reason it should take five minutes.
Realizing that, I yanked open the mailbox.
"Damn...!!"
Inside were two envelopes. One was the Misfortune Letter the Angel of Misfortune had sent to the Paranormal Investigation Club. The other was the one we'd thought we'd sent back to it.
The reason the ghost story hadn't resolved yet? Simple. The letter we'd made wasn't a real Misfortune Letter—it was just an ordinary one. No manifestation at all.
"Why...? We made a Misfortune Letter, but it didn't react!"
"Hold on. Something's off with the real Misfortune Letter on the other side!"
Coincidence or design? As I stared in despair at the open mailbox, the real Misfortune Letter—still unopened inside—began to vibrate. That phenomenon... It was the same as the letter that had stabbed Rone. The precursor to an unread letter trying to fly off to someone else.
Soon, the envelope floated into the air. And the moment it tore open, revealing the contents—
"I'll stop it!"
"Wait— Elaine!"
Elaine stepped forward, blocking my view. As she obstructed my line of sight, she began trembling violently, as if locked in battle with something. But even as she fought alone, I couldn't move so much as a fingertip—or even shift my gaze. Not just me; everyone in the club room except Elaine was frozen.
Her struggle didn't last long. Moments later, she cried out "Kyaa!" and lost her grip on whatever it was. A blinding flash erupted, filling the room.
By the time it faded, our bodies were free—and Elaine was collapsing, limp.
"Elaine! What happened!?"
"Heh... As expected, the force that compels us to read when a Misfortune Letter opens isn't physical—it's mental influence. That's why I, with my strong mental power Gift, was the only one who could move before the envelope opened. I thought maybe I could prevent it from opening entirely... but no. Failed."
"Failed? That's not the word for it!! Why pull a reckless stunt like that?!"
"It wasn't reckless... It was a risk we all have to shoulder to resolve ghost stories. Just like you've done until now, Teacher... This time, it was my turn. I didn't want to keep shoving the sacrifices onto you and the others forever."
"You... idiot...!"
She was right, of course. To resolve a ghost story, everyone had to share the responsibility and risk. And as a result, Elaine bore the letter's curse: total paralysis. Every muscle below her neck had lost all function—a horrific curse.
"Sorry. This curse doesn't seem mental—it's affecting my body directly; my muscles just won't respond, even though I can feel everything. Trying to stop another opening is impossible now."
"The ghost story's nature makes it impossible to stop an opening with average physical ability anyway. Don't waste your energy—lie back and rest."
Damn it. Why did our letter fail while theirs worked? The plan was perfect.
Thunk. The answer came with the seventh letter.
Hahaha. What a ridiculous sight. Fighting a Misfortune Letter with a Misfortune Letter? How utterly foolish. Did you really think scribbling any old nonsense would turn it into one? That mimicking the crude format would make it real? Pathetic.
Because I decide what qualifies as a Misfortune Letter. Every potential one passes through me first—and naturally, I read and judge every word before deeming it 'real.' Did you think I'd accept one poisonous to me? Still, your clown show was amusing. I didn't even bother reading the mission or penalty hints after that.
My eyes skipped straight to the crux: only this ghost story's core could transform a letter into a true Misfortune Letter. There's a saying: 'True power lies not in deciding who goes to trial, but who doesn't.' In that sense, the Angel of Misfortune selecting which letters become real was a power as immense as generating them itself.
Exploiting the Misfortune Letter concept against it was impossible. Our hard-won solution had been meaningless from the start. We'd thought we'd cracked it.
In despair, I scanned the room. But the scene was even more devastating than my mood. Elaine lay paralyzed. Rone writhed in sudden fever, barely able to stand—and with the red cookie's duration possibly ending any moment, her condition was worse than Elaine's. Effectively, both were out of commission. One more curse, and they'd die without proper resistance.
Aurora and Rozalia were too terrified by their states to speak, let alone devise a solution. Was this really the end? Regression our only option? But without a real fix, it'd just be pointless attrition.
My head spun. Misfortune Letter. Mission and penalty. Red cookie and eyeball candy. Real letter and fake. Exploiting the letters. Angel of Misfortune in Hell.
...Ah.
Suddenly, the tangled keywords in my mind meshed into one possibility.
"...No way."
I pulled out "that item" to test my hypothesis. It confirmed the method was viable. A perfected version that fixed every prior failure. The definitive way to end the Misfortune Letter for good.
"...Is that really the only way?"
Even confirming it brought no joy—only suffocating dread.
"Teacher Allen. Did you just think of something?"
"Whatever... it is... tell us... Don't hesitate...."
But no matter how I racked my brain, only that one path emerged. The students gazed at me with desperate hope—all four of them. And even as I agonized, the letter's timer ticked down.
In the end, I had no choice.
"Can you entrust your lives to me?"
Without a doubt, I was the worst teacher imaginable.