Chapter 23
TWENTY THREE
RUELLA
I toss and turn for what feels like an eternity but as I glance at the clock on my side table, I realise it has only been two hours since I ended the call with Asher and decided to put myself to bed.
“Argh,” I huff as I sit up and lean against the headboard, pulling the thick covers up to my chin to try and battle the chill in the air.
The moon shines through the windows making those pesky shadows dance around the room, they usually make me a little nervous and twitchy, but not tonight.
Tonight, I lose myself in their dance as clouds pass over the silvery circle in the sky. It’s beautifully haunting.
Despite my exhaustion, my brain can’t seem to relax.
A thought clicks in the back of my mind.
The text from Corden with his discovery of the wings.
He said it could be for any building, but I am almost positive Marlowe was using it for this main structure.
I quickly hop out of bed and slip my feet into my Ugg’s by the bed, then grab the Marrowton sports jumper that was given to me on my arrival here.
I put my phone into my pyjama pants pocket and quickly pull the invisible ink pen from the desk drawer.
If I know Marlowe, she has left little drawings or clues in the corridors.
It has always been a little rebellion for her.
She has a better relationship with my father than I obviously do, but all that control he holds over her has to have an outlet.
Hers was always graffitiing over expensive objects and her parents being none the wiser.
I quietly open my door, but the creepy creaking of the old hinges makes me wince.
“Shhhh,” I whisper to the inanimate object like it purposely pissed me off.
The freezing breeze that whips up the stairwell and hits my face has me reaching for the dark green beanie from the back of the door and pulling it on as I tiptoe down the stone stairs.
“It’s cold as shit,” I shiver as I make it to the common room.
I peak around the corner, but I already know at this hour on a Monday night, that it will be eerily empty.
As expected, there isn’t a soul in sight, so I rush forward and through the Hasting house entrance and slowly shut it behind me, not letting the lock click as I release the handle.
“Phew,” I don’t know why I feel so nervous, there aren’t any rules against leaving your room at night, just guidelines in the handbook.
A warning almost. To not roam the grounds at night and to stay away from the forest surrounding the grounds.
But they never said anything about the halls or the main building.
As I make my way down the silent hallway, grabbing my phone out of my pocket and holding the invisible ink pen in my hand like a weapon, I can understand why no one ventures out alone.
I feel like the dumb bitch in the horror movies that walk straight towards danger alone, while knowing there is a killer on the loose.
“Ah crap,” I whisper. I forgot my fucking knife. I never leave my room without it. My tired brain isn’t firing like it should.
I look behind me and debate whether to turn back, but I am too far away now.
I glance around the space for the wing signs and when I pass under the North Wing I start to slowly shine the UV light on all the surfaces I think Marlowe would leave her essence on.
Sure enough, there are little doodles, flowers and hearts, some moustaches drawn over oil paintings.
“Jeez Marlowe,” I whisper, and it doesn’t echo like it should. It falls to the ground, heavy and thick.
I shake my head as a shiver works its way down my spine. I scan behind me, but I am still alone.
I crack my neck before continuing down the space.
At the far end of the hallway, nearing the lecture rooms, a mirror catches my eye.
It looks like it was once bright gold but is now more of a dirty brown.
The intricate swirls and vines identical to those on the grotesque gates at the entrance to the academy.
It somehow calls to me. Stands out even though there isn’t anything extraordinary about it as it sits alongside other objects with the same rich history.
My feet take me forward until I am stood looking at myself in the reflection.
My stomach rolls with anticipation as I bring the UV light to the surface.
At first, I don’t see anything, but then as I pass over the bottom right-hand corner, letters start to appear.
What we claim, we keep. What we keep, we consume.
My eyes widen.
“What the actual fuck,” I feel my brow furrow in confusion as the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. The writing doesn’t appear to be Marlowe’s, and the wording doesn’t sound like her either. But if she didn’t write this one, who did.
I glance around the mirror for something more but come up empty. I am almost ready to carry on down the corridor, but as I take a step past the mirror, something metal catches my eye from the side of the frame. Something hidden from everyday attention.
I bend down and run my fingers down the ice-cold metal and a celebratory smile stretches my mouth.
A keypad.
No screen like the ones on the door to the records room, this one is an old type with only buttons.
I quickly open my phone notes and find the collection of numbers next to the NW letters.
With slightly shaky hands, I press the code into the lock and pray this will lead me to Marlowe.
When the final number is inputted, an audible click makes the mirrors frame open slightly and jaw drop as the wet, musty air from behind it hits my face.
I pull the frame further away from the wall and turn my phone torch light on before taking a deep breath.
“Please don’t be a dead body. Please don’t be a dead body,” I repeat to myself before I get the courage to shine the light into the space.
No dead body in sight. Only a dark stone tunnel that goes so far, the light from my phone doesn’t reach.
I stand in indecision. It feels like that stupid movie moment again, where you are screaming at the screen for the person to turn around. To save themselves.
Yet here I am building up the courage to check where this thing leads.
I have no clue how and why Marlowe has the code to this secret passageway, but it is important enough to ignore every natural instinct to run away, and head inside.
My chest clenches but it’s not at the tunnel, it’s at the sudden sound of shuffling feet behind me. I spin but press myself into the wall to shroud myself in as much darkness as I can. My eyes shifting to every hiding place to find the culprit.
There isn’t anyone in this corridor, but then the sound of a door softly closing in the hallway beyond the one I stand in, makes my decision for me. I don’t know who it is, but the stuttering of my heart feels like the universe is trying to tell me I shouldn’t find out.
I slide into the secret passageway and click the frame back into place, but only after checking there is a keypad on this side to get back out.
I take a grounding breath of cold musty air and push further into the tunnel, my Uggs sometimes slipping on the slick stone beneath my feet.
I should have worn trainers and most definitely had my knife on me, but I didn’t think investigating hidden passages behind locked mirrors would be on my bingo card for tonight.
A shimmering, muted, silver light twinkles in front of me and the old stagnant air changes into something a little fresher. Just as cold but less heavy and thick.
I think this tunnel leads outside. It sounds like it does. The air shifts, cooler, freer, and then the walls widen until moonlight spills ahead of me, silver and soft through the lattice of trees that rise like sentinels around the opening.
I step out into the forest, blinking against the pale glow.
The trees are massive, their branches weaving a canopy so thick it feels like the stars are fighting to be seen.
I glance around, trying to find my bearings, and when I turn back, I see the main building behind me, its turret reaching for the clouds as if it’s trying to pluck the stars from their hiding place.
Wait. That’s my turret.
My room window catches the moonlight, arches and lead lines sharp and distinct even from here.
I look back toward the forest and freeze.
This is the exact spot I saw the light that night. The one that bled through the trees when the screams jolted me from sleep.
“What the hell were you doing, Marlowe?” I whisper, my voice swallowed by the dense stillness.
The forest here is thick, impenetrable, almost, but off to the side, a narrow path cuts through the undergrowth. The brambles and mud are trampled down, forming a rough trail that snakes deeper into the dark.
Against every whisper of common sense, I follow.
The path doesn’t stretch far before the trees open into a clearing, and the sight before me knocks the air from my lungs.
Hidden beneath the canopy stands a small, time-worn church.
Its grey stone walls are veiled in moss and shadow, the roof sagging, but the stained-glass window, somehow untouched, glows with fractured colour beneath the moonlight.
I can’t make out the image from here, but the hues shimmer like something alive.
I take a hesitant step forward, ready to explore, when the low groan of an engine cuts through the quiet.
Headlights flicker weakly through the trees behind the church, two dim orbs moving slow, deliberate. My gaze snaps to the doorway, where a cloaked figure slips into view. I can’t tell if it’s male or female. Just a shape, heavy and still, watching.
All instinct screams run.
The air thickens, colder now, pressing against my skin. I spin and sprint back toward the tunnel, branches clawing at my clothes. My heart hammers, a wild rhythm against my ribs. The tunnel looms ahead like a throat waiting to swallow me.
Each breath sears my lungs as I run, like those cross-country days back in primary school, when I begged to stop, and they made me keep going anyway.
My legs burn, my vision blurs, but I don’t slow.
Not until I’m fumbling with the mirror, typing in the code with shaking fingers, and stumbling headfirst into the corridor at Marrowton.
I collapse against the floor, gasping, pulse thrumming violently in my ears. I don’t even check if anyone’s there. I just sit there, wide-eyed and trembling, the echo of the forest still clinging to me.
What in the ever-loving fuck was Marlowe involved with?
I thought I was chasing answers.
But all I’ve found are more questions and a fear I can’t quite name.
One thing, though, is certain.
The faculty were right about the handbook rule.
Never go into the forest after dark.