NEXT CHAPTER — Myrtle’s Moaning Warren's Truth

 

NEXT CHAPTER — Myrtle’s Truth

Chapter: The Ink That Remembers

The next morning, the blue scarf was still on the library chair.

I didn’t touch it.

Not at first.

Something about it felt too delicate — like touching it might erase what little connection Myrtle had left to this world.

But as I sat down, the scarf… moved.

Just a little.

Like someone invisible had brushed past it.

I swallowed hard. “Myrtle? Are you here?”

Silence.

But the air shifted — the way it does when someone steps into a room.

I reached for the scarf, feeling the faintest warmth. The kind of warmth cloth gets when someone has worn it for hours.

When I lifted it, something slipped out from underneath —

A library card.

Old. Yellowed. Edges brittle.

Name: Myrtle Warren

Issued: 2004

Status: Expired

“She really studied here,” I whispered.

I turned the card over — and froze.

Scratched faintly into the back, like someone had carved it with a pin:

LOOK FOR MY FILE

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Her file… her student file.

But where?

The scarf fluttered suddenly, the ends lifting like invisible fingers were tugging them.

Then I understood.

“Archives,” I breathed.

The basement archives — a place even the librarian joked was haunted because lights flickered and cold gusts blew from nowhere.

I grabbed my bag, Myrtle’s scarf still warm in my hand, and made my way down the creaking staircase that led to the underground level.

The door to the archives protested with a long, trembling creak. The air inside was cold. Stale. Dusty. Like abandoned years frozen in boxes.

Rows and rows of metal cabinets lined the room.

A soft whisper curled around my ear:

“Third row… bottom drawer…”

I spun around — but no one was there.

Just shadows.

Just silence.

Just… Myrtle.

My fingers trembled as I crouched and pulled open the bottom drawer. Old student files, wrapped in brown paper, filled the space.

I searched until I found it.

Warren, Myrtle.

A chill threaded down my spine.

I opened the file.

Inside were:

— A report card

— A disciplinary complaint she filed

— A psychologist’s note

— A faded photo

— And a newspaper clipping…

My skin turned to ice.

LOCAL GIRL FOUND DEAD IN SCHOOL GROUNDS

No foul play suspected.

But Myrtle whispered behind me, voice shaking:

> “There was foul play.”

I turned slowly.

Her reflection appeared faintly in the metal cabinet door.

Eyes full of sorrow.

And fear.

And anger that had never been named.

“He pushed me,” she said. “He cornered me by the old staircase. Told me nobody would believe me. I fell.”

The lights flickered violently.

“I didn’t slip,” she said.

“I was silenced.”

My throat tightened. “The senior— the one who comes to the library—”

“That’s him.”

Her voice trembled with decades of trapped pain.

“No one ever knew. No one ever listened.”

I looked down at the file again — and realized dozens of pages were missing.

Ripped out.

“Someone covered it up,” I whispered.

The air dropped ten degrees. Myrtle’s faint outline leaned closer, her presence wrapping around me like cold fog.

“You found my truth,” she said softly.

Then her voice broke into a trembling whisper:

“Now help me make it heard.”

The lights snapped off.

The door slammed shut.

And in pitch darkness, her last words echoed like a heartbeat:

“He must not hurt anyone else.”