The House of Horror

Chapter 27 _ Miranda Played A Major Role

A profound morning silence pervades the villa, bathed in sunlight filtering through the high window curtains. The marble floor gleams like a mirror, reflecting the shadow of the wide wooden banister that stretches from the upper floor to the reception hall.

From the top of the stairs, Hussein appears, descending with steady, deliberate steps. He wears a crisp white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hand rolls along the banister as if testing its strength. He breathes calmly, yet beneath his composed demeanor lies a hint of anxiety.

At the bottom of the stairs, Miranda stands in the living room. Her lithe body leans slightly forward as she wipes the surface of a wide wooden table with a dark cloth. Her movements are precise and repetitive, as if she is repeating the same action dozens of times to avoid getting lost in deeper thoughts. Her hair is tied back carelessly, a few stray strands falling across her forehead. She raises her head abruptly at the sound of Hussein's footsteps. He stops halfway down the stairs, looks up at her, and speaks in a quiet, firm voice, the disciplined manner of a man accustomed to giving orders:

Hussein: Good morning.

She doesn't meet his gaze fully—just a fleeting glance. Her reply is curt:

Miranda: Good morning.

He goes down to the hall. Straightening his collar, he says:

Hussein: I'll be out now… I need to get a carpenter to fix the doors.

Miranda's hand freezes on the table. She presses harder on the fabric before replying in a neutral tone:

Miranda: Please… could you buy me some red candles?

Hussein's eyebrows rise slowly, a mixture of surprise and silent suspicion forming on his face. He turns slightly toward her, his eyes narrowing:

Hussein: How many do you need?

She pauses briefly, then answers with deliberate composure:

Miranda: More red candles… and only four white ones.

Hussein looks at her silently, as if trying to read between the lines. But instead of arguing, he chooses silence. With steady steps, he walked to the main door, grasped its polished bronze handle, and turned the key. The door creaked open slowly, and he stepped out into the front garden, closing it behind him with a soft, muffled click.

Outside, the air carried the fresh scent of pine trees lining the path leading to the grand gate. Birds chirped, but Hussein's expression betrayed no harmony with the tranquility of nature. He approached his black car parked by the small fountain, unlocked the door, and settled behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, shattering the morning's stillness.

He drove slowly toward the gate until he suddenly noticed Ayman, the doorman's son, walking briskly toward the villa. The young man's fresh face glistened with a light puddle of sweat in the sun.

Hussein pulled up beside him. He pressed the button, and the window rolled down smoothly. Leaning slightly to the right, Hussein spoke in a friendly, though somewhat firm, tone:

Hussein: Hello, Ayman… How are you? The boy quickly raised his head, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. "Ayman: I'm fine," he replied modestly.

Hussein gestured toward the seat next to him, his palm open as if offering an irresistible option. "Hussein: Get in... come and sit here."

Ayman froze for a moment, his eyes darting between the gate and the car. Finally, he turned hesitantly, reached for the handle, and opened the door. He slid into the passenger seat, closed the door with a soft sigh, and stared silently ahead.

Hussein smiled faintly as he turned the car back onto the road. The wheels rolled on the asphalt, carrying it away from the high walls of the villa.

—Miranda was playing a big part.

Miranda opened the villa door slowly; it creaked softly, breaking the stillness of the day. She stepped out cautiously, surrounded by a sense of security, as if the fluttering of birds above the garden might betray her presence. The sky was clearing, but her eyes could see only the narrow path leading directly to the guard's room.

She stopped at the threshold, standing motionless like a statue, staring for a few seconds at the wooden bench by the door. It wasn't just any bench; it seemed a silent witness to secrets, clamor, and hidden stories in this place. Her gaze trembled with anxiety and hesitation, as if she were reliving memories of the past.

After a short silence, she gathered her breath and pushed open the door. The small room greeted her, its air thick with an unpleasant, old scent. She quickly rummaged through the tools until she found what she needed. With a steady hand, she pulled out the garden hose, dragging it back to the wooden bench. She secured the end of the hose to the bench, then went to the tap and turned it on. Water gushed out, spraying droplets into the air, as if it were raining out of season.

Her hands moved slowly and steadily. Holding the hose in one hand, she rubbed it with the other, wiping away the bloodstains—not just marks on the wood, but memories etched into its very fabric. Her eyes remained fixed on the stream, unblinking, as if in this weather she were seeking forgiveness.

After a few minutes, she turned abruptly to the tap and turned off the water completely. She hurried back to the guard's room. She bent down to gather the scattered remains of the cassette player—metal and plastic fragments like the remains of a dead body. Her fingers trembled as she picked up each piece, both hasty and nervous. Without hesitation, she approached the narrow window and flung the debris outside. The shattered pieces fell by the great gate, scattered like exposed secrets, and settled on the threshold where passersby tread.

She stopped, breathing heavily, then slowly raised her head. Her eyes swept across the garden, settling on the dark hole that marred the lush green lawn—the grave where the body of Sayed, the doorman, now lay beneath the earth. Miranda's gaze froze, her chest rising and falling erratically. At the edge of the grave, sunlight glinted off the cold steel of the axe and shovel, abandoned as if they had never left the scene of the crime.

Step by step, she moved toward the grave. Her steps were heavy, as if the earth clung to her ankles, refusing to let her go. Yet she reached it, bent down, and reached out. Her palms encircled the axe and shovel; their metal handles bit her skin, bearing not only the weight of iron, but also the burden of memory—darkness, inevitable, unyielding.

She scratched