The basement wasn't just buried underground—it was buried beneath layers of lies, forgetfulness, and memories that belonged to no one. Caleb stood before the old wooden door, hidden behind a fake bookshelf in Crawford's office, his fingers trembling on its cold iron handle. He didn't know exactly what awaited him behind it, but his instincts screamed: "Some doors are not meant to be opened."
When he finally opened it, the hinges screamed as if they were weeping from loneliness. From inside, a heavy, stagnant air emerged—like it hadn't been breathed in for a century. He smelled something strange: a mix of mold... varnish... and dried blood. He began descending the narrow spiral staircase, each step creaking and gnawing at his nerves. The dim light of his flashlight danced along the stone walls, casting distorted shadows over ancient, dust-covered drawings.
Then he reached the bottom.
And froze in place.
In the center of the room sat the legendary director Crawford... dead. His mummified body rested in an artistic pose on his wooden director's chair, as if directing his final scene. His glassy eyes stared directly at Caleb, a dry, mad smile carved into a face dead for twenty years. Behind him, flickering on a tattered screen, were fragmented clips of films never released, with incomprehensible shots... one of which showed Caleb sleeping—filmed from an angle that shouldn't exist in his room.
But what froze the blood in his veins wasn't the corpse...
It was what lay beside it: a doll that looked exactly like him, wearing a tiny coat like his, clutching a serrated knife partially embedded into the wooden floor beneath it. And on the corpse's wrist—a vintage wristwatch... still ticking, every second defying death.
Caleb approached the doll slowly, each step feeling as though the ground beneath him threatened to collapse. His eyes locked on that miniature version of himself, his mind unable to ignore the precise details—even a small scar under its left eye was there. Who made it? How? And why was it holding a knife that looked like it had already been used?
He reached out with a trembling hand... and as soon as he touched it, a short shriek came from the film projector behind Crawford's corpse. A new image flickered onto the screen:
Crawford, alive, speaking in a low voice, staring straight into the camera.
> "If you've found this recording, then you're exactly where I wanted you to be, Caleb. I wrote my ending... but you're writing my story now. And you must finish it."
Caleb stood frozen, the doll in his hand heavy like lead. Crawford's voice in the recording was calm but laced with something dark… something like prophecy.
> "Every crime, every doll, every detail... has its place in this grand opera. You're not just the detective, Caleb. You're one of the actors. And the real question isn't: who killed? But: who wrote the script?"
Suddenly, the wristwatch on Crawford's corpse began to move unnaturally fast. Its hands spun violently until they stopped again—on a familiar time: 3:33 a.m... the exact time Caleb's wife had died. Caleb's chest tightened, as if the lungs of the past had returned to crush him from within.
Then he noticed something new...
Behind the chair, on the stone wall, handwritten words were scrawled:
> "He who directs the death of others... cannot escape his own."
Caleb moved closer and raised his flashlight toward the upper corner of the basement, where an old security camera was mounted, blinking with a faint light. Was someone watching? Was the basement alive? Or was it a stage built to display madness?
**
A faint thud.
Footsteps.
Caleb turned quickly, raising the doll like a weapon—but he wasn't alone anymore...
Inspector "Anna" stood at the basement's threshold, her eyes wide with shock.
> "Caleb... what is this?"
> "This... isn't a new crime. This is a stage... and his death was the first scene."
Anna stepped forward slowly, her eyes locked on the corpse. She raised her hand and wiped the dust off Crawford's shoulder, discovering a small object clutched in his fingers: a tiny reel of tape. She picked it up and inserted it into an old player in the corner.
Crawford's voice rang out again, clearer this time:
> "What is the human mind if not a puppet in the hands of a skilled writer? I designed everything with precision. Even my death... I planned it, and made it a gateway to the mystery that will carry on my legacy."
Caleb whispered:
> "He made himself a corpse in a riddle... a puppet in the hand of a larger puppet."
**
On the right side of the basement was an old wooden board, riddled with holes. Upon closer inspection, they discovered it was a map... of crime scenes, connected by red threads. In the center—another doll... this one faceless.
> "One more..." said Anna.
"A crime that hasn't happened yet."
> "Or one that did... but we didn't realize it," Caleb whispered.
Suddenly, the doll in Caleb's hand moved on its own. The knife dropped from its grasp, and its right hand rose toward his cheek—pointing at his face. Then it stopped.
**
At the end of the basement, there was a small door that hadn't been opened. Caleb placed his hand on the handle and looked at Anna.
> "Shall we open it?"
She nodded, but said nothing.
He did.
The door opened into a narrow room, filled with dolls. Each one wore a mask... and every mask bore the features of a victim.
Among them... was a doll resembling Inspector Douglas.
And on the wall, written in bold letters:
> "Those who haven't died... are just waiting for their turn."
---
Caleb drew in a heavy breath, his eyes fixed on the kneeling dolls before him, as if they were performing a ritual, waiting for a divine director who hadn't written their final scene yet. In the corner of the room, the flickering light hovered over the face of the Douglas doll... and carved into its forehead was a number: 14.
> "Fourteen dolls..." Caleb murmured, his voice a mixture of realization and dread.
> "And you're number fifteen?" Anna whispered behind him.
A heavy silence fell upon the basement, followed by the ticking sound... Crawford
's watch had started ticking again, despite having stopped minutes earlier.
As if announcing:
The next act has just begun.