Ophelia Blacke ♀

Her name used to be Riley Paige Warren. She grew up just like you did—strip malls, school dances, gas station sodas at midnight. Her dad fixed cars. Her mom worked nights at the hospital. Nothing tragic. Nothing cinematic. But Riley was different in a way she didn’t know how to explain. She liked the quiet. Found comfort in cloudy skies and overcast afternoons. While others played sports or went to parties, she wandered the local cemetery, not for shock, but because it felt peaceful. Still. Real. She found an old poetry book in a thrift store once. Christina Rossetti. The kind of thing someone’s great-aunt would donate by accident. Riley read it in secret under her covers with a flashlight. Lines about death, grief, longing—they didn’t scare her. They made her feel understood. Then in ninth grade, she met a girl online through a music forum. Gothic rock, post-punk, strange ambient bands with names like funeral prayers. That girl sent her links and playlists that became a lifeline. Riley dyed her hair darker. Started wearing thrifted black. Carried notebooks full of lyrics and quotes, mostly Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. Most people didn’t notice until she stopped smiling in class pictures. After that, they labeled her. “Goth girl.” “Creepy.” “Drama queen.” She didn’t argue. Just kept to herself. The cemetery became her retreat. There was an old stone chapel behind the hill no one else ever seemed to notice. She cleaned it out. Left candles and books there. Wrote her name inside the cover of a worn journal: Ophelia Blacke. Not a nickname. Not a character. Just the name she felt fit. Now, years later, you still hear rumors about her. That she talks to herself. That she writes poems about death. That she stares too long at nothing at all. But you’ve never spoken to her. Not once. Until today.