Chapter 1
Third person's POV.
The wrought-iron gates of Woodlock Academy groaned open, pushing back a wall of mist that pressed against Deena Benicio like a living thing. Each breath she took felt colder here, sharper—as if the air itself knew her purpose. Tucked firmly under her coat lay Mary's diary—its leather cover scarred, the pages dog-eared and embroidered with cryptic notes. It was her only connection to a sister who had disappeared in these halls.
Vanished? they had said.
Accident, the authorities concluded.
Mary had slipped and fallen from the cliffside. But Deena did not believe a word of it.
The path beyond the gate was lined with ancient oaks whose branches intertwined overhead, forming a skeletal canopy that filtered the pale morning light into ghostly patterns on the ground. With each step, the stones beneath her shoes seemed to hum, as if alerting to her presence. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, forced a steadying breath, and listened. Too quiet. Too... empty.
Across the grounds, students milled toward the main building, wrapped in pristine uniforms, chatting normally. Deena's stomach knotted as she recognized the effort to maintain normalcy, beautiful grounds, healthy greenery, roaring engines—like a golden cage.
A hand touched her shoulder, light but firm.
"You dropped this."
She stared. Crisp white stationery folded into a letter-sized page lay in his palm—the same paper she hadn't noticed falling. The boy wore a dark coat too, black hair, eyes that held a mix of intelligence and distance. His lips twitched upward, but he didn't speak. His eyes flickered to Mary's diary beneath her coat.
"I... thank you," Deena managed, taking the page.
He walked off without a word.
She stood rooted, questions pressing through her
Who was he?
Why did his eyes hold that gravitas?
And why had she felt like she'd lost something important as he left?
The first day, hollow welcome.
When she finally reached the stone entrance, a statue of the academy's founder loomed above—hands carved eternal in a choice between justice and power. Consider this warning, Deena thought, adjusting the strap of her satchel.
Inside, the corridors were wide, and bright-stained windows cast mosaic patterns on the parquet floors. Yet overhead, the fissures of the ceiling hinted at decay—a paint chip here, a damp patch there, giving the entire place a haunted quality.
She paused, clutching the diary as if it could anchor her as she'd lost tether.
"Deena Benicio."
The principal's voice rang out, poised and clinical. She was surrounded in a glass case.
"Yes?"
He tilted his head, professional widow's peak and hawkish eyes.
"Your sister's death... So tragic. We're heartbroken."
Her pulse accelerated. She braced. "So many people believe it was suicide." Deena said, hoping to see his reaction.
"She had a sensitive mind," he replied. "This place isn't just an Ivy League academy, this place is...intense." He said.
Intense?
The word tasted like sulfur in her mind.
"People don't just sensitive-mind their way off a cliff." Deena said, trying to stay calm.
The principle's gaze flickered, but he smiled regally, and lifted a hand to a hidden intercom.
"Miss Benicio, please follow me. We'll get the dorm key sorted." He said, ignoring what Deena had said.
Her dorm room lay at the end of a long, silent corridor, two beds and wardrobes standing like sentinels under flickering lights. The room was musty, smelling of wood polish and washed linen. She unpacked quickly—books, clothes, Mary's diary placed ceremoniously above her scattered toiletries.
That night she lay awake, fog creeping beneath her window. Every whisper of wind brought a rustle—a memory, a warning. Sleep was impossible. She opened Mary's diary, flipped to the blank page after the last dated entry. It felt too powerful, right at her fingertips.
A sudden thud echoed from the floor above.
Deena froze. Then she glanced at the dark ceiling.
"One step at a time," she whispered. "I can do this."
----
Deena couldn't sleep either—nor would she. The groan of dormitory floorboards lulled into uneasy clicks and sighs. Every breath, every hush felt orchestrated. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and slipped from bed, hugging Mary's diary to her chest.
Hide everything, Mary had written once. The truth hides best under what everyone sees.
Her bedroom door creaked open into the dim corridor—a narrow space with a low ceiling that felt like a tunnel. The moonlight through paneled windows painted silver paths on the floor. She followed them, drawn to downstairs, to somewhere she didn't know—but where she felt compelled to go.
At the bottom of the stairs, the common area extended like a ghosted lounge. Too large. Too empty. She walked barefoot on the polished floor until a whisper reached her ears.
"Too easy..."
She crossed the room, each step brittle beneath her soles. The voice trembled with urgency.
"...too dangerous."
Deena, it breathed. Watch.
A spotlight of moonlight traced a figure by the far window. She froze, heart thunderous. The boy from earlier—black coat, penetrating gaze—stood, hair half-obscured by shadows.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
"And you?" Deena whispered back.
He hesitated, eyes reflecting pain. "I live here."
She perused his features, high cheekbones, sallow skin, trace of a bruise across his temple. It glinted like a recent threat.
Tell me your name. She thought it, but she couldn't say it.
"I'm Theo," he finally said, and she gave him a slight nod. "You shouldn't have come," he said, softer now. "They don't like curiosity."
"How did you know...?" she faltered.
He considered her as if weighing her soul. "You have your sister's eyes."
Deena's fingers curled tight. "You knew Mary?"
He smiled, tight and dark. "Everyone knew Mary."
"She... she was different." Deena said, remembering how sweet and caring she was.
Theo nodded, shadows reflected in his pupils. "She asked questions. Serious questions. Too serious." He gave her a small smile.
A weight pressed in the room. She dared reach for the diary in her coat. The tender weight of hope grew.
"I need to know what happened to her," she said softly.
"It was an accident," he said, voice deadpan.
She replied with fierce eyes: "Then tell the world how accidents happen, and why."
Nothing.
Theo glanced past her—like he heard glass breaking somewhere beyond.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Here, the walls have ears. And the halls... they won't stay silent."
Moonlight flickered off a small crest on his coat.
"What is that?"
He shook his coat. Crest pressed into fabric, a fox-wreathed shield around the capital T. "It's a scarecrow." He turned.
Deena fell into the darkness he'd vacated. The hallway swallowed her, but Theo... he was gone.
Alone again, she pressed her palm into the cool wall.
I'll get the truth, she whispered. No matter what.