Haunted Rayne

28 | From the Ashes (part 2)

Dorian Matthews hesitated outside the administration office, his fingers brushing the cold brass handle. The corridors were silent, their emptiness broken only by the pristine notices taped to the walls: Stand together. Never forget. The words hung in the air, laden with tragic irony—as if this school hadn't been built to sanitize reputations and entomb sins beneath layers of polished veneer.

His gaze lingered on the condolences, each one worded with the precision of a blade dressed as a benediction. Was it Lucas they mourned? Or the wealth that might be buried with him? The Abbott Foundation's patronage hung heavier than grief itself, a chandelier trembling over a crumbling ballroom, waiting for the final snap of its chain.

Taking a steady breath, Dorian pushed open the door. Sunlight slanted through the large office window, casting harsh stripes across the front desk. As usual, Portia Maxwell sat behind it, her vibrant red locks catching the light, but her posture was slouched, shoulders rounded as if to ward off any impending attention. She was blocking the glare with one hand while attempting to type with the other, but even that familiar, almost comedic struggle felt different today.

The desk bore the chaos of exhaustion—folders cracked open, names half-crossed off, a coffee gone cold on the rim of her computer.

Across the narrow room, Miss Veronica Wilson stood near the doorway to her private office, her sharp features drawn and tense. She wore a black dress, the hem brushing just above her calves, darkly modest, mourning rendered corporate. Dr. Audrey Campbell lingered nearby, upright and poised, a leather folder clutched against her hip. She was watching Portia type with an expression of tightly controlled alarm, like a medic assessing an already bleeding wound.

"This just . . . isn't sustainable," Portia was saying, her voice barely cutting through the silence. "We have to find replacements. If we don't address this head-on, we'll only lose more students."

Wilson's reply cracked across the room like a shrill whip. "We cannot have the parents thinking we're running a madhouse here! They're growing suspicious already. And who could blame them? Two suicides. A near-death on the quad. Every tragedy we fail to contain is another nail in this institution's coffin."

Doctor Campbell's voice was low but cutting, the slanting light catching in the fine lines bracketing her mouth. "The students are in crisis, Veronica. They need support. Not a PR campaign."

Dorian's eyes flicked to Portia again. She looked smaller somehow, her fingers trembling subtly as they brushed over the mousepad.

"We've lost two counselors to suicide," Portia uttered quietly. "First Shaw, and now . . . MacGowan."

The shock ripped through Dorian's chest, pulling him into the room, his words slipping out before he could process them. "Henry's dead?"

For the first time, all three women turned to look at him. Portia's face was pale, her expression unreadable; Dr. Campbell's was heavy with something that might have been pity. Miss Wilson, however, seized the interruption like a weapon.

"You!" she shrieked, her voice sharp enough to snap his spine straight. "You were supposed to be watching them! Especially Rayne Foster. And yet here we are—injuries, suicides, deaths!—all circling back to that girl!"

Dorian stood still, eyes glazed, his mind racing as he ignored the old woman. Both of the onsite psychiatrists were gone. They hadn't just been colleagues—they were lifelines for so many of these students. His thoughts darkened. Could this have been the demon? Was this all part of a larger scheme? Slowly cutting the students off from their support, piece by piece, making them vulnerable, fragile—ripe for possession. Henry's death wasn't just tragic; it could have been strategic, the demon removing a pillar of stability, weakening their defenses.