The Last Letter: Why Allen Jest Killed Me and Hid My Body
Rumble! Crash!
In an instant, the world flashed with blinding light, and thunder shook the academy building. Outside the window, thick sheets of rain poured relentlessly, drenching the world in gray. We hurried back into the club room to escape the intensifying downpour. But the atmosphere inside was as heavy and somber as the weather raging beyond the glass.
On the table lay the fourth letter, spread open. Fancy stationery paired with chilling content that didn't match it at all. The faces of the Paranormal Investigation Club students were etched with grave expressions, not a trace of playfulness in sight.
Rone spoke first, her voice stiff.
"Teacher, this letter... do you have any guesses about it?"
Rozalia looked at me with a worried expression too.
"On the first day at the academy. What on earth did you do...?"
"I don't have a clue—nothing even close comes to mind. Hell, on the academy's first day, I was too busy dealing with another ghost story!"
Aurora reread the letter carefully, then furrowed her brow.
"The content itself is too strange. It claims 'I died on my first day of enrollment,' but then says 'I met the teacher a few days later' or 'I passed by on the cherry blossom path every morning.'... That's a clear contradiction, isn't it? Is there even any point in taking this letter at face value?"
Elaine frowned too, lost in deep thought.
"Even before that, I can't even guess what kind of ghost story this is. It doesn't feel like any typical ghost or curse tale..."
Elaine, the most knowledgeable among us about ghost stories, seemed stumped by this final letter—it was one even she had never heard of.
The room filled only with the roar of the rain, and we sank into profound contemplation before the letter's inscrutable words.
After a while, I lifted my head.
"Trying to decode the content of this letter is pointless."
I stated firmly.
"It's riddled with contradictions that don't add up, so hunting for clues here will just deepen the confusion. You can't find clues in letter content like this."
"So, there's no way to resolve this ghost story?"
Rone asked anxiously.
At her question, I gave a sly smile. Then I spoke with full confidence.
"No. There is a clue. Right on the stationery itself."
"That's totally different from what you said a second ago!"
Rone shot back in surprise.
"Teacher, you haven't gotten infected by the ghost story through the stationery, have you? You're suddenly talking nonsense."
Aurora eyed me suspiciously. Elaine silently scanned the surroundings, searching for something to wield as a weapon.
"Whoa, hold on! Elaine!"
I hurriedly stopped her.
No, not that you should grab a weapon without hesitation.
"What I mean is, while the content offers no clues, the stationery itself hides plenty of others beyond the writing!"
The students looked at me with puzzled expressions.
"The stationery's material. The client's handwriting. And the logical, rational structure of the first three letters—unlike this last one, where the sentences completely fall apart. 'Observe' those, and you can pinpoint who sent the letters."
Thankfully, Elaine realized I wasn't possessed and stopped her weapon hunt. But Aurora spoke up with a dubious look.
"But... like with the Letters of Misfortune ghost story, we might not find the sender. If the entity that sent them doesn't exist in the first place, it'll just be a waste of time..."
I nodded.
"Could be. But right now, it's our only lead. To grasp this ghost story's true nature, we have to find whoever—or whatever—sent these letters."
The students fell silent at my words, but they had no choice except to accept it—there were no other options.
I picked up the four sheets of stationery from the table. I began to observe not their content, but the stationery itself.
"..."
After examining them for a bit, I gleaned some information from the sheets. I verified its validity and uncovered several clues that could lead us to the culprit.
"This stationery hides three clues."
"...Three of them?"
"First and foremost, all four sheets share the same design and material."
Thankfully, this wasn't ordinary mass-market stationery. The eye-catching fancy design screamed a specific shop's exclusive stock.
"Then, tracing the stationery's distribution should give us a lead!"
Rone said brightly.
But I shook my head, skeptical.
"That'd take too long. There aren't many shops near the academy, but if the stationery was bought back in the student's hometown, not here, tracing its path could take days."
That left the second standout feature: the consistent handwriting across all four.
Handwriting naturally carries a person's unique habits and traits.
"But pinpointing distribution is hard enough—matching handwriting is even more impossible!"
Aurora countered.
"We'd have to compare it against every student's handwriting... That's way less efficient than tracking the source!"
I shook my head again.
"Not quite. Sure, directly finding the owner via handwriting would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But narrowing candidates by physical traits from the handwriting features? That's doable right now."
The students' eyes widened.
"...You can do that?"
Elaine asked incredulously.
I smiled faintly.
"I've already cut the suspects by 90%."
Their faces mixed shock and awe as they stared at me.
"How... 90%?"
Elaine asked cautiously.
I began explaining calmly.
"First clue: the ink smudges on the stationery. The writing is neat and straight, reflecting the sender's personality. But there are faint smudges here and there, like someone rubbed the ink before it dried."
The students peered closely at the sheets. Sure enough, subtle traces were there, just as I said.
If the handwriting had been messy from the start or the storage sloppy, we'd chalk it up to a careless personality. But with the precisely folded edges and uniform script, it didn't fit someone leaving smudges carelessly. Logically, there must have been an unavoidable reason—like an external influence while writing, or a physical trait.
"Second clue: the sharply angled horizontal strokes. Not too pronounced—you have to observe closely to spot the pattern repeating. It's the one standout in otherwise textbook-perfect handwriting."
Aurora tilted her head.
"There are faint rub marks and sharp horizontals, sure... but how does that cut suspects by 90%?"
I smiled faintly.
"Because the sender has a physical trait shared by only about 10% of the population: they're left-handed."
Their eyes widened again.
"Even in my past life, and here too, writing systems are built for the majority—right-handers. Text flows left to right, shapes optimized for right hands."
I continued.
"For right-handers, the hand stays to the right of the pen, so writing left to right doesn't interfere. Obvious, right?"
But not for lefties.
"Left-handers are the opposite. Their hand is always on the pen's left, meaning when writing left to right, it drags over the text."
I mimed writing left-handed. It looked like rubbing the paper with your own hand while writing.
"With the hand always on the paper, without care, it unconsciously touches the ink, smudging hand or page. That's the first clue's cause."
They nodded.
"Plus, letter forms favor right-handers, making strokes awkward for lefties—especially horizontals."
"...Horizontals?"
Rozalia tilted her head, puzzled.
"Horizontals stroke left to right—a 'pulling' motion for right-hand joints, natural and low-fatigue. For lefties, it's 'pushing' outward—unnatural, fatiguing. Result: sharp, angular horizontals in lefty writing."
I pointed to a particularly kinked horizontal on the sheet.
"Matches perfectly. Congenital left-handers are about 10%. Factor in cultures forcing correction, and active lefties among academy students are even rarer."
They alternated glances at the sheets, faces blending surprise and admiration.
"So, we target first-years from regions without forced correction who are left-handed."
This clear physical marker boosted the odds the sender was real.
"Whoa... Teacher, you're amazing!"
"Figuring out even this... Teacher really is different."
"And there's more."
The third clue. I presented the first three letters, excluding the last.
"The last one's structure is deranged and contradictory, like madness. But the first three are rational and logical. Their info is likely true."
I added, looking at them.
"Especially the second and third letters. Second mentions hearing about the Faceless Knight ghost story from a student. Means close to someone from that region. Poll those students: anyone recently asking about it? Narrows further."
I pointed to the third.
"Same for the third: the Art Club's missing plaster statue. Poll art club kids: anyone asking or consulting about it? And if a left-handed first-year matches both... that's our culprit."
Hope lit their faces as the suspect pool visibly shrank.
"Alright, role assignments. Rone, head back to the Art Club—check for students prying into recent incidents."
"Got it! Leave it to me!"
"Rozalia, investigate anyone asking about the Faceless Knight."
"Understood, sir! Trust only in me!"
"Aurora, trace the stationery source—just in case."
"...Why do I get the tough one?"
Someone had to.
"Elaine, roam campus, list left-handed students. Cross-reference with Rone and Rozalia's lists to nail the sender."
They nodded solemnly, assigned and resolute.
"Dismissal's soon. Push hard. We can continue tomorrow if needed, but I'd prefer wrapping this ghost story today. Bad vibes."
They nodded and swiftly filed out: Rone first, then Rozalia, Aurora. Elaine paused at the door, looking anxious.
"...What?"
"No, your orders should catch the sender quick. But... one thing bothers me."
Elaine chose her words carefully, voicing her worry.
"We still don't know this ghost story's nature. Ghost stories torment and kill somehow... how does this one do it?"
Rumble! Crash!
Thunder boomed, splitting the academy's darkened sky. Thick rain clouds allowed no light, blanketing the world in ashen gray. Torrential sheets swallowed the academy's grand buildings; distant lights blurred in the deluge. Fierce winds lashed wet branches wildly, and rain, heavy with earth, formed muddy puddles along paths.
In the storm, a female student lay collapsed on the cold ground. Not even seeking shelter, she clutched her chest on the sodden earth.
"Guh... guhk! Guheuk...!"
Her gasping breaths drowned in the rain; her flailing fingertips sank into the mud. Amid the pitch-black clouds and pounding downpour in the academy's outdoors, no one spotted her agony.
She merely writhed alone against the pain, in the chill, soaking rain. Alone.
