The House of Horror

Chapter 18 _ Miranda Was A Nun

"This wasn't me, it was the darkness I cast inside." Dima headed towards the bathroom, filled with terror as if somethi

ng were watching her from the shadows, yet her steps were steady and confident. She opened the door hesitantly and entered, carrying Mira. Her heart pounded as she walked towards the balcony overlooking the dark street. As she did so, she released Mira's body, which fell into the middle of the street, where darkness and shadows enveloped everything. The atmosphere in the living room grew heavier, shadows dancing on the walls while dim lights flickered on Malik's face. Dima went back inside and stood before Malik, her eyes glowing with both fear and anger. A heavy silence fell over the room, as if the night itself held its breath, watching them in terrifying silence. Amidst the pervasive terror, Dima looked at Malik's lips and embraced him passionately, and they entered into a complete love affair.

We are still watching you in silence.

Sophia walked slowly down the villa's corridor, her steps heavy and drowsy, towards the bathroom. When she reached it, she opened the bathroom door, and it creaked terrifyingly, its sound echoing throughout the room. She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the door with caution and surprise, then entered, her face still heavy with sleep.

In Hussein and Amal's room, Hussein tried to calm the atmosphere, saying in a low voice,

"Amal, can you be quiet? Sit here. I'll go out for a bit... perhaps Sophia will wake up, or perhaps Malik will return."

As Hussein left the room, the door creaked again, its terrifying sound echoing through the villa. He closed the door behind him, and the terrifying creaking intensified. Silence fell once more, but the tension still hung heavy in the air, as if the shadows themselves were watching them.

Hussein walked quietly down the corridor, each step accompanied by the silence of the night. Suddenly, Sophia emerged from the bathroom and met Hussein in the hallway. With a faint smile, his hands raised to his mouth as if he were yawning, Hussein feigned a need to use the bathroom, trying to deceive Sofia so she wouldn't feel threatened, so fear wouldn't creep into her heart.

Sofia walked slowly toward her room, but stopped abruptly and glanced back, as if she sensed Hussein was hiding something or pretending. She stared at him with piercing eyes, sparkling with intelligence and awareness, as if she had awakened from a mysterious slumber. But now, her gaze was charged with power and terror, capable of striking fear into the heart of anyone who dared approach her.

Hussein didn't dare look at her directly. Sofia turned slowly and continued toward her room. When she opened the door, it emitted the same terrifying creak she had heard before. She entered and closed the door behind her, but the dreadful sound echoed again, as if the place itself were groaning under the weight of the surrounding darkness.

Dima and Malek emerged from the tower's gate, walking with measured, deliberate steps, as if the very ground itself had yielded to their presence. The street in front of the building teemed with both curiosity and death; a crowd of onlookers, police cars, and ambulances lined the scene, while the security team—Ashraf, Shadi, and Mina—stood frozen around the unidentified body, a woman whose beauty still flickered faintly through the shadows.

Malek slid into the car, his eyes unwavering, as if piercing the thick darkness before him. Dima opened the door next to him and sat beside him, her gaze fixed on the body—Mira, the murdered woman. Her eyes glowed with a mysterious, dark fire, like embers beneath the ashes, filling her heart with an irresistible cruelty.

Malek began to drive slowly, every movement calculated, as if they were controlling time itself. The surrounding sounds faded, even the silence felt deafening, and the heavy air pressed against their chests. The bond between Malik and Dima was palpable in every glance, in every movement, as if they were one being, ready to face any approaching darkness. Everything on that street, on that dark night, seemed part of a larger game—a game of death, power, and might, where there was no room for weakness or hesitation. Where bodies were dumped in the middle of the streets.

The villa began painting the walls of a new haunted house.

A heavy morning after a terrifying night.

Morning at that villa was unlike any other.

Even with the sunrise, it couldn't erase the traces of the terror that had filled the house the previous night. Its golden rays timidly peeked through the heavy curtains, as if afraid to intrude upon a place that had witnessed unspeakable psychological horror lurking in the darkness.

Upstairs, the corridor was long and silent, broken only by the creaking of doors—a sound that had become a recurring ominous refrain. Every door groaned as it opened or closed, as if the wood itself were suffocating with some hidden secret. This sound had never been there before, but now it haunted every moment, as if the night had left behind a curse that refused to be broken.

Sophia, the beautiful little girl who had endured more than anyone else, sat on her bed gazing out the window. The sunlight shone in her clear eyes, but it didn't comfort her. She felt the light itself fragile, ready to shatter at any moment before the shadows lurking in the corners.

She rose hesitantly, her small steps treading on the cold floor, her expression a mixture of innocence and anxiety. She reached for the door, and as soon as she opened it, its terrifying creak echoed. She trembled for a moment, then tried to smile to herself, whispering softly,

"It's just a door... just a door."

But the door was anything but just a door... At that very moment, in the next room, Hussein and Amal awoke with a start. They shuddered at the same sound and sat upright, as if they were one. Amal clutched her chest, gasping,

"Oh my God... the same sound!"

Hussein tried to steady himself, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

"Calm down, Amal... we mustn't give in to fear so early. Last night already wore us down."

Amal offered a faint smile, but it was more of a shield than a genuine one. Then she turned to Sophia, who was standing in the doorway, and smiled gently.

"Good morning."

The pleasantries were exchanged, but the trembling in their bodies remained.

Amal decided to get up, exhausted from her restless sleep, eager for fresh air. She walked cautiously down the corridor and stopped at the great staircase.

And there... she saw her.

Miranda.

The new woman in the house—the one they knew nothing about. She moved with quiet grace downstairs, placing dishes on the long dining table. Light fell on her dark skin, making it shine like finely sculpted bronze. Her long black hair, cascading down her back, gave her a sense of poise, while her lithe, balanced figure moved with such fluidity that she looked more like a trained dancer than a chef.

She looked up, her gaze falling directly on Amal from above. In that moment, the vast expanse of the staircase between them seemed not an architectural distance, but a barrier between two worlds. Miranda smiled with quiet confidence, her voice clear as a bell:

"Good morning, ma'am."

Amal hesitated for a moment, then asked, puzzled, raising her eyebrows, "Who...who are you?"

Miranda replied, rearranging the dishes with meticulous care and precision, her smile unwavering, "I'm Miranda...the new cook. Uncle Sid brought me here."

Amal felt a shiver run down her spine, but masked it with a small, forced smile: "Hello, Miranda."

Miranda nodded slightly, then added in a tone of unusual calm and authority, "Breakfast is ready, ma'am. I prepared it just the way you like it."

At that moment, Amal felt a small hand on her shoulder from behind. Startled, she turned to find Sophia standing there, smiling innocently. "Good morning, Auntie," she said. Amal took a slow breath, trying to regain her composure, and managed to reply in a voice as steady as she could:

"Good morning, Sophia."

Amal and Sophia walked down the stairs, one by one, cautiously, with Hussein following a few moments later. The air in the dining room was thick with the aroma of food, but something about the scent felt strange. The strong spices mingled with the warmth of freshly baked bread, but beneath the surface lay something else—a subtle feeling of unfamiliarity, as if the fragrance itself were whispering to them.

They all sat down around the table. Miranda stood for a moment, gazing at them with her wide, dark eyes—eyes that held an unfathomable warmth and depth. Then she sat down at the far end, as if she had always been part of this scene, not as a newcomer, but as someone who had been woven into its fabric long ago.

Amal raised her cup, but couldn't bring herself to drink. Her gaze remained fixed on Miranda, as if she were trying to unravel a mystery that held her captive. Hussein's eyes met, while Sophia gripped her fork nervously, as if afraid she might drop it.

The atmosphere was heavy... heavier than words could bear.

The silence wasn't ordinary; it was thick with unspoken questions.

Who was the real Miranda?

Why had she come here now?

Was this morning the beginning of peace... or the dawn of a greater storm?

The villa itself seemed to be listening, as if its walls held the secrets of the night, watching from hidden corners. And deep down, everyone at that table knew that this morning was just the prelude to a new chapter... a chapter heavy with terror and shadows.

"An extraordinary detective, exceptionally intelligent, but where was the evidence?"

A small room on the ground floor of the prosecutor's office. A harsh fluorescent light poured in from the ceiling, devoid of any warmth. At the long, rectangular table sat the prosecutor, a large screen displaying glowing electronic files before him, his fingers gliding absentmindedly across the touchpad with mechanical precision. Opposite him sat the journalist, Susan. A woman in her thirties, her features a mixture of confidence and defiance. A sleek tablet sat before her, its screen glowing as it recorded every word in sound and image. Her fingers tapped rapidly across the numeric keypad, jotting down notes as quickly as her thoughts.

She suddenly raised her eyes and spoke in a sharp tone, the voice of both journalist and curious reader: "How do you explain this, Mr. Prosecutor?! We're talking about the second gruesome murder in the same tower in just a few months… This isn't a mere coincidence. The method of killing itself possesses a disturbing intelligence, as if the killer leaves a trail of..."