House of Horror Part II

Chapter 3 Before We Knock

The Damour's Cry

The darkness of night enveloped the city like a suffocating shroud, swallowing every glimmer of light and silencing every sound—except for the whispered breath of the wind weaving through the trees.

Outside the chalet stood the tall, imposing Damour, the very embodiment of the night's dominion. His eyes glowed a deep crimson, his face stripped of any discernible features, his chest rising and falling with the quiet rhythm of a predator awaiting its prey.

He raised his hand toward the sky, as if proclaiming the beginning of a blood ritual, then let it fall slowly—and the air itself seemed to tremble, as if the night had bowed to his command.

Inside, Magda sat before a busy table, her hands moving swiftly over the plaster molds, crafting new masks with anxious precision.

Beside her stood Lara, helping her tie the strings and polish the edges, her eyes darting nervously toward the door every few seconds, as if she sensed something unseen pressing closer from the outside. In Malik's locked room, the darkness was heavier than air.

The murdered bodies lay scattered across the floor—some stiff and pale, others still faintly warm—their wounds bleeding slow streams of blood that glistened in the dim light. Then suddenly, the blood began to stir, slipping from the bodies in thin red threads, drawn by an invisible force.

The convulsing bodies didn't move—one arm raised, another leg twitching upwards—not with life, but with something dark that was puppetry from within the shadows.

Outside, Damour stirred a strange, transparent goblet that shimmered faintly with a crimson mist.

Gradually, blood filled the glass—siphoned through the air from within the chalet itself, as if the walls themselves were bleeding toward him.

When the goblet was blessed with the essence of life, Damour raised it to his enormous mouth and drained it in one savage gulp. A roar erupted from the depths—a sound so painless it split the night, shaking the earth and rattling the chalet's windows in their frames.

Inside, Magda froze. The mask slipped from her trembling hands, crashing to the floor along with her tools. The table shook.

Lara's face paled as she gasped, her voice breaking:

"What the hell is going on?"

They exchanged a terrified glance.

Cautiously, hesitantly, they approached the door—each step screaming like a shriek from the wooden floorboards.

Magda reached out with a trembling hand and opened the door.

A blast of cold air rushed in, carrying with it the metallic smell of blood and smoke.

At first, they saw only the headlights of Malik's car pulling into a stop in front of the chalet.

The doors were open. Malik got out, closely followed by Daniel, Rovan, and Dima—their faces grim, their eyes scanning the darkness for the source of that bone-chilling scream. Magda and Lara stepped aside to let them in.

The four entered silently, and Rovan closed the door behind them—sealing the night, and whatever horror it held, inside with them.

Faces Behind Masks

Silence enveloped the room like a heavy curtain, muffling even their breathing. The air was thick with an eerie tension, a sharp hum of unease that seemed to echo between the walls.

The whole city was buzzing with talk of Murad al-Amri's mysterious murder in prison, and of the minister who had been dismissed under suspicious circumstances just months after his appointment. In the midst of that uneasy night, Malik and his companions sat inside the chalet, holding a private meeting behind closed doors as the wind whipped against the windows—as if to remind them that the outside world was no longer safe.

Malik sat in the center of the room on a slightly reclined wooden chair, his back straight, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade.

Beside him sat Daniel, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen glowing before them.

Across from them sat Rovan and Dima, their faces hidden behind vivid, unsettling masks. On the contrary, Magda and Lara exchanged anxious glances, as if they knew that whatever Malik was about to say could change their destinies entirely.

Malik spoke in a deliberately low voice that carried the weight of command:

"After a full week of surveillance of the minister's villa, it seems the best way forward is to impersonate regular visitors. It won't arouse suspicion, and it will open the door for us from within."

He turned to Magda, his eyes steady, his voice firm:

"Have you finished making all the masks for the people who visit the villa?"

Magda nodded, her confidence barely masking the exhaustion etched on her face.

"Yes, Malik. I made them all... and prepared every detail—the wigs, the colored contact lenses, even the clothes to match theirs. Lara and I cleaned and arranged everything."

A faint smile curved Malik's lips, almost imperceptible. "Well done. It's almost time. Today's Saturday—almost five in the morning. We have a few hours left before the real show begins. Let's take off our masks for a while... and enjoy what's left of the quiet night."

Rovanne gave a tired smile, raising her hands to her face.

"I missed my real face."

Malik's gaze sharpened, cutting through her words like a scalpel.

"No, Rovanne... you missed your old vulnerability."

She hesitated, then slowly peeled off the mask. Her real face appeared—beautiful but burdened with invisible scars. She looked up at him and said quietly, almost defiantly,

"Would you like a glass of champagne with me?"

An uneasy silence filled the room, followed by the soft tugging of masks being removed one by one. The group exchanged brief glances—worn faces, broken eyes, and strained, hollow laughter.

Daniel unscrewed a bottle of liquor; The drink was poured into their glasses in a slow, deliberate, thick, red stream in the dim light—like the danger itself taking shape. They raised their glasses in silence—not in celebration, but in quiet resignation.

Soft music drifted from a small speaker in the corner. A lamp shone through the discarded masks on the table—faces waiting to be reborn.

And in that final moment of Saturday night… they drank, wordless and heavy-hearted, as the curtain slowly fell on a scene where humans hid behind masks—and no one could tell who was real… and who was just another face of the coming horror.