Unikum 08 October nett

Tobias Klausen
Writer
zalea
– Chapter 2 –
Welcome to House Alighieri
Foto: AdobeStock // redzen
Azalea had once read ‘if you stare into the void, remember,
the void will stare back’ and the ominous outline of those
words harkens in the back of her mind as her eyes trail the
property housing the mansion, scouring every brick, every edge and
every inch of it. The mansion which has previously sung the ballad
of emptiness, now strings the melody of life, Azalea swearing she
could hear music, beckoning her to the entrance encased in dark
wood, the sound barely a whisper at the very edge of hearing, yet
no resonance has ever been as clear. The very logic of nature is in
a battle with the reality Azalea faces, her rational mind searching
every cavern of knowledge for plausible explanation, yet none will
surface as reason stands no chance in a place like this, at least not
that of humankind. The invitation provides no additional clues,
the old parchment contained within simply extending a sincere
invitation, the curtesy written in ancient cursives.
The estate is encased in an iron fence, its skewers soaring to the sky,
yet the main gate has no intention of keeping visitors from entering,
its broken locks providing nothing but broken promises of safety
from unwanted visitors, or perhaps, salvation for escaping victims.
Azalea had done research prior to her congenial visit, the mansion
had previously been a mental asylum, however, once abandoned,
an unknown buyer had acquired it and turned it into the luxurious
mountain that she gazes upon. No names were provided in the
article nor pictures, only an omen of the misfortune that befell
Rutledge Asylum, the slaughter committed by one of the inmates.
Azalea discards the thought before the fright can stifle her courage,
her hand instinctively going towards her neck in an attempt to
grasp her resolve, yet momentarily forgetting she surrendered it to
Dahlia, only the chilling air greeting her trembling fingers.
“Why am I scared?”
This thought continuously rings in her mind.
“Why am I shaking?”
An ominous aura lurks in the air, stifling whatever courage
remains. Hesitation seizes her, as the roots of fear coil around her
legs, or perhaps it is the aiding hand of caution? Before her body
becomes a stump rooted by ambiguous nature, she hears the bell
toil.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Dahlia’s warning rings in the back of her mind. Midnight is
approaching, and even in her brief time in the town, she had learned
that midnight was synonymous with unknown danger. She still
recalls the grim look of the hostel clerk, the dark rings underneath
sunken eyes a testament to a sleepless waking, the unwashed shirt
proof of negligence and fingernails filled with dirt, despite the lack
of a garden and plants. If only Azalea had dug beneath the false
platitudes, she would have realized that the dirt was from all the
digging. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Eight times.
Azalea grabs her bag, the little container embroidered by
houndstooth swinging in motion as she hastily scurries across the
ginormous forecourt, hoping to arrive upon the doorstep before
the utter collapse of her determination.
Ten strikes.
She rings the doorbell, not knowing that a looming danger inches
closer with every ring. If she knew, politeness would have been
left at the threshold and she would barge in. Yet in ignorant bliss
the act of civility is prudent. Once a first impressions is molded,
it proves hard to reshape, not handling the effortless clay, but
sculpting stone.
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