Snow fell in heavy flakes on his face, as if trying to blind him, to hide the house from view. But the mansion was impossible to miss — a black silhouette against the white blizzard, like an open mouth in a scream.
He pushed the massive door. The creak of the hinges sounded too loud in the stillness of New Year's night. Inside, it smelled of dust and something sweet — maybe the dried-out peels of mandarins from a century ago.
The light switch clicked dryly under his fingers.
The light hit his eyes, blinding him for a moment. When the spots faded, he saw the living room — an exact replica of his childhood memories.
A decorated Christmas tree with faded ornaments. A holiday table set with porcelain plates, on which lay... lay...
His breath caught.
A sudden flash of memory: his parents sitting at that table. Their ribcages gaping open. No horror, no pain on their waxy faces — only emptiness. And warm blood ran down his face, but it wasn't his blood, it was...
The memory snapped like torn film. His vision darkened, his temples pounded.
"Just tired," he whispered to himself, pressing his fingers to his temples. He needed to find a cleaner room. It was New Year's Eve, but what did he care for holidays? The last time he celebrated was... right here.
The staircase creaked beneath his feet. The second floor was in better condition — less dust, as if someone had recently...
He cut the thought short. The first room met him with a ghostly beam of moonlight through the window. A narrow bed with a sagging mattress looked almost inviting.
He collapsed onto it, still in his boots. Dreams hadn't come to him in years, and this night was no different — black void swallowed his mind instantly.
But he didn't sleep long.
A loud noise above jolted him awake. A scratching, scraping sound — too loud for rats. Too... deliberate.
"Burglars?" The thought was absurd. There was nothing worth stealing in this dead house.
A kitchen knife trembled in his hand. The attic stairs creaked treacherously. Somewhere above, the sound stopped — as if something was listening.
The attic stairs groaned under his weight, each step echoing through the empty house. His flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing only swirling dust in the air.
— "Is someone there?" — his voice came out hoarse, uncertain.
Silence.
He took the final step, and the attic floor cracked beneath his boots. The flashlight darted across the room — no rats, no tracks, as if no one had set foot here in decades. Only boxes, covered in a thin layer of dust.
And then — movement.
The flashlight flickered, catching in its beam... a boy.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. But no — there sat a child, no older than ten. Ordinary — if not for the horns, curved like a goat's. And half of his face — a skull wrapped in dry, leathery skin.
The boy's eyes met his.
— "Who are you?" — the boy's voice was rough, unnaturally deep for his age.
— "Who are you? And what are you doing in my attic?" — he frowned, eyeing the strange kid. Cosplay? Someone's twisted prank?
But in a house with not even spiders, it felt too... deliberate.
The boy tilted his head, as if listening to something.
— "Tell me your name," — he hissed. — "I don't talk to strangers."
— "Sebastian."
The boy froze, then smirked, revealing teeth that were far too sharp.
— "Sebastian... hmm. I'll call you Bastian."
— "I don't care," — he snapped. — "You still haven't said what you're doing here."
The boy laughed — the sound like rusty hinges groaning.
— "I live here."
— "Live here?" — a chill ran down his spine. — "Are you... an orphan?"
The boy's face twisted.
— "What's it to you?" — he suddenly barked, and for a second, his voice was too loud, as if it rang not only in his ears but inside his skull.