The archive room

The locked room

The rain came softly at first, then all at once. By the time I reached the quad, the stones were slick and shining, and a thick gray mist curled around the arches like breath from a sleeping giant. Blackmoor had a different face in the rain, blurred, secretive. I pulled my coat tighter around me and adjusted the strap of my satchel as the chapel bell struck ten, its dull tone swallowed by the storm.

I hadn’t planned to go to the library. Not really. I told myself I’d go over my notes on Frankenstein, maybe finish the chapter I’d started last night before the note distracted me. But I think I just wanted to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere not watched.

But even the library felt haunted today.

The windows were gray and dripping, the lamps flickering under the weight of the gloom. Students spoke in low voices. Pages turned slowly. It smelled like damp paper and binding glue. Comforting in theory. In reality, oppressive.

I climbed to the second floor and crossed toward the Literature section, my boots echoing too loudly on the old wood. As I passed one of the side windows, movement caught my eye.

Through the fog, beyond the sculpture garden, I saw him.

Professor Vale.

He was moving briskly toward the old east wing - one of the buildings closed to undergraduates. Its windows had been dark all semester, and the rusted gate around its courtyard had a heavy padlock on it. The faculty had called it “The Archive,” though no one ever explained what was archived there.

Vale slipped through a side door and vanished.

I stood there for a long moment, forehead against the cold glass, watching the empty space he’d left behind.

Why would he be there?

I’d seen the signs: Staff only. No student access. Even Ava had told me in passing, “No one’s allowed in the Archive. Not even the grad students.”

And yet Vale had a key. A purpose.

Something about the way he moved, deliberate, unfazed, unnerved me. He hadn’t glanced around. He hadn’t paused. It was as if he had every right in the world to go exactly where no one else could.

I didn’t read Frankenstein. I tried. But the words wouldn’t stay still on the page.

Instead, I opened one of the library computers and typed his name.

Caspian Vale.

Nothing.

No CV. No faculty profile. Just a single mention on the Blackmoor site under “Department of Literature: Faculty Contacts,” with a short line that read:

C. Vale – Lead lecturer, Modern and Gothic Literature.

No credentials. No previous positions. No degrees.

I dug deeper. University records. External databases. Nothing but whispers.

Finally, a small digital article on a defunct academic blog. From two years ago.

“Promising first-year student from Wilsham College withdraws mid-term. Sources allege inappropriate relationship with a faculty member. No official statement issued. The professor has since resigned.”

The article didn’t mention a name. But the date matched the year Professor Vale appeared at Blackmoor.

My hands trembled slightly on the mouse. I clicked away. Closed the tab. Told myself it was nothing.

It could’ve been anyone.

Still, I found myself looking out the window again, toward the east wing, where the rain still fell and the door remained shut.

I didn’t remember walking to his office. I must have done it on instinct. One minute I was in the library. The next I was climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor of the Literature building, where the ceilings sloped inward and the windows were too small to let in much light.

Vale’s office door was half open. A brass nameplate simply read:

C. Vale

Nothing else.

I knocked once.

He looked up from behind his desk, unsurprised. “Miss Holloway,” he said smoothly. “Come in.”

I stepped inside.

His office was darker than I expected. Bookshelves lined every wall, some sagging under the weight of thick leather-bound tomes. A strange scent hung in the air - something like ink, smoke, and old cedar. A single lamp burned on his desk, casting long shadows across the floor.

There were objects scattered across the shelves: antique typewriters, a broken clock, what looked like a Roman coin set in glass. All of it curated, intentional.

“Do you have a question about the reading?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and he tapped a pen lightly against the cover of a book I couldn’t see.

I nodded. “I wanted to ask about Frankenstein. The way you described Gothic as the space between reason and madness... I guess I was wondering if Victor is mad because of what he creates, or because he refuses to admit that he created it.”

Vale smiled faintly. “A clever question.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

He stood and walked slowly to the far bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines. “We often think guilt is the weight of our mistakes,” he said, selecting a book and turning it over in his hands. “But I think it’s the silence that follows them.”

He placed the book down on the edge of the desk, closer to me. “Victor is not mad because he made a monster. He is mad because he pretends he didn’t.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then he turned toward the window, and for a second, I saw something shift in his face. Something cold and private.

When I looked down, I noticed the drawer beneath his desk was slightly ajar. The metal lock had been scratched, as if someone had tried to force it open.

Before I could think, Vale turned back and caught my gaze. His eyes flicked to the drawer, then back to me.

“Curiosity is a double-edged thing,” he said quietly.

I flushed. “I wasn’t...”

He raised a hand, dismissing the comment. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t curious.”

My throat felt dry. “You said in class, that decay is memory refusing to fade.”

He walked past me and opened the door.

“I did.”

I stepped into the hall, heart still racing, unsure if I’d just been warned or invited.

The air in the hallway felt colder than it had outside. The corridor was silent, the windows weeping with condensation, and for a moment I had the eerie sense that I was the only student left in the building. I walked quickly, not daring to look back.

When I reached the base of the stairs, Ava was leaning against the banister, chewing something and watching me with sharp, unreadable eyes.

“How was office hours?” she asked.

I froze. “Were you waiting for me?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess. You’re the type.”

I didn’t answer. I tried to walk past her, but she moved in step with me.

“I told you,” she said. “He always picks someone.”

“And you always act like you know something no one else does,” I snapped, more irritated than I meant to sound.

To my surprise, she didn’t get defensive. Instead, she dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a small black flash drive. She held it between two fingers like it was a cigarette.

“This belonged to Eloise,” she said. “The girl from last year.”

I stopped walking.

Ava pressed it into my hand. “Read it. Or don’t. But if you’re going to fall, you should at least know how far.”

Before I could respond, she turned on her heel and walked away, her long coat trailing behind her like a cape.

Back in my dorm, I turned the flash drive over in my palm, staring at it like it might whisper to me. The desk lamp glowed low and amber behind me, casting long shadows across the bedspread. My roommate Hannah was already asleep, or pretending to be. Her breath was slow and steady.

I plugged the flash drive into my laptop.

A folder opened with three items.

1. A Word document titled “Journal - E”

2. A series of images: mostly blurry photos of Vale, some taken in class, others candid - walking across campus, standing in a bookstore, standing beside a statue at dusk.

3. Five short audio recordings, each named with a date.

I opened the journal file first.

September 4th. I don’t know what this is yet. But something feels wrong. I just want a record. In case I forget the way it started.

September 15th. He noticed me again today. Said I had an “unflinching way of thinking.” Said it was rare. Said I reminded him of someone. I told myself it meant nothing. But I started wearing lipstick to class.

September 29th. He gave me a book. Not on the syllabus. Said it was “just for me.”

The entries got darker from there. Less romantic. More manic.

October 12th. He touched my wrist today. It wasn’t inappropriate. Not really. But I felt it all the way to my spine. It was like being marked.

October 24th. I asked him if there had been others. He smiled and said, “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

I skimmed faster, heart pounding.

November 1st. I think he’s watching me. Even when he’s not there, I feel him. I checked my bag. I think he moved something.

November 12th. I told him I didn’t want to continue. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, like I was disappointing him.

November 13th. I found a note in my room. It said: “Don’t undo what can’t be remade.”

November 17th. I’m being followed.

December 1st. I don’t think I’ll finish the term. If anyone finds this, don’t trust him. He doesn’t love you. He wants to ruin you slowly, and make you say thank you.

I closed the document with shaking fingers.

It felt like being dropped into freezing water.

I opened the first audio recording.

The sound was grainy. A girl’s voice, young, educated, brittle.

“This is Eloise. I don’t know who I’m recording this for. Myself, I guess. Today he said, Vale, he said he admired me. Said he saw something of himself in me. But I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to be anything like him.”

Second recording:

“I think he reads my writing even when I don’t turn it in. He made a comment about something I only wrote in my journal. I didn’t show it to anyone.”

Third:

“I saw him in the archive building. He has a key. There are no classes in there. What is he doing in there?”

Fourth:

“He told me, ‘If you want to understand power, you have to hold it long enough to lose it.’ I don’t know what that means. But I keep writing it down.”

Fifth:

Silence. Then, a whisper.

“He knows I know. I’m not safe anymore.”

I yanked the flash drive from the computer, as if it had burned me.

The room was dark now. Outside the window, the fog had thickened, and the chapel bell struck once - midnight.

I crawled into bed slowly, careful not to disturb Hannah. My heart was still racing, but the fear had taken on a new shape.

It wasn’t about Vale seeing me.

It was about what I’d seen of him.

That evening, I dreamed of locked doors and teeth beneath floorboards. I dreamed of a girl with red lipstick and no voice, standing behind a mirror and mouthing words I couldn’t hear.

I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth.