My legs carried me away from the shattered glass and sudden darkness of the bathroom on autopilot. Down the echoing corridor, past peeling paint and water-stained ceilings, every footstep felt loud, accusatory. My hand instinctively went to the diary in my pocket. It was warm, pulsing faintly with a residual energy that made my skin crawl.
I ducked into a shadowed alcove near a disused stairwell, needing a moment before facing Chloe or anyone else. With trembling fingers, I pulled out the diary. Flipping past the page predicting screaming mirrors, I found the next one. As expected, new words had appeared, stark against the yellowed parchment:
'Power obeys strength. Command it.'
Underneath, another line, smaller, almost an afterthought:
'Mirrors only reflect what is already there.'
Cryptic. Unhelpful. Threatening. I slammed it shut again, shoving it deep into my backpack this time, the weight of it both terrifying and strangely anchoring in the chaos of my thoughts. Power. It tasted like ash in my mouth.
Trying to regain composure, I continued towards the dorm wing. The door to the communal laundry room stood slightly ajar, spilling pale light and the scent of industrial-strength detergent into the hallway. Usually, I hurried past – the whirring machines and humid air felt oppressive. But tonight, something made me pause.
Inside, rows of identical grey uniforms hung on rolling racks, freshly pressed, waiting for pickup. Towards the back, however, was a section I hadn't noticed before. A simple printed sign taped to the wall read: STORAGE - PENDING WITHDRAWAL.
And there, hanging neatly on a hanger, unmistakable, was Miranda's uniform. The name tag, "M. Holloway," was still clipped precisely to the lapel. Perfectly clean. Perfectly empty. Waiting indefinitely for a withdrawal that would never happen.
It was so mundane, so bureaucratic, yet so deeply horrifying. She wasn't just gone; she was filed away, reduced to clean fabric waiting in institutional limbo. How many other uniforms hung there, ghosts of students swallowed by Blackthorn? My stomach churned.
Dinner was a tense affair. The coppery taste seemed stronger tonight, clinging to the back of my throat. Chloe chattered nervously about an upcoming Latin quiz, but her eyes kept darting towards the West Wing tables, specifically towards Seraphina Dubois's group.
Seraphina held court, laughing loudly, immaculate in her tailored uniform. As a younger scholarship student nervously carried his tray past her table, Seraphina stretched out a slender leg, seemingly by accident. The boy stumbled, his tray clattering, sending mashed potatoes and gravy splattering across the floor.
Laughter erupted from the elite table. Seraphina smirked, examining her perfectly polished shoe as if checking for contamination. "Clumsy," she drawled, loud enough for half the hall to hear. The boy, face burning crimson, scrambled to clean up the mess, stammering apologies.
A white-hot spike of rage shot through me. The sheer, casual cruelty of it. The humiliation heaped on someone already struggling. My hand tightened around my fork. I hope she tears that stupidly expensive ribbon right out of her perfect hair. No, worse. I hope she chokes on that smug laugh.
The thought was venomous, visceral. And deep within my backpack, resting against my leg under the table, the diary pulsed. A single, distinct throb of warmth.
Across the hall, Seraphina tilted her head back, laughing at something Julian Ashworth whispered in her ear. Then, abruptly, the laugh turned into a gasp. She choked, her eyes widening in surprise, one hand flying to her throat. She coughed violently, a strangled, desperate sound that cut through the dining hall chatter. Her face flushed an ugly red.
Julian patted her back, looking momentarily concerned, then annoyed. "Breathe, Sera," he clipped out.
After a few terrifying seconds, the coughing fit subsided, leaving Seraphina red-faced, teary-eyed, and furious. She shot daggers around the room, looking for someone to blame, but her gaze slid past me and Chloe without recognition.
No one else seemed to connect the incident. Just a girl choking slightly. It happened.
But I knew.
The ease of it, the immediacy, sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty hall. The diary hadn't just recorded my anger; it had acted on it. Minor harm, just like the ribbon. A petty vengeance enacted instantly. The feeling wasn't satisfaction; it was cold dread. How easy would it be to wish for something worse?
My gaze flickered across the room and met Penelope's. She was sitting alone, as usual, near the far exit. She hadn't been looking at Seraphina; she'd been watching me. As our eyes met, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. It wasn't hostile. It was a clear, silent warning. Don't go down that path.
Later, seeking refuge from the oppressive dorm room and Chloe's forced cheerfulness, I went to the library. Not the grand, West Wing section, but the smaller, dustier annex mostly used by East Wing students. It was quiet, filled with the comforting smell of old paper. I tried to focus on my history reading, but the words blurred.
Driven by a restless urge, I started browsing the shelves, pulling out old yearbooks. The rumours about Maya, my foster sister, being involved in a Blackthorn 'program' before she vanished always felt thin, but here, surrounded by the school's documented past, the hope felt slightly less fragile.
I found a yearbook from five years ago. Flipping through the stiff pages, past smiling photos of students who looked impossibly young, I scanned the club sections. Debate club, drama society… History Club. My breath caught.
The photo was grainy, poorly lit. Younger versions of the kids Elara now recognized as the 'Secret Resistance' from the feedback – awkward teenagers squinting at the camera. And there, standing slightly behind the main group, partially obscured by shadow, was a girl with dark hair and eyes that seemed startlingly familiar, even in the low resolution. A tentative smile played on her lips.
Maya?
My heart pounded. It looked so much like her, the way she used to tilt her head, the intensity in her gaze. But it was blurry, uncertain. Could it really be? Was this the connection? Had she been here? Involved with them?
I traced the faded image with a finger. The diary, resting on the table beside the yearbook, remained inert. No warmth, no pulsing. Just cold, silent leather. It seemed uninterested in this flicker of hope, this thread connecting me to my past, to my reason for enduring this place. It only cared about the darkness.
Gathering my things, my mind racing with the possibility, I left the library annex. The main corridor was dimly lit by flickering, gaslight-style lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. I passed a large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall, its gilded frame tarnished. I'd walked past it dozens of times already.
Tonight, something made me stop.
My reflection stared back, pale and wide-eyed. But it looked… wrong. Stretched somehow, like a funhouse mirror, though the glass itself seemed flat. And behind my distorted reflection, faint as smoke, wavered the translucent outline of the girl I'd seen in the bathroom mirror. Long dark hair, old-fashioned uniform. Her face was a blur of shadow, but one pale, indistinct hand was pressed flat against the glass, as if reaching out from the other side.
I blinked, and she was gone. My reflection snapped back to normal proportions.
Reaching out a trembling hand, I touched the surface of the mirror. It was freezing cold. Not just cool glass, but an unnatural, biting cold that seeped into my fingertips, making them ache.
'…when the mirrors start screaming.'
They weren't screaming yet. But they were definitely starting to whisper. And they were cold as the grave.