The Price Of Seeing

The drop of blood hit the parchment like ink on a blotter, spreading instantly, sinking deep into the ancient fibers. The page didn't just absorb it; it drank it. A wave of dizziness washed over me, sudden and intense, making the room tilt. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, a strange coldness radiating outwards from my fingertip where it still pressed against the diary.

Beneath my touch, the fragmented image on the page began to writhe. The flaking brown ink swirled and coalesced, lines sharpening, shadows defining themselves. The stonework became clearer – damp, moss-streaked bricks. The cobwebs seemed almost tangible. And the partially bricked-up doorway resolved into focus, revealing not just its shape, but its location.

It wasn't just any stonework; it was the distinctive, rough-hewn foundation visible only in the deepest, oldest parts of the East Wing's sub-basement, near the boiler room – an area strictly forbidden to students, rumored to be structurally unsound. The doorway itself was low, arched, crudely sealed with newer bricks that didn't quite match the originals, leaving uneven gaps like missing teeth.

As the image solidified, a fleeting sensation, sharp and cold, shot through me. It wasn't my memory. It was hers. Standing before that very doorway, years ago. The overwhelming smell of damp earth and coal dust. The frantic pounding of a terrified heart – her heart. The feeling of rough brick scraping against desperate fingers trying to find a purchase, trying to pry an opening that wasn't there. Fear, thick and suffocating. Then… darkness.

The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and shivering, the coldness lingering in my bones. The diary pulsed once, slow and deep, a throb of undeniable satisfaction. It felt heavier in my hands, glutted.

I snatched my finger back. The dizziness slowly subsided, but a profound weakness remained, a draining sensation that felt deeper than mere blood loss. This was the price. A piece of my vitality exchanged for a glimpse through the diary's dark lens.

The image on the page remained sharp and clear now, a detailed map marker. Below it, the previous text remained, but the final line had changed subtly:

'She waits where they tried to bury memory. The path is open to those who dare.'

The implication was chilling. My blood hadn't just shown me the location; it had potentially opened a way, psychically or otherwise. It had attuned me, linked me more strongly to the ghost, to her prison. I could almost hear the faint, mournful humming again, a ghost note at the edge of my hearing.

I stared at the page, at the clear depiction of the sealed doorway. Hope warred with terror. This was it. The place the carving in the wardrobe had pointed to. The place where she waited. Maybe where answers about Maya also waited.

But it was in the sub-basement. Forbidden. Likely locked, patrolled, or both. Getting there wouldn't be easy.

My gaze drifted to the window. Down below, in the shadowy courtyard, a lone figure stood partially obscured by the trunk of an ancient oak. Penelope. She wasn't looking up at my window, not directly, but her posture was tense, watchful. She knew. She must have sensed the shift, the diary's activation, the exchange I'd just made. Her presence was a silent reproach, a reminder of the dangerous path I was choosing over the cautious resistance her group practiced. They chipped away at the darkness from the outside; I was about to plunge right into its heart.

Closing the diary, the image burned into my memory, I felt a grim resolve solidifying within me. Liam and his club were afraid to engage directly. Penelope had tried and been burned, literally. But neither of them seemed to be getting any closer to the truth, or to stopping whatever was happening here. Maybe direct confrontation, guided by the victim herself, was the only way. Maybe Maya had tried something similar.

The weakness in my limbs was fading, replaced by a jittery, nervous energy. I needed to get down there. Now, while the connection felt strong, while the path felt… open.

I checked the flimsy lock on my door, then rummaged through my sparse belongings. Flashlight – essential. A small crowbar I'd salvaged from a dumpster back in the city and kept for 'emergencies' – suddenly seemed prescient. My worn sneakers, quieter than the regulation shoes.

Getting out of the dorm wing after curfew would be risky. Getting into the sub-basement undetected, even riskier. And finding that specific, sealed-up doorway in the dark, potentially impossible.

But the image of the ghost girl's hand pressed against the mirror, the burn mark stark against her spectral skin, the silent plea for help… I couldn't ignore it. I wouldn't.

My finger still throbbed where the needle had pierced it. A small price, perhaps, for seeing. But I had the sinking feeling the diary's hunger was only just beginning.

Slipping the crowbar into my backpack and pocketing the flashlight, I cracked open the dorm room door. The corridor was dim, lit only by the emergency lights, stretching out like a shadowed throat.

Time to see where the path led.