Бесплатный фрагмент - There Is No Way Out

There is no Way Out

A Collection of Short Stories
by AndrewZolt

Copyright © 2025 by Andrew Zolt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic ormechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage andretrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except inthe case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

First edition, 2025

ABOUT THE BOOK

A chilling collection of psychological and mysticalhorror stories that explore the edges of the human soul, the terror of theunknown, and the darkness that always lingers nearby.

The world of shadows and forgotten fears has alwayswhispered at the edges of our perception. These stories are my attempt tolisten more closely—to lean in, to open the door that most keep shut.
Welcome to a journey through realms where the uncanny breathes and the soultrembles.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real eventsis purely coincidental.

Warning: This collection contains maturecontent and is recommended for readers aged 18 and older.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AndrewZolt is a writer of psychological horror, mysticalfiction, and dark folklore. Inspired by dreams, personal supernatural experiences, and the works of authorssuch as Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft, Zolt explores themes of spiritualdread, inner ruin, and the thin line between sanity and madness.

His stories blend shadowy myths with modern fears,often leading readers into places where the rational mind fails—and somethingolder, deeper, and darker begins to whisper.

There Is No WayOut is his first English-language collection.

CONTENTS

• Just by Writing a Name

• To the Final Stop

• Ambrilith – The Tree of the Dead

• The Night Choir

• They Wanted to Die Beautifully

• The Silence Keeper

• The One and Only Remedy

• She Died Again Yesterday

• The Portrait of Skulls

• The Weaving of Evgir

• The Mask

• I Shouldn’t Have Looked There at Night

• The Prayer Beads

• Don't look there

• City of Radiant Springs

• The Remnant of  The Banished

• The Painting

• The Price of Flesh

• Daayan

• Meat Parchment

• Don’t Eat Sweets in The Grave

Just by Writting a Name

Cole had been trudging alone through the jungles of Cambodia for three days now, as if the devil himself were leading him through the suffocating greenery and the sweltering, humming buzz of insects.

The guide he had hired in Phnom Penh had fled in the night, leaving behind only an empty canteen and a crumpled, hastily scribbled note in Khmer. Cole didn’t know the language, but from the trembling lines and smudged ink, he understood: fear. Panic. Something had gone terribly wrong.

At dawn, when the mist still breathed cold over the canopy, he stumbled upon an ancient temple — one that existed on no map, mentioned by no local tongue. The temple seemed to have grown straight out of the earth, wrapped in moss and roots, hidden deep within the folds of time. Stone faces loomed over him — colossal, cracked, empty. They were everywhere: on walls, columns, even strewn across the ground. It was as if the jungle had sprouted through the hollow eyes of dead gods.

The walls were covered in symbols, a strange mixture of runes and scars.

Inside: a cool, dusty hall. The air was unnaturally still, as if any movement might disturb something that should never be woken.

At the center — an altar. And on it — a book.

Cole felt it immediately. It wasn’t just lying there. It was waiting.

The cover was made of leather, stretched and cracked like parched earth, with metal corners darkened by time. Symbols, alien and somehow alive, squirmed faintly across its surface.

He opened it.

Inside — portraits. Horrifyingly realistic. Not drawings. Not etchings. True faces: the wrinkles, the glint in tired eyes, the tiny details that spoke of a life lived. Men, women, children, the old and the young. As if someone had captured not just their appearance — but their very souls.

Some of the faces seemed to be looking right at him. One child, it even seemed, was smiling.

And then — blank pages. White as fresh canvas. Waiting.

Cole, who had survived dozens of expeditions and cursed ruins, felt a chill creep down his spine. He was no novice when it came to ancient relics. But he had never seen anything like this.

He flipped back to the first page. There — a line of text, written in Sanskrit.

Cole snapped a photo and ran it through a translator. The words slowly materialized on his phone screen, as if the book itself were speaking to him:

“The name inscribed into the fabric of the Book shall be woven into the depths of Oblivion. The image will be sealed. The body will vanish. The final page — a mystery. You will learn it in time.”

“The body will vanish…” he whispered.

And then he understood. Suddenly, sharply. As if someone had leaned over his shoulder and whispered directly into his ear.

“Oh damn! Could it be…?”

He pulled a pen from his pocket. For a long moment, he hesitated. But then the memories surfaced.

The office in Budapest. The grim, gray light. The smell of the burnt coffee and cheap air freshener. The boss’s words:

“You’re fired. No severance. We need people who don’t live in hospitals.”

His wife. The wheelchair. The silence. The way he had held her hand — back then, and now, in memory.

His grip tightened on the pen. He wrote the name. Just the name. His former boss.

At first — nothing. Then, it was as if the book exhaled. Slowly, a portrait began to surface on the page: Wrinkles, a narrow nose, squinting, calculating eyes.

The face he knew. Frozen. Motionless. Forever.

Cole smiled. For the first time in what felt like an eternity.

It wasn’t until the fifth day that Cole finally stumbled out of the jungle. Unshaven, dehydrated, his stomach twisted with cramps, fever burning behind his eyes — but the book was still in his backpack.

He called a friend.

“You heard the news?” the friend said. “The boss… he’s gone. Just vanished. Walked out of his house one morning and disappeared. No cameras, no witnesses. The police are baffled.”

“I see…” was all Cole said.

He didn’t feel guilt. Only satisfaction. And the heavy, solid weight of power settling into his palms.

The smugglers had charged him ten thousand dollars to get the book past customs. A cheap price for this kind of power. Cole knew — it would pay for itself many times over. People had always paid well for death. Only now, death was cleaner. Quieter. No bullets. No evidence. He only needed to write the name.

He found his first job quickly – a businessman he knew was swindled out of ten million by a fraudster. Two days later, the face of the swindler appeared on a new page.

The businessman paid generously — hundreds of thousands.

Cole bought a house — cozy, with a fireplace and thick carpet, nestled in a lakeside village.

The clients found him themselves. Sometimes they couldn’t even look him in the eye. They would simply speak the name and give a description. Cole would write, and wait.

Sometimes the portrait would appear within the hour. Sometimes not until midnight, when every lamp in the house had gone dark.

He had become a master. He wrote slowly, with a strange reverence, as if the way he shaped each letter decided the balance between life and death.

And then, one day… He opened the book. And froze. One blank page. The last one.

Only it wasn’t blank anymore. Line by line, his own face was materializing.
The right cheekbone. A lock of hair. The chin. Only the left eye and the lips remained.

The book slipped from his hands. The dry paper seemed to pulse. It was alive.

He tried to tear the page out — it wouldn’t budge. He tried to burn it — the book refused to catch fire. He drowned it in the lake — it was back the next morning, dry as ever, lying neatly on his bedside table.

He knew. He understood.

At the bottom of the page, the writing appeared, clear and final: “He who inscribes others shall be the last inscribed.”

He closed the book. Slowly. And for the first time in ten years, Cole wept. He stared at the page where his face was almost complete. The final stroke appeared — a faint shadow under the left eyelid. He couldn’t move. His body filled with lead, like the strings controlling him had been cut.

Cole felt himself slipping away. But not the way people described it — no tunnel, no light, no peace. Only disintegration. His identity crumbling like a house of cards in a storm.

Was he in his body? The book? The shadow on the wall?

And then — the page stirred.

The portrait where his face now lay etched wrote itself. Ink rose from within the fibers like blood from a deep wound:

“Do you want to live? Add new pages. Kill someone. Every person is a new page. You filled a hundred. Now you have to add the same number of blank pages here. Each blank page is one person you killed. Kill. Or die.”

He read it again. And again. First in disbelief. Then in horror. Then in grim, silent acceptance.

Cole looked deep inside himself.

And realized — he wasn’t ready to die. He had suffered too much. Lost too much. Fought too long. Been beaten by life again and again. And only now had he found true power.

Why should he surrender?

He slammed the book shut.

His hand moved stiffly, but it moved. His body obeyed, like a machine sputtering back to life. The nerves returned, sluggish but steady, like water trickling back into a parched riverbed.

He stood. Dressed. Pulled on gloves, tucked a knife into his belt, grabbed a flashlight.

There was no rage in his eyes. No fear. Only resolve.

The first was the woman who had stood in line with him at the supermarket. A woman in her forties, laughing loudly into her phone. He followed her into a dark alley. One strike. Silent.

He trembled — but not from fear. From something else. Awareness.

The blood flowed slowly. There was something almost sacred in it.

When he returned home — the book was already waiting for him. Where his own face had been — now there was a new blank page. Just one. Fresh. Slightly damp, as if it had just been born. Thus began the new count.

He didn’t kill randomly. He chose. Weighed.

And each time, the book rewarded him with a new page. Each life taken gave him back a piece of himself.

He felt no joy. No triumph. Only duty. A vow. One hundred lives for his own.

The hundredth person was a girl. Almost random. He caught her near the station.

It was late. A light rain misted the streets.

She was walking fast, her eyes on her phone. He struck — swift, precise, as always. It was all as usual: A blow to the head with the hatchet.

He returned home. The house had long since turned into a tomb — a grey crypt where the air smelled of paper, blood, and fear.

The book was waiting. He opened it. The page began to fill: the outline of a face, a forehead, hair, lips, eyes.

And then he froze. He staggered back. Stepped forward again. Rubbed his eyes.

No! No, no, no!

The face on the page — Sophie.

He hadn’t seen her in six years. Not since the divorce. Since the horror with the paralysis. Since he had disappeared from his daughter’s life.

He hadn’t recognized her at the station. She had changed. Grown. Matured.

And he… he—

“No… It’s impossible… I would have known… I would have…”

He hurled the book against the wall.

It didn’t open. It simply lay there, closed — as if it had turned its back on him.

He wept. Truly. Tears poured from him like blood from a wound — with unbearable pain.

He stopped eating. He didn’t turn on the lights.

The book lay in the corner, almost alive, almost watching.

Sometimes at night he could hear it — pages rustling softly, all by themselves.

On the third day, he found the strength — he opened it.

Her face was still there.

But now there was a line beneath it, just like always. Only now, the words were different:

“You killed to live. Now live with it. Or become a page.”

He grabbed a knife. Pressed it to his throat. His hand wouldn’t move.

“Why?.. Let me… Please!”

And he understood.

The book would not let him go. Not through death, not through repentance.

On the fourth night, Cole woke up to the sound of crying. Soft, distant — as if someone was weeping in another room.

But the house was empty.

He got up and walked barefoot down the hallway. Silence. Darkness.

Only the book lay on the table, as always — open.

He stepped closer.

And then he heard it. A daughter’s voice: familiar, beloved.

“Daddy… Daddy, please… stop. Don’t let it take more…”

He recoiled.

“Sophie?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

The book answered with a dry rustle. Its pages turned on their own.

A new page.

His brother’s face — the brother he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Then his childhood friend. Then an old teacher, the kind woman who had taught him to read.

He hadn’t held a pen in weeks. He hadn’t written a single name.

But the book was writing for him now, taking those he had once loved.

He fought back. Tried to burn it. Tried to dissolve it in acid. To bury it. Seal it in concrete.

It always came back. Untouched. Waiting for new death.

And then, it started to whisper. Not with voices. Hunger. A thirst for slaughter. A lust for “balance.”

And then, Sophie came again. Dressed in white. Barefoot. Her face — serene, untouched by suffering. A dream.

“Daddy, she won’t stop. She’ll kill everyone you love. You gave her your soul. Now she wants your body. You have to stop her. Only you can.”

“How? I’ve tried everything…”

“You must kill her vessel. Yourself.”

He looked at her. He wanted to argue. To ask for forgiveness. To embrace her.

But she was already fading, dissolving into the air like mist.

Cole flew back to Cambodia. He carried the book back to the temple – back to the jungle where it had all begun.

He walked on foot. No food. No sleep. As if in a dream. He carried it as if carrying a coffin.

The temple stood unchanged. The faces of stone gods watched silently. Even the moss seemed untouched.

He opened the book. Wrote his own name: “Cole West.”

He set down the pen. Sat on a stone. And very calmly, very deliberately, plunged the knife into his own chest.

When his blood soaked the stone, the book closed. Without a sound.

An instant later, it lay on the altar — as if it had never left. Dusty. Silent. Waiting.

Maybe even for you.

To the Final Stop

Mexico City melted in the golden haze of the evening sun, like a vast bronze bowl filled with smoke and music.

Saturday. A celebration of life. Crowds streamed through the streets: street musicians strummed guitars, vendors shouted out deals, and laughter drifted through the city parks.

On the outskirts of the city, near an old produce market, two friends stood waiting at a bus stop — Anabel and Lucia. They were both nineteen. Each beautiful in her own way: Anabel — slender, dark-eyed, with a wild mane of curls; Lucia — fiery-haired, bold, sun-kissed. They were both looking forward to a night of fun.

A new club had just opened in the suburbs — Luz del Fuego. Live music, dancing, a mad crowd — everything a night should be.

“I told you we should’ve taken a cab,” Lucia grumbled, tapping her heel impatiently on the asphalt.

“Oh, come on,” Anabel smiled. “The bus is cheaper. And more romantic. Like in old movies.”

Finally, a bus appeared from around the corner. But it looked… strange. Dull silver body, hazy matte windows, and the route number on the side nearly rubbed off. Still, the digital display showed the right destination: Centro Norte — La Montaña.

“That’s ours!” Anabel chirped.

The bus hissed to a stop. The doors slid open.

Inside, it was empty. Not a single passenger. But more than twenty people had already gathered at the stop — some with shopping bags, some holding flowers, others dressed for a night out like the girls. They boarded without hesitation, quickly filling the aisle with voices and laughter.

Anabel and Lucia settled in the middle of the bus by the window. The doors closed. The engine purred. The vehicle merged into traffic with practiced ease.

At first, everything seemed normal. They passed a few blocks, a supermarket, a shopping mall. Through the windows flashed neon signs, kissing couples in alleyways, a city glowing like a stage.

Then came the first strange moment.

At the old cinema, the bus should’ve stopped — people were waiting, waving their arms. Instead, it sped up.

“Hey!” a man in a trench coat shouted, running toward the front. “That’s my stop!”

He banged his fist against the glass separating the driver’s cabin. The glass reflected only his trembling shadow.

The driver didn’t respond. Didn’t turn his head. Didn’t slow down.

The bus surged forward — smooth, steady, like a launched missile.

“What the hell…?” Lucia muttered, gripping her purse strap tighter.

Voices rose around them.

“Stop the bus!” “Hey! Are you deaf?”

A man started pounding on the driver’s glass partition.

And then — like an answer — something terrifying happened.

With a metallic screech, the windows slammed shut behind heavy steel shades — thick and seamless, like the lid of a tin can.

The doors snapped shut with a mechanical click. The cabin sank into dense, suffocating twilight. And in the heavy silence that followed, the driver’s voice echoed — raspy, expressionless, as if it came not from a man, but from the bus itself:

“This bus runs to the final stop. No interruptions.”

A pause.

Then — an explosion of shouting.

Women screamed. Men cursed, demanding the ride be stopped. Someone tried to smash a window, but the metal shutters were stronger than they looked. No signal. No contact. Phones displayed No Service in cold white letters. The bus sped forward.

Where to? And why?

The bus devoured the road.

Beyond the tightly sealed windows lay the lights of the city, streets where real people lived, where life continued. But inside, something else had begun.

Some passengers still clung to hope, to the illusion that this was a mistake. That the driver had lost his mind but would soon be stopped.

“Maybe it’s a prank,” someone mumbled.

“Has anyone called the police?” sobbed a girl with pink hair, clutching a phone that still blinked zero bars.

But Anabel already felt it in her skin — no. This was not a prank. This was a trap.

The bus didn’t stop at intersections. Didn’t slow down. It shot through the outskirts, past weeds and abandoned fences, past the border where the city dissolved into scrubland.

Half an hour passed.

By then, even the most stubborn of the passengers understood: no one was coming to let them out.

And then the crowd began to break.

One man — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a denim jacket — grabbed an iron rod from beneath a seat and slammed it against the door. Useless. The steel didn’t even dent.

Another man pulled a pocketknife from his backpack and stabbed it at the lock with frantic desperation. The blade snapped.

People pounded on the floor, on the walls. They shouted. They begged. Others simply sank to the ground and buried their faces in their hands.

Panic, thick and black, spilled into the aisle like rising floodwater.

Only Anabel and Lucia remained seated — backs pressed to their chairs, frozen. Their eyes were wide with terror, but they held on. They knew: as long as they stayed clear-headed, they had a chance.

Another thirty minutes passed.

The bus roared through a deserted highway between hills. Now and then, flickers of strange light flashed beyond the shutters — campfires? Or something else, something wrong, like silent lightning trapped under the earth.

There were sounds, too. Not from inside the bus — but outside. As if something was following them. Running behind. Or riding just out of sight.

Then the road began to climb — toward gray, black, brooding mountains.

Anabel smelled something strange. Dampness. Mold. Soil. Thick and choking, like the inside of a crypt.

And then — the bus braked hard. People screamed and tumbled to the floor. The doors — dead and silent until now — suddenly hissed and slammed open.

At first there was only blackness. Then, in the headlights, they saw a wide concrete platform. A metal gate ahead. And tall figures in uniform, holding rifles across their chests.

Anabel smelled something strange. Dampness. Mold. Soil. Thick and choking, like the inside of a crypt.

And then — the bus braked hard. People screamed and tumbled to the floor. The doors — dead and silent until now — suddenly hissed and slammed open.

At first there was only blackness. Then, in the headlights, they saw a wide concrete platform. A metal gate ahead. And tall figures in uniform, holding rifles across their chests. They stood in silence, waiting for those they were meant to receive. To receive like cargo, like disposable material.

Someone tried to run. A shot rang out. No warning. The man collapsed.

Screams. Chaos.

Everyone understood at once: there was no escape.

They were shoved out of the bus — rough hands, rifle butts, blows. Men were herded to one side. Women to another.

Anabel gripped Lucia’s hand with all her strength.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered.

But a gloved hand pulled them apart. The girls were dragged to opposite ends of the platform.

A minute later, the massive gate groaned open — like the mouth of some underground beast.

And they were forced into the corridor beyond. Into the dark.

Where something below was waiting.

They walked. Barefoot. Disoriented.

The corridor was narrow, with damp concrete walls that wept moisture. Somewhere deeper, a constant low hum vibrated through the floor — either machines or something alive, pulsing deep beneath the earth.

Anabel walked as if in a dream, her legs numb. She searched for Lucia’s face, but saw only strangers — wide-eyed, slick with sweat, full of silent dread. The guards in black uniforms drove them forward like cattle to the slaughter.

And every step pulled them farther from the life they had known.

At the end of the tunnel, light met them. But it wasn’t the light of salvation. It was cold, clinical — as if stepping into an autopsy theater. A massive tiled chamber, white and sterile.

Screens glowed along the walls, flashing incomprehensible diagrams and medical data. Figures in white coats moved among the instruments. Their faces were masked, eyes hidden behind protective visors. In the center of the room — metal tables, and strange capsule-like units, like refrigerated containers.

One of them stepped forward. An older man, maybe in his sixties — thin, silver-haired, with the gaze of a predator. His face held no emotion — only clinical detachment, like a surgeon inspecting a frog pinned to a tray.

“Welcome,” he said in cold, accentless Spanish. “Resisting will only make it worse.”

A wave of moans rippled through the group. Someone dropped to their knees. Anabel stood frozen.

Then the man smiled. And it was the worst smile she had ever seen in her life.

The sorting began.

They were examined — blood samples, vitals, scans. Those deemed “suitable” were marked and separated. Those with any sign of illness or weakness were quietly escorted through another door.

Anabel struggled when they took her arm, but gloved hands held her fast.

When her turn came, the silver-haired man studied the tablet in front of him.

“Excellent specimen. Young. Healthy. Prime candidate.”

She tried to scream, but no sound came out.

They strapped a bright red wristband to her arm. Red meant: living donor. Priority harvest.

Later, as they were marched down another corridor, Anabel saw it.

A sign painted above one of the steel doors:

“IMMORTALITY FOUNDATION”

She froze. She remembered the name. She’d heard it before. In whispers. In rumors.

And suddenly she understood everything.

A machine — perfect, invisible, and real. A supply chain of human parts, feeding the needs of billionaires, aging tycoons, world leaders, and celebrities desperate to live longer, if not forever.

They were brought into a lab. Everything was white. Stainless. Silent. Each room held surgical chairs with restraints, tables lined with syringes filled with glowing fluid. Holographic displays floated above them, showing real-time organ diagnostics.

A dead factory.

Sustaining the life of the rich at the price of death for the forgotten.

Anabel sat curled on the cold floor of a small concrete room. They had locked her there after the sorting. Someone was crying in the corner. Her own heartbeat pounded in her skull.

She thought only of Lucia. Was she alive? Where had they taken her?

Time stopped.

Then — a quiet creak. The door cracked open. Anabel froze.

A shadow moved in the doorway — and her heart nearly stopped. But it was Lucia. Alive. Bruised, clothes torn, but breathing.

They ran to each other, clutching tight, faces buried in shoulders.

“We have to go,” Lucia whispered, sobbing. “Now. While we still can…”

She had been taken to a storage room by mistake — filled with supplies and discarded equipment. There, she saw a guard leave his keyring on a desk.

She stole it. And came back.

“How?” Anabel breathed. “Where?”

“I saw a maintenance tunnel. When they marched us in. It’s narrow, but it leads out.”

They didn’t wait. Silent as shadows, they slipped into the corridor.

It was empty. At that moment, somewhere else, the guards were likely busy — disposing of those deemed unfit.

The girls ran.

Every nerve in Anabel’s body screamed to collapse, to cry, to panic — but her will held.

They found the tunnel. A narrow crawlspace behind a rusted ventilation grate. No one had entered it in years. The stench of mildew and rot choked the air.

They squeezed in. The floor was slick, coated with rust and damp soil.

Then — footsteps behind them. They’d been spotted. A beam of light swept through the tunnel. A shout. Dogs barking.

“Faster!” Lucia hissed.

They crawled, dragging themselves over jagged metal and concrete, their knees and elbows torn and bleeding. The voices drew closer. The barking turned into snarling.

Anabel thought: If they catch us… better to die here.

And then — light. A faint, yellowish glow ahead. An exit. Freedom.

They burst from the tunnel and collapsed on a rocky slope.

Night. Stars. The distant shimmer of highway lights.

But their relief died instantly.

Far off on the road — two black cars sat waiting. Engines idling. Headlights on.

Inside: men in uniform. Police. But not the kind that save you. The kind that sells you back. Or kills you quietly, for a price.

Anabel and Lucia crouched behind the crumbling remains of a concrete wall at the edge of a ravine. Their breathing was ragged. Their eyes searched the dark, ears straining. The headlights burned into their faces.

Six men climbed out of the black vehicles. Armed. Silent. Moving slowly toward them.

“They’re always here,” Lucia whispered. “They wait for the ones who escape.”

Anabel nodded, heart hammering a single thought: Run. Or die. But where?

The landscape was barren — no forest, no buildings, just scattered shrubs and stones.

They bolted — down the slope, stumbling over loose rock.

Shots cracked the silence.

Bullets tore the dirt beside them, flaring sparks off the stones. One struck Lucia in the thigh. She screamed and collapsed.

Anabel caught her without thinking, throwing her friend’s arm over her shoulders.

“Hold on!”

Brakes shrieked in the distance — more vehicles were coming. They were being surrounded.

Then, from the ridge above, came the growl of an engine. A truck — loud, filthy, battered — came crashing down the slope like a beast. It slammed into the black cars, forcing the men to scatter.

The driver, masked, in a black jacket, kicked open the door.

“Get in!” he roared.

No hesitation.

Anabel shoved Lucia inside and climbed in after.

The truck roared to life, tearing away in a storm of dust and grit.

Bullets rang out behind them, but the truck sped off into the night.

They tore down the highway, empty and pale in the moonlight. In the side mirrors, red-and-blue lights flared behind them. Sirens howled.

The truck weaved wildly, dodging, swerving.

Lucia lay curled on the seat, her jaw clenched in pain. Anabel held her hand.

The driver said nothing.

Who was he? Why did he help? It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was escaping.

After twenty minutes of relentless chase, the truck veered sharply off the highway, onto a narrow road choked with water and mud.

Soon, the pursuers faded. Their lights dimmed, swallowed by the dark.

Eventually, the truck came to a stop beneath the rusted canopy of an abandoned gas station.

The driver turned to them. He was in his forties, face worn, eyes pale as ash.

“You’re safe. For now,” he said. “But they don’t like loose ends. They’ll come.”

Anabel shivered. “Who are you?”

He gave a dry, joyless laugh.

“Just someone who knows what’s going on. And knows better than to trust anyone. Even the ones wearing badges.”

He drove them to a nearby village. Told them who might offer shelter.

***

Weeks passed.

Anabel and Lucia moved to a new city. A bright city. Loud. Alive.

They rented a small apartment. Found simple jobs at a café.

It seemed like it was over.

But at night, the nightmares returned. The dark bus. The steel doors. The eyes behind the masks. Lucia had panic attacks. Anabel feared being alone. They understood: time doesn’t heal everything.

Then, one day, browsing the local newspaper, Anabel saw an ad:

“Psychotherapist with 20 years of experience. Trauma recovery. Confidential. Compassionate. Nearby.”

The address was just a few blocks away.

They didn’t even have to discuss it. They needed help.

The house was neat — a small suburban cottage behind a white fence. Flowers in pots. A tidy walkway.

They rang the bell. A young woman in glasses — an assistant — opened the door. Polite. Neutral.

“You’re here for Dr. Marek? This way, please. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

They were led into a cozy waiting room. Warm colors. Soft chairs. A painting of the sea on the wall.

They sat down. Minutes passed. Time slowed.

Then — a click. They turned. The door had locked. Automatically.

Lucia’s voice was barely a whisper: “What was that?”

The windows sealed shut — metal shutters groaned down over the glass. Then — a hiss. A strange, sweet scent filled the air.

Gas.

Lucia screamed. But stumbled, eyes rolling back, collapsing to the floor.

Anabel lurched toward the door, but her legs failed.

The world spun. Blurring. Stretching. In the hissing noise, she heard something — a voice. A voice she knew.

“This bus runs to the final stop. No interruptions.”

The last thing Anabel saw before darkness took her was a pair of headlights.

And she knew — the bus had arrived. And this was the final stop.

Forever.

Ambrylith – the Tree of the Dead

Liam inherited his grandfather’s farm — a place that looked like the universe had turned its back on it about twenty years ago. The house had a sagging roof, with nails sticking out like rusted needles. The garden soil was packed so tightly, it felt like last year’s pie crust.

The only living resident was a snake named Bertha — short and fat like a kielbasa. She loved to lie near the well, as if guarding something better left alone.

People in town whispered about Liam’s grandfather. They called him “mad.” Or sometimes, “a warlock.” No one came to his funeral.

Liam was nineteen — a tired teenager with the soul of an old man who, for some reason, believed that a piece of land was better than a job in an office.

One day, while digging up the soil near an old stone fence, Liam’s shovel hit something solid. He knelt down, cleared the dirt with his hands, and froze.

It was a skull. A real human skull, cracked like his grandmother’s porcelain teacup.

Inside the hollow cavity lay something black and smooth. It looked like a seed — but with a strange, unnerving shape.

He slipped it into his pocket and left the skull near the well, where curious Bertha might enjoy its company.

They say snakes like human skulls.

That night, he dreamed.

In the dream, a very thin girl with impossibly large, doll-like eyes took him by the hand and said,

“Come with me — to the garden where the trees of the dead grow.”

“Why?” Liam asked, confused.

“They bear the most delicious fruit. You have to try them. They only appear once every hundred years — for a single day. Tomorrow, they’ll be gone. You’re lucky.”

“Well, okay,” Liam replied, curious.

They walked past a small lavender lake, its surface bubbling like a jacuzzi, then crossed a creaky old bridge that groaned like an arthritic mule over a deep, narrow chasm.

Ahead of them stood a tall bronze fence, stretching endlessly in both directions until it vanished into the horizon. The girl touched it with her palm. The fence crumbled to dust.

Behind it was a garden so strange, so alien, Liam forgot how to breathe.

The trees looked like women frozen mid-dance — elegant, curving, almost human. Their branches extended like the many arms of a tantric goddess. The wood was deep crimson, with a texture disturbingly similar to human skin.

There were no leaves — only fruit.

And the fruit… They were shaped like breasts. Warm, full, and disturbingly alive.

Liam felt deeply uneasy.

Noticing his hesitation, the girl tugged his hand and said, “What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

“No,” he lied. “I’ve just… never seen anything like this. Are they… edible?”

“Of course!” she beamed. “You won’t regret it.”

She jumped up, grabbed one of the fruits with both hands, and yanked.

The moment it detached, thick red juice — almost like blood — began to drip from the branch.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him.

It didn’t feel like fruit. It felt like flesh — warm, soft, disturbingly real.

“Eat,” she said.

Liam hesitated. His stomach churned at the thought. It felt too much like… human meat.

“You’re such an idiot,” the girl said. “This is the best thing you’ll ever taste. Give it back.”

She snatched it from his hands and tore into it with her long, dirty nails. The skin ripped open. The pulpy flesh oozed more of that blood-red juice.

She split the fruit in two and handed one half back to him.

“Just try a little. Trust me.”

He shut his eyes and touched the fruit with his tongue.

The taste hit him like a flood. It was divine. Hypnotic.

Liam took a huge bite and began chewing slowly, savoring every moment.

At first, he felt a gentle warmth spread through his whole body. Then his vision blurred, as if a soft veil had been draped over his eyes. It was as though sunlight poured under his skin, thick and sweet like honey, filling him with an overwhelming bliss.

Liam slowly sank to his knees, then collapsed onto the ground.

Time stopped. Space became alive, breathing with fantastic colors.

And then — the slow dissolving of all boundaries. His body, his identity, his consciousness — everything began to melt, spilling out, merging with the world around him. Objects lost their names. A hand was no longer a hand. The sky was no longer the sky. Sounds turned into shapes. The wind became a whisper from some endless depth.

When his eyes finally closed on their own, Liam found himself suspended in a geometric cosmos: endless tunnels of shimmering mosaics spread out in every direction, as if his soul had plunged into the fabric of a living Mandelbrot.

Fractals writhed around him, pulsing with light, gazing at him with impossible, shifting eyes.

Emotions became cosmic oceans — sometimes pure, unbearable joy, sometimes terror and unspeakable sorrow.

Everything was simultaneously magnificent and horrifying.

He heard the music of the spheres, the whisper of all human thoughts. Sometimes, even their voices. But it didn’t frighten him.

At some point, Liam thought he might have died — or perhaps he had never been born at all. First, he sobbed. Then, an indescribable lightness filled him, and he began to laugh. With that laughter, he woke up.

Still dazed, not entirely sure where the dream ended and reality began, Liam ran his hands over his body.

“My God… what a realistic dream!” he thought. “It felt like it really happened.”

He glanced around the room, half-expecting to see the strange girl standing beside him.

There was a strange taste lingering on his lips.

Getting up, he looked at himself in the mirror — and froze.

His lips and chin were stained with blood.

“What the hell?!” Liam gasped and rushed outside to the water barrel to wash his face.

All day, he wandered around in a daze, unable to shake the vivid memory of the dream.

By evening, he remembered the strange seed.

Throw it away? Or plant it? What would grow from it?

As dusk fell, he chose a spot in the garden where the soil was soft, dug a shallow hole, and buried the seed.

Then he watered it with water from the old well.

Soon after, Bertha the snake slithered over and stretched herself out on the damp earth.

Wishing the snake goodnight, Liam went inside to make himself a late dinner.

Two weeks passed.

Every day, Liam watered the spot carefully — but no sprouts appeared.

Then came the full moon.

Liam could never sleep under a full moon. It was like someone had injected pure caffeine into his bloodstream, leaving him wired and restless.

Usually, on nights like this, he cleaned the house, worked on his laptop, or stared at the starry sky through an old telescope.

Tonight, he decided to tinker with the motor on his electric bike.

He worked all the way until dawn, then stepped outside to breathe the cool morning air and watch the sunrise.

What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

Where he had planted the seed, a full-grown tree now stood. Exactly like the one he had seen in his dream.

“No way…” Liam whispered, barely able to move his lips.

He stood frozen, staring at the tree, refusing to believe his own eyes.

Finally, he forced himself to move closer. But the closer he got, the more dread seeped into his bones.

There were no fruits on the branches — not like in the dream.

Instead, the tree was covered in… faces. Men, women, children — all with their eyes closed, as if sleeping.

Their skin was pale as wax. Their features frozen in silent sorrow.

Liam stopped several feet away, unable to approach any closer.

These weren’t sleeping faces. They were dead. Horror gripped him. He stumbled back.

“God… please make it go away!” he cried out.

He had no idea how he was supposed to live with something like this growing in his backyard. His mind rebelled against it, refusing to accept.

Maybe he should call the police? Or a priest?

But what would he even say?

“There’s a tree full of dead faces growing on my farm. Yeah, I planted it. Yeah, it came from a dream.”

They’d lock him up in a mental hospital.

He was already thinking about calling a friend to help him destroy it when his eyes caught something among the faces.

A girl’s face.

It was so beautiful that Liam couldn’t look away.

Tenderness and sadness were frozen in her features — a breathtaking, heartbreaking face.

Staring at her, Liam began to believe that among all these dead faces, hers was still alive. Sleeping, maybe. Waiting.

He stepped closer, praying that she would sense his presence and open her eyes.

But the face, like all the others, remained still.

Liam spent the whole day near the tree, hoping for some kind of miracle.

Night fell. Morning came.

He forgot about everything else — his chores, his plans. Nothing mattered anymore.

Every day, he spent hours by the tree, speaking softly to the girl’s face, caressing it with trembling fingers, convinced she could hear him.

He was falling in love. Hopelessly, completely.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing: how to bring her back. Back to life.

He searched the internet. He posted on esoteric forums. But none of it helped.

Then, one morning, he found an envelope on the porch.

It was made of parchment — triangular in shape, sealed with wax.

It looked like something delivered from the Middle Ages by a time-traveling courier.

Inside was a small piece of leather, and carved into it were the words: “I can solve your problem. Come tonight.”

Below was an address in a nearby village.

The sky above the farm was darkening with clouds. By evening, it started to rain — nearly a downpour.

Riding his electric bike was out of the question. So he went to the barn and cranked up his grandfather’s old Dodge.

To his surprise, it started on the first try.

Liam drove slowly. The road hadn’t seen maintenance in years — full of potholes and rusted, half-fallen road signs pointing like dead men’s fingers into the fog.

The house was hard to find. It had a number, but didn’t show up on any GPS map. He had to ask a few locals for directions.

Eventually, he found it.

It was old. Covered in weather-worn wooden planks. The windows were fogged up — he couldn’t see inside. The front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.

“Hello? Anyone here?” he called out — and barely recognized his own voice.

The inside smelled of mice, mold, and strange herbs.

There was no chandelier. Just a single candle, flickering dimly at the far end of the room.

“You came,” said a woman’s voice.

She was sitting in a chair by the wall — a small, hunched figure in a shawl. A witch.

Her face was mostly hidden, but her mouth was visible. Her lips didn’t move — yet the words echoed clearly in the room.

“You have a tree in your yard. With faces.”

She wasn’t asking. She knew.

“Yes,” Liam replied.

His eyes drifted to her hands.

They looked like roots — thin, mottled, with fingernails far too long.

“And you’ve fallen in love with one of the faces.”

Liam nodded.

The witch smiled — a soundless, reptilian grin, like snakes laughing under the floorboards.

“That tree is an Ambrylith — the Tree of the Dead,” she said. “It grows from hidden desires buried deep in the human subconscious. From thoughts too terrifying even for dreams. It’s not a gift. It’s a mirror. It gives — but it also takes.”

She stood up. Too fast. Like something inside her bones moved independently of her flesh.

“You want her to wake up. To return to the land of the living?”

“I do,” Liam said. “I love her.”

“Fine. I’ll help you. But remember — the dead don’t return without a price. You will have to pay. Not to me. What the tree demands, I do not know. That’s for you to discover.”

Liam agreed.

The ritual was vile. Animal blood. A baby’s brain. His own blood. Herbs.

She brewed it all into a potion. With the potion in hand, Liam headed home.

It was already dark. The clouds made the night especially heavy — no moon, no stars. The rain had stopped.

He didn’t want to wait till morning. He lit his grandfather’s old kerosene lamp, stepped outside, and walked to the tree.

His heart was pounding.

The lamp’s dim light danced across the faces in the leaves, making them look even more lifeless and grim.

They swayed in the wind, whispering like a ghostly choir.

He found her face. His girl.

Opening the potion bottle, he poured it gently over her leaf, repeating the incantation the witch had given him.

It contained a name. Charlotte. That was her name, when she was alive.

Minutes passed.

Then the leaf began to swell — stretching in all directions. Shoulders formed. Then a chest. Arms. A torso.

She emerged fully, growing from the leaf like a figure rising from a painting.

When Liam chanted the final words of the spell — the thirteenth repetition — her face came alive. Her eyes opened. She breathed. Her body shifted and unfolded, becoming three-dimensional.

The tree shivered, as if exhaling.

Charlotte stepped down to the ground.

She stood before Liam, naked, real, alive — and unspeakably beautiful.

They looked at each other for a long moment, unsure who should move first.

Liam did. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.

She whispered softly, “Thank you… for bringing me back.”

In the next instant, Liam’s vision darkened. He staggered, clutching his chest. His skin cracked and curled like burning paper. His veins burst.

His flesh shriveled like a collapsing balloon. He collapsed, gasping, staring into Charlotte’s endless eyes.

Charlotte watched him die. Without fear. Without sorrow.

She knew. She had always known what the tree would demand in return for life.

She could not change it. Could not stop it. Some things are simply inevitable.

When the first sliver of sunlight appeared on the horizon, new leaves grew on the tree.

And among them — a face. Liam’s face. Frozen in a silent scream.

Charlotte turned and walked into the forest.

She was starving. But the hunger wasn’t hers. It belonged to the tree.

She knew the truth now. If she wanted to stay alive, she had to feed it. Water its roots with fresh blood. Human blood. Every full moon.

If she didn’t — the tree would drink her dry.

Charlotte didn’t want to kill anyone. But ending her life after escaping the void was more than she could bear.

There was no choice. She had to begin.

The first time was the hardest. A young traveler had lost his way. She met him on a country road at night, acting like a girl who’d lost her way too.

He was kind. Gave her his coat, his flashlight. He laughed. Talked about cities, music, the future.

She slit his throat with a shard of mirror while he was still smiling. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to say something. She didn’t listen, she collected his blood in a pitcher.

The earth drank it with a hiss.

The faces on the tree twitched — almost in pleasure. The roots pulsed. The tree swayed, like a woman in a trance. It breathed. And so did she.

It got easier.

Drunks on the roadside. Lonely hitchhikers.

She took their lives. No hesitation, no mess.

Rumors spread through the area — about a dark-eyed young witch wandering the countryside.

But no one caught her. She left no trace.

Sometimes Charlotte sat by the tree and listened to it sing. A chorus of souls locked inside. Among them — Liam’s voice, calling her name. She never answered.

One day, she found a girl. Small, shivering, holding a stuffed bear.

Charlotte couldn’t do it.

She carried the child to the village and left her at someone’s doorstep. She didn’t look back.

No one else crossed her path that night.

At midnight, the tree trembled. Veins of blood streaked the leaves. The faces twisted in pain.

Charlotte’s body began to wither. Her hair turned white. Her skin cracked. Pain and heat burned in her chest.

Then she heard the voice again, from deep within the trunk: “You don’t get to choose. You kill — or you die. This is not a curse. It is a price. Life does not come from nothing. Only from death.”

On the next full moon, she killed an old man.

No feelings. No regret. Quick. Clean. As if she were simply paying off a debt.

That night, she dreamed of the tree opening its bark. Inside sat something dark and trembling — with her face. Younger than the one she wore now.

It looked at her and wept bloody tears.

She woke up and went to the tree. Hugged its trunk. Pressed her forehead to the bark.

“How much longer?” she whispered.

The faces were silent.

Only one voice, deep within, replied: “Until the next one comes.”

Charlotte lived in silence. The silence between the heartbeats of those she killed. Between her own breaths. Between days. Between months.

She didn’t feel time. Only the hunger of the tree. As if it were her own.

Then one day, he appeared. His name was Dane. A wanderer. A writer. With ash-colored beard and kind eyes. He photographed abandoned places. Searched for lost meanings, for symbols, for the mystical.

He saw her by the road, standing among wet pine trees in a long coat, her gaze distant.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

“No one is from around here,” Charlotte replied.

He smiled. Said it had been a long time since he met someone who looked inward, not just forward.

He offered her coffee.

She said yes.

She didn’t know why she didn’t kill him that night.

He stayed a couple of days. Then a week.

They lived in an old abandoned house in the village. He patched the roof, lit fires in the hearth, read her poetry. He asked about her past, and she made up stories.

Sometimes, she almost forgot about the tree. About what she had become. She wanted to forget. To start over.

But when the moon turned full, the roots clawed their way from the earth. The faces on the tree twisted in hunger. Charlotte’s skin cracked. Her breath smelled of decay.

She tried to hide it from Dane. But she couldn’t hide for long. The changes were too obvious.

“Who are you?” he asked one day. “What’s happening to you?”

She didn’t answer.

He waited. He stayed.

The next full moon, Charlotte didn’t kill anyone. She walked to the tree, ready to tell it: no more. She was prepared to die.

The bark split, the roots pulsed, the faces screamed, the tree trembled.

She didn’t know Dane had followed her. He saw everything.

He found an axe in the house and headed towards the tree.

Charlotte saw him — but didn’t stop him.

He held her. Kissed her.

“I’ll set you free,” he said.

Then he turned to the tree and swung the axe. Once. Twice. Again.

The tree howled. The faces began to fade.

One final strike — and the tree fell.

Its life drained, the bark cracked. The branches bled black smoke.

And Charlotte… began to disappear. She didn’t fight it. She just held Dane’s hand.

He didn’t know. Didn’t realize, that she and the tree were one. And when he finally understood — it was too late.

Moments later, it was over.

All that remained was the dead tree — and a silhouette of ash on the ground.

That night the witch came. She held a human skull.

From the fallen branches, she picked a single black seed, placed it inside the skull, and buried it in the earth.

Snake Bertha smiled.

The Night Choir

It all began in late October, just as the leaves turned the color of dying flames.

Every night, around three a.m., a strange sound drifted from the forest that stretched beyond the small town of Everfield, on the edge of Ash Fern National Park. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t animals. Not even the distant hum of trucks on the highway.

It was singing. Children’s voices. Dozens of them.

They sang lullabies in tones and shades unknown to the earthly world, as if the melodies had been born somewhere in the depths of the underworld. The singing was always soft. But everyone heard it — even the deaf. It could be felt through the body, like a vibration in the air. And once you heard it, you never forgot. The melody clung to your bones.

At first, it was simply strange. Nothing more. No one, except the curious teenagers sneaking through the woods, made any effort to find the source of the singing.

But then, one night, the choir spoke a name.

“Deborah.”

Quiet. Clear. As if spoken from the very earth itself.

The next day, Deborah Klein, a 37-year-old librarian, died while tying her shoelaces. The doctors said it was a brain aneurysm. A tragic coincidence.

The following night, the choir sang another name.

“Matthew.”

And twenty-four hours later, Matthew Finch, a former school bus driver, collapsed in the supermarket parking lot. Blood poured from his eyes.

By the end of the week, the choir had sung four more names. And four more were dead.

Young. Old. Healthy. Sick. It made no difference.

The police didn’t know what to do. Neither did the mayor. Even the priest was silent.State authorities were called in. Scientists arrived, sound specialists, even a pair of paranormal investigators from New Mexico.

They set up microphones all throughout the forest.

Nothing. The recordings captured only silence.

But the people could still hear the choir. And the choir kept singing names. And the people kept dying.

The first to flee the town were those with enough money to buy a house elsewhere. They packed their suitcases, hurriedly loading their families into cars, never slowing down for a single stop sign, as if the devil himself were chasing them.

One of them — Katherine Beale — heard her name after she had already reached her sister’s house in in Georgia. She died in the bathroom mirror, fingers digging into her throat, mouth frozen mid-scream.

That’s when the townsfolk understood. It didn’t matter where you went. Everyone who had lived in Everfield was already marked. There was no escaping fate.

Fear spread like mold. Unstoppable.

The church held nightly vigils. Candles. Latin prayers. Trembling fingers locked in circles.

At the same time, residents began leaving offerings in the forest: small gifts. Toys, berries, old dolls. Some even whispered into the trees, begging.

Children were kept home from school. The streets emptied after sunset. The town had changed. Even the animals avoided the woods. Birds stopped nesting near the edge. Coyotes refused to howl.

And every night, at exactly 3:00 AM, those voices returned. Soft. Childlike. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes giggling. But always singing. And always — a new name.

***

One evening, as the red sun sank behind the hills, a black car drove into Everfield.

It was an old vehicle, but well-kept. Its windows were tinted dark, and the engine made almost no sound.

It parked in front of the abandoned motel at the edge of town.

From it stepped a man. Tall. Thin. Clad in a long, dark-gray robe that looked older than any fashion. His eyes were a strange pale green, and when he spoke, it felt as though the words didn’t come from his mouth — but from somewhere far, far deeper.

He introduced himself simply: Azem. No last name. No credentials.

“I am not a priest,” he said. “I am not a scientist. I am… a Listener.”

The mayor didn’t want to let him speak. But the people insisted. They had tried everything else.

That night, in the old school gymnasium, under flickering fluorescent lights, the town gathered to listen.

Azem stood not on the stage, not behind a podium — simply among them.

He spoke slowly, almost reverently.

“I have heard this song before,” he said. “A long time ago. In another place. Another land.”

The crowd leaned forward, barely daring to breathe.

“This is not a haunting,” Azem continued. “It is a reminder. A voice rising from the roots of what has been forgotten.”

Someone stood up. The physics teacher.

“You mean it’s… alive?”

Azem nodded.

“It’s very old. Very patient. It sings through the mouths of the unborn. And it marks those who owe.”

“Owe what?” someone asked.

Azem paused for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“Balance. Long ago, a promise was made. And broken. This land belonged to others once — before roads, before fences, before these trees we see now.”

The silence in the room grew heavier than stone.

“You’re talking about a curse,” the mayor said bitterly.

Azem looked him in the eye.

“No,” he said. “I speak of a deity. A goddess. A devourer of souls. And she… is waking.”

***

Among the crowd of villagers was a girl named Isobel Green. Seventeen. Quiet. The kind of girl who smiled with her eyes more often than her lips.

She lived with her parents in a yellow house near the edge of Everfield, only a few streets away from the dark line of trees. Her father worked as a mechanic. Her mother taught piano lessons from their living room.

Isobel had a boyfriend — Caleb Wren. Tall. Soft-spoken. He always smelled faintly of cedar and ink.

They had been together for two years. Everyone said they were inseparable.

But lately, even Caleb couldn’t make her smile.

Because two nights ago, the choir had sung her mother’s name. And the night after — that of her father.

Both now lay cold in the town morgue, their faces frozen in the same expression: confusion… and emptiness.

Isobel hadn’t cried. Hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t torn at her hair like others did. She had simply listened. To the trees. To the silence. And to Azem.

The townsfolk gathered more and more often around the mystic.

He spoke rarely. But when he did, his words came slowly, as if rising from the depths of a very old, very deep well.

He told them of a forgotten tribe that once lived in these forests, long before the settlers arrived. Of a people who worshiped Humauatl — the goddess with the face of a woman and the tongue of a serpent, who was never satisfied.

“She was fed,” Azem said. “Once a year, in the, a child was brought to her — pure, untouched. And in return, the forest remained silent.”

“But the worship ended,” he continued. “The tribe was wiped out. Missionaries. Soldiers. Disease. The cave was sealed. And Humaquatl slept.”

He lifted his eyes — pale, like milk diluted with water. His gaze swept across the room.

“Until now.”

A long, strained silence hung in the air.

At last, someone asked: “What does she want?”

Azem answered at once.

“A gift. A life freely given. One that fulfills the ancient terms. Young. Pure. Untouched. In other words — a virgin.”

The silence turned to horror.

“No one would agree to that,” someone muttered.

“There is no Humauatl,” someone else shouted. “This is madness!”

But deep down, everyone felt that Azem was telling the truth. The choir convinced everyone.

The next evening, Isobel came to Azem. Alone. He was waiting for her behind the old church, standing within a circle of scorched leaves.

“I’ll do it,” she said simply.

He turned slowly, as if he had already known.

“You understand what it means?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I have no one left. Caleb will move on. I’m not afraid of dying. But I am terrified… of hearing his name in that song.”

Azem closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked older than time itself.

“Then come with me,” he whispered.

***

Azem led Isobel deep into the woods.

Past paths long overgrown. Past trees whose bark bore ancient, unknowable symbols. Past stones that vibrated faintly under bare fingers.

At last, they reached the mouth of a cave — a low, black gash at the foot of a moss-choked hill.

“The tribe called it The Thirsting Mouth,” Azem said. “No flame can burn inside. Only blood.”

He lit a single lamp. Its flame burned blue.

Inside, the walls were smooth. Wet. Veined with faintly pulsing lines, like the veins of some vast, sleeping beast. The air smelled of iron… and something sweeter — rotting flowers.

They walked through narrow tunnels, ever deeper, until they entered a vast underground grotto.

And there she stood. Humaquatl.

The statue was immense — twice the height of a man. A woman’s figure, carved from stone darker than midnight, crouched over an altar. Her face was calm. But where her mouth should have been, there protruded a tongue of polished obsidian — long and flat like a sacrificial blade. And at the very tip hung a single drop of blood. Trembling. Waiting.

“Once a year — during the three days following the full moon,” Azem whispered, “such drops are born. Today is one of those days. If the drop falls and finds no victim, Humauatl grows hungry. And then she begins to sing. She sings for an entire year, until the next drop is born. She sings, taking lives, calling names. But if the drop falls upon a victim, Humauatl is appeased — and falls silent.”

Isobel stepped forward.

She took off her shoes. Her coat. She lay upon the altar, folding her hands over her chest. Her lips moved, but Azem could not hear her words.

A prayer. A farewell. Maybe both. The cave held its breath.

And then… the drop fell.

In that very moment, Isobel died. Without a scream. Without a sound. She simply never finished her last breath. Her eyes remained open. Staring — not at the goddess, but through her.

Azem bowed low.

***

And that night, the forest was silent. In the morning, the town awoke to quiet. No voices. No names. Only the wind.

For the first time in many weeks, people stepped out of their homes. The forest was no longer watching. The children laughed again.

Caleb learned everything when it was already too late. He vowed to take revenge on the one who had taken the life of his beloved.

He brought fire. He brought an axe.

When he saw the statue, a mad rage consumed him. He screamed. Until his voice broke.

Then he rushed forward. He struck the statue with the axe. Again. And again. He hurled the axe at the goddess’s head, tried to shatter her tongue. Tried to undo death.

The last thing Caleb saw was a second drop of blood rolling down Humauatl’s tongue. It fell… right onto him.

A second later, he fell dead. Mouth open. Eyes wide. His skin pale as chalk.

The choir vanished. Azem was gone too.

A plaque was hung on the school wall in memory of Isobel. People spoke of her in whispers. They called her the Savior.

Fear faded. Laughter returned to the homes. Children were born.

And a year later, somewhere far away… in another quiet town… the trees began to hum a low, sweet lullaby. In children’s voices. And one night, exactly at 3:00 a.m., another name was called.

They Wanted to Die Beautifully

At the edge of the world, far from the eyes of civilization, in a desolate coastal land hemmed by black cliffs, stood a castle. Majestic, ancient, as if grown from the earth itself, it towered over the sea, guarding its dark secret.

Here lived Count Alberto — a man whose name appeared in no registry, whose blood was as old as the stones beneath his feet.

His castle was the last stop for those who no longer wished to live. His services were known only to those who sought not merely death, but a beautiful death — a ceremonial departure, steeped in theatrical grandeur.

Clients paid outrageous sums to die exactly as they dreamed: some in the passionate embrace of a young lover, others at a royal ball before their beheading, or amidst roaring flames and the solemn chant of monks.

Count Alberto promised to fulfill even the most extravagant desires of those determined to leave this world.

Everyone had their reasons: some suffered from incurable illness; others, marked by a mafia sentence, sought to control their own end; some were simply weary of life, disappointed, disillusioned. And perhaps a few were simply mad.

The Count didn’t care. He was simply fulfilling their wish – their wish to die.

***

One evening, as the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the sea glowed with copper fire, a sleek car pulled up to the castle gates.

Out stepped Madame Letitia.

She wore a long silk cloak trimmed with fur, dark sunglasses shielding her eyes even as night descended. Between her fingers — a slender, elegant cigarette holder.

She gazed up at the castle and smiled. It was exactly as she had envisioned it in her dreams.

Count Alberto greeted her. Tall. Thin. Clad in a long black cloak.

His face seemed carved from stone. And in his eyes — dark, endless depths.

He gave a slight bow.

“Madame Letitia,” he said quietly. “You’ve arrived.”

“Yes, Count,” she replied calmly. “And I hope… not too late.”

She extended her hand, and he brushed his lips lightly across her fingers.

“Allow me to escort you.”

The castle welcomed them with the whispers of ancient tapestries, the creak of old floorboards, the crackle of fire in the hearth.

In the hall stood statues — pale, faceless, gazing inward, trapped in eternal thought.

Portraits hung along the walls — faces long unclaimed by the living.

The Count led Madame Letitia to a small sitting room, where a decanter of wine awaited on a table — deep, ruby-red, like liquid velvet, like blood.

He filled their glasses.

She slipped off her cloak.

Beneath it, a dark gown with a plunging neckline. Her neck shimmered, pearly and smooth.

“Are you certain?” the Count asked, looking her straight in the eye.

“I’m tired,” Letitia said, sipping the wine. “Life has grown heavy… like this night. I’ve lived too many lives in one. I’m tired of wearing masks, tired of playing roles.”

She turned toward the fire.

“I want… to die beautifully.”

“Beautifully?” he asked softly.

“Yes. I want my death… to be a performance.”

The Count nodded.

“Tell me more.”

Letitia leaned back in the chair, exhaling smoke.

“I dream of it… like in old romances. A young lover’s embrace. Together we dissolve into the night. And as dawn breaks… he strangles me in my sleep.”

She smiled faintly.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The Count inclined his head.

“Very beautiful.”

“I want to die like an actress on stage. Believing, until the end, that it’s all just a game. That my final role is… my best.”

Her gaze held his.

In her eyes — a tiredness, the weariness of a doll who knows she will never be played with again.

“I can arrange it,” the Count said, rising. “Allow me… to introduce those who will fulfill your desire.”

He clapped his hands.

A door opened.

Four young men entered. Tall. Handsome.

Dressed in sleek black silk shirts. Their movements graceful, their faces still.

They stood before Letitia, their gazes fixed ahead.

“These are my… actors,” the Count said, a thin smile curving his lips.

Letitia stood. Stepped closer. Her gaze moved slowly over them.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

She traced a finger along the cheek of one.

“This one,” she pointed to the youngest. “I want him to lead me into my final night.”

The young man gave a slight bow.

The Count nodded quietly.

“Everything shall be as you wish, madame.”

He gestured.

The young man extended his hand. Letitia placed hers in his. Her fingers trembled.

“Take madame to her chamber,” the Count said softly.

And as they disappeared through the doorway, the Count poured himself a glass of wine.

He lifted it.

“To beauty,” he whispered. “Which… always ends the same.”

***

The next day, Madame Letitia made her decision and informed the Count.

“Everything is prepared, madame,” said the Count, his voice calm and final, as he summoned the executor.

The young man arrived.

He was bare-chested, his muscular body gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Madame Letitia felt her pulse quicken, desire rising in her like a forgotten flame.

“Please,” the young man said, gesturing toward the door of the chamber.

Madame Letitia followed him, walking along a corridor lined with rich carpets.

Candles burned on either side, casting golden light against the stone walls.

Her heart beat wildly — like a young girl on her very first date.

“What’s your name?” she asked, looking up at him with a coy smile.

He turned, smiling gently.

“Call me… whatever you wish, madame. Tonight, I am yours.”

She laughed softly.

“You’re so handsome. I… I feel young again. I’ll call you Luciano.”

“You… are radiant, madame,” he said, gently brushing her cheek. “Tonight… you are a goddess.”

She closed her eyes in delight.

“You know just what to say…”

He whispered compliments as they walked, his words weaving around her like silk, wrapping her in their spell.

Her heart sang. She believed every word.

They reached the door. The young man swung it open.

“Please… after you.”

Inside, dozens of candles glowed. On the bed — silken sheets. Everywhere — rose petals.

In the vases — fresh white lilies.

Madame Letitia stepped inside, both hands pressed to her chest.

“Oh… my God… it’s… beautiful…” she whispered. “Like in my dreams…”

She walked slowly through the room, her fingers tracing the bed’s ornate headboard, pausing to smell the flowers, laughing softly.

“So beautiful… so tender… so perfect…”

She turned to the young man.

“Come to me…”

“Soon, madame…” he said quietly. “But first… I want to show you something. Look… over there.”

She turned her gaze toward the corner of the room.

And in that moment — the hammer came down on the back of her skull. A dull, sickening crack.

Madame Letitia collapsed forward, a puppet with cut strings. Her face landing against the silk.

Blood seeped from her head, blooming across the fabric like a dark rose.

The young man looked down at her, his face now cold, impassive.

“Rotten old fool,” he muttered with disdain.

He spat on her corpse. Turned.

And he went out, closing the door behind him.

In the corridor, the Count awaited him.

“Well? How did it go?” the Count asked, a lazy smirk curling his lips.

The young man shrugged.

“She died happy,” he replied evenly.

The Count laughed. The young man laughed too.

And together they walked away, leaving behind the corridors, where the walls wept, and the portraits whispered.

Madame Letitia’s body was carried out the back entrance.

Two silent young men, their faces pale and still as plaster masks, wrapped her carefully in an old, worn sheet.

Blood seeped through in patches, a macabre map spreading across the fabric.

They descended the spiral staircase beneath the castle.

There lay the catacombs. They began with a narrow corridor, smelling of damp and mold, and then opened into a chamber filled with piles of bodies. Men, women. Young and old.

Some still wore rings on their fingers. Some dressed in fine gowns. Others in plain robes.

But all of them — equally discarded.

The young men approached the heap.

Without ceremony, without a word, they threw Madame Letitia’s body atop the others.

Her body landed with a wet thud, slipping slightly down, coming to rest against a half-rotted arm,

against a skull grinning with hollow sockets.

One of the young men sneezed, waving away the stench.

“Rotten old fool,” he repeated with a smirk.

And together they left, leaving her there — among the others, among all those who had dreamed of a beautiful death.

***

The Count stood at the window, gazing out at the endless sea.

The wind howled against the glass. The embers crackled softly in the fireplace.

He held a glass of wine.

A faint, weary smile played at the corners of his lips. He was thinking.

“How ridiculous they are… All of them, the ones who come to me… Each dreaming of a beautiful death. A cinematic finale. As if their dull, miserable, meaningless lives could end in some grand spectacle.”

He took a sip.

“But why? What does a beautiful death change? What does it leave behind? You dream of a ballroom? Of love? Of one final kiss? Fools. Death has no stage. Death is nothing but the final period.”

He turned toward the hall.

Candle shadows slithered across the portraits.

“They pay me for a lie,” the Count said aloud. “I give them that lie. They pay for a dream. I sell them the dream. But they all die the same.”

He smiled faintly.

“And it doesn’t matter who I kill… they wanted it. I am only the executor.”

He walked to a large armchair. Sat down. Closed his eyes.

And in that silence — among the bitterness of wine and the scent of smoke — he felt righteous.

“I am more honest than any of them. Because I know: death is never beautiful.”

***

And then, one day — she arrived. A girl named Amelia.

Her beauty was almost perfect.

There was a depth in her eyes — a bottomless knowing — as if she had already seen death… and chosen it.

She didn’t haggle over the price.

She said only: “I want to be beheaded. On a scaffold. Like a queen.”

The Count was stunned.

Her features looked carved from the same marble as the statue in his hall.

Amelia seemed shaped in the image of his long-dead wife — the only woman he had ever truly loved.

Yes…

Once, Alberto had not been the cold, indifferent monster he now was.

Amelia became an obsession.

He couldn’t kill her. He locked her in the highest tower, where the windows opened to the endless sea.

He brought her wine. He tried to reason with her.

She said nothing. Day after day, she was silent.

But the ghosts of his past victims began to return — not in dreams this time, but in mirrors.

They whispered without mouths, stared without eyes, left footprints on the floor.

One night, he heard footsteps behind him — and saw his wife.

She said: “You can still become human again.”

He understood then: if he killed Amelia, he would destroy the last flicker of light left in him.

“But what would I do with that light?” he thought. “It’s far too late to change anything.”

And so — he made his decision. He would do it himself.

That night, the Count climbed the stairs to the tower.

The moon hung high, a silent witness. The wind battered the windows, moaning like a warning.

Amelia stood at the window, dressed in white — simple, light fabric swaying gently around her.

Her hair shimmered silver in the moonlight. She turned to him, and her gaze was calm.

“Are you calling me, Count?” she asked softly.

He nodded silently. She smiled.

“At last… I’ve been waiting.”

He held out his hand.

She placed hers in his. Her fingers were cold — like marble.

They descended to the great hall.

The scaffold awaited.

The candles threw blood-colored light across the stones. The shadows trembled like living things.

Amelia approached it. Kneeling slowly, she lifted her eyes.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“And so am I,” replied the Count.

He raised the sword.

The blade caught the flame’s glint.

No hesitation. No remorse.

He brought the sword down on the girl’s neck. A muffled thud.

Amelia’s head rolled across the floor, coming to rest at the foot of a pillar.

Her eyes were closed.

The Count remained standing, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the sword.

He stared for a long time at the body, at the blood spreading across the stone.

“So this is it. No more of her. No more beauty. No more silence. No more… meaning.”

He turned. Walked away — slowly, heavily.

His footsteps echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, hollow and distant.

He climbed to the upper hall — where, beneath the great dome, stood the statue of his wife.

That same statue. White. Immaculate.

With a face that once looked upon him with love… and now stared into nothing.

He stepped close. Placed his hand on the cold marble.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

And he brought the sword down.

First the shoulder broke. Then a crack traced across the neck.

Then the whole statue collapsed, shattering into pieces, splintering under the weight of centuries of grief.

Dust rose into the air. Marble crunched beneath his feet.

The Count let the sword fall. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in many years, he felt emptiness.

Total.

Pure.

Absolute.

Without memory.

Without hope.

Without beauty.

And without forgiveness.

The Silence Keeper

Kernville. A small, neat, quiet, peaceful town. Very peaceful. Very quiet. At least, it had been recently.

At first, it was just a rumor. Whispers spread across social media that in Kernville, you couldn’t make noise at night. From eleven p.m. to six a.m. Not just discouraged — strictly forbidden.

Yet no one officially banned it. No one handed out fines for breaking the silence.

It was just that by morning, anyone who broke it was found dead. With bloody foam at their mouth.

The first was a drunk from the outskirts. He was yelling songs in his backyard at two in the morning. By dawn, they found him on the lawn outside his house. A stiff, lifeless corpse.

Then the dogs died. All of them. In one night. Their fatal flaw: the bad habit of barking themselves hoarse at anything and everything.

The cats remained. But they began to move silently. They were wiser than the dogs — they understood what was happening.

Next to depart this world was a group of teenagers who threw a loud party after 11 p.m. By the time the police arrived, they were all already dead.

One night, the town lost power. An emergency generator kicked on, humming loudly into the silence.

It lasted five minutes before bursting into flames, taking the whole substation with it.

Later, the garbage truck that used to rattle down the streets before six A.M. — its engine exploded without warning, ripping the driver apart.

The rooster’s crow at sunrise, the birdsong that used to fill the morning — all gone. No more birds, no more roosters. Even the flies and mosquitoes seemed to have fallen mute.

The town fell silent. From 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. — completely.

The residents quickly adjusted to the new rules, and those who refused to adapt met bad ends.

There were some who came to love the silence. They had never truly experienced it, always surrounded by the constant noise of life, but when it arrived, they realized what a pleasure it was.

They began to sleep better, learned to meditate, to explore their inner world.

The most zealous defenders of silence burned down the music school, prayed silently in church, and taught their children to speak softly — almost in whispers.

Silence became the town’s ultimate law.

No one knew exactly how it started. But a few had their theories.

They whispered it had something to do with him —the stranger who had recently arrived. The one they called “Lurch,” like the butler from The Addams Family.

Tall. Gaunt. A face like a wax mask.

He dressed like a man from another century —long black coat. Gloves. Wide-brimmed hat.

He had bought the old mansion on the hill. It had sat empty since the seventies. The owners had asked an absurd price no one would pay. But he did. Without negotiating.

He never attended any town events. No games at the stadium. No films at the cinema. No coffee shops. The only time people saw him was in the tobacco store, buying the most expensive cigars. And he never spoke a word.

Then came the pink stickers: on the corners, in buses, on school doors.

Just three words: “Thank You for the Silence.”

The police tried to find out who was plastering them everywhere. But they found nothing. As if the wind itself had put them up.

Eventually, people started leaving. The ones who feared the silence. The ones who hated it.

***

Alexander arrived in Kernville in June, all the way from Russia. He had come to spend a month visiting his aunt.

Kernville greeted him with the scent of sun-warmed pine and the soft whisper of wind in the treetops. The little town was tucked deep in greenery, where red brick houses peeked out from behind towering spruces like forgotten pages of an old novel.

Aunt Martha — a plump, kind woman with laugh lines around her eyes — lived in a modest house on the outskirts. Whitewashed walls. A porch draped in climbing vines. An old swing creaking gently under the weight of the summer breeze.

As soon as Alexander stepped out of the car, the silence wrapped around him. Not dead silence — but living. Full of trembling, the breath of grass, the whisper of invisible wings.

He smiled and said: “It’s so quiet here…”

Aunt Martha wasted no time in warning him about everything.

“I envy you,” Alexander said after listening carefully.

“Envy me?” Aunt Martha looked at him, surprised.

“Yes, Auntie. Back home, my father and I live in the suburbs. It’s basically a rural area with private houses. I’m sick of waking up to barking dogs and falling asleep to prison songs blaring from my neighbor’s windows. It feels like I’m living behind barbed wire, not in freedom.”

“I understand,” she said warmly. “Then you’ll rest well here.”

“I’m sure of it.”

She invited him onto the porch.

Over a steaming cup of mint tea, Alexander asked:

“Is there anything beautiful around here? Anywhere I should go?”

Aunt Martha brightened immediately.

“Oh, we have wonderful places!” she said. “Just past the northern trail, there’s a little waterfall. It’s lively, especially after the rains. A bit farther on, there’s an old forest lake the locals call it Swan Lake. There used to be a whole flock of swans there. They’re gone now, but the place is still beautiful. And there’s also the ancient spruce grove, trees two hundred years old, they say.”

Her voice was warm, like a soft blanket on the shoulders.

Alexander listened, gazing at the sunset sky where clouds drifted lazily in the golden light.

“I’ll head out tomorrow morning,” he decided.

He woke early.

Mist still lay across the ground like a thin silver veil. The air smelled of moss and rainwater.

Alexander pulled on his boots, grabbed a thermos of tea, and set out along the trail behind the house.

The branches of the old spruces wove so tightly overhead that it felt like walking through a green cathedral. The soft carpet of fallen needles muffled his footsteps, and Alexander seemed to drift along in the endless green silence.

Birds chirped far above, where ribbons of sunlight slipped through the branches. Every now and then a squirrel flashed by, a streak of rusty red.

Somewhere ahead he heard the faint sound of running water, and his heart stirred with excitement — the waterfall.

It turned out to be small but charming. The water spilled over a stone ledge, breaking into a thousand sparkling droplets. Tiny rainbows danced in the misty air.

Alexander sat on a boulder, breathing in the cool, damp air. The sound of the water caressed his ears like a gentle hand.

He moved on.

The path narrowed. The grass grew taller. Ferns rose waist-high. The forest seemed to breathe around him.

Somewhere a grasshopper chirred. A dark bird darted through the trees.

Finally, he reached the lake. It stretched out in a deep bowl between low hills. The water was black as obsidian, reflecting clouds and the bowed trunks of trees leaning over the surface. The air smelled sweet with reeds, mixed with the sharpness of wet algae.

And the silence — it was deeper here. Too complete.

That’s when he saw him. The one the townsfolk had nicknamed “Lurch.” He sat alone on a stone by the water, as still as a carved statue.

Alexander approached cautiously.

“Hello,” he said in a near whisper.

The man didn’t react. He sat perfectly still.

Alexander was certain he’d been heard. But he didn’t dare repeat himself. He simply stood there awkwardly, ready to turn and leave.

“Morcant,” the man said suddenly, his voice deep and echoing like a sound from an underground cavern.

“What? Excuse me?” Alexander stammered.

“My name is Morcant,” the man turned his head, and Alexander met his gaze.

Those eyes — piercing and calm — radiated such power and certainty that Alexander felt a chill run down his spine.

“Alexander,” he barely managed to say.

“You don’t like dogs, do you?” Morcant asked with a cold smile.

“How do you know?” Alexander whispered.

“Let’s just call it a guess.”

“You’re right. I don’t like dogs, or their brainless owners.”

“I dislike them too,” Morcant said calmly.

“So they deserve to die?” Alexander asked.

“You’re quick,” Morcant said.

“Just a guess,” Alexander said, finding a little courage.

“We’ve been introduced,” Morcant said. “Now go. Come to my house tomorrow at noon.”

Alexander was taken aback by such bluntness.

“I’ll come,” he said after a pause.

“Of course you will,” Morcant finished, and turned his gaze back to the smooth, black surface of the lake.

***

Alexander walked along a narrow, moss-covered path until the house of Morcant loomed before him.

From the outside, it looked like a cross between an abandoned manor and a forgotten monastery. Dark stone walls, overgrown with creeping ivy, rose up against the sky. Narrow windows, framed in gothic ironwork, were sealed with old, clouded glass. The entire structure seemed to have sunken into the earth, as if centuries themselves were holding it together through the sheer weight of oblivion.

A heavy oak door swung open without a sound. Inside, it was dark and cool. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something else — sharp and alien. The walls were covered in ancient tapestries, so faded that only vague silhouettes could be seen — figures pressing lips to closed mouths in gestures of silence.

The floors were layered with worn carpets, their intricate patterns whispering of forgotten symbols. Above, a massive iron chandelier hung motionless, unlit. Only a few scattered lanterns flickered weakly, casting pools of dim yellow light.

Morcant stood by the fireplace, tall and gaunt, his sharp features framed by the folds of a long dark cloak. He looked as if he had been born within these walls and had never left.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice deep and velvety.

He motioned toward a small table already set with two glasses and a heavy bottle of wine.

“A rare vintage,” Morcant said as he poured a thick, almost black liquid into their glasses. “Over two hundred years old. Aged in silence, deep beneath the earth, soaking in the wisdom of stillness.”

Alexander took a glass. The wine’s aroma was like a dream trapped for centuries — rich, dense, intoxicating.

“I have been waiting for someone like you, Alexander,” Morcant said, locking eyes with him. “You are a man who can hear the silence. That makes you worthy to serve it. It is a rare honor.”

He paused, letting the words settle, heavy as rain.

“I offer you a place at my side — as my disciple, my successor. In return, I will grant you power. The ability to shape a new order. Mastery over sound, over fear, over life itself.”

Alexander tightened his grip around his glass.

“Silence will be the law,” Morgant continued. “And you will become its keeper. First in your own town. Then across all of Russia. Until the whole world bows before Silence.”