Examinations

Thomas proved surprisingly adept with the first-aid kit. After carefully cleaning the scrapes, he examined my ankle with gentle, practiced fingers. "Looks like a nasty sprain, possibly some ligament damage," he pronounced, his academic tone oddly calming amidst the chaos. "Needs proper medical attention, an X-ray. But for now…" He expertly wrapped my ankle with a compression bandage, immobilizing it as best he could. The support helped ease the throbbing pain slightly, though moving was still going to be difficult.

While Thomas worked, Penelope paced just outside the salt circle, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Liam nervously monitored the hidden door, listening for any sounds from the corridor beyond. The cozy sanctuary of the Club room felt like the eye of a storm, a fragile pocket of calm before the inevitable tempest resumed.

"Leverage," Penelope murmured, stopping her pacing to stare at the two diaries lying within the circle. "Knowledge. That's what we need. Eleanor's diary gave us confirmation, history. But your diary, Jones… it's active. It's connected to you, now. It reacts in real-time. And it seems linked directly to Eleanor's lingering consciousness."

"The ghost in the mirror," I said. "Eleanor."

Penelope nodded. "Her psychic echo, trapped, amplified by the diary's focus. Maybe by the trauma of her death, the injustice. That's why she appears in mirrors – reflective surfaces often act as conduits for residual psychic energy."

"So, the diaries… they talk to each other?" I asked, looking at the two inert books.

"Not directly, perhaps," Thomas mused, finishing with the bandage and sitting back on his heels outside the circle. "More like… harmonic resonance. Think of tuning forks. Your diary, being active and linked to a living host with strong emotional output, acts as the primary resonator. It excites the dormant energy within Eleanor's diary and her echo. It draws them out. It amplifies their 'signal'."

"And the entity?" I asked, dreading the answer. "The school's power?"

"That's the power source," Penelope said grimly. "The diaries are conduits, amplifiers. They tap into the entity, fueled by your life force, your emotions, channeled through the template of past victims like Eleanor. That burst pipe? That wasn't you doing magic, Jones. That was you, in a moment of intense fear and rage, providing the emotional surge and the focus, your blood providing the key, allowing the diary to tap the entity and lash out through Eleanor's residual imprint."

It was a sobering thought. I wasn't wielding power; I was a battery, a key, and a channel for something ancient, hungry, and deeply tied to the suffering embedded in Blackthorn's foundations.

"Can we… talk to her?" I asked hesitantly, looking at the blue diary. "To Eleanor? Through the diaries?"

Penelope exchanged a look with Thomas. "Risky," Thomas said immediately. "Attempting direct communication could strengthen the bond in unpredictable ways. It could draw unwanted attention from the entity, or even from other, less coherent residuals. And there's no guarantee Eleanor's echo retains full consciousness or memory. It could be fragmented, purely reactive."

"But she asked for help," I insisted, remembering the silent plea in the mirror. "She left the diary, the map. She wants to communicate."

Penelope considered this, chewing on her lower lip. "Perhaps," she conceded slowly. "But not directly. Not yet. It's too uncontrolled." She tapped a finger against her chin. "However… maybe we can examine the resonance itself. Thomas, the EMF meter? The audio recorder with the low-frequency mics?"

Thomas nodded, already rummaging in another cupboard filled with surprisingly sophisticated-looking equipment. He produced a handheld device with a needle gauge and another small digital recorder with specialized microphones.

"We can try to measure the energy fluctuations around the diaries," Thomas explained, approaching the edge of the circle cautiously. "See if there are spikes when you focus on specific events, specific names. Maybe record the ambient sound within the circle on sensitive frequencies. Residuals sometimes manifest as EVPs – electronic voice phenomena. Faint voices caught on recordings that weren't audible at the time."

"Okay," I agreed, apprehension mixing with a sliver of hope. Any information, any clue, felt vital now.

Penelope instructed me. "Stay inside the circle. Hold your diary. Think about Eleanor. Picture her in the mirror. Picture her tomb."

I picked up my diary. Its leather cover felt cool now, almost dormant. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to recall the image of the ghost girl, her sad eyes, the burn mark, the silent plea. I thought about the damp, cold tomb, the scattered bones, the overwhelming sense of fear and despair in Eleanor's final diary entry.

As I focused, Thomas held the EMF meter near the edge of the salt line, pointed towards the diaries. The needle, previously still, began to twitch. Slowly at first, then more erratically, jumping higher.

"Fluctuations detected," Thomas reported quietly, his eyes fixed on the gauge. "Definite energy spike, centered on the diaries, correlating with Elara's focus."

Penelope nodded. "Audio?"

Thomas switched on the digital recorder, placing the sensitive microphones just inside the salt line near the diaries. We sat in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the faint hum of the recorder and my own ragged breathing. I kept focusing on Eleanor, on her plea, pouring my own fear and empathy into the mental image. The EMF needle continued its frantic dance.

Finally, Penelope signaled Thomas to stop. He retrieved the equipment, his expression thoughtful. "Significant EMF spikes," he confirmed. "Consistent with localized psychic phenomena. We'll need to analyze the audio recording later, filter out the background noise."

Penelope looked at me, her expression unreadable. "Anything? Did you feel anything?"

I shook my head, feeling drained. "No voices. Just… sadness. Cold." But as I said it, I glanced at my diary, still open in my lap.

New words were appearing on the page. Not demanding blood this time. Fainter, sketchier, like charcoal dust settling into script:

'Salt burns. Iron binds. She fears the Master's eye.'

"It… it wrote something," I whispered, holding it up carefully.

Liam, Thomas, and Penelope crowded near the edge of the circle, peering at the new entry.

"Salt burns," Penelope repeated thoughtfully. "Our circle. It hinders direct influence. Good."

"Iron binds," Liam murmured. "The old infirmary beds were iron. The pipes in the tunnels. Maybe iron dampens their movement, their power?"

"She fears the Master's eye," Thomas read slowly. "She… Eleanor? Fears whose eye? Headmaster Finch? Or…" He trailed off, looking towards Penelope.

Penelope's gaze was distant, disturbed. "There have always been whispers," she said softly. "Rumors passed down through the Club archives. About the entity itself. Not just a genius loci, a spirit of place, but something more concrete. Something the Inner Circle serves, not just appeases. Something they call… the Master."

The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken dread. The entity wasn't just a force; it might be a being. A being Eleanor, even as a ghost, was terrified of.

The sanctuary of the circle suddenly felt much thinner, the salt line a fragile defense against a darkness far deeper and more conscious than I had imagined. And Julian Ashworth, Dean Vance, Headmaster Finch – they weren't just upholding tradition. They were servants. Acolytes of a hidden Master dwelling beneath Blackthorn's hallowed halls.