The Ghost of Blackstone

First Strike

“Your past does not define you, but it can refine you." — Unknown

Lyra

I was trapped in this dusty apartment room, the wind was misty, and cold seeped through the fissures in the wall. I was blindfolded and tied to the wooden chair I sat down on. I didn’t even know where I was, how I got here. After what felt like hours, I started screaming. I screamed until my voice broke, until my voice became hoarse, until I couldn’t even scream again.

I finally heard a door open, and someone walked in and forcibly removed my blindfold from my eyes. I was disoriented at first, then the sting of cold, hard, bruised fingers slapped my cheek. I looked up and was met with a man who had pure black eyes, a menacing stature, tapered faded, a deep, rough voice, and a gruesome scar cutting across his left eye to his jaw, saying, “Shut up, brat, you scream too loudly”. Then he left. I couldn’t process what happened until a few seconds later, when my fingers hesitantly touched my bruised and already swollen cheeks, and for the first time in months, a tear slipped down from my eyes and dropped to the floor with a soft thud. It was then that I realized that no one would save me from my doom; I could die here, and no one would care.

After some hours, according to my calculations, a man opened the door and stood in front of me with a boy no older than 13 years old. He opened the blinds covering the windows, and suddenly the room was moonlit. I looked up at him and couldn’t properly see his face, even with the light from the moon, because of the tears that welled up in my eyes, making it hard to see. I slowly lowered my head down, the man took a step closer to me, and I instinctively flinched as she held my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He said, “Darling, are you afraid of me? You shouldn’t. I’m a kind man, but I could become your greatest nightmare if you push me to my limits. Let me introduce myself — my name is Eden Crest. I’m sure you’ve heard my name once or twice from your father before his sorry death that I caused”. He wiped a teardrop from my eye as he smiled. I screamed inside. He said, “Didn’t expect that, did you, sweetheart? See, I enjoy depriving people; it quells my sadistic side, and I’m about to unleash it on you”. He smirked, and I inwardly cried because I lacked the tears to cry physically. He let go of my chin forcefully and began removing his belt buckle, and I flinched. He untied me from my chair only to forcefully tie me up on a bed and covered my mouth to stop me from screaming.

I had already resigned myself to my fate that night. If I were to survive, I would haunt this man, torture him, and kill him. His death would be a slow one, one that I would take great pleasure in. Maybe even dip his d**k into H₂SO₄. He began whipping me with his belt hard, and with every belt, I slowly lost consciousness, but not before I looked at the little boy there, and he flinched a bit. I’m sure he saw what I wanted him to see — the pure unadulterated hatred in my eyes, the detest, the ‘you’ll be next’, the ‘you could’ve done something, said something, stopped him, but instead you watched like the coward you are’. I bared my teeth at him, then closed my eyes and fell into the deep abyss, and I welcomed the dark. It was the only place that comforted me when I needed it.

The taxi pulled to an abrupt halt as I opened my eyes and was met with Blackstone Academy. Enough daydreaming, I told myself. My first strike had already begun, and I allowed myself the grace to smirk. I got out of the taxi with my luggage and paid the taxi man. He drove off like he was scared of the school. I scoffed. Typical. I took my first step towards the school. I would slowly turn into a graveyard, and was met with two mammoth wrought-iron gates that towered over me, black as spilled ink, each bar twisted into sharp, elegant curves. The Blackstone crest sits in the middle—the raven, the sword, the fissured stone shield—all sculpted like a message, not a welcome. Frost clutches to the metal, scintillating under the early morning sky like tiny fragments of broken glass. Security cameras blink like half-awake eyes, scanning the empty road. No guards. No voices. Just silence.

The surrounding road winds around the academy, fading into thick trees that whisper in the wind. A perfect hunting ground. A perfect place to disappear. I stand alone before the gates, breath clouding the air. The iron smells faintly of rain and old secrets. When the gates screech open, slow and heavy, it feels theatrical. It’s as if the academy itself decides whether to let me in.

Beyond the gates, a long stone walkway stretches out, lined with towering black lanterns that aren’t lit but somehow seem to observe. The stones under my shoes are suave with dew, reflecting distorted, phantom versions of the school ahead. My footsteps reverberate—sharp, intentional.

Blackstone Academy rises in the distance, a Neo-Gothic edifice of shadow and prestige. Tapered towers split the sky. Tall, curved windows glimmer like cold eyes. Every corner is too sharp, too proportioned—as if built with a ruler and anger. The walls are charcoal stone, streaked with ivy, almost black in the morning. Clouds drift low, painting everything in gray.

There’s no incessant talk. No students wandering around. Just a silent, suffocating quietude— the kind that feels purposeful…Like the school is retaining its breath, waiting to see who I really am. The air smells like wet stone, pine trees, and something metallic—like a storm is coming. A bell tolls in the distance, low and resonant, quavering through the air… And through my bones. Blackstone isn’t alive. Blackstone is aware. And from the moment I step past the gates, I can feel it observing me— reading me— measuring whether I am prey…Or predator. Lyra inwardly smirked. My first strike has started, and no one would foresee the danger I’d bring upon this school soon enough.