Pretty Lies, Ugly Truths

The Headmaster’s Secret

The hallway felt darker than it had earlier. Perhaps it was the fading light of the evening sun filtering through the dusty windows, or perhaps it was something heavier. Emily could feel it in her chest, in the rhythm of her steps, and in the weight of what she now carried. The journal. The photograph. And the strange mark etched into her skin like a vow she had not agreed to, yet was already bound to honor.

Neither she nor Logan spoke as they exited the administrative wing. Their silence was not empty. It was filled with everything they did not yet have the courage to say aloud. Behind them, the school clock struck five. Its deep chime rang through the corridor, clear and resonant, as if it marked not only time but a warning.

Logan finally spoke. "Did you see her face?"

Emily nodded slowly. "Brooke knows more than she pretended. That smile she gave us was not just polite. It felt like a message. A silent threat."

"She is not just part of Ridgewood," Logan said. "She is connected to whatever is behind all of this. The school. The archives. The mark. She is in it."

Emily pulled out the old photo again. Brooke’s expression was identical to how she looked in the present. She was wearing the same vintage school uniform. That look in her eyes had not changed. The date printed beneath the image chilled Emily to her core.

"Nineteen ninety-eight," she said, her voice barely audible.

Logan stared at the photograph. "That was more than twenty years ago. She hasn't aged at all."

Emily folded the photo and slipped it into her pocket. "How is that even possible?"

Before Logan could reply, a sharp whistle echoed down the hallway. It was brief and deliberate. A signal.

They turned.

A girl stood near the trophy case. She wore combat boots and a worn hoodie, her chipped nail polish catching the light. Her posture was alert and wary, like someone who had spent too long expecting danger. Her eyes were sharp and observant.

"You should not be here after hours," she said. "Not with that mark."

Emily instinctively covered her wrist.

Logan stepped forward. "Who are you?"

The girl walked closer. "Cass. I am a junior. I saw you leave the archives with Whitaker. That means you are already too far in."

Emily looked at her carefully. "How do you know about the archives?"

Cass’s expression hardened. "Because I have been there. And because my sister never came back."

Emily’s stomach dropped. "What happened to her?"

Cass hesitated, then spoke. "She started seeing symbols. Mentioned records no one else could find. She thought she was getting close to something. Then she vanished. No note. No call. Just gone. Ridgewood erased her."

She stepped forward again. "You are not the first. Most do not even get this far. But you might have a chance to survive."

Emily’s voice wavered. "Why me?"

Cass shook her head. "The best question is when. When did Ridgewood choose you? And how much time do you think you have left?"

Logan lifted the photograph. "We found this in the archives. And a journal. Brooke was already in the photo."

Cass nodded. "She would be. Some students do not age. Not the ones Ridgewood decides to keep."

Emily’s heart pounded. "That cannot be real."

"You will stop saying that eventually," Cass said quietly.

Emily stepped forward. "We need answers. Can you help us?"

Cass pulled a pendant from under her shirt. It was shaped like an old key, its edges worn and slightly tarnished.

"My sister left this behind. It is one of four. You found the first journal. This is the second key."

Logan leaned in. "Where is the next one?"

Cass’s eyes shifted toward the older wing of the building. "The old gym. But it does not like visitors."

Emily frowned. "What does that mean?"

Cass held out the key. "You will see."

Emily accepted the pendant. It was colder than it should have been, as though it had never touched sunlight.

"We will go tomorrow morning," she said.

Logan agreed. "First thing."

The Gym

Emily barely slept. The second key sat on her nightstand, glowing faintly in the darkness. It pulsed like a living thing. Her mind kept circling back to the photo, the journal, Brooke’s face, and the warning Cass had given them.

When morning came, Ridgewood appeared deceptively normal. Students filled the halls. The teachers chatted. The bell rang on time. But it all felt like a mask over something deeply wrong.

They met Cass near the vending machine in the east wing. She handed Logan a walkie-talkie.

"You have twenty minutes. If you are not out by then, I come in."

Logan gave a tense nod. "That is very reassuring."

Cass gave a thin smile. "Not dying usually is."

The gym doors creaked as they opened. Inside, the space was silent and cold. The court looked untouched, but something about it felt alive. The air was thick, almost waiting.

Emily’s wrist began to tingle.

They crossed the court and reached the storage room. The door was open just a c***k.

"Ladies first," Logan said with a nervous grin.

Emily stepped inside. It smelled of mildew and old dust. She dug through boxes until she found a wooden chest. Her heart skipped.

The keyhole matched the pendant.

She inserted the key. It turned with a soft click.

Inside was a second journal, another photo, and the next key. This one was bronze and jagged, shaped like lightning.

Emily reached for it.

The lights went out.

A low whisper filled the space. Logan’s flashlight flickered. Shapes moved in the shadows outside the room.

Figures stood motionless in the corners, hollow-eyed and silent.

Emily’s voice shook. "What are they?"

Logan whispered. "What Ridgewood keeps."

The whispers grew louder. They became a soft chorus of moans, then cries.

They ran.

The gym seemed to stretch around them, becoming longer and darker. The doors felt impossibly distant.

Emily’s wrist seared. The mark glowed.

Finally, the doors burst open.

Cass was there, waiting. Her eyes widened.

"What happened?"

"Just close it," Logan shouted.

Cass slammed the doors shut. The sound of voices stopped instantly.

Emily clutched the box in her chest. "We found it."

Cass looked at them carefully. "You saw them."

Logan nodded.

"Echoes," she said. "They are the students Ridgewood never released."

Emily felt sick. "And if we fail?"

Cass did not blink. "Then we became one of them."

The Second Journal

They hid in a small alcove near the stairwell and opened the new journal. The writing was more frantic than the first. Words spilled across the pages like confessions. It described shadows that moved where they should not. Names of students who no longer existed. Entire weeks that vanished from memory.

Emily turned to the last page. The writing was barely legible.

The Headmaster knows. He always did.

Her voice trembled. "What headmaster? Cass, do you know who wrote this?"

Cass looked puzzled. "We have had Principal Carrow for over twenty years."

Logan’s voice was steady. "Then this is from before him."

Emily’s hands tightened around the key. "Or he is not who he says he is."

Cass’s eyes met hers. "Then we went to the principal's office next."

Emily nodded. "It is locked and monitored."

She held up the lightning-shaped key.

"Maybe this key opens more than just doors."

They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, bound by silence, by questions that no longer stayed buried, and by a truth neither of them fully understood.

Every step toward the office felt heavier than the last. The old wooden floorboards groaned beneath their feet like the school itself was whispering warnings. The hallway lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows that danced along the cracked walls. Emily’s hand tightened around the key, its cold metal buzzing faintly against her skin.

Emily whispered. "What if he is waiting?"

Logan did not flinch. He stared ahead, jaw tight, his voice low.

"Then we ask the right questions. Before he gives us the wrong answers."

The corridor stretched unnaturally long, as if Ridgewood had reshaped itself to test their resolve. The air was thick, charged with something unseen, something ancient. Emily’s mark began to warm, pulsing in a quiet rhythm with her heartbeat. It was not pain, but a warning. A reminder. She was not just carrying a key. She was carrying a choice.

As they reached the carved oak door of Headmaster Wren’s office, they paused. The nameplate gleamed like fresh brass even though no one had polished it in years. Emily reached for the handle. Before she could touch it, the door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the room was dimly lit. Shelves lined the walls, filled with weathered books and glass cases of forgotten relics. The fireplace crackled with slow blue flames that did not seem to give off warmth. Wren sat at his desk, eyes half-closed, as if he had been expecting them for hours.

"Miss Clark. Mr. Hale," he said without looking up. "I was wondering how long it would take."

Emily stepped forward. "You know what this is," she said, holding up the key.

He raised his gaze, slow and deliberate. "I know what it used to be."

"Then tell us," Logan said. "No more riddles. No more warnings."

Wren leaned back in his chair. "Truth is not something I give away lightly. It costs. And you have only just begun paying."

Emily moved closer. "What does it unlock?"

Wren stood, moving to the fireplace. The flames flickered as he passed, reacting to his presence. "It does not open a door," he said. "It opens a memory. One that was buried long ago."

"A memory of what?" Logan asked.

"Of who you are," Wren replied. "And what Ridgewood truly is."

A beat of silence passed. Emily could hear her own breath, shallow and uncertain. Her grip on the key tightened again.

"You mean this place is not just a school?" she said.

Wren gave the faintest smile. "It never was."

Emily’s chest tightened. "Then what is it?"

"A vessel. A trap. A testing ground. For the market. For the curse. For the ones foolish enough to seek answers."

Her eyes flicked to Logan. He looked as shaken as she felt.

"So what do we do now?" Emily asked.

Wren stepped aside, revealing a framed mirror behind his desk. But it did not reflect the room. Instead, it shimmered with soft violet light. On the surface, scenes flickered. A girl in Ridgewood robes running through the woods. Another is holding a journal soaked in blood. A circle of students linked by a red string.

"You use the key," Wren said. "But not on a lock. On yourself. Because what comes next will not just change what you know. It will change who you are."

The mark on her wrist burned now, sharp and hot, as if reacting to the truth itself.

Emily glanced at the mirror, then back at the key. She did not feel ready. But Ridgewood was no longer a place she could walk away from.

It had chosen her.

And now, she was choosing it back.