Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep67: Episode 67: Fantastical Horror Stories

Episode Date: February 3, 2022

Tonight’s first phenomenal supernatural tale is ‘Helena Ascending the Staircase’, an original story SamanthaR29, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/user/SamanthaR29/ Today’s second offering is ''The Instrument’, an original story by Ivan Radev, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/MasterL0L/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Well, they say that fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living. It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one, as we will see in tonight's two tales of terror. Later on, we have the instrument by Ivan Reddiv.

But we begin proceedings with Helena ascending the staircase by Samantha R.20. Now as always before we begin a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. This isn't my story, or rather, to clarify, this is not a story about me. This is a story about a man named Max. The person who told me it swears it's a true story. I can leave those judgments up to you.

Max was 36 years old and what you would call a drifter not in the sense that he was homeless but rather in the sense that he drifted through life from job to job from town to town and from one life goal to another he was a man with no real follow-through he'd become fascinated with something for a while or will come up with a life plan for a little bit

and then soon enough he was already bored with it and come up with another that he decided was better None of these things made Max a bad person, of course. Max was a decent guy. He wouldn't lend him money, but otherwise, he was ordinary enough. Things would change from Max when he came to New York. I won't give the real name of where he rented the apartment, not the building or the streets.

All you really need to know is that the building had a very impressive exterior, and that once you step through the doors, you found yourself in what resembled a hotel lobby with a large, wide staircase that looked like it had been transplanted into this building from another far more expensive and well-maintained one. But despite this extravagant initial impression, Max soon learned that the building was, as the Brits might say, fur coat and no knickers.

Or, to put it another way, the actual apartment was a dump. Max listened to the landlady as she sung the praises of what to him looked like a cheap and badly maintained dive, with little to recommend it, save for the fact it had working water and power, and didn't seem to have any rats or cockroaches also making their home there. But Max at this point in his life was someone who didn't like to cause offence or hurt anyone's feelings needlessly. So he listened and smiled and nodded,

as he walked around the apartment and then led back out. He assured Amy, the landlady, that he really did think that it was a swell place to live and that he would give serious thought to renting here. His plan was to leave and then move on and find himself somewhere better to live that was still within his budget. And if he hadn't turned around as they walked back down the stairs, he probably would have. If he hadn't turned around, the rest of his life might have been so much happier. It would, at the very least, have been very different.

But he did. And that's when he saw it. upon the wall was a colossal framed photograph he didn't understand how he'd missed it when he climbed up those stairs it seemed impossible that he'd failed to even passingly take notice of his presence there but he saw it now he saw her the photograph was of a woman she was clad in a long and expensive looking dress the kind you'd expect to see an actress wearing at a red carpet event

or a fashion model to strut down a runway wearing. The dress seemed to swoop back from her curvy frame, as if she'd turned around very suddenly to look at the person taking the picture. Her lips were curled upwards in a smile that just barely showed off her pearly white teeth. Over the top half of her face, she wore what appeared to be some strange form of opera mask or something of the like. It was impossible to tell the colour, as a photo was black and white, but if he had to guess he would say it was silver or bone white from how it appeared in the image

it covered her eyes and most of her nose as well as her forehead her raven black hair cascaded down her shoulders pulled backwards by the feather-like protrusions of the mast he completely ceased listening to what amy was saying and walked towards the photograph as if in a daze he stood before it and stared up at her to him she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire life. A small white card, like you might see in an art museum, was situated at the left corner of the photograph. It read, Helena ascending the staircase. Artist unknown. Model unknown. Ninety-six. A lot of people take notice of that, the landlady said. A voice snapped Max out of his

trance and he turned toward her and gave a weak smile. He felt oddly embarrassed as if someone had just caught attention to him checking a woman out in public. He supposed, in a way, he had been. Running his fingers through his shoulder-length, greying hair, he did his best to appear nonchalant. It's very striking. Who took it?

He asked. The landlady shrugged and pointed toward the little white card beside it. No clue. No one does. Been here as long as the building has, before it was apartments even. What was it before then? Max asked, but all he got was another shrug. Amy, the landlady, averted her eyes and muttered that she couldn't say for sure. She didn't sound entirely convincing in her denial.

Max turned back to look up at the photograph. The model's smile was captivating, and somehow, despite the fact her eyes weren't visible, he found as if he could feel her gaze on him. Not in an unwelcome way, in a playful, impish sort of way. He imagined what her eyes might look like behind the mask, dark brown perhaps, or dazzling icy blue, perhaps a sparkling sea green, looking out at him from across the years. That playful and mysterious smile seeming to say, follow me, as she ascended the staircase. You kept it all this time, he asked.

Amy the landlady grunted in reply, could never seem to get rid of it. If Max had been paying closer attention to her words, he might have noticed something about the way she said this. Might have caught something in her tone that would have given him pause or made him want to ask more questions. As it was, there was only one question on his mind right now.

How much did you say the rent was? And so Max moved into his new apartment, The rent was very affordable. He had a decent, albeit part-time job that covered it, with a little leftover for what he needed to get by when it came to food and other necessities. In his more lucid moments in those first few weeks, he told himself that it was ridiculous that he'd chosen this place

for such a frivolous reason. He knew for sure that if he shared with any of his friends or family why he'd pick this apartment building over others that were better in terms of quality or location, and they would laugh at him. And yet, each day when he headed out to work, you would cast one last look at her photograph, at Helena ascending her staircase.

And each evening, when he returned home, he'd be greeted by the sight of her. And no matter how tiring his day, and no matter how thankless and joyless his shift had felt, he would feel himself moved when the sight of her greeted him. He even began to whisper a little greeting to the photograph and say goodbye to it as he left, though only when he was alone. Though in truth, he didn't feel alone, even when no one else was coming or going down the stairs.

It felt like she was there with him. Elena, such a beautiful name. In his free time, he tried to learn who she'd be. He didn't have a great deal to go on, but he had a little. He tried looking up models of the 70s, who had gone by the first name Helena. When his search proved fruitless, he began looking at photographers of the 70s

and looking through their work, desperate to catch a glimpse of her in another photograph, one that would provide him with a last name and a way to learn more about her. Desperate to find anything that might give him more information about this woman he felt so strangely allured by. He didn't become a shut-in, or an obsessive.

At least he didn't think so. He still went out, still did, normal things, spent time with friends and co-workers, went to his job. He even made an effort to get to know some of the people in the building. Only two really gave him much in the way of the time of day, though. An older man named Joseph, who, depending on what mood you caught him in, could either be somewhat pleasant company or a surly son of a bitch. And a woman, a few years younger, named Diane, who he found to be good company when they wound up passing the time together. it was Diane who first noticed the way he looked at the photograph

the two of them were walking down the stairs as he's made his way off to work but he couldn't stop himself from casting one last lingering look back at her back at Helena and he must have been staring for longer than he realised because soon Diane was nudging him in the ribs you like her don't you she said in a teasing tone of voice despite being nearly the same age as him she sounded more like a kid on the schoolyard teasing their friend about their first adolescent crush than a grown woman

and he found himself blushing bright red just as immaturely what i was just just looking at the he stammered lamely his cheeks felt hot and he fidgeted uncomfortably upon the staircase dying grin like the cheshire cat itself as she leaned forward is she your girlfriend round? She asked, her tone only becoming more playful and mischievous. He tried to laugh it off, but it was clear that she wasn't going to let it drop. She giggled at his obvious embarrassment, and as he began to mumble his way through some excuse for his fascinated gaze, she elbowed him in the side once more. I'm just fucking with you, Max. I ain't going to judge you. Truth is, we all get like that, she said. You all get like what?

Max asked, his embarrassment giving way to inquisitiveness. They am pointed at the photograph and smiled a little wistfully. We all get a little gar-gar over her. I doubt there's anyone in this building who doesn't have a little bit of a crush on Helena. God knows I do, she explained. Max nodded, feeling a little less humiliated now. But at the same time, he also felt even more curious about the subject of the strangely captivating photograph that hung there upon the wall. Do you know who she is?

What it was. Did she live here? He asked. Diane shook her head and turned to begin walking back down the stairs. No idea, man. The photo was here when I moved in. The only person who knows is Amy maybe, or one of the older types who've been here longer. Max nodded, and with one last look at Helena, he made his way down the stairs after Diane.

He knew it was ridiculous, but as he looked up at the photograph, he could. couldn't shake the feeling that Helena was listening to them somehow, that she was listening in on them talking about her, which was a ridiculous thing to think. And the next thought that occurred to him was even more ludicrous. The reason he felt like this was the case was because, to his eyes, it looked as if Helena had moved. As if her pose was slightly different. Her head cocked to the side, her body closer to the frame. has she been standing on the seventh step or the sixth the last time he looked at the photo, had her hand rested on her hip like that, and a smile looked different,

a smile no longer looked playful, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was that had changed. He dismissed all of this from his mind as soon as he was outside in the fresh air. Photographs didn't spring to life. Whoever Helena had been, she was either someone out there in the world living her own life, or else dead and buried. Either way, she certainly wasn't listening in on people's conversations through a photograph she'd posed for decades ago.

It was a few nights later that he had the dream. He was in the building, but not in the building. It wasn't an apartment building anymore. It was a hotel, and he was one of many people, many guests swarming around the lobby. Idle chit-chat filled the air. Around him, people dressed smartly, in expensive-looking suits, laughing and joking amongst each other, or bantering back and forth.

He walked through it all like a ghost. Occasionally people would tip their hat to him, or offer a warm handshake. He would reply with words his ears didn't seem to comprehend. It was as if their voices and his were coming from very far away. But he could see just fine, and his eyes locked upon the staircase and the woman upon them. Helena. The name passed his lips. This time he heard himself say it. And impossibly, she seemed to hear it too. She looked down at him. With half her face hidden behind the elegant silver mask she wore, it was impossible to fully gauge her emotions in that moment. But she smiled down at him. Those pearly white teeth seemed to sparkle as she offered him a dazzling grin. And then she spoke. follow me and she stepped

through the doors in front of her as he followed behind followed her up the stairs and woke up max glared at his alarm clock as it buzzed harshly at him he'd never felt a more intense and acute hatred for an inanimate object

than he felt at that moment slamming his hand down on the snooze button with more force than was caught for he curled up and rested his head against the pillow and desperately tried to drift off once more. His attempts would be for nothing, however. Sleep did not come. The rest of that week, and most of the one after,

his sleep was dreamless for the most part. Or if dreams did come to him, they were unconnected to Helena. He began to actively resent his imagination. Why could he not dream about her again? He felt like someone who'd seen the start of a film only for the real to combust 10 minutes in, denying him any chance to see what happened next. What happened when he followed Helena at the staircase? He mentioned it in passing to Diane one day when they were having coffee.

It almost meant it as a joke, really. She teased him about how things with Helena were. She would frequently make snarky little remarks about he was, who would in love with a photograph, though never in a cruel way. It was a gentle teasing of a friend poking a little fun at another strangeness, and asked him if she could be jealous that you're trying to steal my girl. He said, in reply, maybe you're just not committed enough.

I mean, do you dream about her? Or something like that. Diane went white as a sheet. What kind of dreams? She asked. He'd laughed the question off. Get your mind out of the gutter, he said, thinking that she was implying something

dirty, but her expression had changed. She didn't look like she was playing around anymore. No, dude, seriously, what kind of dreams? So, he told her. And when he told her, she'd look more and more fearful with every word. He couldn't understand why what he was saying seemed to be upsetting her like this. Max, you're not fucking with me here, right? She asked him. He shook his head and assured her he most definitely was not, and asked her why she looked so freaked out by what he'd shared with her. Her hands cupped her coffee mug tightly, and she looked down at the table for a few moments. Finally, she looked back up at him and made him promise to listen to what she said and to believe that she wasn't making this up. He nodded and promised to this.

I've had that dream, and so have a bunch of other people. Despite his promise, Max's immediate reaction was, You're kidding. But if Diane was pulling his leg, she certainly had a better poker face than he would have given her credit for. Listen, I know like four other people in the building who've had their dream. Five, if you count me. How do you know? he asked.

Diane rolled her eyes. Just because you only speak to like, all of one person in the whole building, doesn't mean the rest of us do. I have got other friends beside you, Max, she said. He nodded and apologized. And your friends in the building,

they've had the same dream, the exact same dream? He asked. She nodded. And that's not the really damaged part. Like, you say something woke you up? She asked. He nodded again.

That's probably for the best. The dream gets, way, way more screwy after that. Like, I don't know about Joseph and the others, but I stopped sleeping for a while, took pills and everything, got maybe two or three hours a night and tried to avoid having that dream again.

Why? What's so bad about it? Max asked. Diane didn't answer him exactly. Her mood seemed to have changed drastically. She mumbled about how it had gotten weird and asked if they could just drop the subject, which Max reluctantly agreed. to, but while he chose not to press Diana on the topic, he was far from done thinking about it.

He dreamt of Elena again that night. The dream began the same as the previous one had, but this time he didn't wake as he began to ascend the staircase. He could see her, a few feet in front of him, her back to him as she walked through the large doors and into the darkened room beyond. And he became aware that a strange hush had fallen over the room. He turned back to see that all the other guests in the hotel lobby had ceased their casual conversation and were now looking up at him. Gleaming, expectant eyes, all peering at him as he climbed the staircase after Helena. Two dozen people or more, all watching him as if anticipating something.

He turned back to see Helena looking back at him from within the room. She grinned widely and beckoned to him with one finger. He woke with the start. sweaty and panting. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt ill at ease. He felt frightened and he didn't know why. That was the fact of the matter. And he felt like he desperately wanted to get out of his small apartment. Pulling on pants, a clean shirt and shoes, he headed out the door and made his way down the hall. He paused as he realized what this would mean. It would mean walking past Elena. And for the first time since he'd moved here,

That thought didn't fill him with joy, but rather a strange apprehension. Still, he made his way down the stairs and looked up at the photograph. Elena stood as she ever did, posed with one foot on one stair and another foot on the other. Her enigmatic moan-lisa-like smile, the glinting mask she wore. But something was off. One of her hands was held out toward the who-werexed. was taking the photograph. One finger bent towards her in a beckoning motion. She hadn't been posed like that before. He was certain of it. He stared at this photograph day in, day out for the

past few months, and he knew damn well what the thing looked like. Well enough to see that it had changed. It can't have changed, he muttered to himself. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked up at the photograph. It was still different from the one he'd seen only that very afternoon. noon. He began to reach out a hand towards the frame. His fingers were less than an inch from the glass, when the creek of one of the stairs made him pull his hand back, like a child caught sneaking cookies that his parents had told him weren't for him. His head whipped around to the right, where the creek had come from, and he saw, stood at the top of the stairs, the familiar form of Diane. She looked down at him. She looked sweaty and out of breath, as if she'd be

been running a marathon as she shook her head. Don't do it, Max. She turned and headed back the way she'd come from. He followed close behind, putting a hand on her shoulder, to stop her as he quietly called out to her, aware of the lateness of the hour, and not wanting to wake anyone else. Diane, he hissed, and she turned around. Her normally friendly features looked far less cheerful right now. Diane, did you?

He began, but trailed off realizing how ridiculous what he was about to ask really was. Diane cocked her head to the side and looked irritable. Just go back to bed, Max, she told him. Did you dream about it tonight? he asked. Her expression answered his question for him. You need to leave this alone, Max. It's not healthy. Diane said, and his grip on her shoulder tightened as he took a few steps closer.

What does that mean? Unhealthy, how? He asked her. Let go with me, she hissed, and he realized for the first time just how tightly he was gripping her shoulder. He released his grip and pulled back, shocked at his own behavior. He began to mutter an apology, but Diane just gestured dismissively at him. I told you, every... Everyone falls for Helena, but some people get weird about it.

Don't get weird on me, Max. You seem like a good guy. She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the gloom. As he passed the photograph on his way back to his apartment, he looked up at it. Helena's outstretched hand was now back where it had been before upon her hip. He wondered if it had ever changed at all. Maybe he needed more sleep, he told him. maybe he was seeing things.

He'd heard that could happen when you were very tired or had just woken up, like your brain was still playing tricks on you. He returned to his apartment and chose not to turn around when he heard the stairs behind him creak softly. Anne's words gnawed at him over the next few days, and he turned the focus of his research away from the photograph and its mysterious model directly, and instead he began to do research about the building itself.

It was not altogether surprised to learn that it had once been a hotel, but his rational mind told him that the fact his dream had gotten that part right must be meaningless. He probably heard the landlady, or Dian or Joseph mentioning it in passing. Or his brain had put two and two together on its own. After all, the entrance of the building looks so much like an old hotel lobby, it hardly took a detective genius to guess that this had been what the building had originally been useful. Nothing stood out in his researches, particularly alarming or morbid. The hotel had simply closed its doors in the 80s, another victim of Reaganomics,

no mentions of any scandal or sinister goings-on, and no mention of the parties like the one in his dream. The hotel hadn't been in an especially wealthy part of the city, after all, so the chances of a party like the one in his dream happening were low. He looked through what old black-and-white photographs of the place he could find and one in particular caught his eye. It was four men, all dressed very smartly and apparently absorbed in conversation, but it wasn't the faces or the manner they were dressed in that drew his eye. It was what one of them was holding. He was holding a camera. He told himself that it was

ridiculous to make the leap his brain was making right now, but all the same. He scrolled through the article, desperate to see if there was some caption that mentioned the man's name, any of the men's names. It didn't, however. He simply talked about the history of the place, and the few photographs that were scattered throughout the article lacked anything in the way of real information. There was something else about the photograph that seemed off, something that was itching at the back of his brain, but he couldn't think what it was. He dreamt that night of Helena. Helena ascending a staircase. This time the dream was different. This time the chatter of the partygoers around him didn't sound like the meaningless babble of drunk playboys. He still couldn't

hear what they were saying clearly, but something about the snippets that he made out, made him feel horribly anxious. It was as if his brain was screaming at him to get out of here, to run. What were they saying? Why did it make his skin crawl like this? if you could only concentrate on their words, but that, of course, was not how dreams worked. Instead, just as before, he began to climb the stairs. Just as before, the room fell into a kind of awed hush. Just as before, he looked back at the room

to see those eyes peering up at him. Predatory was the word that came to mind. Predatory and cruel. He began to follow her lane. into the room beyond the red doors. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and as Helena twirled her way back into the room, he became aware of soft music playing.

Someone was sat in an old piano, playing an accompaniment to it. Helena's laughter came from just a little further into the room, soft, girlish laughter, warm and welcoming. How could he be afraid when Helena was here with him? How could anything be wrong? How could anything else matter? matter. Max followed her into the room and he woke with a start. Grubbling he rolled over in the

bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He gazed at the alarm clock by the bed that told him it was four in the morning. He was about to try and get a couple more hours sleep before he noticed it the strange smell in the room. It was sweet and fragrant and unmistakably the smell of perfume. A woman's perfume. Max went from room to room of his small apartment. There were hardly a lot of places to search. He even found himself checking the cupboards and under the bed and chided himself, right? He felt ridiculous.

What was he going to do next? See if the bogeyman was hiding in the shadows as well. But he couldn't stop himself. He had to be sure. And when he confirmed that he was alone, he lay back down in bed and tried to tell himself that he was imagining the smell, or that there was some other explanation for it,

that he was coming through the air vents from somewhere else in the building. Yeah, that must be it, he told himself. It was the most logical and sensible answer. He couldn't fall back to sleep. It was after work that day when it happened. He made his way up the familiar staircase, looking up at that smiling figure. What was that look on her face?

excitement, simple happiness, anticipation. No, it felt like something else. Who were you, Helena? He muttered to himself. It was halfway to his apartment when it clicked into place. The thing that had been nagging at him for a little while now. The thing that had been buzzing away in the back of his brain since he'd first found those old photographs of the place when it had been a hotel. Desperately, he searched for the web page he'd seen the pictures on. After a few minutes of searching, he found it and scrolled through until he found the one that his brain had been screaming at him to pay attention to. It was so obvious that he couldn't believe it had taken him this long to realize it. What had been staring him in the face

all this time. The picture showed the building's entrance hall when it had been a hotel lobby. It was more or less the same, minus some of the more expensive-looking furnishings and the things that were no longer needed. Now the purpose of the building had changed. More or less the same. Until you came to the staircase. Because at the top of the stairs, where they branched off to the left and the right,

there was no photograph of Helena. In fact, there was no wall there at all. There was a massive pair of sturdy looking doors. And if he had to place money on what colour they were, he'd put a substantial bet on them being red. It took him a while to get the chance to speak to Amy, the landlady. She avoided the tenants as best she could, mainly because the apartments in the building had no shortage of problems, and she had little to no intention of fixing them. Still, when he managed to get a minute of her time, and with the reassurance that he didn't want to complain about something, she agreed to speak with him.

Make it quick, understand, I'm a busy woman. He assured her that he would, and asked him. her if he could talk to her about the building's history. Amy arched an eyebrow and looked at him a little more suspiciously at that. Why? What's it to you? She asked him. He used to be a hotel right. Back in the 60s and 70s, he asked, ignoring her own question. She nodded and looked away. Yeah, place closed down in 77, or 76. Can't remember which, she told him. He cocked his head to the side. That didn't match what he'd read. I heard it closed in the 80s. Officially, sure, but they won't get visitors long before that, on account of what happened. As soon as she said it,

she seemed to regret it. She stood up abruptly and announced that she needed to go, that she had things to do. Max stood up as well and began to follow her as she tried to excuse herself. What happened? I didn't read anything about, he began, and Amy waved his concerns away. Oh, you wouldn't have. Not in the papers or nothing, but people knew sure enough what happened. Something like that, work gets around, people talk. So what happened here? Was someone hurt? Kill? She shook her head. Ain't allowed to not tell you if that happened, right? As far as I know, no one died.

He said. There was something about the way she said it. The pause before she said died. Like she had to think about it, or like she was being very careful about how she chose her words. Max looked at her suspiciously, as she quickened her pace, and he did likewise to keep up with her.

But something happened right. Something bad happened here. In this building? A lot of bad things happened here, probably. Kind of people used to come. here, Amy said, then cursed under her breath. It was obvious she wanted this conversation to end, just as obvious that she hadn't meant to say that. The two of them were halfway down the stairs when Max pointed up at the photograph and asked the question, the question that he

needed to ask. It had something to do with her, right? With Helena. Amy froze. Her body looked as if it had gone stiff as a board. Her hands bawled into fists and then unclenched and then bawled up into fists again. Max decided to press his luck. What did he have to lose? There used to be a room here

behind this photograph. Well, there still is, I guess. Why is it covered up? What happened in there? What? But before he could finish, another word, Amy rounded on him, and unleashed a torrent.

raid upon him that brought several people out of their apartments to watch. A loud and booming voice that he wouldn't have guessed she possessed. She made it clear to him that she wasn't here to answer questions, that she didn't take kindly to nosy people who couldn't take a hint, that she didn't like people poking and prying into things that didn't concern them, and that she didn't like the way he was speaking about her building. So, if you've got a problem with this place, you can move your shit out and find better accommodations.

You hear me? I don't want trouble. I don't want drama. I run a nice, quiet, respectable building, and I won't have people like you ruining it. You hear me? You goddamn listening to me, friend? She spattered him.

Max backed away in shock. Amy could certainly be gruff and no one would ever reward her landlady of the year. But the sheer venom in her voice and the look of rage in her eyes and on her face was something he never would have expected from her. He just nodded, Dumbly. As she turned to leave, he heard her mutter something. It sounded like, oh, he's the goddamn save. But he couldn't be sure.

He was about to head back to his apartment when a voice made him stop. The familiar voice of Joshe. The old man stood on the stairs, looking up at him. You should leave well enough alone, Maxie. No one wants all that been dredged up again, he said. His tone wasn't angry or fearful like Amies had been, and it certainly didn't sound like he was threatening him. In fact, if Max had to put a word to it, he'd say the old man sounded sad. Sad and tired, as if simply saying the words that drained something out of him.

He took a few steps down the stairs towards Joseph, and looked up at the photo, and then backed him. All of what? What happened here? He asked. his tone insistent even demanding Joseph shook his head and sides Bad business Bad people

The worst kind of people All dead and buried now Good reasons to the lot of them I say He muttered What do you mean bad people Was this back when this place was a hotel Max asked The old man looked uncertain of what to say

He looked nervous and unsure of himself A far cry from him from how he normally was when Max had spoken to him in the past. He knew Joseph as a grouchy sought, with a warm heart buried under there somewhere, but the man in front of him now looked far less sure of himself. Sure, bad people, dangerous people used to stay here back then, people mixed up in unsavory business. How did you know all of this? Max asked.

Joseph snorted at him, as if he was being especially dense and foolish. I was there, kid, he said. Max looked at him disbelievingly. Joseph seemed to comprehend the emotions playing behind Max's eyes and nodded, his weary face offering Max a smile. Yeah, I really am as old as I look, he chuckled. Max shook his head, worried that he offended the man. And that was the last thing he wanted to do because he'd enjoyed Joseph's company in the

months since he'd moved in, and because he wanted to hear. more. No, I didn't mean that. It's just, you never mentioned. I assumed you'd never been here before this place became apartments, he said. I sure makes an ass out of me and you, Maxie. Yep, I was there. Back when they, back when it all happened, he said. Maxx finished descending the stairs. The two of them now stood facing each other underneath the gaze of Helena. Max felt like he was back in church. He remembered the tight, uncomfortable feeling he would get when he entered the confessional, or when he stood under the gaze of Jesus up on the cross. He deliberately didn't turn to look up with the photograph of Helena. He felt strangely certain that he didn't want to see it right now.

When what happened? Look, who used to come here? What happened here? He asked, his voice getting louder and louder. The tenants who had returned to their apartments once more were poking their heads out from behind their doors. He was drawing a crowd, and he didn't care. Joseph fidgeted awkwardly in front of him, shook his head. I didn't have nothing to do with that. I wasn't like them. I wasn't. Didn't have nothing to do with that bad business. I just... I just took pictures. Joseph turned and began to hurriedly make his way up the stairs. His words sunk in. Max looked up at the photograph of Helena

her lips seemed to have curled further back her smile looked wider wider and less friendly less kind he looked at the card beside the photograph artist unknown and he thought about another photograph a photograph of a sharp dressed dark-haired man

holding a camera he imagined that man older a good few decades older, but still, unmistakably the same man. He watched as Joseph made his way hurriedly back towards his apartment, and he began to call out to him, began to follow him. But he'd shut and locked the door by the time Max made it down the hallway, and no amount of banging upon it would make him open up. He missed work that day.

He went to the library instead and looked through as many old newspapers he could get his hands on, flipping through the old and yellowing pages he looked for anything to do with the building but his search was as fruitless as his earlier one on the internet had been there was nothing not a single scrap of useful information it was as he was angrily flipping through the tenth or maybe even fifteenth newspaper that it happened that a single old and crinkled piece of paper fluttered out onto the floor from between the pages At first he thought he'd ripped the paper by accident, and as he sheepishly bent down to retrieve the page, he prepared himself to apologise to the librarian. But the piece of paper was not from the newspaper at all.

It was something someone had tucked between the pages like a bookmark, though this was no bookmark either. It was a sheet of paper with the words missing, printed on it. It was short on details, just a phone number to call if you could help. and a name and a dress. The name was Helena Chandler, and the photograph of her was the second that Max had seen. He stepped uneasily that night. He tossed and turned in his bed,

and the dream came to him again. This time he could hear the music filling the hotel lobby as the guest chatted around it. This time he could hear what they were saying. Every sickening word, every vile syllable, and he knew that he should feel nauseated, repulsed, angry even. He knew he should take the glass in his hand and smash it against the nearest cranium. And yet instead, he shook hands and laughed and bantered with them as he made his way through the room.

Toward the staircase. Toward Helena. Darling, what have you got for us tonight? He called out to her. His voice wasn't his own. It was a deep, rich rumble. A commanding voice and aristocratic voice. The voice of someone who had been to far more expensive schools

and had far more expensive taste than Max could ever have dreamed of. Helena looked down at him and smiled. Come and see. As she ascended the staircase, he followed her through the red doors. The chandelier dangled from the ceiling. Along the walls, the various mirrors reflected the room back on itself. The floor tiles were mirrors. as well. The music grew louder. Helena was twirling and dancing ahead of him. Helena, his Helena.

All he had to do was give himself to her. The man at the piano was playing faster. White keys were turning to red. The partygoers were laughing. He was laughing. Or was he crying? Somewhere behind him, someone took a photograph. He woke with a strangle scream. It died in his throat, and he clamped his hand across his mouth, not wanting to wake the people in the apartments next to his. His room smelled strange and sweet, and almost sickly, and he knew what he had to do. He crept down the stairs. No one was awake at this hour, he was sure. He crept down the stairs and looked up at the photograph of her lane.

His hands, slick with sweat, took as firm a grip as he could of the frayette. Gently. He pulled the photo off the wall and placed it gingerly against the stairs to his left. All that remained now was that hideous wallpaper. Slowly and surely he began to claw at it, dig his nails into it and rip it strip after strip away, revealing what lay behind it. What did he always tell himself? The landlady of this place was cheap, far too cheap. to brick anything over if there was a quicker less expensive solution and behind that garish

wallpaper was a pair of large red doors the paint was old and worn chipped they looked far less majestic than the ones in his dream but they were still clearly one and the same it was gently on them and they swung inwards as if they've been waiting for him waiting for his touch an invitation a summoning The room inside smelled musty and hot. If heat could be said to have an odour, this would be it. The smell of a room that had once had a large number of bodies inside, generating heat and sweat and rage and fear and pain.

He stepped inside. The chandelier was covered in cobwebs. Likewise the piano had a coating of filth and grime upon it. Some of the mirrors upon the walls, and the floor had become cracked, and as he stepped into the room, he heard the gauph. glass splinter further beneath his shoes. He didn't concern himself with a noise. He didn't concern himself with anything. He'd put on his best suit, the one he wore for work. It still felt shabby and cheap in these surroundings. If he strained his ears, he could hear music. Music can

chatter, the occasional burst of laughter. He was alone in the room. Behind him, the stairs creaked. someone was coming up the stairs. He turned and smiled. Elena was ascending the staircase. She was dressed in a long, flowing black and violet gown. The silver mask over her eyes was extravagant and beautiful. A sight to behold. She was impossible.

Impossibly perfect. Impossiblely flawless. Forever. You came to me, she said. her voice was soft and gentle like a caress but he could hear it just fine it was as if though a little more than a whisper it carried straight through to his brain the music swell she entered the room took him in her arms the two began to move confidently across the mirrored floor max had never danced before not like this but the steps seemed known to him it felt the most natural thing in the world. Helena's hand on his waist, his face reflected in the mask she wore, the smile on her lips, those teeth, those pearly white pointed teeth. He could feel eyes on them.

The laughter had faded. The music had grown louder, louder and louder. Would it weigh the whole building? He didn't care. Here he was with his Helena. Her hands moved. The hands moved. The to slowly slip the silver mask off her face. Her eye sockets were ringed with jagged little points, sharp, barbed, thorn-like protrusions. If Max had gotten the chance, he may have screamed, he may have called for help,

he may have done a great many things. Helena pressed her face to his. Everything went red and then black. Jets are thick, dark red coated the dusty mirrored floor beneath the two of them as they danced and twirled across it his body shook once and then twice in helena's embrace the sound like someone sucking a clam or an oyster out of its shelf filled the room mixed with a wet gurgling sound from the back of max's throat his clean white shirt was red his pale white pants were red so was the floor around him if he'd paid more attention. He might have seen that the walls and floor had many such marks,

the occasional handprint or dried puddle. Elena led out a deep moan of satisfaction. She held Max in her arms as she danced with what was left of him. There was a soft chewing sound coming from the thorny fangs that filled her eye sockets. And gently she slid her silver mask back down across them. The laughter wasn't laughter. It was sobbing. There was no answer when Diane knocked on Max's door the next day. She'd wanted to invite him to a little get-together she was having at her apartment.

Giving up on it, she decided to head back there and write down a quick note to slip under his door. She was almost all the way up the stairs that led to her place when it caught her eye. Helena ascending the staircase. and there just a few stairs below her was a man his back was to the camera you couldn't see his face she stared at the picture and felt tears wetting her eyes from somewhere nearby she could almost hear what sounded like music only 31 to go i don't know how i got myself into this mess all I remember is me and my buddy Josh talking over a scotch on a Friday night about how he'd rented a run-down utility building around the city centre

he told me he wants to make it a nice cozy pub much like the one we frequent next thing I know you get a call the following morning where he tells me I could earn the easiest hundred fifty bucks of my life it's not going to take you along mate tuning a piano is easier than it sounds his sweet lies came just two days after my rents date, so, well, I agreed. I was a music major in college. I seen how they do the job before, and watching a couple of YouTube videos gave me confidence that it really wouldn't be too hard. It didn't take me long to realize how freaking wrong I was. To start, I arrived at the pub to be, only to be greeted by a literal inch of dust. It was covering everything besides a small path

in the middle of the room, through which they dragged the piano and the bar equipment. I'm by no means a germaphobe. If I was, I'd be dead. I still had to clean around my workplace, otherwise I risked lung cancer by the time I'd finished. That task in itself took about an hour. And secondly, the piano. If you could even call it that, it was an old wreck.

Its soft pedal fell victim long ago, and there were five strings that had rusted beyond salvation and a myriad of other broken parts that had me walk the half-mile distance to the nearest music shop two times already. What bothered me was that I wasn't even expected to do a good job. It would still sound pretty bad by the time I was done with it.

Josh was always aware of that inevitability. After all, it would only ever be used to play sappy drunk men songs in the middle of the night. Making matters worse, the sun had been blazing ever since early morning, making me fry in my own sauce inside the one-story glorified shed. Its old black metal roof served much like an improvised camp stove,

making the heat inside almost unbearable. It all seemed really depressing at that point. My chances of freeing myself from working on Sunday, dwindling together with my patience. Oh, I really needed help. I called Josh, demanding compensation, but all he offered was buying me a beer, and two hours later I was still waiting for it.

I'd say I was properly pissed at that point. I decided to go out, take some fresh air, vent a bit of my frustration, and accept the fact I'd be working throughout the whole weekend. Nothing could be done about that, really. I managed to fix the first 57 keys, and although it has 88 in total, I started from the base. That meant I still had most of the triple string keys to do.

Basically, there were 93 potentially broken strings ahead of me, which would entail another music shop trip and a lot of alcohol. I was done. As I was wallowing in self-pity, something rather peculiar happened. The heavy summer air started ringing with this weird melody. It sounded like a broken string instrument or perhaps a music box, playing a simple, yet intriguing tune. It would go for two bars and then stop,

only to clank a tone infrequently. It was as if something was missing, but it would always come back to start that short part which really grabbed my attention. Hmm. This is some sort of mind accord with... What is this interval? I wondered.

Confused since, although nothing was really out of the ordinary, I couldn't really understand how it could sound so beautiful. It must be microtones. I just don't know what else it could be. Flashbacks to my student life started going through my mind. We studied microtones, sounds that lie between two piano keys, and I knew some composers had used them. I remembered a professor mentioning how Debussy was inspired by them

after hearing a foreign musician play. Nevertheless, these sounds were always so very unpopular, to the point I couldn't recall a single piece with them. The tune kept on going in the background. I was transfixed. It was something otherworldly, even with how much of it was missing. I just couldn't fathom who would create such a piece. Drawn in by the sound, I started walking to the back of Joshy's shack.

When I turned the corner, I was met with a sight even more confusing than the mike. There stood a young girl with long black hair, wearing a perfectly white summer dress spanning just below her knees. Her skin was pale, almost unnaturally so for the middle of all. August. The wind was playing with the light fabric and her hair so gently I felt dazed. I couldn't make out much more detail from the distance I was at, but I saw she was crank in an odd contraption placed atop a rustic wooden table. The inexplicably haunting melody coming from underneath her hands drew me forwards. Next thing I remember, I was standing right in front of her, looking into her deep brown

eyes. She had little makeup, besides the red lipstick she was wearing. It stood out on her white face, much like blood on snow. She was undeniably beautiful, a mesmerizing smile forcing my heart to skip a beat. I felt like a teenager who'd just fallen in love, sweaty and confused, ready to run for cover. Would you like to join me? she asked, looking me straight in the eyes. I should have asked myself questions. Like, how was she there? What was she doing in the back of the pub? Why did she decide to play that weird thing?

Who brought the table? Isn't this all too good to be true? Nevertheless, I was spellbound. I think I just nodded in agreement, not realizing what I was getting myself into. Take a look at this. She pointed her thin hand at the large, improvised music box in front of us.

At the core of it was a copper hammer attached to a big cranking wheel she was operating by hand. It was moving along an iron rail, which had rusted to the point it got uneven, making the music have this sad timbre. As the plank moved, it would hit these small copper nuts

and silver coins attached to a long copper cable. Looking at it, I realized how it managed to produce tones that a piano wouldn't, but I found it confusing. How could something so old and broken still make such grasping sounds? It should have been a screeching mess, interrupted by disrhythmic clangor every time the hammer bumped into the rotten iron.

I was perplexed. The logical explanation came to my mind as to how the instrument was working. I stared at it, hypnotised, time slipping away from me with every loop passing by. The summer sun is not a reliable time teller. The minutes and hours flying by as it refuses to leave the sky and settle under the horizon. Oh, evening time is upon us. She stopped playing. Would you care to join us for dinner?

I was so focused on the musical contraption. I somehow forgot she was there. I lifted my gaze to meet hers, and I saw her umber eyes. But I wasn't in the backyard anymore. We were at the back seat of a luxurious, looking SUV, coming into which I had no recollections of. A cold shiver ran down my spine, but there was something about her, something that reassured me that it was going to be fine. Perhaps that's the way a succubus subdux her victims to hell, but at that moment I felt as if

I could trust her with my life. Her eye showed no malice. Her expression was strangely positive, almost childlike. She was talking about. She was talking about. to me and I noticed the way she spoke was strange, but what else about her wasn't. She explained to me we were going to her house and I'd meet her family. She told me she had two brothers who meant the world to her, and a stout, conservative father, who was very kind at heart despite his appearance. I was getting myself into a huge mess. In normal circumstances, I'd be thinking how to jump off the car before I get killed,

wherever they were taking me, but again she seemed so benevolent. Her words painted a picture of a happy, a loving home, where I'd be accepted with open arms. It sounds insane, but her gentle demeanour made everything make sense to me. Even when I was visiting my ex-girlfriend's parents, after some good seven years of dating, even then I felt uncomfortable. There was always this feeling that, in the silence of the in-laws to be, lies unfathomable disapproval and blame. I didn't get that feeling with the girl in front of me though.

I was neither afraid of her brothers nor of the monarch of a father she was illustrating so vividly. He can stop a car with his bare hands, she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and pride in her father. She sounded a lot younger than she looked, almost as if there was a child's soul in that beautiful woman's body. he sounds very reliable i concurred never for once getting a vision of the old man's fist pummeling my ribs into salt instead i felt protected as illogical as that is the very man who was most likely to be my executioner felt like a friend someone who would give his life for mine it's scary to think how convincing that feeling was i humbly welcome you to the Maya mansion. She pointed her hand towards a big metal gateway, which was slowly opening as to commemorate our arrival.

Like a kid, I smiled as I watched the steel door swing open before us, ushering us into the forest. I was looking at the bewitching lady for so long I never noticed we were going out of town. Back then, I felt no unease, let alone dread. But reflecting on it, What was I thinking? I neither knew where I was nor how I'd gotten there.

I was at the total mercy of a strange girl I'd just met, and her driver. Her driver? I didn't notice him before. Must have taken us at least an hour to get to such deep wilderness, but I never bothered to look at him. The thought made me flinch, blood rushing to my head. Suddenly, the feeling of comfort and safety vanished. My hands twitching as a single streak of ice-cold sweat went down my arm.

There was something off about this guy. The girl kept talking to me, but I could no longer pay attention to her. My eyes were nailed to the rear-view mirror, which offered a corner view of the driver. You seemed tall, dressed in a black suit, silvery white eyes practically glued. to the road. My heartbeat was racing, waiting for something to happen. His gaze was really unusual. Not only did he not blink once whilst driving, but his eyes were just so dead. He wasn't looking at me through the mirror, but I felt this discomforting sensation, like I was being watched by him, well, by something. My subconsciousness was preparing me for a fight, pumping pain,

coming adrenaline through my veins. Couldn't find any reasonable explanation why the driver upset me so much, considering he had so far done nothing out of the ordinary, unlike the girl. Perhaps it was his pale, pastel textured skin that attracted my attention the most. But that alone shouldn't be a reason to feel such primal fear towards him. Hey, you can give Albert your jacket, if you like. The girl was smiling at me as we were going to go. going through a big wooden door, almost twice my height.

Once again, time just slipped through under me. I frantically looked around to see where the driver was, my eyes hunting through the shadowy garden behind us, seeking to find evidence, a silhouette, that the snow-skin man was a safe distance away. I investigated every corner, every wallowing branch, but I could see neither the car nor its driver. Sir, if you would,

A gloved hand was the first thing I saw as I turned my head around. My breath rose, and my teeth started clattering. It was him. Somehow he was behind me, extending his right hand towards me in what would otherwise be an elegant gesture, offering to take my summer jacket to a hanger. I looked at him, dazed and petrified. I couldn't move.

I couldn't say a word. He was not making eye contact in it, didn't. It didn't help that he had slightly bent down his head, akin to a bow. You don't have to, if you wish not to. Come on, dinner time is upon us. The girl poured my left hand, turning her head around to beam a wide smile at me. Her intervention shook some of the fear off me,

but now I was weary. There was just no logical reason to believe she was innately good, while, I guess the butler was seeping evil out of his every pore. I followed the girl while tracking her escort out of the corner of my eye. The house had a huge entryway, with two enormous symmetrical stairwells extending on either side. The design was rustic and featured a lot of paintings, some of which I even recognised. I don't quite believe it myself, but I can swear I saw a mona there. I would write it off as a very good imitation or a print,

but the impeccably polished wooden interior was complemented by a huge, and extremely detailed Arabic carpet covering most of the floor in the room. Those tend to cost well over ten thousand dollars, and I guess they're hard to replicate for cheap. I couldn't think about art too much, though, as to my disdain the butler continued walking with us, just a few steps behind us. My host must have felt my unease, as she gestured him to stop following, by holding up her right hand, palm open towards him.

He bowed and turned around towards the opposite door of the one we were heading to. Hey, my siblings and my father are all nice guys, you know. Try not to worry too much about stuff. The lady in the white dress whispered to me as she pushed the door open, only to reveal an even bigger room, which had a massive, perhaps ten-meter-long table in the middle. The table itself was a piece of art, with many intricate carvings decorating the sides and legs,

while bright golden metal lined the edges and covered most of the top parts. The thought that the table was made with real gold crossed my mind, but my attention was taken by the hundreds of candles shining from the three large chandeliers hanging above us. How do you even light something like this? Not only were the candles numerous, but some of them were almost as high as the ceiling, which itself was twice the height of the one at home.

I see your liking. the atmosphere. There was a man in front of me who had a weird smile. He seemed cunning and I could feel some disapproval from him, but in no way did he remind me of the butler. Blue-eyed, he had a milky brown pullover and well-iron grey trousers. His rowdy blonde hair was the only imperfection I'd noticed ever since I met the girl. Well, that and the instrument, of course. Hey Joseph, you're scaring our guest. Save yourself. Another man approached, this one taller and with dark hair. He was big, approaching the two-meter mark and, like the girl, he had very saturated brown eyes. He was wearing a vest with a square pattern, red and green shirt underneath. His legs were long and unusually muscular,

so were his arms and torso. Nonetheless, he seemed just as benevolent as the girl. Maybe I was resolving myself to death, since I wouldn't even be a sport if he was to fight me. Joseph, Klaus, you're both scaring my guest. What's wrong with you? The girl planted one foot on the ground, her skinny white hands now resting on her waist. To my surprise, both men started looking embarrassed, took a step back and apologized. Somehow, she was not only part of this incredibly strange family, but she also seemed able to order around. what I deduced were her siblings with ease. It's rare Eliza brings her guest in.

I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight, and please excuse any peculiarities you might have seen or felt today. Another man approached, who was somehow even bigger than the Klaus fellow. He had white hair and a well-mended beard, barely losing its original brown color to silver. He was wearing a suit, which is a weird attire for the usual home dinner.

But nothing about my situation was quite normal anyway. Also, when he apologised for what I'd gone through that day, he sounded genuine. Back then I didn't notice, but I guess the others were too excited to think too much about what it felt for me, a newcomer, to catch a glimpse of their world. The silver coloury, the golden table, the candlelit mansion in a forest that's not even on the map. Those were all beautiful things to experience, looking back on it. And Deliza, she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever laid eyes upon. She was blushing at her father's remark, and I felt myself becoming lightheaded to the point of giddiness.

I was afraid to keep looking at her, surrounded by the three men, but for some reason I felt I wasn't in control of myself anymore. This strange attraction was to be the cause of my death. I was fine with it. living to become old only to slowly rot away to cancer or diabetes was not for me at least that's what i thought back there so she stuttered this is my father nicholas my two brothers clouse on the right and joseph on the left nice to meet you i uttered awkwardly as i was still regaining my mental composure come on let's eat the blonde one joseph i should i can kill for a meal right about him. His use of words took me aback and not in a particularly good way. I wasn't the only one, though, as I noticed everyone else frowning at him. That gave me some sense of security, a rather fake one, but still I could sit down at the obscenely large table without fearing I'll be on it later on. A whole ordeal had made me hungry, and I thought I might as well

try some of that good life before kicking the bucket. So, my friend here, Tim, he's very sensitive when it comes to music. How did she know my name? I had absolutely no memory of sharing it with her. Then again I couldn't recall half the day. Least I could assume is that I'd introduce myself at some point. You can hear it. Her expression changed,

as if she was saying something of immense importance. I could feel the others holding their breaths for a moment. They seemed excited. I didn't know why, but there seemed to be a great meaning in me being able to hear the big, broken music box from before. There are only two nights left. No way. Joseph, mind your manners. Nicholas smacked his bare-claw arm onto the table, making it reverberate throughout the room. We are civilized people. Circumstance does not dictate how we conduct ourselves. There is a time to dine, and there is a time to talk. the rest of the room became deathly silent in the blink of an eye. I could read the disappointment written on everyone else's faces,

but I could not challenge this man. Not only was he naturally scary, with his bulky, build and deep commanding gaze, but I also knew nothing about what they were going on about. Tim, I wished to offer you dinner, but you must excuse one detail. Nicholas exiled audibly, as if there was some sort of a load on his shoulders.

I must ask Albert to come and serve it to us. Would that be acceptable to you? As soon as I heard the name Albert, my teeth snapped shut, pressing and grinding against each other. I needed all my willpower just to slowly open my lips. I inhaled. The air seemingly so cold I could feel it cut through the meat of my throat. It was shaking like a leaf.

I didn't know why, but it was always. most as if I was suffering from hypothermia. I didn't have the strength to speak out, but I finally managed to force my neck to nod in agreement. Soon enough, the dreaded man came in from another smaller door and started bringing in dishes with food I struggled to recognise. I think there was octopus, caviar, a lot of seafood mixed in with some exotic-looking vegetables and fruit.

Albert was bringing plate after plate, and soon everyone on the table was. served except me. Hey Tim, what would you like to eat? Eliza turned to me as she was sitting on the closest chair to mine. You can partake in what we're having, or you can order anything else you wish. With all that had happened, I really would enjoy some fish and chips with a nice cold beer, but I felt that would be extremely inappropriate, and I reckoned I wouldn't get another chance to try whatever they were having again in my life. Yeah, this food looks delicious, I uttered.

Looking at the girl next to me, the icy grip of fear around my heart gently melting. As soon as I said those words, the butler went back to the other room and then almost immediately returned bearing multiple plates. I staled myself for when he came next to me, gripping my meticulously carved chair with my shaking fingers. Hey, you garbage. "'Proceed on all fours as you serve, Master Tim.' Joseph shouted out of the blue, gesturing with his hand towards me. His eyes were red with anger for some reason I couldn't quite fathom. At first I didn't even understand what was going on,

but then the butler actually knelt down and started crawling towards me, plates positioned on his back. He went around the table, and as he finally reached me, I feared the worst. Maybe that would be the moment he'd jumped me with a knife He was hiding under his waiter's clothing Or maybe he finally revealed he was a demon With crimson snake eyes and large vampiric teeth If anything, Joseph's humiliating order

Would be enough to push a good man Who had a bad day over the brink Let alone this creep Not Albert though He silently and very carefully placed the dishes in front of me In perfect order while his knees were still planted on the floor. Then, after he was done, he crawled back to the other room where I wouldn't see him any more that night,

at least as far as I can remember, which unfortunately doesn't say much. The mood quickly shifted afterwards, as Eliza clapped her hands in delight and ushered me to eat. The food was tasty in ways I can't even describe. I've honestly never eaten anything quite like what I had that food. very first night in my mansion. I experienced a masterful blend of textures, tastes and aromas, all packed up in dishes that not only overjoyed the receptors in my mouth, but also look very much like art. The great food and the mellow wine. It lies a smile next to me and the gentle, warm embrace of the grand fireplace across me. It all made me so strangely happy and tired.

the words of my host started melting, fusing together in a soothing cacophony of sound. My vision became blurry, and soon my eyes started closing. Maybe it was because of the strange magic around these people. Maybe I just had a long, blistering hot day of work, which culminated in the weirdest and most exhilarating night of my life. I'm one of those people who kind of catch themselves when drinking, always going home before I make a fool of myself. As much as I wanted to stay, I knew I shouldn't.

Hey, can I... Suddenly I found myself in my sleeping clothes, next to the sink in my house, holding up the toothbrush, loaded with paste. I looked up and met my stare in the mirror. The chills came back instantly, my pumping heart pulsating hard throughout my body. My ears were deafened by the sound of my own blood, hanging around in them. Once again, how did I get to this point? I really lack any memory of what happened during what was, I supposed, a multi-hour trip back from the forest estate to where I lived. Then, something happened. I saw a pitch-black, crooked silhouette flashed behind me, reflected in my

mirror. It was that man, the butler. I turned, holding my fist up, fight or flight instinct fully triggered. My hand was shaking so badly. I thought defeat, and thus death was imminent. I shouted for him to go away, to leave me alone. I swore, and then I cried out for help. My vision was blurry. I couldn't see.

I couldn't hear as my arteries were jammed with rushing blood. I clasped, helpless on the ground, releasing my fist. releasing my fist in surrender. There's no way I could win against that guy, was there? I must have wallowed and trembled on the floor for many minutes, before eventually picking myself up and scrambling for my bedroom, where hopefully I'd find my phone. My first thought was to call emergency,

but what the hell would I tell them? Would anyone really believe me if I said a demon was in my house, telling the operator the vampire that I kind of met on this trippy dinner, party with some strange, beautiful girl and her family, is coming after me. Would at best be a good laugh? At worst, it would be a ticket for the Looney Express straight into the local mental facility. Then I thought I could seek help from a friend. I looked through my contact list, which, in all honesty, was dwindling following the not-so-recent breakup with my ex. I made one of the most common mistakes in life, orbiting around a person and her entourage of friends.

When our time was over, not only did I find myself alone in an empty house, but also I had nobody to call. Except Josh, I guess, but he's a prick. I'd rather get killed by the monster than bother calling him. He didn't even bring me the relief beer he'd promised. No way he comes to slay a demon in the middle of the night. Reflecting back on my own existence and my friends may be kind of sad, but I reminded myself that life itself is pretty random. Reason regained control of the steering rail,

and I came to the conclusion that even if everything that evening was weird beyond explanation, I still didn't mean the butler invaded my bathroom. Besides, with all that weird power those people had, they could off me any time they wished. I was alive, and that was reason enough to feel relatively safe. I tucked myself under the blanket and prepared myself for what was supposed to be the most restless night in my life. Surprisingly, I slept. I slept like a freshly slaughtered lamb on a warm summer, star-lipped evening.

As I woke up the following morning, I entertained the thought that everything was just a one-time thing. The sort of prank rich people do to some poor fellows like me. Maybe I got drugged somehow. I don't know when they did it. It didn't feel a thing, but who knows? I guess some ninja poison dart could work. It all sounded stupid in my head, but stupid was better than downright impossible. I proceeded to make my morning coffee when I heard something that made my exhausted soul bleed bitter, frigid tears.

I was more sad than scared, when the sound of the doorbell echoed throughout my home. I really hope yesterday would be some rude but still rather whimsical gag than Maya family had played on me. As I approached the door, I could hear impatient footsteps on the other side. Someone really wanted to see me, which, in my situation, couldn't be good. Best case scenario? It was the landlord who never quite grasped the fact that when I leased this property for five years, I was expecting my ex to cover some of the bills associated with it. Still, he wasn't the kind to come knocking on the door on a Sunday. He respects weekends and was only a few days late.

He knew kicking me out would incur him more losses than just letting a delay every other month's side. For the first time in my life, I wanted to see his ugly mug as I bent down to look through the spy hole. Unfortunately, the person I saw on the other side wasn't him. It was Joseph. I caught a faint glint in his eyes As he seemed to have noticed me I tried retreating from the door as quietly as I could Careful to not make any sound whatsoever

I tiptoed backwards Hoping to escape through one of the windows Facing the crappy backyard that came with the property Hey I know you're there My exhaustion and sadness quickly gave way to fright When I heard those words even if this was all a game to them even if I feared the butler for no reason at all

this visit meant they were for whatever reason obsessed with me I had nothing to do with their twisted games I stumbled as I tried to turn around and run for it my body made a loud thud as I bounced off the floor and sprinted towards the other side of the house hey please don't run this isn't what you think it is he was a fool if he thought I'd believe him at that point

besides even I didn't know what I thought this whole thing was I was so confused and utterly scared that I wouldn't be able to stop my neglected muscles from heading the way they were heading even if I actually wanted to my house wasn't big by any means one door was all that stood between me and the children's room to be which faced the coveted yard I slammed myself through it without ever slowing down, knocking the door off both its hinges.

As this new obstacle fell on my path, it tripped me over. I could see the ground getting closer as I flew towards it. I put my hands in front of my face, bracing for impact. I clenched my teeth, ready to immediately pull myself up and jump through the window. Instead of pain, however, what I felt was much worse. Too long white hands caught me softly, entangling themselves around me. With what seemed like no effort at all, the butler had my body suspended mid-flight. His hands were extended far away from his body.

He was holding on to me, but somehow he didn't seem to feel my weight at all. His posture was such that it seemed as if he was either nailed to the floor, or he weighed a literal tongue. I screamed in panic as I felt like a swine about to meet the axe. I struggled, kicking around and landing a few elbow hits on his face and neck, but he didn't even flinch. It was like fighting a cold rock. After a few seconds of struggle, he started to slowly put me down so I could stand on my own two feet again.

His skin was just as cold as his white, uncaring eyes. I could feel the cold. creeping arctic chill penetrate my clothes and nail itself deep in me. I trembled so hard it felt my tissue would shatter, lasting thousands of bloody ice shards all around. Being touched by that thing, I knew at that moment, I knew it wasn't human. Master Tim, you must excuse me, but running away just can't do. For all my life, I thought I'd meet my end. in a witty, book-worthy way. I thought I'd be one of those guys

who'd crack a bad joke on their deathbed and then just kind of die, so everybody's confused as to what to feel. In reality, though, I was frozen stiff. I wanted to run, but I just couldn't. In part, I knew that even if I tried, I wouldn't be able

to outrun that thing. It was just unnaturally strong. At that moment, though, I didn't really think much. I felt, well, commanded to do as he said. It had this weird presence. I just couldn't disobey his instructions. His empty eyes impaled my mind and fixed it to his will.

I was able to reason, think, and feel, but at the same time I knew what he said to be true. There was no aggression in him. If anything, his posture looked as if he was showing reverence towards me. It was just that something within him was so strong and powerful that it gripped my conscience with its sharp, alged claws and crushed my will into submission. If you would, please follow me to the car. My eyes traced the man as he slowly walked past me towards the entrance, where I'd seen Joseph before.

He showed no hatred, malice, or hostility. Nothing to suggest he was going to hurt me if I dashed to the backyard window, but I knew I must comply. He had me on an invisible leash, shackled to his voice. Maybe that's how true fear works, but I felt almost as if I was looking up to him. Puppeteered, my feet lifted, and I walked. In rhythm with the butler, I made step after step after step.

The muted thuds of our feet pressing on the cheap, creaking wooden floor, aligned in agonizing unison. Perfectly spaced apart. Our footsteps were akin to a metronome, tirelessly counting the beats of suffocating fear my heart pushed through my veins. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

One, two, tap. I inhaled violently, almost as if I was awoken from a very deep, catatonic, slumber. My senses sharpened, forcing time itself to warp for a heartbeat. The being in front of me, he was tapping that song. He was walking, stumbling in a way that was clearly similar to the rhythm of the song I'd heard the music box play. My ears started ringing. I could hear the tones as if I was there, behind Josh's pub, listening to that

unworldly tune. I could feel the metallic taste of the nuts and bolts that made up the old hand-cranked instrument. I could hear, feel, even taste the music. I was strung onto that device, moved by the strange power of the man before me, hitting every beat with utmost precision. For a brief moment it felt like I descended to a plane where sound was more than a mechanical wave reverberating through the air. I could touch the music, I could talk to it,

and not only that strange piece with the microtones, I could feel everything. Hey, you there. Hey, hey, Tim, don't tell me you fucking Brock. I got literally shaken out of the trance I found myself. In front of me, I saw Joseph, worried, shaking me to the point of pain. He was breathing heavily. His pupils dilated by the adrenaline.

He was shouting. asking me if I was okay. Wonder quickly gave way to confusion as I was too overwhelmed to understand what in hell was going on with me. It was only after Joseph bore his thumb so hard into my shoulder joints and I screamed in pain that I finally came to my senses. Hey, hey, sorry, man, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just thought, I'd done something to you. He was panting, stuttering, trembling like a feverish dog. What had caused this was not anger or hatred, and it looked too damn good to be some sort of sick act to mess with me. He was genuinely worried about me. That thought gave me shivers, as I realized that there was something really important at stake here.

That and his choice of pronouns. He called the butler It. I watched Joseph's sweat before me. He was afraid. terrified. I remembered him mentioning something the previous night about there being little time left. I couldn't think of many things a man in his position would fear so much as to be on the edge of breaking. I was damn certain he wasn't overdue on his rent payment. Hey, Joseph, I struggled to find my words. It's okay. I think I'm fine, in a way.

so it didn't hurt you Joseph clenched my arms by the elbows still shaking and mumbling but at least regaining his colour back from the white canvas he was before no I don't think so I replied trying to rewind in my mind the string of events that unfolded earlier

my memory has been fuzzy since yesterday but weirdly enough I only remember it being strangely respectful towards me "'Yeah, that's how it is. "'Almost makes you feel like it's your friend when—' "'He paused, visibly gulping at the thought of what he was going to say next. "'When what?' I inquired, out of both curiosity and concern for my safety. "'What is he?'

"'Well, that's a pretty long story, and I don't think we should be wasting time here. "'I promise you'll get a good explanation when we go back home.' Hey, I snapped, without any particular consideration for my health and well-being. Tell me what the fuck is going on already. At that point, I wasn't scared of Joseph. He was obviously playing some part in all of this, but his meek eyes and trembling lips were most likely not an act. He also sounded like he needed me for some reason,

so chances were high he wouldn't harm me. The real problem, it was standing just a few paces away from us, next to the luxury SUV I'd found myself in yesterday. The butler looked straight into me, almost as if he was judging me. His face expression was blank as always, but I could feel a smile gently creeping in. It was as if something was awakening inside of him.

Maybe it was the exact same thing that Joseph was so terrified of. Speaking of the blonde man directly in front of me, he was mumbling something quietly to himself. It sounded German. That just added an additional layer of confusion, where there was already plenty. Well, he let out a sob. It's not for me.

Would you come to the mansion for Liz? If you don't, then... Well, she will die tomorrow. Die? I exclaimed. I felt genuinely, even though this was all so illogical. Something about the girl from yesterday. Something made her so endearing in my mind.

She was special. She was a part of that weird world with the songs. I don't know why, but I knew she's seen that place the butler showed me. I was sure she'd danced there in the million lights and sounds. With a brilliant white dress, she gently floated atop the waves of rhythm until until she could ascend. Oh, I'm coming, I stated. My feelings, my thoughts changed by the thought of losing Eliza.

Like a computer, everything in me reset, and all the fear, all the confusion, everything that shackled me up until a moment ago was alleviated. The place with the songs. It called for me. I was summoned to participate in something, something that was out of this. swelled. I rushed past Joseph and quickly sat at the back of the car, door mindfully opened by the white-skinned butler. The young Maya's sibling got even more confused as to what had just happened, me changing my mind so quickly and suddenly becoming unnaturally decisive about a trip to their estates. My mind now, Claire, I could see, feel what had chained him in fear. I knew. He was about

to die tomorrow night. little did he know it would be by my hands time was of the essence we had to go the song it needed me

and away beyond the limits of human understanding and science the thing was their butler it showed me what part I was to play in this family's fate I ushered the young man to come in the car and he complied as we were driven towards

the mansion, I requested nobody talks and the radio be muted. Work needed to be done. The tune from the music box, it slithered around through the depths of my brain, sparking a wave of colours and music with every beat, with every vicious contraction of my heart. I started humming. Soon enough, the butler was tapping with one finger on the steering wheel, a metronome made of flesh and malice. My excitement grew. something vast was stirring up inside of me. The magic that these people possessed, it all came from the instrument. Whatever that thing was, it played something that's not only made using microtones,

but also something that shouldn't exist in this reality. Yesterday, my conscience felt power strong enough to warp the very fabric of the universe. Everything that transpired, it wasn't drugs, it wasn't an hallucination. time really did skip some beats when I found myself in the car and then in the mansion the metal string that holds the nuts and bolts the empty bars in the song it played that's the pattern of my memory is lapsing that piece of cold oxidized metal it resonates with our world it draws our universe to the other one the one where sounds smell like roses and summer lavender they needed me

Eliza needed me to set them free. Soon enough we arrived. The whole family was awaiting my arrival, standing all dressed up in formal attire. The wind was blowing past the forest that embraced their Baroque residence, and through their fine cotton garments, waving their sleeves like flags and lice. She was in a crimson red dress, exhilarating my blood, and gentle as the southern autumn breeze. I could not take my eyes off her.

She was truly so, so wonderful. I loved her, and I knew she loved me too. She just had to, or else she dies. The father, Nicholas, approached me. He had no fear in his eyes, standing proud and stoic. He shook my hand. He was certainly a man I wished I'd met earlier in my life, or in different circumstances. His calm stare met mine, and I think at that moment he realized I knew.

I am grateful you accepted our invitation to come back to the Maya Mansion. He said in his usual deep, commanding, but also a strangely respectful voice. The man before me was by no means ordinary. That I could tell yesterday, but now I... just knew how much he had gone through in his life. I regret not being able to spend more time with him, all the lost stories he could have told me. Do you have any questions for me? My host inquired, his face showing relief. I can see my friend Albert has answered mostly all. Father, this thing is the reason we are all in this mess. How can you call him? Silence, Nicholas

abruptly halted Joseph's whining. One day, when you truly love someone, you'll understand how much he has done for our family, for your mother. One day, I whispered under my nose, saddened by the hope of a prospect that could never come to be. Mr. Meyer heard me, his iron gaze towards his son, quickly melting, slowly sliding down the wrinkles

that separate the cheek and nose, until inevitably losing to gravity, and succumbing to the fall. This fortress of a man before me, he just realized that the only thing he didn't want to lose was already forfeited. He mourned a life that soon would stop dancing to the music of the world.

Then, a terrifying thought ransacked and ravished his mind, his head violently turning towards his other two children. I could hear the forceful beating that resonated throughout his monstrous body. He knew, that I knew, and he had to face the answer in my eyes. Sir, I struggled to find the strength to speak, as before me was my idol, shattering to pieces, a mountain crumbling in a catastrophic landslide. I was about to break whatever he had left.

I didn't want to, but the song was about to come to an end. Yes, He turned, gasping to regain control. A man of his stature, he must face death with dignity. Tears and regrets. Things unbefitting of someone who lived a life as fulfilling as him. I shall answer your question, but first let me ask two of my own. He nodded. Have you met Chopin or Debussy?

Man as talented as them. surely they will be most fitting for the task at hand. Nicholas took a deep breath. In that moment, perfectly equidistant between the tragedy of losing his children and the hope of saving them, the man before me found resolve. He put his hand on my shoulder, holding on to me.

He led out a faint smile that wasn't much, but it was all he could. As I said, dignity is most important in the diarist of times. Do you know the story of Chopin? He said in the ghastly, guilt-ridden voice, careful not to let another tear slip through. You know that his mind was ill.

I couldn't bring myself to talk to Debussy. I could not find words to reply. After all, Mr. Meyer had created a lot of suffering and death in his lifetime. Through the deepest of love, he found himself committing unfathomable roles. How many dead bodies weighed down on his huge wide shoulders I shall never know Or perhaps one day When I feel that same force

Pushing down on me Regardless, I'd allowed myself but a minute to linger on questions Do you ever regret what true love made of you? I asked as the next beat in the endless song echoed in the ether Upon hearing this, Nicholas smiled this time happily. His face was decorated with the memories he held dear, like a child dreaming of an adventure and of mischief,

life and death, good and bad. All those things have long become irrelevant to the man who gave all for love. He was stuck between many polar opposites, but during that breath he found acceptance and resolved. Never, he stated, proud and sure of himself. It was in the silence between us that I recognised how much that actually meant. My skin was pierced by a million needles as I imagined the mountain of corpses he had made for love, so it lives on in the seemingly endless encore of the song,

a song that had to end centuries ago. Oh, I wish one day I feel the same certainty in my wrongdoings as he did. So, about what you'd like to ask me, I started, knowing full well the truth that was set in the song would seep hard on the old man's heart. I hesitated for a moment, as in thrall by the music and its significance as I was, I really did look up to him. Breaking the news felt malicious, akin to committing a crime. I was in possession of forbidden knowledge, after all. Would you forgive this man, why? Last indulgence, Nicholas asked.

Eyes shooting straight for the silky sky above us. I prefer, I don't know. Asking how many of his kids die tomorrow was a question. He abstained from knowing the answer to. I was relieved to be free of the responsibility of telling him what I knew, were also burdened by the Herculean task ahead of me. Lace had to live, no matter the cost. For that, I needed to find the missing note.

to the song. I had to fix the music box before midnight on the following day. As I passed Klaus, he didn't move. His mind no longer anchored in reality. He'd realize what our cryptic conversation with Nicholas meant. It was too much to bear. In the very least, he'd be losing his brother. In the very worst, his whole family was about to be butchered. The despair he felt as death was coming for all he loved, and there was nothing to run to, well, I couldn't begin to imagine. Tim, the music box, I asked Albert to put it in the guest room. Eliza Stovall through her words.

Her voice was gentle, kind, and very sad. She overheard our conversation. She must have known what it all meant, but I think she still grafted onto a straw of hope, but maybe I, and nobody music major, would be able to do what Chopin had failed to. Her breath caressed the air like the feathers of a white swallow, while her dress floated atop her skin, forever falling down and dancing at the whim of her movements.

Her hand reached for her hair, which was held hostage by the mischievous wind. She pulled it back, lifting the veil that had obscured her glance. I swear if I could see the world inside them. Every single good thing that was, his or Wilby was there in the wonderful abyss that her deep brown eyes had led me to. Maybe if Chopin had seen her too, the world would be a better place. I was now in what was the guest room, time skipping through to the next short section of abrupt notes that followed few bars of empty space on the string.

To everybody else my task appeared to be impossible, something that cannot be done. in the span of 39 hours. Little did they know, I had far less time to work with than that. The influence of the instrument was getting stronger and stronger. My very soul was animated by the rhythm it played. If a sound was missing from it, then the corresponding minutes, even hours would just pass me by. There was no more than a leaf fluttering in the autumn wind,

moving only when prompted, when the score of fate commanded me to. It was a task for no one man to complete, but I was not alone in this endeavour. The Maya family had prepared the room well. Covering the fine cashmere bed covers were numerous nuts and bolts of different sizes, makes and materials. Some were made of copper, iron, and even bronze, materials that were more likely common at the time the instrument was initially made. Others, well, they acquired anything that came to mind. steel, magnesium carbon alloys, glass.

It was possible to make a nut or bolt out of it, it was there. The centre of the room was adorned with a huge table, a placeholder for a multitude of different tools. Some of them used in tuning musical instruments, while others were just general metal working files, sores and anything else that exists under the sun. What was most important than all? The music box itself stood next to the large window,

overlooking the garden. Perched up on a pedestal, it shone with the blinding light of the Zephyra sun. Such a thing of beauty it was. Tragically, however, my host's ideas were totally useless. The instrument, whatever it plays, has nothing to do with what it's attached to. Given enough time, one can try all the possible combinations of small metal parts, but it would be to no avail. I wouldn't be surprised if the Myers actually tried to brute force this mechanism, much like a novice thief tries to break a lock instead of picking it. After all, Albert would be perfect for such a task.

While the siblings would have probably ridiculed the very thought of asking the man responsible for their unfortunate situation to try and solve it, Nicholas certainly knew the butler could be trusted. The monster's soul was gentle, for it had suffered most. of all. To that end, I'm not sure I've even bothered arranging all these things. Maybe Albert just couldn't tell them what was truly needed. As you don't use a hammer to fix the software inside a computer, you cannot just put some metal on this otherworldly piece of art and expect it to work. What it needed was something that can attune to it, something

that could deeply understand what the melody really was. To restore the instrument to its original form, one needs to let go of the shackles of our world and transcend, to become one with the place of infinite sounds and boundless timelines. One must let go of the thing he holds most dear, his soul. Ascension is achieved only through sacrifice. Hey, you're actually doing it. Eliza, now standing next to me, cheered like a child who just witnessed the New Year's fireworks for the first time. An incredibly bright, alluring and captivating smile drew my mind to her soft rosy cheeks, up into the supernova that her eyes had become, high on dopamine. This tune, it sounds just like the rest somehow.

I had no recollection of what I'd done in the past few hours, but I knew where I was. I was there, talking to the music of life. My soul slowly started to resonate, the truth encrypted in every peculiarity of its timber. The endless mosaic of sound was starting to paint a picture in my mind. A masterpiece beyond beauty, unbound by physics, coexisting in all realities all at the same time. I was a slave to it, my work now becoming a very heavy addiction. I did not fear losing my mind, as I knew my sense of self was already shattered into a million

radiant pieces, reassembling themselves onto the music box. I was giving a part of myself in exchange for every single beat that was appearing on the instrument. The song had to be completed. After all, at the center of it was Eliza. It was her song. Her flesh and bone was transcribed onto the music score. Her blood was the ink that painted every and each sign. I could not dishonor her sacrifice. in but a few hours she would bleed she would bleed and cry

sour tears all in the name of this grand undertaking losing my mind and soul was nothing to solve about nothing at all compared to the beautiful tears her eyes would shed she will laugh she will cry and they will all die

they must did father or Albert tell you how this all began she cutely mumbled her curiosity over-priced overpowering her indecisive resolve to let me work in silence. Oh, Lice, you shouldn't have worried. You were always the most important part of my work.

I knew. I saw and I felt the bittersweet ballad written in the song. A young German man, heir to one of the nation's biggest companies in the 18th century, fell in deep, ludicrous love. She was but a peasant girl, no deed to her name, lest the paper signifying her first breath taken in this world.

His father would not let this be to marry of all things a dirty provincial brawl. The young man, in his rage and absurd infatuation, killed his father, staged the ensemble of evidence to resemble an accident and took over the company. His mother soon became suspicious and thus she had to go as well.

After all, the sacrificial pyre of love must burn just as bright as a neutron star to push away the creeping vacuum of empty space and encroaching ill-doers. The girl and the man were finally free to marry each other. Oh, it was a ceremony to behold, the dark Gothic church in perfect contrast to their pure, unfaltering feelings. The spring winds were still cold, winter more resilient than usual. The girl would fall sick soon after a tiny spark of life

seeped into her womb through the ether. The man and tried all the doctors, all the seers, anyone and everyone who promised any semblance of hope for curing her condition. To know a veil. On her dying bed, the girl would sing

songs to the child she would have never brought to our world. She would sing and she would cry until one day the ether heard her soft, melodic mule. From the cold black abyss of the void, the white visage of a crippled man appeared. As a girl's moan was hushed to a halt.

The white man proposed a deal. Every ten years, you would ask a life. For each and every life the song has kept dancing on the string of fate. The man held his wife's hand and agreed to the terms proposed, sealing the contract with his own blood. From that day onward, the Maya family was blessed with bodies that do not age and do not suffer ailment. The wife recovered in mere minutes from her deadly sickness and rushed to her husband's large embrace. Nicholas, such a fool you were back then, for love is the curse of men. And to the day you died, a fool you continued to be.

Where once black tuberculosis sapped away her life, now vigorous breath festered, preparing the life she held in herself for the world. Soon enough, a healthy baby girl was born, unaware of the blessing she received while still inside her mother and the curse that would one day come with it. In blissful ignorance, the family spent their days, unafraid of sickness or ache. It was in what felt like a blink of an eye

when ten years passed them by. The white man appeared before them, holding an envelope and bearing a message an ominous note a deathly reminder of the sin committed the young man held in his trembling hand worried that once more his wife's life would be forfeited to his surprising delight that it was far less malicious than the young man had feared it demanded the life of a living being be offered as per the terms of the contract elseways the gift given and would be taken, young man scrambled, excited and filled with hope, to find a bug to offer. That day three cockroaches paid the price for the family to live, but the celebration was brief. As soon as the obligation was completed, the note changed right before their eyes. Now it said something different, more sinister, yet still hopeful.

via the instrument that plays the song of the abyss it started introducing in letters the family to the one thing that could save their lives forever there was no detail or clue whatsoever but the young man would put his mind and wealth into a search that would conclude on one summer afternoon many years later else his family would die as the note continued a dark heart-wrenching secret was revealed Each and every time a note is given The wording would be clearer

Closer to the true victim needed to fulfill the contract And certainly A decade passed And this time The price was to be something that had four limbs Another one This time it had to be a mammal The life that had to perish

Certainly in both cases mice would suffice But the young man was getting worried It was 50 years later when he found the first clue as to where and what the instrument he sought was. A blind card reader down on the Dalmatian coast held the answer he wanted, and soon enough the music box was recovered. The family revered its strange beauty, and the wife, she started playing it all the time. Her daughter and she, they stay by the grand fireplace decorating their home and listen to the tune. It was incomplete, but one day they hoped they'd fight a way to make it whole. The years went by, however, and the bloody fee became direer and direa.

The dreaded day soon came, when the notes specified it must be a human that is sacrificed in their stead. The wife cried icy tears, but her man's heart was still burning with blistering passion for her. He would not let a human life Such a trivial formality Stand in between their love He just couldn't He loved her so, so much In fact

He loved her just too much As a handful of peasants From the nearby village were lured in With the promise of a well-paid job And quarters in the city The young man embraced his wife She resisted but He didn't let her go

she cried but he never stopped his love was too great but at that moment it was also blind egotistic at that moment he loved only himself and that moment he would regret to the moment his heart would stop ravaged empty

betrayed by her one true love the woman cried without rest cursed to suffer seemingly forever in her undying body. Her man was one of pride, but he was never one to hurt her. But the deed was done. The peasants were killed, and the wife was now bearing two more lives for the slaughter. Her daughter, she never knew. Nobody told her up until this very moment. A grave sin had her father committed, one that would still weigh on his shoulders as he finds his death tomorrow. Transfixed and in a state of utter exaltation with the story in the song,

I detached myself from my mortal body. I couldn't see and I couldn't hear. But the sound of gentle tears falling onto my deaf ears woke me from this engrossing phantasm. I made Eliza cry and, upon realizing, my heart broke, cell by cell, into uncountable little pieces. Of course, the story was far too sad for her to bear. I assume many of the things in it she didn't know.

Ready to be reprimanded, punished and reproved. Instead, I felt the one feeling in my life that I will never forget. The slim, soft hands, their warm scent, her face tucked just under my chin. The moment lies, embraced me for the very first time I was reborn. Happy beyond belief, I struggled, hesitated to hug her back since I myself was not sure who, or what I was anymore. The song was much too strong for a mere mortal like me to resist.

It was far too deep into its melody. But Eliza's hug made everything clear. My mind once more reset and I became a new, better version of myself. In the quiet,

oscillating whimpers of the one whom I admired, I heard music. It was a sad, excruciatingly sad tune. to listen to. But it was beautiful. I held her hands.

I was shaking, so was she. She was standing on the verge between the present and her memories, everything breaking and rearranging right before her eyes. She was confused, but I was in love. Each and every tear that fell

was a tick of the grand metronome of fate. Each and every silent sob was a note missing from the instrument. I never imagined it. Eliza's sadness was the key to breaking the riddle. Excited. I told her. I told her that in her tears there was a melody, an unfortunate but soul-reaching musical score that was hiding in the breaking of her voice. The excitement was incredible. Without a thought, I rushed towards the table the music box was situated on and I started tinkering. Eliza's tears soon dried up as I started putting bolts and bits to the machine

with lightning speed and clockwork precision Yes This thing, it's not ugly death or empty nothingness It sings about It's a song about the most wonderful sadness of all The magical tune is nothing But the dying cries of a woman who was betrayed This was a truly magnificent work

Perhaps by some otherworldly mage or witch but it captured the essence of tragedy so well well enough to replace reality with a story to exchange one life for another this was the work of a genius and also the work of someone who had lost everything i cranked the instrument and it started playing the tune was melancholic yet in a way uplifting it brought hope in the eyes of the one i loved As Eliza listened to my work She smiled and then she laughed And then she cried

All her life There was a cold, unfeeling grasp strangulating her very soul Now it was all lifted For the first time in centuries She was able to look forward to that one day Every ten years That was always stained in blood

In me She saw her saviour Her hero The one who just saved her first family from certain doom. She was ready for the final note we needed to complete the piece, the note that would let her live as her family around her dies. It was for her, I tell myself, that I rushed into her open arms. With one fell swoop, I cleared all the metal, glass and plastic, revealing the satin-dressed bed. There, I put down my love, our bodies entwined in

perfect unison, playing a song that even death shall remember. For it was this piece that would cheat fate for one last time. If I said I only did it for the song, or for putting yet another cog into the workings of destiny, I'd be a lion. Lyses' body. Every single inch of it was embellished with skin softer than any silk man can make. Her lips were soft and savoury. Her breath synchronised with mine.

and carrying the aroma of summer flowers. We were both slaves to the rhythm of the song, playing our parts in its grand design. For many hours, we committed to ourselves, to each other. Without words, only through sounds we existed. And when our short-lived ode was finally done, well, that was when I had the means to save her life. Little did she know.

I could never really finish the song of fate on my own. What I put on the music box was an attempt, but it was bound to fail. Regardless, at least her heartbeat will persist. Even if she hates me, what would true love be if it cannot overcome it? So, she broke the silence. You never said how Albert was able to get the way he is now, being able to do some things that we humans can't. He was just a cripple when I was growing up.

Well, I caressed her, preparing her a tiny bit for what was coming. When your mother pled to your father that her time is over, that she doesn't want to live sacrificing others anymore, your father would not agree. So she tried and tried, but nothing could break Nicholas' resolve. That's when your mother wrote a song, or at least a part of it. The workings of the instrument are strange. You must have slipped your mind, but do you remember that before your mother's death, the music box,

was slightly less completed? Eliza gasped. It was always in front of her, always in her thoughts, but she never managed to break the cruel magic imposed by the device. The last bar that the instrument played. Those were her mother's dying words. The world she left behind for her kids. mere seconds of music, but just enough to save her daughter's. life one last time. Of course, lies didn't know as much. I do not wish to tell her, in retrospect.

I really should have. In her unending tears, I suffer my own demise a million times each day. Albert, then, she sniffed, sobbed and let out a lonely tear. He awoken away when my mum added to the instrument. Yes, I answered. You see, Albert is a creature of immense power, but almost all of is bound by the song. I do not know why that is. Perhaps an exorcist or something of that kind. Someone sealed him through the instrument. Your mother released a part of him

when she added that last bar. He became able to communicate with you. He started doing things impossible for the rest of us. Like, for example, change our perception of reality, even our very own desires. All so a tormented woman could finally ask for her own death. In her last act of rebellion, she requested of a demon to make her husband set her free. Bawful ringing echoed in my ears. The wheel of fate started moving with incredible speeds.

My mind felt agonizing pain as the minutes and hours started melting together, flowing away like a river. I could see and hear what was going on as time was lapsing. I spent that night with Eliza, and then we woke up happy, embracing. Embraceousy. Embrace, we woke up happy, each other in bed. I was looking at us, at myself and her, through a thick pane of glass, impossible to breach. I felt hurt, and felt robbed, as the song took away from me the sweetest moments of my life. I waited and waited to regain control of myself, but alas, I couldn't. You see, my work was done, and as I become a mere servant of the song, it skipped ahead to where I was needed next. The dreaded evening was nigh.

I was sitting with all the members of the Maya family in the dining room. We were drinking wine together. A vinyl with classical music was playing on the gramophone. Everybody was dressed up with formal suits, myself included. Adorning the table was a music box, now fully equipped. Lies were standing next to it, cranking it with grace, and from under her hands a beautiful tune was coming out. It was the tune she had inspired.

I was just a tool in her hands, her tears driving my limbs to move and work. But they didn't know that. Neither did she. And so they were congratulating me, thanking me, issuing toasts in my name. And during all that, Albert was there, looking at me. He was fully aware of what I'd done. But he seemed, he seemed happy. His hands would not spill quite as much blood as he had feared,

for he was a gentleman, despite whatever sin he'd once committed. Albert had a kind heart, and for all I know, the instrument was a means to torture it forever. I wonder how many millennia he had to endure, imprisoned by this most cruel of devices. Will I endure as much? Silently, I waited for time to pass. The Myers were cheerful, but I didn't see any reason for them to be.

They were going to die. My tired, broken mind lost its grasp of time yet again, and when I came to it, it was already almost midnight. Albert walked up to the table, accepting the hatred in everyone's stare. After all, just ten years ago, he'd butchered their beloved mother and wife in front of their very eyes. That's a sight you can never forgive. As he reached the gold-line table, he extended his right hand, holding the dreaded note.

The family knew full well what it contained, but they were terrified nonetheless. This time around, the letter contained no words. Instead, all it had were four drops of blood, magically staying on the paper without seeping into it. The ritual required something with their own blood to perish tonight. They nodded, accepting that they understand what the price to pay was. An Albert pointed at the music box. This signified that if the song of fate was finally completed, the slaughter will not come to pass.

Nicholas stood up, buttoned his blazer and gestured for Eliza to go to the instrument and play it. And so she did. Her beautiful white hands gently cranked the device and from the synergy of metal and flesh a masterpiece was born. Each and every bar, each and every note. They were delightful and sad beyond belief. We all started crying,

listening to this divine ensemble of sound and feelings. Even Albert, yes, even the cursed man himself, shed a tear at the very end. It seemed the song had set him free. Tim, Albert turned to me. A smile, a genuinely happy smile, decorating his flaky face. For breaking the seal, I must thank you. The family cheered, jumping off of their chairs and embracing each other. In their eyes, I could see the exultation of success.

The least I can do for you, Tim, he continued, is to give you the means to save the one you love, perhaps. I didn't understand what he meant. This much wasn't written in the song. Did I actually manage to appease the curse? Did I save everyone, despite what destiny itself had shown me? My confusion was brief, as the very next thing Albert did was drive his hand inside Nicholas' chest,

grasping his heart and pulling it out while a sea of dark crimson blood gushed out. The pain in his eyes was short-lived. He quickly succumbed to the void. One last glance he gave towards a moment. all his children. And like a giant, he collapsed on the floor, shaking us all to the bow. His heart, it was still beating in the white man's hands. The sight was disgusting, and the sound I could hear the deep, muffled pumping coming out of the valves, illustrated by the fine splatters of blood with every pulse. It was then the butler rushed me,

catching me completely off guard. In one swift motion, he pressed Nicholas's heart onto my chest, and uttered a spell in a language I'd never heard. It was all over within seconds, throughout which I was absolutely paralysed. First, I thought he'd killed me too, although the Myers had assured me multiple times that whatever happens, I would not be hurt. And indeed, after the seconds of brain-numbing adrenaline passed, I looked down and my body seemed intact.

When I looked up, I saw Joseph swinging a rapier towards Albert, trying to kill him before he gets butchered himself. The young man had taken one of the swords out of the display on the opposite wall, and was just about to drive it right through the cursed man's chest. Time froze for me yet again, but this, this was different. My eyes had finally opened. I could see how the magic works. There was a fine layer of ice, appearing out of the nothingness and spreading on top of the butler's body. I saw the rapier shatter as it hit the crystal shield, which seemed as tough as diamond. I looked at Joseph's morbidly confused expression, as some of the metal shards flew back at him, cutting his own flesh and letting out blood.

He was surprised, so terribly surprised that for the first time in his life, he felt the pain of bleeding. Before his very eyes, his own blood was raining down from his newly opened wounds, the sight he had never seen before. After all, that same frozen barrier which protected Albert also used to protect the family from harm. Without it, they would all be easy prey for the demon. Joseph crumbled on the ground, shaking and murmuring incomprehensible sounds. His end was coming. That much was certain. This was my final act of kindness in this world, Tim, for I have killed the man you admire, so you don't have to.

He lied. My blood froze in the middle of a heartbeat. His words, I realized what his spell was supposed to do. I started shaking with vigor. Something insane was staring up inside me. I screamed. My senses heightened by the blood that Joseph had spilled. His blood.

I did feel my teeth growing, tingling with the thrill of the hunt. My fingers started swelling up, elongating into a horrifying amalgamation of bone, claw, and muscle. My skin darkened, hardened. I was changing. I was transforming into something else, something far too different from the human I used to be. I leapt, with a smile on my face. I severed Joseph's head clean off his spine. I watched with inexplicable delight as his unbelieving eyes followed their body as it was getting further and further away.

A trail of blood and marrow followed the trajectory of his gruesome flight. Another sight I enjoyed against my spellbound will. More blood was needed to appease the song. Two more had to die tonight. I charged with my new found strength towards Klaus, who was opposite of where I'd butchered his brother. Maybe his gigantic stature would prove a better. sports. My flu, my saliva dripping from my jaw. I was a beast. I had become something cruel and

vile, something with unquenchable desire for death and violence. As I reached him, I expected resistance. Maybe he'd try to punch me, throw me back, do something to postpone his inevitable end. Instead, he just stood. He had accepted what was to come. "'Boring!' I shouted, "'my humanity truly dying from within me, "'as I drove my claws into his chest, "'feeling for his failing heart. "'As I was about to rip it out,

"'something about him, something in his eyes, "'restored a speck of reason in my brain. "'Try to save her, please,' were his last words, "'before he himself dropped like a rock on the cold marble floor. "'Save. I cannot save anyone. You all did this to yourselves,' I screamed, invigorated by the carnage I'd made. The air was thick with the smell of slashed flesh and gushing blood. The pact would not be complete if the final victim didn't die. My soul sinking deeper into darkness, I soon found myself going for Eliza, the one whom I truly loved.

I could not damage her preface. I didn't want her blood to spill, disgracefully. Her guts would not drag like rags on the floor. No. I'd planned for her a swifter, more dignified death. I would drive a single nail into the very centre of her heart. It would stop and she would freeze. Forever beautiful, forever mine.

With measured motion, against my will, my claws reached for her while she stood confused. Oh, my dear, I wish you never know how much I wanted you to die right there. I hit flesh, blood gushed out, but it wasn't hers. The liquid that I spilled was black, dense, thicker than tar, and it smelled like swam. It was old and rotten, and it was the man who had suffered most of all. Albert stood between me and my love, his smiling face hiding the pain of his now severed arm. He had saved Eliza, but to what avail? She had to die regardless. No, he whispered, crumbling to the ground himself, the wound too big for him to stand upright.

Then it struck me. Me and him, we'd work together to find a way for lies to live. When we were in my house, when he was tapping to the song, in the silence between each beat, he'd explained to me the only way he could see, the only way she lives through tonight. The memories, the song, it all came back to me. Tears filled my eyes, for I'd succumbed to the evil without as much as a grain of doubt. Before me stood the woman I loved, and I had almost killed her, even though there was a way for her to live. I looked through in the eye.

I remembered. I remembered the time we'd spent. Our beautiful unison would be my curse, but it would also signify her salvation. Eliza, I'm sorry, I said. As with deep regret, I hit her stomach where her womb was. She dropped down, holding herself tight with both her arms. She was hugging herself, herself and the spark of life,

we had made. The tiny flame I'd just extinguished. In agonizing pain, my body started reverting to the form it had before. The claws receded. The teeth grew back inside the bone of my jaw,

and the superhuman strength I'd felt before was nothing but a nightmare. All the hellish burning that I felt in my limbs and through my tortured nerves was nothing in comparison to the shame that was left. Albert had never wanted to hurt anybody He truly didn't It was the song

The song was controlling him Me Like puppets propped on strings The two of us were like brothers now Bound by something much stronger than blood Bound by duty What he was I have now become

It's been three days since that awful night but Eliza still trembles when she sees me. I am the monster who killed all she held in. I am the one who tricked her into living when all that awaits his pain. I made a deal with the devil, not the kind one-armed man who stands faithfully beside me, but the true unnameable evil of this world. I made a deal with all the hatred,

or the spite that now permeates my every cell. It's the immortal atrocity that does not come through portals in the ground, but instead makes me move with each and every beat. An abomination veiled in the sound of eternal sadness, coded in a rusty, hand-cranked puzzle in the basement of the mansion. A puzzle I need to solve in the coming decade, lest I kill my one, true love, with my own two hands. Albert does all he can, but as good-natured as he is he. is, he's not enough to finish the song. I need someone, someone that can complete this inhuman task and set us all free. To think once I wish for endless life, such a fool I was. But this immortality is truly hell on earth. I cannot spend a day, a minute, not even a single second

passes without the creeping fear, the smell of blood nauseating my every sense. I can feel it. it's coming for me and when it does I will have to kill her there are no notes left she is the one true sacrifice and unless anyone out there decifes the riddle

her blood will forever stay in my hands and worst of all I will have to live the icy shield protects me for I am a tool a simple cog in the machine without a will but still

in possession of a son help me save myself by saving her. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words

and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.