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The days at Lament had become a monochrome blur, a relentless march of hours that melded into one another with the indistinctness of fog. Yet within that haze, there were moments, sharp as shards of glass, that cut through the uniformity with chilling precision—a flicker of movement, a wraith-like figure glimpsed from the corner of my eye.
These apparitions appeared without warning, dissolving the moment I turned to face them head-on, leaving me to question whether they'd been there at all. The classrooms, once sanctuaries of structured learning, had become stages for these spectral encounters. I would see a dark cloak sweep around a corner or the hem of a skirt flutter in a doorway, always just beyond the reach of my full attention.
"Ethan," I whispered during one of our study sessions, my voice barely audible above the scratching of pens on paper, "do you ever see things here, out of the corner of your eye, I mean?"
He paused, his brow creasing as he considered my question. "Sometimes," he admitted, "this old place plays tricks on the eyes. Why? You seeing ghosts, Abby?"
I shook my head, unsure of how to articulate the unease that had nested in my bones. "No, not ghosts. Just... something. I can't explain it."
In the grand hall, the occurrences multiplied. I would catch a glimpse of a silhouette at a distant table, only to find nothing upon a second glance. The echoes of laughter would reach my ears, seemingly from empty seats, their merriment as hollow as the abandoned rooms that lay beyond the dining area.
Clara noticed my distraction one evening as we lingered over dinner. "You're jumpy," she said, her eyes narrowing with concern. "What's got you on edge?"
"It's nothing," I lied, folding my napkin into precise quarters to occupy my restless hands. "Just the usual Lament weirdness."
But it wasn't just the usual. It was as though the fabric of reality had grown thin in places, allowing the past—or whatever resided within it—to bleed through in fleeting glimpses. The sensation of being watched had escalated into these visual disturbances, a haunting that was both less and more than a presence.
Returning to my room each night had become an exercise in courage. The space where Raven had once existed was now a constant reminder of the thin veil between perception and truth. I would see a curtain flutter where there was no breeze, or the indentation of a body on the bedspread that would vanish when I blinked.
I was not alone in my experiences. One night, as I lay in bed, wide-eyed and vigilant, Sammie knocked softly on my door, her face pale as she entered.
"I saw it, Abby," she said, her voice a tremulous thread. "A figure, just for a second. When I looked again, it was gone."
Relief and fear warred within me. Relief that my sanity was not as frayed as I'd feared, and fear that Lament's grip on us all was tightening.
"We need to find out what's happening," I insisted, the need to understand driving the fatigue from my limbs.
Together, we ventured into the corridors, the darkness pressing close, as if it could physically restrain us from uncovering its secrets. We moved like specters ourselves, our whispers trailing behind us.
Stolen novel; please report.
It was in the library that I had the most vivid encounter. As I scanned the shelves, the peripheral glimpse of a figure seated at one of the reading tables seized me. I turned, my heart in my throat, to find the chair empty, yet the imprint of a body was still fading from the cushion.
The truth of Lament was elusive, a puzzle that resisted assembly, yet the pieces were there, scattered throughout the school like breadcrumbs leading us deeper into the forest of its mysteries. With each fleeting glimpse, the path we followed grew darker, the shadows lengthening as we sought the source of the phantoms that danced at the edge of sight.
And in those moments of near revelation, I could almost hear Raven's voice, a whisper snatched away by the wind, a reminder that some truths were not meant to be held, but only glimpsed before they retreated into the night.
The oppressive atmosphere of Lament wore on me like a shroud, smothering the edges of my reality until they frayed and blurred. It was in the midst of history class, under the droning lecture of Mr. Thorne, that I felt the thread finally snap.
The classroom was a chamber of ancient knowledge, the walls lined with portraits of stern figures whose eyes seemed to follow you with a judgment that transcended time. I sat at my desk, my fingers tracing the grain of the wood absentmindedly, as I struggled to pay attention to the lesson on the Victorian era.
That's when I saw her—a girl dressed in a gown of faded velvet, her hair a cascade of tight curls that framed a face as white as the pages of our textbooks. She stood at the back of the room, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that spoke of unspoken pleas and hidden agonies.
The air around me grew cold, a chill that seeped into my very bones. My classmates continued to scribble notes, oblivious to the spectral presence that had joined us. I blinked hard, hoping the vision would dissipate like mist under the sun, but she remained, a figure etched into the reality of the room.
"Abby, can you tell us the significance of the mourning practices in the 19th century?" Mr. Thorne's voice cut through the fog of my shock, anchoring me back to the present.
I struggled for words, my gaze flickering between the ghostly girl and our expectant teacher. "Uh, they... they wore black," I stammered, "to... to show their grief to the world."
The girl nodded, a slight, sad motion that sent a shiver skittering down my spine. She raised a hand, pointing to her own attire, the black dress that enveloped her like a second skin.
"Well done, Abby. Though there is so much more to it than just attire. Grief was an art form, a public display of private loss," Mr. Thorne continued, unaware of the additional lesson being imparted by the silent visitor.
My classmates nodded along, but I was transfixed. The ghostly girl moved closer, her steps silent but weighted with the heaviness of her story. She stopped beside my desk, her eyes filled with a sorrow that reached across the years, connecting us in a moment of shared understanding.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The room seemed to still around me, time slowing as she leaned in, her lips parting to reveal a name that was lost in a breath, a whisper carried away before it could fully form. And then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.
The chill lifted, the room returning to its previous warmth as Mr. Thorne droned on. But the echo of her presence lingered, a haunting that was as much a part of the history we studied as the dates and events etched into our minds.
After class, I lingered, my hands shaking as I packed up my things. Clara approached, her brows knitted in concern.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, not knowing how close to the truth she was.
"Maybe I have," I replied, my voice distant, my thoughts still entwined with the apparition of the girl in mourning.
As we left the classroom, the eyes of the portraits seemed to follow us, their gazes heavy with the weight of stories untold. Lament was a place where the past was never truly passed, where the veil between then and now was worn thin by the whispers and sighs of those who had walked its halls before us.
And I, Abby, had become a conduit for their echoes—a keeper of the haunting that was as much a part of Lament's curriculum as the history that unfolded in Mr. Thorne's class.