The words swam on the page. 'You'll need me when the mirrors start screaming.'
My breath hitched. I snapped the diary shut, shoving it under my pillow as if it might bite. The feel of the worn leather through the thin pillowcase was a constant, unnerving reminder. Screaming mirrors? What fresh hell was that? Was it literal? A metaphor? A threat?
My gaze darted to the small, cheap mirror hanging on the back of the wardrobe door. Its surface reflected the cramped room, distorting the edges slightly. It looked perfectly normal. Silent.
Get a grip, Veyne. Jones. Elara Jones. Use the damn name.
But the other name, her name, whispered back from the depths of the diary, a secret handshake with the darkness residing in this place.
Sleep was a fractured, restless thing. Nightmares chased each other through my mind – flashes of pale fingers reaching from the earth, icy blue eyes watching me, mirrors cracking to reveal screaming mouths. I woke tangled in my sheets, heart pounding, the faint metallic tang back in my mouth. Chloe snuffled softly in the other bed, oblivious. Lucky her.
The next day passed in a blur of forced normalcy. Classes were challenging, demanding. Latin with a desiccated professor who peered over his spectacles as if dissecting insects. History, ironically, taught by a young, enthusiastic teacher who seemed determined to whitewash Blackthorn's more controversial past ("founded by visionary philanthropists," he beamed, glossing over the grim-faced portraits lining the halls). Mathematics felt blessedly concrete, numbers behaving predictably, unlike everything else here.
But the unease was a constant hum beneath the surface. The stark contrast between the lavish West Wing classrooms we occasionally used for specialized subjects and the peeling paint of the East Wing labs felt deliberate, a constant reinforcement of status. Julian Ashworth and his cohort were always there, moving through the halls with an air of entitled ownership. Seraphina Dubois shot me a look of pure venom when I accidentally brushed past her near the library entrance. Julian merely smirked, that same cold assessment in his eyes, his signet ring glinting. It felt less like bullying, more like… observation. Like a farmer checking on livestock.
The coppery taste lingered, especially during meals in the cavernous dining hall. I started noticing things. How the light seemed dimmer around the East Wing tables. How certain serving staff – older, worn-looking, like Marlena – never met anyone's eyes. How conversations sometimes died abruptly when a member of the groundskeeping or maintenance crew walked past.
Chloe remained determinedly cheerful, focusing on grades and navigating the social hierarchies. "Just keep your head down, Elara," she advised during lunch, picking at her strangely pale chicken salad. "Pass the exams, get the diploma, get out. That's the plan." She seemed to notice the strangeness – she wrinkled her nose at the taste of the water, commented on a flickering light in the corridor that never got fixed – but she pushed it away, attributing it to an old building, stress, anything but something deliberate.
I found myself watching Penelope again. She ate alone, always near an exit, her movements precise and economical. Always watchful. That burn scar on her wrist seemed to pulse in my imagination. Was it from the diary? Had she held this cursed book before me? What had it cost her?
That afternoon, during a brief break between classes, I found myself alone in one of the East Wing's outdated, echoing bathrooms. The fluorescent light flickered erratically overhead. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the clinging sense of dread. As I straightened up, I met my own eyes in the large, slightly warped mirror above the sinks.
My reflection looked pale, haunted. Dark circles were already forming under my eyes. You look like crap, Veyne. Jones. Whatever.
I stared, half-expecting the glass to ripple, to crack, to emit a bloodcurdling shriek as the diary promised. Nothing. Just my own tired face staring back.
Then, a flicker. In the reflection, behind my shoulder, near the doorway I'd just come through. A shadow? No, clearer than that. A figure. Tall, indistinct, dressed in an old-fashioned version of the Blackthorn uniform. A girl with long, dark hair obscuring her face.
My heart leaped into my throat. I spun around.
Nothing. The doorway was empty. The corridor beyond was silent.
Turning back to the mirror, my reflection stared back, alone. My breath misted the glass. Had I imagined it? Was the lack of sleep getting to me?
Or was that the first whisper?
My fingers tightened into fists. A surge of anger, cold and sharp, cut through the fear. Anger at the diary, at this place, at Julian Ashworth's smug face, at the helplessness threatening to drown me. Leave me alone! The thought wasn't just internal; it felt like a silent scream.
A faint vibration hummed through the floor, coming from my pocket where I'd tucked the diary earlier, needing its oppressive weight off my bed but unable to leave it behind. It pulsed, once, like a morbid heartbeat against my thigh.
Suddenly, a high-pitched whine emanated from the fluorescent light fixture above the mirror. It flickered violently, buzzing like an angry wasp. Then, with a sharp crack, the bulb exploded, showering the sinks and floor with tiny shards of glass.
I flinched back, shielding my face, heart hammering. Darkness swallowed the small bathroom, broken only by the dim emergency light near the floor.
The silence that followed was profound, heavy. Broken only by the frantic thudding of my own pulse and the phantom vibration from the diary in my pocket.
It hadn't been the mirror that screamed. Not yet.
But something had listened. And something had answered.
Clutching the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, I stared into the darkened mirror. I couldn't see my reflection clearly anymore, just a vague outline in the gloom. But I had the terrifying certainty that something else was looking back.
The diary felt warm against my leg. Almost satisfied.
When I finally stumbled out of the bathroom, leaving the darkness and shattered glass behind, the next page in the diary, I knew without looking, would no longer be blank. And I dreaded what new horror it would have scrawled there.