Is this what it feels like to lose your mind?
When my body feels too restless to lie still, I walk over to the window to look outside. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds, and complete darkness looms over the grounds. Everything is utterly silent, not even the wind sings tonight. I lean against the wall and slide to the floor. My chest tightens, my body tingling hot and cold. It’s an unusual feeling. Like a test. Almost as if my body were trying to make sure I’m still alive.
Then—the soft click of the door unlocking. The air shifts, and an unfamiliar scent reaches me. I feel the door open more than I can see it.
This is definitely new.
I quietly move toward it, curious to see what’s going on. There’s nothing but deeper blackness stretching into the empty hallway. I hold my breath, but hear nothing at all. The silence is so thick, like it’s watching me from afar.
Suddenly, I feel a tug. Not like I was touched, but rather as if an invisible string was pulling me deeper into the building.
Was this Lazarus calling me with his strange power?
For a moment, I hesitate. I don’t know why. After all, I had seen magic like this from him before, but something seems off. Still, I don’t bother putting on shoes. I just follow.
I stumble in near darkness, feeling my way rather than seeing it, deeper into the castle. Door after door opens in my path. The further I walk, the stronger the pull becomes.
The lower I go, the stronger the scent becomes. When I find myself standing in front of a wall at the other side of the basement, I have to plug my nose. It smells like fermented fruit with such intensity, it coats my throat. It’s a scent I usually enjoy, but this is too sweet, too rotten.
But the sensation at my chest is coming from behind the wall, still pulling me in short little tugs. I slide my hands across the rough-hewn stone, trying to find a secret hatch, but it just stands there, cold and unyielding.
I frown into the darkness, trying to figure out how to get to the other side. Without warning, the wall moves, revealing a narrow passage behind it. The scent intensifies, but I get distracted by the insistent pull at my chest.
On the corridor’s walls, tarnished iron hands hold up torches. When I step in, they light up as if by magic, following me as I walk deeper into the passage. The walls are dripping with condensation, the path below me slick and glistening.I struggle not to slip, holding onto the moist walls to steady myself. They feel strangely warm to the touch, but I don’t linger, my curiosity propelling me forward. The further I go, the tighter I feel.
The path ends abruptly, a sea of darkness in its way. Suddenly, one by one, the torches light themselves along a cave wall. The chamber that opens before me is so large that the firelight barely reaches its centre. But something is there, quietly glinting in the gloom.
The pull comes from there. I can feel it distinctly. It tugs a bit, as if it were trying to say hello. I don’t resist. I only follow.
A wooden throne stands in the centre. Its design is simple, but it looks impossibly old.
And on it sits a statue.
It is…I don’t even know where to start; let’s just say…different. Looking at it, I’m both entranced and appalled.
It’s the statue of a man. But also not.
It’s so inhuman, so wrong, I can’t look away.
It must have been made by a master, because the stone is carved so anatomically correct, that it looks almost alive. The eyes are closed, thin mouth slightly parted as if he were sleeping. Hands like skeletal claws placed on the throne’s arms expectantly. Waiting.
But something about it…it’s not like other statues I’ve ever seen.
I move closer to get a better look. The figure is completely naked, bald head wrinkled, thick veins crawling down the neck. The surface is littered with holes, revealing sinew and bone beneath.
It looks like the macabre study of a sculptor. A statue so real, yet so horrific, it could never be shown in public. Like the painting inThe Picture of Dorian Gray, its maker’s soul trapped beneath the carved stone, reflecting every cruelty he had ever committed.
I move even closer, completely fascinated yet utterly disgusted. Suddenly, there is only one thought in my mind.
Touch it. Touch it now.
I raise my hand, but I’m still too far away. I inch a bit further until my feet bump against the throne. I lean in, hand extended, fingers tracing a hollowed cheek. The stone is warm, like flesh left in the sun. Overripe.
It feels as smooth as ancient marble. Slightly translucent, veins running through its surface. I remember stealing touches in museums behind my mother’s back. Feeling naughty and rebellious for defying this very important rule. Even now, just like when I was a boy, something in me tells meno,to stop touching the forbidden. But the need to feel the smoothness of the rock again is stronger than any words of warning.
This time, when I graze the shoulder, something feels off. A shiver runs down my back, icy cold and piercing. My breath is squeezed from my lungs, and my throat feels hollow.
Before I can stand back, my knees buckle. The room lurches. Then—the sharp crack of my skull hitting marble.
