At the very edge of the village, where the dense black shadow of the forest seems to swallow even the sky, stands the palace. It feels as if even after death, it has refused to stop breathing. From a distance, it does not look built of stone and brick, but of congealed darkness and ancient blood. After sunset, the mansion devours light itself, as though it possesses its own black radiance, a cold, dead glow that burns the skin when touched by the eyes.
What clings to the walls is not moss, but something like the rotting skin of centuries hanging loose. From the cracks seeps a thick black substance that burns the fingers if touched. The air is filled with a nauseating stench, the decay of human flesh, the metallic sharpness of fresh blood, and the lingering trace of some old feminine perfume that has now turned poisonous. Each breath makes the chest tremble, as though the liver itself wishes to tear free and escape.
On the far northern end of the second floor lies a long, dark corridor. The doors on both sides remain open, revealing dust, spider webs, overturned furniture. But at the very end of that corridor stands one door, untouched for a hundred years. Its panels are made of pitch black shal wood, reinforced with iron sheets. In the center are carved grotesque faces, not human eyes but screaming demonic visages. The eye sockets are hollow. The teeth are bared in a grin twisted with pain. Dust never gathers beneath the door. As if someone comes each night to sweep it clean.
The elders of the village say that room is the gateway to hell.
Whoever opens it will never return.
And even if they do, they will not return as who they were.
When night falls, it begins.
First, all the village dogs howl together, as though they smell death. Then comes the scratching from within the palace, nails dragging slowly and deliberately across wood. Sometimes a woman's voice whispers:
"Let me go… I am hungry… so very hungry…"
The voice is broken, as if her throat bones are tearing through her flesh.
One night, the king lost his sanity.
He claimed someone called to him from inside that room.
He would stand before the door at night, arguing, begging forgiveness, screaming:
"I freed you! Why do you still come?"
One night, the screaming stopped.
By morning, the king was gone.
On the floor lay a thin trail of dried blood seeping out from beneath the door.
Since then, the door has remained closed.
Each year, on the same night, fresh blood appears.
No one goes in. No one comes out. Yet the blood returns.
Many years later, a guard tried to break the lock.
The moment his iron rod struck the door, it trembled.
From inside came a violent noise, as if hundreds of hands were pulling at it from the other side.
The guard collapsed.
He did not die.
But he never spoke again.
His eyes remain fixed toward the north.
As if he is still seeing something. Something unspeakable.
Now the heir of the palace is Anik.
When he first stepped into the corridor, the afternoon light turned into mist. As he approached the door, his heartbeat slowed, as though it wished to stop on its own. From beneath the door seeped a sticky red liquid. Fresh blood. Warm. Thick with the smell of a slaughterhouse.
Suddenly, a heavy dragging sound echoed, as if massive chains were being pulled. Through a small crack in the door, an eye stared back. It had no pupil, only a red glow like fire.
The eye smiled.
From the pillars of the corridor came a whisper soaked in decay:
"You have come? Our waiting is over.
Now your blood will be the feast."
Anik tried to run.
But the floor came alive and clutched his feet.
Something cold, like fingers, crawled up his ankles.
And just then
the door began to open slowly with a creaking groan.
A cloud of black smoke poured out.
Within the smoke were countless eyes.
All staring at him.
All whispering together:
"Come… feed our hunger…"
The door opened wider.
The darkness inside seemed alive.
And within that darkness, something was moving.
Slowly. Very slowly.
Advancing toward Anik.