Full Body Chills - Projection

Episode Date: October 25, 2023

A story of a projector with some serious problems. Written by David Flowers. You can read the original story and view the episode art at fullbodychillspodcast.com.Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck Brought to you by FX's American Horror Stories. Four Episode Huluween Event Streaming October 26th. Only on Hulu.

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hi, listeners. I'm Anthony Koons, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of a projector with some serious problems. So, gather round and listen. Close. and listen close. At the very end of my last semester, I dropped out of college. I was so close to graduating.

A bachelor's in software engineering. But it all fell apart one week before our final exams. I wish I could say that I planned to leave. That I was trying to make a statement And didn't believe in the school as a business model I mean, I don't There should be universal free and public education, period But that's not why I left

No The truth is I snapped I broke down, went crazy Totally lost it Whatever name you have for it, sure. But the bottom line is I just couldn't take it anymore. I'll admit it, see?

I know what everyone says about me, but unlike them, I, I can admit when I have a problem. Of course, none of them want to listen. None of them understand that I wasn't the problem. Of course none of them want to listen. None of them understand that I wasn't the problem. I could handle the stress, the curriculum, the grades, losing my shot at the master's program, the break-up. All of that was manageable. But what I really couldn't stand, what I couldn't tolerate for one more microsecond was that damn projector. CSE 315. Machine Learning and Applications. In order to get my degree, I had to take the class. There was no way around it, just like how there was no way around who taught it. Professor Whitlow

was infamous amongst the STEM department at MAU. For being one of the most rigid professors on campus, he rarely deviated from his syllabus and enforced a brutal attendance policy. Truly, the only excuse for missing one of his lectures was that you were dead. I had a colleague who was held back two semesters because of him. Granted, one of those times he was shitfaced at a Mountaineers game, but the other time his grandma had literally died. So yeah, I was stuck with Professor Coldheart in every one of his lectures,

which meant I was stuck sitting in the same room as that projector. Now, the STEM building at Mount Adith University has long been overdue for a remodel. I mean, some of the rooms are still missing outlets. And due to its outdated design, most classrooms are equipped with less than the bare bones needed to teach a modern course. Yet none of that would have to be endured if only the head of the department pushed for some renovations. But can you guess who that is? That's right. And just like his syllabus, Professor Whitlow is very comfortable keeping to the same classroom

equipment he's probably used for over two decades. So riding along every one of his lectures was that abhorrent machine. I remember when he first rolled it out. A hulk of beige atop a squeaky black tower. The large overhead projector looked more like a siege ramp than a piece of tech. I think I laughed. Because who wouldn't? This had to be a joke, right?

I mean, I had heard about Professor Whitlow's traditional teaching methods, but this? This was archaic. This piece of junk had to be from the early 2000s, at least. He turned on the machine, but of course, it still needed to warm up. Is that not a red flag? Like some expired, frozen meal that should have been trashed but now has been so carelessly selected as today's dietary food poisoning? And the horrible sound it made as it stirred from its slumber. A rubbing, scratching sound like a hive of bees were bustling beneath the plastic carapace. I exchanged a worried glance with the rest of the class, but Professor Whitlow carried on.

He had with him a stack of slides. All translucent and printed on film. A few more minutes and the projector had reached critical mass, a blinding, burning ray that drilled into the wall. Even from the side, that glint, that blaze stung at the corner of my eye. I know Professor Whitlow gave some half-hearted excuse for his medieval methods. Something like, the quality of the lecture comes from the material, not the tools. But what about the experience? Or the learning environment?

Do those mean nothing? I mean, if someone wants to use an abacus, fine. But don't try and sell me that it's better than modern computing. He's an idiot, and he's stuck in his ways. Period. But, like I said, I didn't have any issue with Professor Whitlow. After all, it was only for one semester. I could endure his idiocracy for that long.

But that projector. That was the issue. That was the problem. And before you say, oh, it's just a projector, no. Believe me, I'd know if it was just a projector. I mean, think about it. Could just a projector strip your sanity? Could it haunt you day and night and ruin your entire life? No, that's ludicrous.

But this wasn't just a projector. I realized something was wrong around the same time we got our midterms back. Of course, I knew from day one the projector was detrimental to our education, but I guess I underestimated just how detrimental that was. My grades had begun to slip. It wasn't a big deal, I mean, who can blame me given our teacher, but also I was focused on more important things, like the master's program. I had been working tirelessly, studying for entrance exams, compiling references and letters of recommendations, proofreading letters of recommendations.

I had lost some sleep because of it. At the same time, my ex-girlfriend was trying to buy some of my time. She was a party student, always wanting to go out to have fun and relax. But how could I relax when I was being pulled in every direction? What I needed was some rest. After one particularly long night, I came home and collapsed straight into my bed. Still wearing my clothes, I closed my eyes and waited eagerly for sleep. But then, without warning, there came a FLASH! I squinted and looked around, only to find that my room was entirely empty, entirely dark. So I closed my eyes again. But a few minutes later, there it was again. Flash! It was a bright light, almost like someone had shot a laser pointer right over my eyes. I looked around, this time getting up to see if anyone was messing with me.

But I was alone. This time I pulled my blankets over my head and burrowed my face deep into my pillow. And then... Flash! It was blinding! I jolted out of bed, eyes red with rage, but no culprit in sight. I ran to the bathroom and tried washing my eyes, and it squeezed them tight. FLASH!

I couldn't believe it. So I squeezed even harder, pressed my palms into my eyes. FLASH! I blinked. FLASH! And again. FL Flash! And again. Flash! And again! Flash! Flash! Flash! By now I saw it. The light. The scorching glare. It was the burning bulb of a projector. It was pointed right at me. It was targeting me. Inside my head. It was impossible. Yet every time I closed my eyes, I saw that it was real. Flash, flash, flash. It looked at me

with such discontent. I wanted to throttle it, grab it by its metal neck, and smash it into the ground. Flash! But my hands met only air, and every time I missed and mocked me with its glare, flash! I swung! Glass shattered, along with the illusion. I stared at the broken mirror, at my hand bloody and clenched I hid my wound from everyone the next time I showed up to CSE 315 I crossed my arms and covered it

I don't know if protectors have the capacity to feel humor but I feel if they did this one was cackling it knew somehow it knew that I hated it and it hated me this wasn't just an inanimate thing it was a living monster Yet only I could see it. And that's because it only wanted me to know. That way, no one would believe me. That way, everyone would think I was crazy for hating a damn projector.

It was so smug. It would slit me signs in the middle of class in front of everyone. Professor Whitlow would put up a slide, and here or there a word would be out of focus, a letter slightly off, and put together they spelt a message. Manic episode, or scatterbrain, or failure, or idiot! Insults! failure, or idiot insults. But no one else thought anything of it, because no one else knew. Every day it taunted me. Every night it slipped into my dreams. It waited until I was on the cusp of sleep before, flash, it threw me awake. And as it ate into my sleep each and every day, my focus began to wane just a little bit. I was late to class, I missed deadlines, and I even forgot my girlfriend's

birthday. Then I received the letter. Despite all my effort, all my preparation, I was rejected from the MAU master's program. Oh sure, I could always reapply, but when would I get back all that wasted time? Who would explain to everyone that the reason I failed wasn't because of my ineptitude, but because of that damn machine? Oh, but that machine was just so content. Its jolly hum was all I could hear now over Professor Whitlow's dribbling, droning, worthless lectures. You know, at times I even saw them.

Those wretched little devils that hid beneath the screen. I would catch their little shadows flickering across the projector. Their skittering forms crawling along the walls. They were truly like beef. Buzzing, gnawing, snickering pests. What have I done to deserve their bite? Why should they sting me again and again and take from me everything that I earned? Everything I deserve?

I put in the effort. I put in the effort. I put in the time. Even knowing my grades and knowing that my professor would likely fail me, I continued to show up to class each and every day. I put up with his self-aggrandizing, self-serving, rambling monologues every class, and I even put up with that damn fucking projector. So why? Can you tell me? I know.

Oh, yes. I know the reason my life turned to shit. There isn't one. That damn overhead projector chose me. Why? Because! Because it's fucking evil, that's why. It's a malicious assembly of junk without a brain or a soul. It chose me because it did. And it didn't even think about it.

Oh, but it should have. You see, that was its mistake. It chose me. It pushed me. It just couldn't help itself. But you see, as it ran its victory lap, it tripped. It had pushed me too far. That final day, the day I snapped, Professor Whitlow rolled out his precious projector.

It stood so tall and proud. It knew what it had done. It thought it won. Well, I'm still here, aren't I? The professor switched it on, and its hateful glare began to shine. Fuzzy shadows slowly came into focus, and I watched as the little vermin ran around the screen, just dancing with delight. I clenched my teeth and squeezed my chair. I stared so hard, my eyes nearly popped. But even then, even then, it wouldn't stop. It couldn't. It was too stupid and proud. They continued to dance, continued to buzz. And then, as Professor Whitlow changed the slide, they took their final bite.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't understand how. The slides from our lecture were gone, and now all that remained was a room had gone utterly silent, save for a few students who began to laugh. Another slide, and another, and the messages went back and forth. My conversation between me and my girlfriend, it was our breakup on full display and everyone was laughing. The projector buzzed with such sadistic joy, getting louder and brighter and louder and brighter. But how? How did he get these?

And then I remembered who held the slides, who must have printed them. It was the same man who refused to let go of that accursed machine. The same man who kept it alive all these years. No, I have nothing against Professor Whitlow, but in that moment, I realized he was as much to blame for my misery as his dear abomination. So, while everyone was laughing, laughing at me, I got up. I walked over to the projector, and finally, I did the very thing I had yearned to do since the start of my entire semester. I grabbed the projector by its neck, and I slammed it.

And the crash it made was beautiful. Like the anticipated boom of a bottle rocket, a heavy explosion of plastic parts, it caught everyone in a daze. All of them struck with awe. Even Professor Whitlow, as I brought the second blow over his head. The second swing was more of a crunch.

Gripping, crushing, broken. It's how I felt. It's how I wanted him to feel. Another swing and he was down. I should have raised his hands higher. I mean, come on, it's not my fault he laid there like a stool. He was practically begging for it, like... Like how he begged for the third strike.

And the fourth. And fifth. And sixth! I was nearing lucky number seven when finally, a few of the students rose from their dumb shock to grapple me. I was pinned to the floor in a matter of seconds. The seventh blow came from a boot, hitting me square in the face and knocking me out.

I woke up in handcuffs. Me. Can you believe it? A perfect student, perfect record, everything demolished because of that projector. Well, now look who's demolished. I hope that pile of scrap enjoys the junkyard, because that's where it will stay forever. But sadly, some good deeds do go unrecognized.

They'll never understand why I did it. They'll look at what I've done and assign their stigma as they'll continue to say that I attempted to murder Professor Whitlow. Of course I didn't. He's alive, isn't he? And besides, a few stitches is nothing compared to ten years in prison. So why don't you save some of your boo-hoos from me, huh? Obviously, some people are just too dumb to understand that I was a victim too. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

After Professor Whitlow was hospitalized, over a hundred people wrote him well wishes. Many were former students, and together they all went online to leave him a good review on one of those Rate My Teacher websites. Most of the reviews were fake. I mean, they had to be. But one, I think, was written just to taunt me. And you know what it said? Professor Whitlow is a master in his field. He's kind, he's funny, he cares for his students. And while it's a bit old-fashioned, my favorite thing about him is that he still uses his Apollo Horizon

overhead projector. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by David Flowers and read by Anthony Koons. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?