Chapter 7: The Ghost of Blackwood

Chapter 7: The Ghost of Blackwood

The blood on the paper was the final, damning piece of evidence that shattered the last remnants of Leo’s denial. The world outside the hospital window, with its normal cars and ordinary people, felt like a distant planet. His reality had shrunk to this sterile white room and the horrific artifact in the evidence bag.

“Tell us everything,” Detective Miles repeated, his voice a low, steady anchor in the swirling chaos of Leo’s mind.

And so, he did. With a dry mouth and a voice that cracked with remembered terror, Leo recounted the entire ordeal. He started with the late arrival, the imposing silence of Blackwood’s halls, the unnaturally cold exam room. He described the examiner in meticulous detail—the gaunt, severe face; the piercing, cold grey eyes; the perfectly pressed, old-fashioned tweed suit. He mentioned the silver stopwatch, its soft, incessant click-click-click a sound now seared into his memory.

He described the questions, the escalating macabre nature of the Crimson Questionnaire, from exsanguination to blunt force trauma. He talked about turning the page and seeing the first photograph, the dead boy in the chair, a gruesome testament to a "passed" exam. His voice faltered as he recounted the cold whisper at his ear, Finch’s impossible speed, the suffocating presence that was more than just a man standing behind him.

Mr. Davies, the counselor, shifted uncomfortably, his face growing paler with every word. "Detective, this is clearly the result of trauma," he interjected, his voice tight with strained professionalism. "A severe concussion can cause vivid hallucinations, memory fabrication…"

"Mr. Davies," Detective Miles cut him off, his tone flat and sharp, not even bothering to look at the counselor. "Let him finish."

Leo’s gaze remained locked on the detective’s weary eyes. He pressed on, describing the final, horrifying questions. Choose your death. Fulfill your choice. He told them about his refusal, the desperate bolt for the door, and the impossible, inhuman strength that had slammed him against it. He described the Zippo lighter, the smell of the fluid, the small, hungry flame that was meant to be his end. His story concluded with the explosive shatter of the window and the sensation of falling, a final, desperate act of defiance.

When he finished, an exhausted silence filled the room, broken only by the steady, accelerated beep of his heart monitor.

"An elaborate and frankly disturbing narrative," Davies said, adjusting his tie. "Leo, the academy has resources, counselors who can help you process…"

"Shut up, Davies," Miles said bluntly. The detective turned his full attention back to Leo. "You said he was strong? Unnaturally so?"

Leo nodded, the motion sending a spike of pain through his skull. "And fast. And quiet. He was across the room, and then he was just… there. No footsteps."

Detective Miles let out a long, slow breath, the sigh of a man confirming a truth he had long dreaded. He reached down beside his chair and picked up a thin, worn manila folder. He placed it on the rolling table, next to the evidence bag containing the blood-spattered exam.

"The academy has a long and storied history, Mr. Vance," the detective said, his voice dropping. "Most of it is in the brochures. Some of it… they try to bury." He opened the folder. The top document was a laminated copy of an old staff ID card.

The photograph was black and white, grainy with age, but there was no mistaking the man staring out from it. The same gaunt face. The same thinning hair combed neatly over a pale scalp. The same cold, severe eyes that seemed to pierce right through the paper and into Leo’s soul. Beneath the photo, a name was typed in a simple, official font: Professor Alistair Finch. Department of Anatomy & Psychology.

"That's him," Leo whispered, a fresh wave of ice water flooding his veins. "That's the examiner."

"We know," Miles said grimly. "Professor Alistair Finch was a genius. Brilliant, respected… and completely insane. About ten years ago, he began to develop a sort of god complex. He believed it was his duty to 'cull' the weak-willed from the world, starting with his own students."

The detective’s words were slow and heavy, each one a hammer blow against Leo’s sanity. Mr. Davies stood by the door, silent now, his face the color of ash. He wasn't trying to protect Leo from a delusion; he was trying to stop the truth from getting out.

Miles slid the ID card aside, revealing what was beneath. It was a stack of crime scene photographs, old and slightly faded. The first one was a close-up of the dead boy from the exam paper.

"Finch developed a test," Miles continued, his voice a grim monotone. "A special 'scholarship' exam for students he'd singled out. The test you took. He'd lock them in, make them detail his own previous murders, and then he'd give them the final choice. To him, anyone who would choose to die, who would follow the instructions of an authority figure to the point of self-destruction, was unworthy of life. They were the ones who 'passed' his exam."

Leo stared at the photo, then back at the blood-flecked exam in the bag. The blood… the arterial spray… it was from this boy. This victim. His exam paper was a piece of a five-year-old crime scene.

"The photos he showed you," Miles said, confirming Leo's dawning horror. "They were real. Trophies from his previous victims. He was a serial killer, Leo. One of the most meticulous and sadistic the state has ever seen."

The room felt like it was tilting, the sterile white walls closing in. The antiseptic smell was choking him. His tormentor had a name. The test was real. The victims were real. He had been locked in a room with a monster, forced to write a dissertation on his atrocities.

"So… you're going to catch him?" Leo asked, his voice barely audible. "This… this Finch?"

Detective Miles looked at him, and for the first time, Leo saw a glimmer of something beyond weariness in the man’s eyes. It was a deep, unsettling pity.

"That's the part people have trouble with," the detective said softly. He slowly, deliberately, slid the last document from the folder. It was a copy of an old newspaper clipping, the headline stark and bold.

BLACKWOOD PROFESSOR KILLED BY STUDENT IN CAMPUS HORROR

Leo’s eyes scanned the text, his mind refusing to assemble the words into coherent sentences. He saw phrases. 'Reign of terror over'...'final victim fought back'...'bludgeoned with a fire extinguisher'...

"Alistair Finch isn't a man we can arrest, Leo," Detective Miles said, his voice laying the final, soul-crushing stone in place. "He's not a fugitive. He’s not a suspect in an active investigation."

The detective tapped a date printed in the newspaper article. It was from five years ago.

"Professor Alistair Finch died in that exam room. His last intended victim managed to get the upper hand and killed him before he could finish the test." Miles leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Leo’s, forcing him to accept the impossible, terrifying truth. "The man who gave you that exam, the man who locked you in that room and tried to burn you alive… he was a ghost."