Page 5

Chapter 4

Deirdre

“Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.” Edgar Allan Poe

T he second day of “ The Five Sides of Poe ” begins much like the first, with Kieran McKnight pacing at the front of the lecture hall, wearing a crisp black blazer, a coffee cup clutched in one hand as he scribbles on the chalkboard with the other. It is impressive how he doesn’t spill a drop while he writes furiously on the board. As always, his presence fills the room, commanding attention as though every word he speaks holds the weight of life or death. Fitting, since his passion is a man who was obsessed with insanity, grief, and the loss of life.

“Let’s begin,” he says, his voice sharp and direct, slicing through the random conversations of students around me. “Poe is not merely an author; he is the architect of human emotion. If you came here expecting to coast by with a superficial analysis of his works, I suggest you drop my class now. Otherwise, buckle up.”

I cast a subtle glance over at Claire, who, as usual, can’t hide her expression. She rolls her eyes dramatically before whispering, “Party pooper strikes again.”

He dives headfirst into the dissection of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Professor McKnight guides us through the intricate layers of madness and guilt in the text, pushing us to go beyond surface-level interpretations.

“Why does the narrator insist on his sanity?” he challenges, pointing his marker at a student in the second row.

The student looks up from his phone, taken by surprise. “Uh…because he’s not actually sane?” the student offers up reluctantly.

Professor McKnight shakes his head, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Too easy. Put your phone away, pay attention, and try again.”

I find myself hanging on every word, to the way he reveals hidden meanings beneath each line of Poe’s work. It’s fascinating, exhilarating, and utterly captivating. By the end of class, my notebook is filled with my frantic scribbles as I tried to keep up with everything he said. My mind is buzzing with questions that I haven’t even thought to ask before.

The third class brings no reprieve from his intensity. If anything, Professor McKnight seems more determined to challenge us. He starts the class with his usual piercing gaze, his hands resting lightly on the podium as he scans the room. It’s like his commanding demeanor and dramatic pauses are part of his act, and I am just waiting for him to slip and reveal some less serious side of him, but I don’t think the man knows how to have fun.

“We are all here because we share a love of literature,” he begins, his deep voice echoing through the lecture hall. “But you’re taking a class on Poe because, in some way, he resonates with you. Today, I want to hear why.”

A murmur ripples through the class, students exchanging uneasy glances. Professor McKnight leans forward, and a mischievous grin plays on his face as if he enjoys putting us on the spot. “Pick a line. One that’s stayed with you. The one that feels as though Poe wrote it just for you. Share it with the class and tell me why.”

One by one, he picks on students. A girl in the front row recites a line from Annabel Lee about the kingdom by the sea, her voice trembling with nerves. No doubt Professor McKnight has the same effect on her as he does everyone else he comes into contact with. A boy in the back quotes The Raven , focusing on the relentless repetition of “Nevermore.” Each time, he prods the students around me to explain further, his questions are equal parts insightful and unnerving.

After several students have gone, I assume I am marked safe.

I quietly begin to scribble into my worn journal, angling it so no one around me can see. With quick, small strokes, I jot down a few lines.

Professor McKnight is like a storm bottled inside a man. Calm on the surface, but I can see the waves raging in his eyes. I shouldn’t be so curious about him, but I am. I know I need to stay invisible. Don’t draw attention. Blend in, blend in. Keep breathing.

I chew on the cap of my pen for a second, contemplating adding more, when a sudden shift in the room’s energy prickles across my skin.

Before I can snap the journal shut, I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye.

Professor McKnight is standing right in front of me.

I definitely assumed wrong .

“Miss Ravencroft,” Professor McKnight says, his voice low but stern. I jolt upright, my fingers scrambling to hide the journal under the desk.

He looks at me with a deep, expectant gaze and nods once, prompting me to speak.

I hesitate a moment before speaking. These situations are what I try my best to avoid—opening myself to scrutiny and putting my pain on display for everyone to see.

Taking a deep breath, I recite a line from “ The Fall of the House of Usher .”

“I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow,” I say. My voice is steady, but my words ring off the auditorium walls, filling the quiet room.

Kieran’s eyes lock on to mine as he inquires, “And why that line, Miss Ravencroft?”

Uncomfortable, I shift slightly in my seat, but I keep my gaze on him.

“To me, it captures the way sorrow becomes all-encompassing. When you’ve suffered a deep pain, nothing, not even joyful books or music, can bring comfort. The pain becomes a part of who you are. As someone who’s experienced loss, that line makes me feel seen in a world where I’ve been constantly running and alone. Poe has this way of making sorrow feel beautiful even when it’s devastating.”

The room stays silent for a beat, the weight of my words lingering in the air. Professor McKnight nods, a faint glimmer of approval sparkles in his eyes.

“As always, very insightful, Miss Ravencroft.”

Claire nudges my arm and whispers, “Teacher’s pet,” but I try to ignore her because I can feel a faint blush creeping up my neck to my cheeks.

As the class draws to a close, Professor McKnight stands once again behind the podium, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Your first analysis paper will be due Wednesday. ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ Minimum five pages. No exceptions.”

A collective groan elicits from the students. One brave soul even has the balls to mutter, “Seriously? It’s only the first week.”

Professor McKnight arches an eyebrow, setting his coffee cup down on the wooden podium with a deliberate thud.

“Would you prefer it be due Monday instead?”

The groaning stops almost instantly and is replaced by silence.

“Wednesday it is,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up mischievously. “Class dismissed.”

As the students file out, Claire leans toward me as she is packing up her books and setting them in her bag. Her voice is low but teasing. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. He totally has a soft spot for you.”

“Claire, stop it,” I hiss, trying to stifle my embarrassment.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Claire replies, throwing her hands up in mock innocence. “You’re the only one who gets a ‘very insightful’ every time you speak.”

I let out an exasperated sigh, clutching my notebook to my chest. If Professor McKnight does favor me, it is only because I work harder than most.

Right?

Standing up, I follow Claire down the steps toward the exit of the auditorium. My mind is still whirring after I opened up in front of everyone.

I never do that. Only Gabe knows my deepest, darkest pain.

Before leaving the hall, I glance back into the classroom only to find Professor McKnight watching me as I walk away. Like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, he quickly begins erasing the chalkboard. For just a moment, I admire his sharp features illuminated by the mid-morning sun streaming through the windows. My stomach twists with a mix of longing and unease.

When I turn away from the auditorium, I notice Claire is a few steps ahead of me. I quickly make up the distance between us and begin walking in step with her.

“Why don’t we go to the library and grab a few books to help with our assignment?” I suggest as we walk toward the dorm rooms.

Claire groans, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Or we could live in the modern world of technology and just look this up online.” She smirks. “Copy and paste.”

I roll my eyes and sigh heavily. “Unlike you, I actually care about this assignment. Besides, you can’t analyze Poe’s works by reading half-baked summaries on SparkNotes.”

Claire lets out her usual dramatic sigh. “I can , and I have . But because I’m such an amazing friend, I’ll humor you.”

She tilts her head. “Although, if we’re being honest, I think this is just your excuse to lurk in the creepiest place on campus.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I like libraries.”

“Of course you do,” Claire says. “It fits your whole dark and mysterious aesthetic.”

I nudge her playfully. “Says the girl who exclusively wears pink and listens to true crime podcasts before bed.”

The crisp air holds the faint scent of red maple leaves and coffee brewing nearby as we walk across the courtyard toward the university library. The morning sun casts long shadows through the trees, across the stone pathways throughout the courtyard. Claire jabs me with her elbow, as a teasing curve plays on her lips.

“So, what’s with you and Professor McDreamy?” she asks, flicking a loose curl over her shoulder.

I roll my eyes, tugging my cardigan tighter around myself. “There is nothing with me and Professor McKnight.”

Claire scoffs. “Please. I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you pretend not to notice.”

“I’m not pretending about anything,” I say firmly, shaking my head as we ascend the steps of the library. “I’m just trying to pass his class without dying under the weight of his assignments.”

Claire hums, unconvinced. “Mhm. Sure. And I’m just going to the library because I love reading nineteenth-century gothic romance in my free time.”

I scrunch my nose at her. “You’re here because you need to get a passing grade.”

“Exactly,” Claire says with a grin. “But if I happen to overhear some juicy tidbits about your secret romance while we’re here, that’s just a bonus.”

She’s exhausting.

I let out another sigh. “You are not letting this go, are you?” I shake my head as I push open the heavy wooden doors of the library.

The moment we step inside, the scent of aged paper and leather-bound books surrounds us. The library is a breathtaking relic of the past, a towering Gothic masterpiece with cathedral-high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and chandeliers that bathe the space in a warm, golden light. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with centuries-old tomes and first editions, their spines worn from countless hands perusing them. The grand spiral staircase with its wrought-iron railing twists in elaborate patterns and leads up to the second and third levels, where more books rest in shadowed alcoves.

Claire whispers, “I half expect to see a ghost librarian floating around somewhere.”

I let out a quiet chuckle. “It wouldn’t surprise me. This place is old enough to have some secrets.”

Claire shivers dramatically as she looks around. “Okay, I do have to admit. This place is kind of cool. But it definitely looks haunted.”

Leading the way past massive wooden tables where students are hunched over their work, I find myself quietly lost in thought.

“If there is a ghost here, I bet it’s the spirit of some professor still judging students for their weak thesis statements.”

Claire snorts loudly, prompting a few students to pop their heads up from their work and shoot her a glare.

“Well, I’d like to formally apologize to the ghost of academia in advance for whatever nonsense I’m about to turn in,” she says, waving her hand, mimicking waving a white flag.

We weave through the towering shelves, my fingers skimming over the leather-bound books that have been read and reread for decades. As I’m admiring the rows of books, I notice Claire meander off to another aisle titled “Regency Era of Romance,” which no doubt means she is looking for something by Jane Austen. I swear the girl can read her works for days, but put Poe in front of her and she’s a complete snoozefest.

I navigate through the towering shelves, admiring the flickering candle-like sconces on the walls. A part of me feels at home here, surrounded by the whispers of history and the stories that lie on these pages.

I run my fingers along the dusty cover of a book I pulled from the shelf, my mind already whirring with how I should approach the analysis assignment. When it comes to my studies, I tend to be a perfectionist.

Deciding the first book is not the perfect fit, I slide it back in its place. As I do, I feel an unmistakable awareness prickling at the back of my neck. In my periphery, I notice a tall figure standing a few yards away. I look to the side, and my breath catches for half a second before I compose myself.

Professor McKnight is standing a few shelves away. Our eyes meet and cling to each other. In one hand, he is holding an open book, but he is no longer reading it, if he ever was.

How long has he been standing there?

Has he been watching me? Did he follow me here? And why does a part of me want that to be true?

I shake my head as he takes a few steps toward me, trying to erase the thoughts from my brain.

“Professor,” I greet him, keeping my voice even.

“Miss Ravencroft,” Professor McKnight replies, his voice deep and low and appropriate for our surroundings. He closes the book and steps closer, the rich scent of his cologne teasing my senses. He is nowhere near as intimidating as he was that night in the club or even just a mere thirty minutes ago in class, but his presence is still commanding. Hearing my name roll off his tongue jolts something inside me, like tiny butterflies awakening and flitting around.

He only knows you from class, D. Chill.

“You’re here for research, I assume?”

I point at the book I was just looking at in response. “Claire and I are working on our analysis papers.”

His lips twitch, almost as if he wants to show some form of emotion, but is holding it back, and looks around. “And Claire is…?”

“Somewhere debating which book has the biggest font so she can avoid actually reading,” I say dryly.

He lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “Smart.” He studies me for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “When analyzing Poe’s mind, I’d recommend this.” He reaches for a book from the shelf in front of us and hands it to me.

I hesitantly take it from him, my fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. A slow burn settles in my chest at the contact.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I murmur, tilting my head. “Though, should I be concerned that my professor is handpicking my sources?”

His smoldering expression almost melts my insides. It almost feels as though he is trying to keep his control in check. Surely, I am just imagining things.

“I would never give a student an unfair advantage,” he says smoothly. “Just ensuring you’re not wasting your time on weak interpretations.”

“Of course.” My lips curl up slightly. “You’re so considerate.”

He exhales through his nose, the barest hint of amusement ghosts his face before he forces his features back into a sharp stare.

“Don’t push your luck, Miss Ravencroft.”

The air between us feels electric. For a moment, neither of us moves, and the library seems almost quieter around us.

Then, from a few aisles over, I can hear footsteps approaching, and Claire’s voice breaks the moment. “Deirdre, if I have to read even one more sentence of Gothic melodrama, I might gouge my eyes out with a bookmark.”

I quickly take a step back, clutching the book he gave me a little tighter. “I should go before she sees this and causes a scene.”

Professor McKnight nods in agreement. “I expect nothing but insightful thoughts from your work, Miss Ravencroft.”

As I turn to leave and meet Claire, I can still feel his eyes on me, lingering and watching.

I reach Claire, who is standing in front of a section dedicated to Gothic literature, oblivious to the interaction that just took place mere seconds before, and as she says, “Okay, so which one of these creepy masterpieces is going to help us decode Poe’s insanity?”

“This is what we need,” I say, pulling out the book Professor McKnight suggested. The Gothic Mind: An Analysis of Poe and His Madness.

Claire makes a face. “That sounds like something that’s going to put me to sleep in five minutes.”

I arch my brow at her. “Which is why you’ll let me do most of the work and then steal my notes later.”

Claire grins. “It’s like you know me or something.”

Linking my arm with hers, we walk to the front desk of the library and check out the book before walking back to our dorm room.

Just before we push through the heavy doors to step outside, something makes me glance back toward the towering shelves of books.

There, standing at the top of the staircase, is Professor McKnight, half cloaked in the shadows, watching me.

He doesn’t move.

For a moment, even with the distance between us, the air feels charged just like it did earlier when he handed me the book. Instead of feeling intimidated, I feel a thrill wash over me. I know it’s wrong, and yet, I feel drawn to this mysterious man.

Before Claire can notice, I tear my stare away, forcing myself to look ahead and keep walking, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his eyes on my back the entire way out of the library.