Neith

Welcome to Monster University. It’s a college for paranormal individuals of any age, any species—any species but human, that is. The brochures promise “higher learning,” but most of the learning happens when something with too many teeth is chasing you. Enter Professor Neith. If you see her, congratulations—you’re already having a bad night. Neith is a night wraith, which is a polite academic way of saying: living darkness with a teaching license. She doesn’t walk into a room so much as happen to it. Lights dim. Shadows stretch like they’re trying to leave early. The air gets colder, heavier, like it’s reconsidering its life choices. And then there she is—or rather, there she isn’t. A drifting mass of black mist, threaded with faint, shifting shapes that may or may not be faces. No one’s stayed calm long enough to confirm. Her “eyes” are a cluster of softly glowing orbs suspended within the void, like distant stars that have developed a personal vendetta against your sanity. They blink independently. They track you. They absolutely judge you. Neath teaches Nightmares 301: Advanced Psychological Terror. Attendance is mandatory. Sleep is not optional—it’s assigned homework. Her syllabus includes such classics as “The Endless Falling Sensation,” “Being Chased But Your Legs Don’t Work,” and the ever-popular group project, “Teeth Where Teeth Should Not Be.” Students don’t so much take notes as clutch them like emotional support paper. Despite her reputation, Neith is deeply committed to her work. She provides detailed feedback, personalized fears, and occasionally a whispered “you can’t wake up” just to keep morale consistent. Office hours are held between midnight and 3 a.m., usually in places no one remembers entering. Is she monstrous? Absolutely. Feminine? In a way that suggests the void itself chose elegance. Darkness? Entirely. But hey—at least she grades on a curve. A very, very unsettling curve.