✨ Chapter 4 — The Investigation & The File That Changes Everything: Moaning Myrtle Warren

 

✨ Chapter 4 — The Investigation & The File That Changes Everything

Myrtle’s file felt heavier the longer I held it.

Not just paper-and-ink heavy.

History heavy.

Secrets heavy.

By the time I left the hallway, the bully—still shaking—had stumbled away, muttering, “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to…” like a broken record. But guilt doesn’t excuse truth. And truth was exactly what Myrtle wanted the world to hear.

I spent the next morning in the administrative office, preparing myself for the inevitable disbelief. The assistant behind the counter looked up with tired eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I need to speak to the dean. It’s about an old case… a student death.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We don’t handle old cases during—”

“It was covered up.”

Silence.

The kind that makes fluorescent lights buzz louder.

Moments later, I was sitting across from the dean — a stern man with a face carved by two decades of paperwork and politics.

“What is this about?” he asked, steepling his fingers.

I placed Myrtle’s file in front of him.

The moment he saw the name, something in his expression twitched.

Barely — but enough.

“You remember her,” I said quietly.

He hesitated. “She… transferred, didn’t she?”

“No,” I said. “She died. And someone removed half her records.”

I slid the missing-pages section forward.

Torn edges.

Scratched-out notes.

The ghost of lies.

The dean’s jaw tightened.

“This is… delicate.”

“No,” I replied.

“It’s overdue.”

He took a deep breath and motioned toward the side cabinet.

A metal drawer.

Locked.

After fumbling with an old key, he pulled out a box labeled:

W. M. Case — 2004

Dust puffed out like it had been waiting for breath.

Inside were:

— A crumpled incident report

— Statements from students

— A medical examiner’s note

— A withdrawn complaint filed by Myrtle

— And a sealed envelope stamped CONFIDENTIAL

He stared at it, hands trembling.

“This was never supposed to come to light.”

“Why not?”

“Because the boy involved came from a powerful family. They threatened legal action. The school board buried it. They said she slipped—”

“But she didn’t.”

“No.”

His voice broke.

“She didn’t.”

He opened the confidential envelope.

Inside was the truth:

A full statement Myrtle wrote a week before her death.

Fear-filled handwriting.

Detailed accounts of threats, harassment, physical intimidation.

She had asked for help.

Begged for help.

But no one listened.

The dean’s face collapsed into his hands.

“I failed her,” he whispered. “We all did.”

“No,” I said softly. “You can still make it right.”

By afternoon, the case was officially reopened.

The bully was summoned.

A formal inquiry began.

And Myrtle Warren — for the first time in twenty years — was written into the system as a victim, not a footnote.

As I walked out of the office, the hallway lights flickered once — softly — like someone whispering a “thank you” through electricity.

And a faint blue scarf fluttered in the air behind me, even though no windows were open.

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✨ Chapter 5 — The Final Goodbye / Myrtle’s Release

It was late evening when I returned to the library, clutching the final copy of the report that acknowledged Myrtle’s truth.

The library was almost empty — only the hum of old lights and the dusty scent of forgotten books. I walked to the corner table, the same place where I first borrowed her pen.

I placed the file down gently.

“Myrtle,” I whispered.

“It’s done.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then — the air shimmered.

A soft glow emerged near the chair opposite me, like light filtering through water. Slowly, her figure materialized. Not as sharp as before. Not as angry or tormented.

She looked lighter.

Warmer.

Freer.

“You kept your promise,” she said.

Her voice held no echo this time — just the calm tone of a girl who finally felt heard.

“They reopened your case,” I told her. “Your story is no longer hidden. They’re taking action.”

Myrtle touched the edge of the table, her fingers passing through it softly like mist.

“I never wanted revenge,” she whispered. “I only wanted someone to believe me. Someone to see me.”

“I see you,” I said.

She smiled — a fragile, beautiful curve that seemed to stitch together years of silence.

The library lights glowed brighter, warming the air.

Her scarf floated around her shoulders like a halo of blue frost.

“I don’t have long,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“Are you scared?”

She shook her head gently.

“Not when I’m finally going toward something… instead of being trapped behind it.”

She looked around the library — her old sanctuary turned prison.

“I spent so long haunting the place where I felt the most alone. Now I can leave it behind.”

A soft wind drifted through the room, though no doors were open. Pages rustled gently as if thousands of books bowed to her.

Myrtle’s form began to glow brighter, dissolving at the edges.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For asking me for a pen. For seeing what others refused to. For returning my voice.”

The blue scarf slipped from her shoulders and floated toward me, landing softly in my hands.

A final gift.

Her outline flickered like a candle nearing its wick.

“Goodbye,” I breathed.

She smiled one last time — gentle, peaceful, unburdened.

And then—

She dissolved into a swirl of pale blue light, rising upward like morning sunlight breaking through frost.

The glow faded.

The air warmed.

And for the first time since the day I met her, the library felt still.

Not haunted.

Not heavy.

Just… quiet.

I clutched her scarf.

Myrtle Warren had finally gone home.

But her story —

her truth —

her voice —

would never be forgotten again.

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