The professor's secret

The first thing I learned about Blackthorn University was that nothing there was ever truly dark. Not the stone buildings covered in ivy. Not the endless corridors lit by antique lamps. Not even the shadows that seemed to gather beneath the arches after sunset. There was always something watching. At least, that was what the older students whispered. I didn't believe them. I couldn't afford to. Believing in ghosts, curses, or haunted universities was a luxury for people who weren't one unpaid semester away from losing everything. I had a scholarship. One chance. One mistake, and I'd be back home. So when I stood beneath the enormous iron gates of Blackthorn University at seven in the morning, gripping the strap of my worn backpack, I forced myself to look up. The university looked like something pulled straight from a Gothic horror novel. Black stone. Pointed towers. Tall windows reflecting the gray morning sky. And ivy crawling over almost every wall like it was slowly trying to swallow the place whole. Beautiful. Cold. Unwelcoming. Perfect. I took a breath. "You're here to study," I whispered to myself. Not to make friends. Not to fall in love. Definitely not to get involved in whatever strange secrets this place was hiding. I walked through the gates. And somehow, I already felt like I'd made a mistake. --- By eight-thirty, I was sitting in the third row of Gothic Literature 301. The lecture hall was almost full. Students whispered around me, comparing schedules and complaining about professors. I kept my notebook open and my pen ready. Then the room went silent. Not gradually. Instantly. I looked up. A man had entered through the side door. He wasn't wearing the traditional academic robes I'd expected. He wore black. A black shirt beneath a fitted black coat. Dark trousers. Silver rings on several fingers. His hair was slightly messy, as though he'd run his hand through it one too many times. He wasn't particularly old. Maybe thirty-four. But there was something about him that made the room feel smaller. His eyes moved across the students. Cold. Calculating. Unimpressed. Then they stopped on me. For one strange second, neither of us looked away. His gaze dropped to my notebook. Then back to my face. Something unreadable crossed his expression. He turned toward the desk. "Good morning." His voice was deep and controlled. Nobody answered. His eyebrow lifted. "That wasn't a rhetorical question." A few students nervously muttered greetings. He placed a stack of papers on the desk. "Professor Adrian Vale." I already knew his name. Everyone did. I'd heard about him before arriving. Brilliant. Difficult. Terrifying. Apparently, he'd published several academic papers before thirty and had rejected more students than any professor on campus. Someone behind me whispered, "He's gorgeous." Another voice whispered back, "He's a psychopath." I nearly smiled. Then Professor Vale looked directly at our section. "Books open." The room obeyed. I opened mine. He began speaking about Edgar Allan Poe. Ten minutes later, I understood why everyone was afraid of him. He didn't teach. He dissected. Every sentence became an argument. Every metaphor became evidence. Every student's answer was challenged until they either defended it properly or admitted they had no idea what they were talking about. Then he reached my row. "Miss..." His eyes moved to the attendance sheet. "Hayes." My stomach tightened. "Yes?" "Tell me what Poe's fascination with death represents." I looked at the passage. "Control." His expression didn't change. "Explain." "Death is the one thing nobody can negotiate with. Poe's characters obsess over it because they can't control it. So they try to control everything surrounding it instead." Silence. I looked up. Professor Vale was staring at me. Not angrily. Not approvingly. Just... watching. "Interesting." I waited. He turned toward the board. "Wrong." A few students laughed. My face heated. I closed my notebook. "With respect, Professor, I don't think it is." The room went completely silent. His hand stopped halfway across the board. Slowly, he turned. For the first time, something almost resembling amusement appeared in his eyes. "With respect, Miss Hayes..." He walked toward my desk. "...you've been here for twelve minutes." He stopped beside me. "And you've already decided you know more than I do." "I didn't say that." "You didn't need to." His voice was quiet now. That somehow made it worse. He leaned slightly closer. "Blackthorn rewards intelligence." His eyes remained fixed on mine. "But arrogance?" He straightened. "Blackthorn destroys it." Then he walked away. My fingers tightened around my pen. I hated him. I decided that before the lecture even ended. --- By midnight, I was exhausted. My first day had been a disaster. I'd been assigned three essays. My roommate had spent forty minutes explaining the social hierarchy of the university. And Professor Vale had somehow managed to make me question every literary opinion I'd ever had. Still, I had a shift at the library. So I worked. The Blackthorn library was enormous. Three floors. Thousands of books. Dark wooden shelves that disappeared into shadows. The old archive occupied the lowest level. Students rarely went there. Which was exactly why I liked it. At midnight, the university felt completely different. No students. No professors. No whispers. Just the ticking of the old clock near the circulation desk. I was shelving books when I heard something. A sound from downstairs. A soft metallic scrape. I froze. The library was supposed to be empty. I looked toward the staircase. Nothing. "Probably the pipes," I whispered. I turned back to the shelves. Another sound. This time, unmistakable. A door closing. I grabbed my phone and walked toward the stairs. The basement archive was technically off-limits after ten. But curiosity had always been one of my worst habits. I descended. One floor. Then another. The air became colder. At the bottom, the archive stretched ahead of me. Rows and rows of old records. Dusty boxes. University newspapers. Student files. I switched on my phone flashlight. "Hello?" Nothing. I walked between the shelves. Then I noticed something. One drawer was open. I frowned. The archive assistant was obsessive about keeping everything locked. I stepped closer. Inside were old student records. Most were dated ten years ago. I reached for the top file. A photograph slipped from between the folders. I caught it before it hit the floor. A young woman stared back at me. She couldn't have been more than twenty. Dark hair. Gray eyes. A nervous smile. On the back of the photograph was a handwritten date. October 17, 2016. Underneath it was a single sentence. If anything happens to me, don't trust Vale. My heart stopped. I read it again. Vale. My fingers suddenly felt cold. I put the photograph down. Then I noticed the journal beneath it. Black leather. No title. No name. Just a silver symbol stamped into the cover. A raven. I opened it. The first pages were ordinary. Class notes. Names. Fragments of poetry. Then the handwriting changed. The entries became shorter. More frightened. I turned another page. And stopped. One sentence had been written across the entire page. He knows I found out. My pulse hammered. I turned the page. Nothing. Another. Nothing. Then the final page. Three words. Adrian Vale knows. I stopped breathing. A noise came from behind me. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming down the stairs. I shut the journal. My heart slammed against my ribs. The footsteps stopped. I looked toward the darkness between the shelves. A man's silhouette appeared. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black coat. Silver rings catching the faint light. I didn't need to see his face. I already knew. Professor Adrian Vale. His eyes found mine. Then dropped to the journal in my hands. For the first time all day, the cold expression disappeared from his face. He looked terrified. "Miss Hayes." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Put the journal down." I swallowed. "Why?" He took one step toward me. "Because you have no idea what you've just found." Another step. His eyes hardened. "And if you want to survive your first year at Blackthorn..." He stopped. "...you'll forget you ever saw it." I stared at him. The journal suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Professor..." His jaw tightened. "Go upstairs, Elara." It was the first time he'd called me by my first name. And somehow, that frightened me more than anything else. Because Professor Adrian Vale wasn't looking at me like a professor looking at his student. He was looking at me like a man who had just realized— the past had finally found him.