Pretty Lies, Ugly Truths

Marked by Ridgewood

The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Emily's stomach drop.

The sound echoed through the cavernous archives like a gunshot, followed by an unsettling click—the sound of a lock engaging on its own.

Logan’s flashlight beam cut through the dusty air, illuminating rows of filing cabinets that stretched endlessly into the darkness.

The Archives were deeper than they had imagined—older, too. The scent of mildew and something metallic clung to the air, like old blood on forgotten pages. Beneath that, something fouler lingered: the sweet-rot stench of decaying flowers.

Emily’s breath came in shallow gasps. The temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees since they’d entered. Her exhales formed pale ghosts in the flashlight’s glow. Her fingers trembled slightly, the sweat on her palms turning icy. The flashlight beam wavered, catching glimpses of peeling wallpaper, rusted plaques, and strange diagrams etched in faded ink—symbols that looked too purposeful to be mere doodles.

“That door wasn’t supposed to lock,” Logan muttered, his voice tight as he shoved his shoulder against it. It didn’t budge. “It’s sealed. From the inside.”

A drop of cold water landed on Emily’s neck. She flinched, wiped at it—only for her fingers to come away streaked with red.

“Logan…”

He turned, and the flashlight revealed rust-colored droplets falling from the ceiling pipes in a slow, steady rhythm. Not water. Something thicker. Something alive.

Then she saw it.

A leather-bound ledger, jutting slightly from a shelf as if waiting for her. Unlike the other files coated in dust, its surface gleamed faintly, as though recently handled. The moment her fingers brushed the spine, a sharp tingle shot up her wrist like an electric shock. She hissed, yanking her hand back—but not before Logan caught sight of the mark now etched into her skin.

A jagged circle, dark as ink, its edges still smoking faintly.

His breath hitched. “That symbol… it’s in the missing person's files. On every page.” He grabbed a nearby folder, flipping it open to reveal case after case of disappearances, each bearing the same mark in the margins. Some names were barely legible, written in a frantic scrawl. Others had photos stapled beside them—portraits of students caught mid-smile, unaware of the doom etched beside their names.

Emily’s pulse hammered in her throat. The mark pulsed in time with it, as though tied to her heartbeat. She tried to rub it away, but the skin only burned hotter. The ink wasn’t ink—it was something deeper. Branded.

A floorboard creaked behind them.

“Looking for answers?”

The voice sent ice down Emily’s spine. A woman emerged from the shadows—Ms. Whitaker, the unofficial archivist, had her smile razor-thin. She moved with unnatural smoothness, her heels making no sound on the concrete floor. Up close, Emily noticed the woman’s left eye was wrong—the pupil too large, swallowing the iris whole. There was something ancient in that gaze, something that didn’t belong in a school employee.

“You’ve found more than you bargained for,” Whitaker murmured, her gaze dropping to Emily’s wrist. “Ah. So it’s already begun.”

“What has?” Logan demanded, stepping in front of Emily.

His flashlight revealed what they hadn’t seen before—dozens of tiny, jagged circles carved into the walls, still oozing something dark and viscous. Some were accompanied by names scratched with fingernails, half-erased or crossed out violently. Other circles pulsed faintly, as if alive.

Whitaker’s too-wide smile stretched further. “The binding.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo from everywhere at once. “Ridgewood doesn’t just keep secrets. It collects. And sometimes, it chooses.”

A gust of wind snuffed out their flashlights.

In the suffocating dark, whispers rose from the walls—pleading, desperate.

“Find us.”

“Remember.”

“She’s coming.”

Emily’s vision swam with flashes of faces—students from decades past, their eyes wide with terror, mouths stretched in silent screams. The girl from the 1998 photo stared back at her, identical to the mole beside her left eyebrow, her lips forming words Emily couldn’t hear.

Then, worst of all, she saw him—a boy who looked like Logan, but younger, his face gaunt with fear. He reached for them, his fingers passing through Emily’s arm like smoke, leaving behind a trail of freezing burns.

The vision shattered as the lights stuttered back on. Whitaker now stood inches away, holding a rusted key that looked more like a surgical instrument than anything meant for a lock. She pressed it into Emily’s palm. The metal seared her skin on contact.

“The inner archives hold the truth,” Whitaker whispered, her breath thick with the scent of turned earth and formaldehyde. “But be warned—some doors shouldn’t be opened.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “We’re not leaving.”

As if in answer, the pipes overhead groaned. The red droplets are falling faster now, splattering across the files, the floor, and their shoes. Emily watched in horror as the liquid moved against gravity, coalescing into thin, finger-like trails that crept toward the center of the room.

Whitaker’s head tilted at an impossible angle. “Oh, you’ll leave. One way or another.”

Emily curled her fingers around the key, the metal biting into her skin. The mark on her wrist throbbed in agreement, the pain sharpening her focus.

The blood trails reached the center of the floor, forming a perfect jagged circle—identical to Emily’s mark. The walls began to sweat, the moisture leading into words that dripped downward:

“THEY TOOK OUR NAMES.”

“GIVE THEM BACK.”

Logan grabbed Emily’s arm. “We need to move. Now.”

Whitaker’s laughter followed them as they ran—a sound like breaking glass. The filing cabinets began to rattle, drawers sliding open and shut in a chaotic rhythm. From within, pale hands emerged, grasping at the air. A voice, half-human, half-static, whispered from within the drawers:

“You’re too late…”

Emily’s mark burned hotter as they reached a narrow staircase descending into blackness. The steps were uneven, worn smoothly by decades of use. The air grew thicker with each step, until it felt like wading through tar. Every breath Emily took was like inhaling dust and despair.

At the bottom, a single door stood ajar, its surface carved with hundreds of jagged circles. From beyond, there came a sound—a slow, wet dragging, like something heavy being pulled across concrete.

Logan’s flashlight flickered as they stepped through. The inner archives were nothing like upstairs. Here, the walls were lined with glass jars containing floating, unidentifiable things—dark shapes that twitched when the light hit them. Some had eyes. Others had teeth. A few stared back.

In the center of the room stood a massive ledger on a pedestal, its pages fluttering despite the still air. Around it, small bones formed a circle—mouse skulls, finger bones, and broken teeth. A ritual ring.

Emily approached, her mark pulsing violently. The opening page showed a list of names, each crossed out in red ink—except one:

EMILY PARKER – CLASS OF 2023

The dragging sound grew louder. From the shadows behind the ledger, a figure emerged—a girl in a tattered Ridgewood High sweater, her face obscured by matted hair. She moved jerkily, one leg dragging behind her. When she looked up, Emily gasped.

It was the girl from the 1998 photo.

“No,” the girl rasped, her voice raw. “Not again.” She lunged, her fingers brushing Emily’s mark—

The world exploded in white pain. Emily’s vision is filled with fragmented images:

A ritual beneath the school, students in old-fashioned clothes chanting.

A leather-bound book swallowing drops of blood.

Whitaker—younger, but with the same wrong eyes—carving symbols into flesh.

Logan’s brother screamed, screaming as shadows pulled him onto the walls.

A red string connected each student to their wrists, tightening mercilessly around their veins as they vanished one by one, their faces contorted in silent agony. The string pulsed with a life of its own, glowing faintly with an eerie crimson light that seemed to seep into Emily’s skin. She tried to pull away, but invisible hands held her fast, anchoring her to the relentless thread of fate.

From the swirling shadows, a figure appeared, cloaked in tattered Ridgewood robes, their face hidden beneath a deep hood. Slowly, the figure turned toward her, revealing nothing but darkness where her eyes should have been — a void that swallowed hope and whispered doom.

When Emily came in, she was sprawled on the cold floor, Logan shaking her shoulders urgently. Her heart pounded wildly, the vision lingering like a nightmare she couldn’t escape. The ghostly girl was gone. The ledger now showed a new name added beneath hers:

LOGAN REESE—CLASS OF 2023

The mark on Emily’s wrist had spread, its jagged lines now curling up her forearm like vines. Somewhere above them, a bell began to toll—a deep, sonorous sound that vibrated in their bones.

Whitaker’s voice echoed through the chamber:

“The choosing is done.”

The walls began to bleed in earnest now, the crimson streams forming a single phrase across the floor:

“WELCOME TO THE RECKONING.”

Ridgewood had chosen them both.

And the reckoning had begun.