THE SECRET ROOM

Katie’s POV Monday morning, and I was already dreading the day. That familiar ache in my chest returned the moment I stepped into the ancient hallway of Solid Oak Boarding School — a place that somehow managed to smell like old books, stale uniforms, and damp wood no matter the season. I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, sighing as I listened to the echo of morning bells. Solid Oak was the kind of place that looked beautiful in a brochure — all ivy-covered walls, towering oak trees, and Gothic architecture — but once you were stuck living inside it, it felt less like a school and more like a well-decorated prison. I’m Katie Baker. Eighteen years old. Stuck in this place since I was fourteen, and more than ready to get out. In a few months, I’ll be walking out those front gates and never looking back. That’s the plan, anyway. We were currently in History of Materials — which is just as boring as it sounds. Mrs. Emily stood in front of the class, enthusiastically talking about the historical significance of solid oak wood in British architecture like it was the most thrilling topic in the world. I blinked slowly, my brain halfway to sleep. “This material,” she said, “was used in royal courts, council chambers, and even secret passages of old manor houses…” I half-listened, chin resting on my palm. I’d heard the word oak so many times in the last fifteen minutes that it had lost all meaning. From beside me, Jane leaned in and whispered, “Happy final year, Katie.” I smiled at her. Jane and I had been roommates and best friends since Year 10 — she was the sun to my overcast sky. I was about to reply when Mrs. Emily turned suddenly and glared at us through her reading glasses. I straightened in my seat and looked away innocently, biting back a grin. One painfully slow hour later, the lecture ended. I turned to Jane, stretching my arms. “Aren’t you glad we’re one step closer to getting out of this place?” I asked her. “Over the moon,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling. Before we could talk more, our language teacher, Miss Adair, walked in — tall, composed, and elegant as always. Her long burgundy skirt swept the floor as she made her way to the front of the room, and the chatter in the class immediately faded to a hush. I straightened in my seat, instinctively smoothing down my blazer and sitting a little taller. Unlike the other subjects, I actually wanted to be here. Language class was the one place where I didn’t feel trapped in a schedule or buried under meaningless facts. It was where words came alive. Where sentences carried hidden codes. Where every syllable had a heartbeat. Miss Adair was one of those rare teachers who taught like she was sharing secrets. She didn’t just read off a textbook — she made the mechanics of language feel like spellwork. Her voice had this soft musicality, like she was reciting poetry even when explaining root words or syntax. I could listen to her talk about conjugations for hours and not get bored. Today, she started with a quote on the board — something in Latin: “Verba volant, scripta manent.” Spoken words fly away, written words remain. She turned to face us. “Can anyone tell me what this means?” I smiled a little. It was a familiar phrase — one I’d underlined in the corner of my notebook a long time ago. Spoken words vanish. Written ones last forever. There was something powerful in that, in the permanence of writing, in the way it held pieces of the past like pressed flowers. Jane glanced sideways at me, waiting. She knew I’d answer. I always did in this class. Miss Adair met my eyes and gave me a small nod. “Miss Baker?” “It means ‘spoken words fly away, written words remain,’” I said. “Exactly.” She smiled, that quiet, approving kind of smile that made me feel… seen. For the next forty minutes, we dove into Old English poetry, the kind that barely made sense to anyone else but made my brain light up like a storm. We talked about runes and root languages, and even scratched the surface of Scottish Gaelic, which sparked something in me I couldn’t explain — like the words were old songs I almost remembered. Every now and then, Miss Adair would pause beside my desk as she spoke, and her perfume — lavender and ink — would drift past me like memory. She believed language wasn’t just something we used to speak; it was something we carried. Something that connected us to people who lived centuries before we were even born. And maybe that’s why I loved it so much. It made me feel like time wasn’t a straight line. Like everything — even the past — was still out there, just waiting to be understood. When the class ended, I felt a little lighter. A little steadier. It was the only class that ever did that to me. I’ve always had a thing for words. Their shapes. Their meanings. The way a single phrase could ripple across time. I’m hoping to study Linguistics when I leave Solid Oak — hopefully somewhere far away from this grey castle of a school. After language, we had one last morning lecture, and then came the best part of the day: lunch. As we left the classroom and stepped into the main corridor, I glanced around at the familiar layout I knew like the back of my hand. Solid Oak was massive — a blend of old and older. Built over a hundred years ago, it had once been a monastery, then a noble estate, then a war hospital, and finally a school. You could still feel the weight of history in its bones. The floors creaked. The staircases groaned. The portraits stared a little too long. The school was divided into four main wings: • The East Wing: Where most of our classes were held — history, literature, sciences, and languages. This was also where the old headmaster’s office sat, with its ominous wooden door no one ever knocked on unless they had to. • The West Wing: Reserved for arts and music. It smelled like paint and sawdust, and the drama students practically lived there. • The North Wing: This was where the teacher’s quarters and restricted areas were. We weren’t supposed to wander there. Near the edge of the North Wing was the steel door — heavy, sealed, and off-limits. It always gave me a weird feeling. Like it was watching. • The South Wing: Our dormitories. Jane and I were in Dormitory E, second floor, Room 12. Four narrow beds, two shared desks, and a creaky window that opened just enough to let in the rain but not enough to escape. Not that I’d tried. Then there was the courtyard, cobblestone and cracked, and the library, towering and shadowy, filled with more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. There was also a rumor — a silly one, of course — that beneath the school lay forgotten tunnels from when it was a monastery. Tunnels used by monks, or smugglers, or maybe prisoners. No one knew. At least… no one admitted to knowing. Jane and I headed to the cafeteria, our footsteps echoing against the polished stone. It was always a bit too quiet in these halls. Like the school didn’t want to wake something. We met our friends at the usual table. At Solid Oak, students were divided into three academic streams: • Class A – The Emerald Class • Class B – The Ruby Class • Class C – The Beryl Class Jane and I were in Emerald. Mabel and Sasha were in Beryl. Allison was in Ruby. “Hey girls,” Sasha greeted, flipping her curls as she sat down. “Hey,” we replied. “Aren’t you excited we’re graduating?” Allison beamed. I laughed. “If I think about it too hard, I’ll cry.” “Okay, enough mush,” Sasha said, leaning in like she was about to share national secrets. “My friend’s throwing a birthday party this Friday and I want you all to come.” We stared at her. “Outside the school?” Mabel whispered. “We’d never get permission.” “We’re not asking,” Sasha said, grinning. “We’re sneaking out.” I blinked. “You’re serious?” “Dead serious.” We didn’t say yes right away, but the idea was tempting. A night out. No teachers. No uniforms. Freedom — even if only for a few hours. “Think about it,” Sasha said. “Tell me your answers after school.” We agreed, and then got our food from the lunch lady — mashed potatoes, grey stew, and something unidentifiable with cheese. Typical. After lunch came Literature class with Mr. Lewis — a man who looked like he belonged in one of Shakespeare’s plays. “Today,” he began, “we’re talking about the Bard himself. William Shakespeare — born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564, died in 1616, married to Anne Hathaway…” I drifted off, staring out the window. My mind wasn’t in class. It was on Sasha’s plan. On the quiet thrill of breaking the rules. And on that steel door in the North Wing. We weren’t allowed near it. There were no signs. No explanation. Just… a door. Metal. Cold. And completely out of place in a school made of oak and stone. I’d asked a teacher once. Got a sharp look and a “not your concern” in response. Some of the girls said it was storage. Others said it led to old servant tunnels. But the wildest theory? That there was something magical behind it. A curse. A portal. Something ancient and waiting. I didn’t believe in all that… but I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. ~~ Finally, the clock hit 3:30 p.m. and classes ended. I practically floated to the dorm. Jane and I changed into our evening sweaters and invited the others over. We all gathered on our beds like it was some top-secret summit. “I’m in,” I told Sasha. The others nodded. Mabel hesitated, but we wore her down. Afterward, we scattered. Jane went to shower, and I wandered over to the window. The sky had turned grey. Fog clung to the courtyard, wrapping around the trees like fingers. I could see the North Wing from here. And just barely… the steel door. It sat there. Silent. Solid. Like it was waiting. I shook the thought away and turned back to my homework.