Chapter 2: The Feast of Shadows
December 25th, Wednesday…
The atmosphere in the palace had shifted into something suffocating. Today, Khorshid brought me a dress. It was a masterpiece of misery—a matte black gown, void of any reflection, as if it were woven from the very shadows of this cursed house. It was an off-the-shoulder design, long enough to trail behind me like a funeral shroud, its heavy fabric pressing against my skin. Despite the hollow gaps in my memory, a cold certainty settled in my chest: I had never seen anything like this before. I was sure of it.
I was forced to wear it against my will. Khorshid leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing my movements with a chilling intensity. He told me that tonight, the family would host a massive celebration—a grim annual ritual steeped in their ancient traditions. I didn't care for the details. I preferred to endure the gala with the same numbing boredom that haunted me within these walls every day.
All I knew was that the halls would soon be swarming with relatives, from the closest cousins to the most distant branches of the lineage. There would be a great "barbecue," they said. A wave of nausea hit me. I hate gatherings... Did I hate them before I lost my soul to this amnesia? I couldn't remember.
I styled my hair with trembling hands, pinning it back with a severity that matched the dress. Then came the jewelry. A silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a tiny, realistic human skull, and a heavy ring to match. At this point, I no longer cared for these macabre symbols. What I witness in this house every hour would drive the sanest mind to the brink of madness.
A series of faint, rhythmic knocks echoed against my door. I barked for the intruder to enter, my voice laced with irritation. But my anger turned to a paralyzing, negative awe when Khorshid stepped inside. He looked like a nightmare birthed from the pages of an old legend—the living image of Count Dracula.
His hair was slicked back, unnaturally glossy. His lips were stained a dark, bruised purple. His black suit was accented with streaks of deep crimson in the most unexpected places, and a heavy silk cape billowed behind him, casting a monstrous shadow. Even his eyelids were shaded with a dark soot. He was the embodiment of the vampire myths.
My head spun; a sudden bout of vertigo gripped me from sheer terror. I couldn't breathe. Khorshid approached me with agonizing slowness, his eyes gleaming as he savored my visible fright. Finally, he offered a sliver of mercy, his voice a smooth purr: "It is only a masquerade, Asia. A costume party. There is no reason for this trembling."
Even with his words, peace felt like a foreign concept. A dark intuition whispered that something irreversible was about to happen. My heart felt fragile—like the wing of an ancient mosquito, too brittle to fly.
He took my hand, his other arm tucked formally behind his back, to lead me downstairs in a grand, aristocratic procession. Before the eyes of the silent crowd, and before we descended even a single step, he dropped to one knee. He kissed my hand with a chilling politeness. His lips were like ice—dead, frozen marble. I felt nothing but a void, as if my world had been completely consumed by the shadows of this family.
As we walked among the guests, the horror deepened. They were all women. Every single one was draped in the same black gown, with the same haunting details. Their makeup was thick, dark, and deathly. Their skin was so translucent and pale that it looked as though Death himself had recently brushed past them, leaving behind only hollow spirits caught between two worlds.
A heavy, negative energy choked the air. The music scratching from the ancient gramophone was alien—dissonant chords that sounded as if they were being played for an audience of demons. It was a sound beyond description, a melody of the abyss.
Suddenly, every eye in the room fixed on me. Sharp, predatory glares. I began to back away, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, my eyes locked on their frozen faces. I slammed into someone behind me. I spun around, my nerves fraying like old rope. It was Maria, the maid. Her eyes were bulging, wide and unblinking, judging my instinctive fear. She leaned in, her voice sounding like gravel grinding against marble:
"Where do you think you are going? The celebration hasn't even begun, and you are its guest of honor! Its mistress!"
I didn't understand her words, and I didn't dare ask for clarification. Has anyone ever given me a straight answer in this house?
I was forced to remain, a captive spectator in a living horror novel. Then, the time for the rituals arrived. A collective, gut-wrenching scream erupted from the women. They threw their arms into the air, tilting their heads back at impossible angles to stare at the ceiling. The sound was a physical assault. I pressed my palms against my ears, a desperate attempt to drown out the deafening waves of their madness.
The music flared again, harsher and more violent than before. They began to dance with a hysterical, rhythmic insanity. I retreated to a dark corner, my breath coming in jagged gasps. It was then that I noticed it. Under the swaying hem of one woman's dress... her foot. It wasn't human. It was a cloven hoof—the foot of a goat.
I crept forward, driven by a morbid, terrifying curiosity. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely control them. I reached out and lifted the edge of her skirt. My heart stopped. It was real. A coarse, hairy goat's hoof where a human foot should be.
The creature did not take kindly to my intrusion. Amidst my own hysterical screams of realization, she struck me. With a strength that belonged to a beast, she hurled me across the floor, letting out a roar that shook the very foundations of the house—a sound like a lion's pride. I hit the floor hard, curling into a ball as my vision blurred. Someone tried to touch me, perhaps to "soothe" me, but my mind could take no more. I slipped into a merciful unconsciousness.
"Asia…"
A voice like grinding stones, rising from the pits of hell, called my name. I spun around in a void of total darkness. "Who are you?" I screamed into the abyss. But the raspy, gutteral voice only repeated my name, over and over, mocking me.
I tried to run, but I was trapped in a room no larger than a coffin—one meter wide, one meter long. The black walls pressed in on all sides. Cruel, jagged laughter echoed through the dark. I begged, I pleaded, then I screamed threats into the void. Suddenly, I felt a blast of hot, rancid breath on the back of my neck.
I turned with every ounce of strength I had left, facing a nightmare I will never forget. It was the woman from the hall—but her face was a charred, blackened mask of pure hatred. She smelled of the grave, of wet earth and rot. Her eyes were twin suns of burning red, staring at me with a sickening delight.
It was just a nightmare.
I woke with a jolt, gasping for air as sweat poured off me. My heart felt as if it were trying to hammer its way out of my chest. But the scene in the room was no comfort: Khorshid, his mother Nazli, his sister Shams, his aunt, and Maria were all standing around my bed in a silent, perfect semi-circle.
Khorshid leaned over and plunged a sedative needle into my arm. I fought him, screaming with a raw throat: "Not now! Wait! That woman... she had the legs of a goat! All of them! Believe me this time, I am certain!"
Before the chemical fog swallowed me, Nazli opened the bedroom door. The woman with the goat legs walked in. She stood before me, calm and graceful, and lifted her dress. Her legs were perfectly human—slender, pale, and normal.
The shock was a physical blow to my soul. Everything in this world was designed to drive me into the dark.
I woke hours later to find Maria watching me. She was as motionless as a piece of furniture. I opened my eyes slowly, my throat parched. Her voice, cold and rigid, broke the silence:
"Come. We must go down to the courtyard. The best part of the party is about to begin."
"What part?" I rasped, trying to force some saliva into my dry throat.
She didn't answer. She only gave me a sharp, hollow look. I was forced to follow her; the fear she inspired was greater than my own will. We descended the stairs into a silent house. "In the courtyard!" she barked before I could even finish my question.
Outside, a massive table had been set. Again, the crowd was entirely female, but their appearance had shifted. A deep, bruising purple stained their lips, their cheeks, and their heavy eyelids. On their heads sat tall, twisted hats—the unmistakable silhouettes of witches.
Nazli sat at the head of the table, with Khorshid and Shams flanking her like dark guardians. As I approached, a foul, unbearable stench assaulted me. On the center of the table lay the carcass of a lion. It was rotting, its body bloated with gas, and I watched in silent horror as maggots wriggled from small tears in its skin.
I backed away, gagging. I was suffocating. Khorshid tried to pull me toward him, but I fought. Maria shoved me from behind, forcing me back into the circle of madness. Was this another dream? Was I still trapped in that one-meter room?
The guests raised their glasses in a toast. The liquid inside was not wine—it was thick, dark blood that coated their teeth in a gruesome red. Their laughter turned into a roar of celebration. Nazli spoke, her voice echoing as if from a deep well:
"These rituals are the heartbeat of our family. Every year, this night becomes our legend. Let us conclude with the final rite."
She signaled the Gardener. He stepped forward to carry the putrid carcass away, to prepare it as the night's "feast." She invited the guests to gather around the roasting fires to enjoy the "delicacy."
I couldn't take it. I vomited until my stomach was empty. When they tried to touch me again, I snapped. I grabbed a jagged stone from the ground, holding it like a weapon. "Stay back!" I screamed. "I'll gouge your eyes out!"
I turned and ran. I ran toward the great gate, which had been left wide open—a rare mistake, perhaps due to the chaos of their sickening feast.
I sprinted into the forest, my feet flying over the roots and dead leaves. Every path looked identical. The trees seemed to repeat themselves in a mocking loop. I ran until my lungs felt like they were filled with acid and my legs collapsed beneath me. I huddled under a tree and let sleep take me.
In the morning, I struggled against the weight of my eyelids. As the world came into focus, the nightmare truly began. I was in my room. The black room. Again.
I let out a scream that brought Khorshid running. I babbled frantically: "The party... the dancing... the barbecue... the forest!"
He tried to hush me, his voice dripping with a false tenderness. He claimed it was the medication, the "hallucinations" of a sick mind. He told me he would endure my madness forever, because he "loves" me.
Then, my eyes caught the calendar on the wall.
December 28th.
Three whole days had been stolen from me. Three days had vanished into the void, and I had no idea what had happened to my body while my mind was lost.