Whispers in the Ivy

The car rumbled to stop right before the towering gate of Gravemoor Art Academy. Sunlight spilled across the gravel drive, sharp and golden, yet it seemed swallowed by the dark spires of the school rising in this distance. The air smelled faintly of dew and lilacs from the gardens outside the walls.

I stepped out of the car, squinting beneath the sudden glare. My aunt, Harvey, brown chestnut hair, 5 '2 feet tall, green eyes and putting on medicated glasses. She was a librarian, she owned a bookstore in Gravenmoor. I’ve been with her since I was born, my parents were dead. We only have one thing in common—literature.

Harvey came down from the driver's seat, then moved to the boot, opened in and brought out my luggage. She closed it and rolled the bag to my side.

“Here’s your luggage, Lex,’’ she said. “Is this… the school?”

She followed my gaze on the high school appearing like an ancient cathedral: soaring spires, pointed arches, and stone walls weathered with age. Ivy holding on to the facades crawling up like veins. It was nothing like Brimstone high school.

She sighed and held my both hands to face her. She tilted her head, “Of course, Lex. Are you nervous?” she asked. I forced a smile on my face, shook my head multiple times, “No. I’m not… nervous. I’m just kinda uh…’’ she interrupted, “Everything will be, Lex. Don’t worry too much.”

I kept quiet, then turned my eyes back to the school. “I need to get going now. See ya on visiting day.” She kissed my forehead. I placed a forced smile on my face, and watched her move to the front door. She waved her hand one time before opening the door, and I waved back.

I stood there till she drove out of the school.

I walked to the school entrance, I took a deep breath before the Oak doors groaned open as if they hadn’t been touched in centuries. I didn’t even touch it before it opened. The sunlight from outside dimmed instantly, swallowed by the vast entrance hall.

The inside view of this school got me overwhelmed. It was nothing like Brimstone High, my former school. Not that I’m a transfer student to this school, I had a scholarship in Literature competition. And this school, they say it’s one of the prestigious top high schools in Gravemoor.

My footsteps echoed against the black and white marble floor, each sound bouncing up to the vaulted ceiling where carved gargoyle and faded banners loomed overhead. Dusty chandeliers hung low, dripping candle wax.

Ahead, a long wooden desk sat beneath a portrait of a headmaster. It looks like it's from centuries past. Behind the desk, a narrow hallway led deeper into the school.

A woman in a uniform, her gray hair bound into a bun. She rose as I approached. She was the matron of admission, her voice as sharp as the scrape of chalk on a slate.

“You must be the scholarship student,” she said, sliding open a leather-bound ledger. “Yes,” I replied.

“Your name?”

“Lexie Lambert.”

She wrote my name in the flowing ink of an old-fashioned quill, then moved to the side of the office. When she returned, she held a thin folder bound with black ribbon. “Here is your dormitory brief,” She said, pushing it across the desk. The folder smelled faintly of ink.

I opened it and saw:

Assignment: Isolde Hall, Room 6B (Female Dormitory Wing)

Key: Heavy brass, with the crest of the school engraved on its head.

Rules: No wandering the grounds after midnight, no entering the west wing, and under no circumstances should students attempt to access the underground cemetery.