Ravenmoor: Chapter 6
Anne has entered Ravenmoor and is searching for evidence of her sister’s murder. Is she already being watched?
Gothic Fiction
Act I
Chapter: 6
For days, we had pored over microfiche reels in the library archives. Newspapers, police reports, and missing-person cases flickered past in endless gray strips of film. The machine hummed steadily as we advanced frame by frame. The viewer’s light cast sharp shadows across our faces, sharpening the fine lines of fatigue and concentration.
The reading room occupied the east wing of the original library building, a space constructed in the late nineteenth century with high vaulted ceilings supported by dark oak beams. Tall oak shelves lined the walls, reaching toward the ceiling; their surfaces had been worn smooth in places by decades of reaching hands. The air carried the steady scent of aged paper, leather bindings, and the faint metallic tang of the microfiche equipment. Dust motes drifted in the narrow beams of light that slipped through the tall, narrow windows, each one fitted with leaded glass whose subtle imperfections fractured the daylight into soft patterns on the long wooden tables.
We worked in near silence most of the time, the only sounds the click of the machine’s advance lever and the occasional rustle of notes. Alex sat to my left, his notebook filled with careful transcriptions. Ben worked opposite us, his eyes narrowed against the glow of the viewer. The chairs were heavy oak with leather seats softened by years of use. The table itself revealed the grain of centuries-old wood, faint ink stains in the corners, and grooves worn by generations of scholars resting their elbows.
Late one afternoon, Ben discovered an oiled leather journal tucked inside a box of old clippings at the bottom of a metal cabinet. The leather was supple from age and handling, its surface darkened to a deep chestnut with visible creases along the spine. The entries contained cryptic warnings about a clandestine society operating within the college. The Circle of Shadows stood accused of illicit experiments and sinister agendas. The words sent a jolt through me that left my hands unsteady. I set my pen down carefully, the metal tip clicking softly against the wood.
Ben shuffled through the pages, his brow furrowed. “Look at this,” he said, his voice low. He pointed to a sketch in the journal: a campus map marked with strange symbols at key locations. The ink had faded in places, but the lines remained precise, drawn with a steady hand. The paper was thick and slightly yellowed, its edges frayed from repeated handling.
“I have seen these symbols before,” Ben said. “They are from the manuscript Hargrove is working on.”
Alex leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Liber Mythorum Aeternorum,” he whispered.
I stepped forward and examined the page. “The Book of Eternal Myths.”
“Those locations align with the old servants’ passageways,” I said. “Underground tunnels that allowed access across the original campus.” I had studied the architectural drawings displayed in the main hall many times. The passages formed a labyrinth beneath the grounds, used for nearly two centuries by the staff who kept Ravenmoor running. The drawings showed narrow corridors, hidden stairs, and entrances concealed behind panels and fireplaces. The network connected the library to the dormitories, the faculty buildings to the old kitchens, and deeper places unmarked on any public map. The stone walls of those tunnels were rough-hewn in the oldest sections, later reinforced with brick and timber supports. The air down there remained cool and damp year-round, carrying the scent of earth and ancient mortar.
An uneasy weight settled over us, sharpening my urgency to uncover the truth. The journal entries grew more urgent toward the final pages, referencing rituals tied to the manuscript and warnings about those who asked too many questions. The handwriting changed slightly in the later entries, becoming more hurried, the letters pressed harder into the paper.
Alex spoke. “What if Lily found something? Something that put her in danger?” His voice remained steady on the surface, yet a tremor lay beneath it. The thought echoed in my mind. The possibility that my sister had been silenced to protect secrets shook me to the core. I pictured her face in the news photographs, the same bone structure as mine, the same dark hair. The resemblance had haunted me for years. Now it felt closer than ever, as if the campus itself remembered her steps.
A loud crash shattered the moment. Books thudded to the floor somewhere deeper in the stacks. The sound echoed off the high ceiling and stone walls.
“What was that?” Ben whispered.
We exchanged glances and moved toward the sound. The floorboards creaked beneath our feet as we walked between the tall shelves. The air grew cooler in the narrower aisles, thick with the scent of dust and old bindings. In one aisle, we found a shelf toppled over, books strewn across the floor in disordered piles. Leather covers lay open, pages splayed like broken wings. Beneath the debris rested an old, dusty box, its lid partially ajar. The wood was dark and scarred, its corners reinforced with metal oxidized to a dull brown.
My hands trembled as I lifted the lid. The box contained photographs and documents tied with faded string, coarse and brittle, fraying at the ends. One photograph seized my attention. My sister stood among figures wearing dark cloaks, her expression a fierce mixture of defiance and terror. A date from ten years earlier was penciled on the back. Other photographs showed similar figures in the woods at night and symbols carved into stone near the lake. The stone appeared rough and moss-covered, the symbols identical to those in the journal.
Something flickered at the edge of my vision. Through the arched window, I caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from the dense woods. The silhouette moved swiftly, face obscured in shadow, then vanished into the mist. My breath caught. I stared until the mist swallowed the last trace. The window frame was thick oak, polished smooth by years of resting hands. Outside, the trees stood close together, their trunks dark and wet from recent rain.
We returned to the table. The flickering light from the green-glass lamps cast long shadows across the room. “Someone was just here with us,” Alex said as he spread the photographs before us. “Now they’ve left this for us. What is going on?”
“We should go,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Yes. Bring the box.”
We gathered everything and left the library through a side door. The evening air felt heavier than usual as we walked back toward my apartment above the old wing. The gravel path pressed distinctly beneath my shoes. The trees lining the route had thick trunks and low branches that dripped steadily. Their leaves rustled in the wind, a soft, constant sound that blended with the distant call of a crow. The main buildings rose around us, their stone façades darkened by time and weather. Arched windows stared out like watchful eyes. The architecture blended styles from different eras, Gothic Revival elements mingling with simpler lines, all bound together by the region’s persistent damp.
The box felt heavier in my hands with every step. Its wooden surface was rough in places, the grain visible in the lamplight we had left behind. The contents shifted slightly as we walked, papers and photographs whispering against one another. Sally’s words from the faculty meeting echoed in my mind. She had spoken of Ravenmoor collecting certain types: scholars who chased shadows. I wondered if the woman in the 1957 photograph had done the same. Had she found the underground aisles? Had she asked the wrong questions about the Liber Mythorum Aeternorum? The resemblance between us felt too exact to be coincidence. The manuscript itself seemed to draw faces like ours across the decades.
The apartment door waited at the top of the narrow stairs. The solid wood bore faint scratches near the lock. I turned the key and stepped inside. The space smelled of old books and the faint lavender from the sachet I kept in the drawer. The table waited beneath the window, its surface showing the grain of centuries-old wood. I set the box down carefully. The lid creaked as I opened it again. The German papers lay in their careful stack, the ink faded in places but still legible. The photographs rested on top. I picked up the one of my sister among the dark cloaks. The paper felt thick between my fingers. Her face stared back at me with the same direct gaze I saw in my own mirror each morning.
The chill in my bones had not eased. I stood and moved to the small kitchen area, filling the kettle for tea. The porcelain cup felt smooth and cool in my hands. The apartment’s textures grounded me, the worn rug underfoot, the grain of the wooden beams overhead, the faint, persistent scent of dust and paper. Yet the feeling of being watched lingered. The silhouette in the woods, the returned satchel with its feather and card, all of it pointed to someone who knew my movements and chose to intervene in small, deliberate ways.
I carried the tea back to the table and sat down. The box’s contents waited beneath the lamp’s circle of light. The photograph of my sister rested on top. Her eyes met mine across the years. I lifted the raven feather from earlier and turned it slowly. The barbs caught the light in tiny, precise lines. Whoever had left it understood its significance. The question remained: why? An apology or a warning? An invitation or a taunt?
The night deepened. I left the lamp on and turned the pages again, the textures of paper and ink familiar beneath my fingers. The apartment held its silence, but the feeling of being watched remained. Somewhere in the shadows between what I could see and what I feared, something moved with purpose. I felt its presence as clearly as the rain against the window and the weight of the box on the table before me.
What do you think happens next? Let me know in the comments!
Stay Spooky my darklings!
E.J. Moon
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