Echoes In The Wood

The beam from my flashlight trembled, tracing the jagged edges of the letters carved into the wardrobe's back panel. FIND ME. Two simple words, crudely etched, yet carrying the weight of a desperate plea from beyond the veil.

My breath hitched. This wasn't random graffiti. It was her. The girl from the mirror. The ghost tied to this cursed place, maybe even to the diary.

How was Chloe sleeping so soundly five feet away? Oblivious. I quickly, silently, shut the wardrobe door, the click echoing unnaturally loud in the stillness. My skin felt clammy, goosebumps rising despite the stuffy air in the room. The faint scratching sound didn't return, but the silence itself felt charged, expectant.

Leaning against the wardrobe, I pulled the diary from my backpack where I'd stuffed it earlier. Its leather cover felt strangely rough under my fingertips, almost like bark. I opened it, flipping past the demand for blood.

The page was no longer blank. A new image bled onto the parchment, faint and fragmented, like a water-damaged photograph. It showed stonework, thick with dust and cobwebs, and what looked like a narrow, arched doorway, partially bricked up. Below the image, the ink pulsed with familiar insistence:

'She waits where they tried to bury memory. Give, and I will show you the path.'

Give. Blood. My blood. For a clearer picture, a map, a location. The diary wasn't just suggesting anymore; it was bartering. My life force for answers. Penelope's face flashed in my mind, her voice low and urgent, "Don't feed the damn book."

But… find me. What if finding the ghost was the key? The key to understanding the diary, the disappearances, Blackthorn's rotten core. What if finding her was the only way to find Maya? The hope was fragile, possibly foolish, but it was the only anchor I had in this storm. Liam's evasiveness, the yearbook photo – the History Club knew something. Maybe the ghost knew more.

Closing the diary, the fragmented image burning in my mind, I felt torn. Feed the darkness for a potential answer, or heed the warning of someone who'd already paid a price?

The next day was a study in forced composure. I tried to act normal, attending classes, taking notes I barely absorbed. Every reflective surface felt menacing. I avoided the bathrooms, catching glimpses of myself in window panes, half-expecting the ghostly girl to appear behind me. The coppery taste in my mouth seemed permanent now.

During a free period, I found myself back in the room, staring at the wardrobe. I ran my fingers over the inside panel where the message had been. The wood felt rougher there, yes, but the actual carving… was gone. Smoothed over, as if it had never existed.

Panic flared. Had I imagined it? No. The memory was too vivid, too chilling. Had it erased the message? Or had someone else been in our room? I checked the lock – flimsy, easily bypassed. The thought sent a fresh wave of violation through me.

Determined, I sought out Liam again, finding him in the library annex, poring over dusty architectural plans of the academy.

"Liam," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "We need to talk."

He looked up, startled, then annoyed. "I told you, I don't know any—"

"Cut the crap," I interrupted, lowering my voice. "Strange things are happening. Things are appearing. Messages. I think someone, maybe Maya, is trying to communicate. And I think your club knows more than you're letting on."

His face paled slightly. He glanced around the quiet annex, then leaned closer. "You need to be careful," he whispered, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Playing with things you don't understand. This place… it has history. Dangerous history."

"Tell me about Maya!" I insisted, keeping my voice low but intense.

"I can't," he hissed, looking genuinely frightened now. "We… we look for ways to weaken the influences here. Historical countermeasures. Wards. Destroying focuses. We don't communicate with them. It's too dangerous. It draws attention." He started gathering his plans hastily. "Leave it alone, Jones. For your own good." He practically fled the annex.

He hadn't denied Maya was connected to them. He'd confirmed the History Club was actively fighting something. And he was terrified.

That evening, walking back to the dorm after forcing down another metallic-tasting dinner, the shadows seemed deeper, the gaslights casting flickering, distorted shapes. As I passed the large, ornate mirror in the corridor – the one where I'd seen the ghost before – I deliberately kept my eyes averted.

Stay away from the mirrors after dark.

But as I drew level with it, a faint sound reached my ears. A soft, mournful humming. Not coming from the corridor, but seemingly from the direction of the mirror itself.

Against my better judgment, against Penelope's stark warning, I stopped. Slowly, hesitantly, I turned my head.

The mirror's surface wasn't reflecting the corridor accurately. The gaslight appeared dimmer, distorted, swirling like smoke within the glass. And standing within that smoky distortion, clearer than before, was the ghost girl.

Her features were still indistinct, shrouded in shadow, but I could make out the shape of her face, tilted slightly as if listening. Her old-fashioned uniform looked solid, real. The humming seemed to emanate from her, a low, sorrowful tune without words.

And then, she lifted her head. Through the swirling shadows of her hair, her eyes found mine. They were dark voids, empty yet filled with an ancient sadness. She raised one hand, pressing it against the glass from her side, just as she had before.

This time, however, something was different. On the back of her ghostly hand, stark white against the translucent skin, was a mark. A burn scar. Jagged, puckered, silvery white.

Identical to the one on Penelope's wrist.

My blood turned to ice. Was this Penelope's ghost? Or did the diary, the entity, mark all its victims this way?

As I stared, frozen, the diary in my backpack pulsed insistently against my back. Give. Feed the connection. Show her you are worthy.

The ghost girl's lips moved, though no sound came out. But I read the shape of the word clearly in the distorted reflection:

Help…

Then, the mirror's surface rippled violently, like water struck by a stone. The image shattered into a thousand swirling fragments, the humming cut off abruptly. The glass cleared, reflecting only the dimly lit corridor and my own terrified face.

The diary pulsed again, harder this time. Demanding.

I knew what I had to do. The risk was enormous, the path treacherous. But seeing that mark, hearing that silent plea… I couldn't turn away. I had to find her. I had to know.

Back in the relative safety of my room, with Chloe thankfully out at a study group, I took out the diary. My hand trembled as I retrieved the small sewing kit my last foster mother had given me – a pathetic, mundane tool for what I was about to do.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the diary to the page with the fragmented image of the bricked-up doorway. Then, steeling myself, I pricked the tip of my finger with the needle.

A single, perfect drop of blood welled up, dark and alive.

Closing my eyes for a second, bracing myself, I pressed my bleeding finger onto the page, right onto the blurred image.

The parchment beneath my fingertip felt suddenly, ravenously hungry.