Chapter 8 – The Masquerade of Madness
The silence after Simon's confession clung to the air like smoke from a dying fire.
Lumian's chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, each breath rattling against the tightness in his ribs. His grip on the knife had grown so tight that his knuckles turned bone-white.
But it wasn't the silence that haunted him.
It was the echo of those words—
This is my new art, little brother. Do you like it?
The voice replayed in his skull with cruel clarity. His heart thundered, a twisted mixture of fear and anger rising like bile in his throat.
Simon—or the man claiming to be Simon—sat slumped against the wall. His eyes were empty hollows, like someone who had carved out his soul just to endure the memories festering inside.
Lumian's voice finally cut through the thick silence, low and edged like a blade.
"Where is he now? Where is Carl?"
Simon's lips quivered. For a brief instant, he seemed on the verge of answering—when suddenly, a sound shattered the room.
A scream.
It wasn't human. It rose from beyond the door, jagged and piercing, like metal tearing through flesh. Then came the sound of chewing—wet, deliberate, gluttonous.
Both men froze. Lumian felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
He moved to the door, slow and cautious, pressing an eye to the peephole.
Nothing.
The corridor yawned back at him, long and empty.
Yet curiosity pushed him further. He slipped the lock and cracked the door open an inch.
The silence outside was smothering. The fluorescent light above flickered, humming like dying insects.
And then—he saw it.
A shape.
A black shadow, thicker than any he had seen before, loomed further down the corridor. Its body writhed as though made of smoke and tar, its edges pulsing. In its grip, it held another shape—a woman's silhouette thrashing weakly.
The chewing sounds returned. Wet. Viscous. Each bite sinking into her shadowy flesh, drawing out muffled shrieks that twisted into gurgles. Lumian's stomach lurched as he recognized the outline of the woman—it was the ghost that had first lured him from his apartment.
He swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat.
The more he looked at the devouring shadow, the more a cold familiarity seeped into him. A recognition that turned his blood to ice. He turned, almost unwillingly, to Simon.
And the realization hit him.
That shadow outside… that distorted monster… was Carl.
Simon's twin.
"Carl…" Lumian whispered, his voice cracking. "He's dead too."
Simon's face drained of what little color remained. His body trembled violently, his teeth chattering as the truth settled like a knife in his chest.
Outside, the devouring shadow writhed, growing darker, thicker with every gulp of its victim. The corridor seemed to breathe with it, walls bending faintly inward as though the building itself was being swallowed.
Lumian slammed the door shut, his heart racing. His mind burned with questions—Why was Carl's ghost here? Why had he killed his family? And if Carl was already dead… then who exactly was standing beside him?
He turned, narrowing his gaze.
"Tell me everything, Simon. What happened after that night? Why did Carl kill his wife and son?"
Simon's voice cracked, trembling like old wood ready to splinter.
"When we were eighteen, we moved into a dorm together. At first, nothing seemed wrong. But slowly, Carl… changed. He stopped speaking much to me. Spent hours murmuring to himself. Sometimes, he'd stare into empty corners and smile. He told me once—"
Simon shivered, lowering his gaze.
"He told me he could see ghosts. That he was special. He'd point behind me sometimes, laughing, and say, 'You don't see her? She's watching you, brother.' He… he started drawing then. Horrible drawings. Faces twisted, skin flayed, bodies broken in ways I couldn't imagine. The walls of his room were filled with them."
Lumian's fingers tightened on the knife. Each word seemed to pull him deeper into the suffocating web of Carl's madness.
"I kept my distance," Simon continued. "But after years… it was strange. He got better. Or at least, he looked better. He smiled more, spoke to people, made friends easily. He was… charming, like a social butterfly. But at night…"
Simon's voice lowered to a whisper.
"At night, sometimes I saw small stains on his shirt. Blood. He'd just smile at me and say nothing. And I—" his throat closed, "—I was too afraid to ask."
The silence stretched, pressing down on them.
Simon went on, voice hoarse.
"Years later, I returned from abroad. Carl had changed again. He had a wife. A son. They lived here, in Evernight Apartments. When I visited, he seemed normal. Almost… happy. I let myself believe he had changed."
Simon's hands shook as he buried his face in them.
"But then he invited me one day. To his cabin, in the forest. He said he had a surprise for me."
Lumian's skin prickled.
A cold dread twisted in his gut.
Simon's eyes grew glassy as he spoke, each word dredging up the rot of his memory.
"The room was covered… with paintings. Dark, grotesque, suffocating. Human faces screaming in red strokes. And bottles. Dozens of bottles. Some held eyes. Some… fingers. Skin. Even…" His voice faltered, breaking. "…even parts I can't bring myself to say. He smiled at me then. Asked if I liked his art."
The air in the apartment felt colder now. Lumian's chest constricted, his breath coming slow and heavy.
Simon's lips quivered as he went on.
"When I vomited, he grabbed my hand. Whispered to me. He said, 'Brother, you are family. I trust you. But if you betray me… I don't mind including you in my art.'"
The words lingered, like a blade pressing against Lumian's throat.
Silence fell. Only their ragged breathing filled the air.
Then—scratching.
Both men froze. A dragging sound scraped against the floor just outside the door. A slow crawl. The handle of the door rattled once, twice, before stilling.
Lumian's eyes darted around the room. "I'll check the kitchen. There must be something we can use."
Simon nodded stiffly, his face pale.
The kitchen was small, suffocating. Lumian rifled through drawers. Knives—too many knives. Perfectly clean. Arranged neatly, in every size. He frowned. A chill crawled across his spine.
He turned back to Simon, who stood rigid, trembling.
Lumian moved on, into the bedroom. His body screamed exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep searching. His gaze lingered on the wall. At first, it was nothing—but the longer he stared, the more something wrong pressed against his senses.
The wallpaper bulged faintly.
His heart thudded. Slowly, he pressed his palm against it. The surface shifted unnaturally under his touch. With a grunt, he tore the wallpaper back with his knife.
What was revealed froze the breath in his lungs.
Paintings. Hundreds of them, layered across the wall like scars. Faces stretched in agony, their eyes gouged, their mouths frozen in screams. The strokes were jagged, violent. Red and black dripped together, the colors of blood and rot.
A thought crossed his mind—a terrifying possibility he didn't want to believe.
And then—
He felt it.
A presence. Behind him.
Lumian spun, just as a knife cut across his arm. Pain ripped through him, hot and sharp. He staggered back, clutching his bleeding hand, eyes blazing.
The figure before him was Simon.
But not the trembling, fragile man he had spoken to.
This Simon licked his lips. His hollow eyes gleamed with something vile.
"Oh, you're sharp," he drawled, smiling wide. "Smart too."
Lumian's chest tightened. His mind screamed the truth he hadn't wanted to face.
This man was never Simon.
It had always been Carl.
Carl chuckled, tilting his head, voice dripping with delight.
"How was my acting, dear guest?" His tongue ran across his lips. "Didn't you enjoy my little performance?"
He leaned closer, smile splitting wide enough to show teeth.
"You know… I'd love to add you to my collection. To make you part of my art."