Oldred dissolved into the deafening silence. The Dog had vanished, yet its presence left behind a bone-chilling cold. In that stillness, the only sound was the war drum in his chest—his own heart. He was silent, his scarred face a blank canvas, so calm it was unnerving.
Then, he felt it. The sensation of unseen hands began to creep over his body. They embraced him in a familiar bond, a kinship woven from love and suffering. There was a warm touch as soft as silk on his cheek—the hand of Polgha, the figure he had tried to reach in the mirage. There was a rough, calloused grip, yet firm and protective, on his shoulder—his weary father's hand. There was a gentle caress, trembling with regret, on his arm—his mother's hand. They whispered in unison within his soul, a false promise that they would be whole once more.
But among those touches, there were thousands of others. Hands as cold as ice, with touches that felt like tiny scratches from the spirits of his victims. They judged, they hated, and they whispered poison in his ear: "You can never die... You are already in hell... There is no escape from here..."
Before he could be fully lulled into silence and swallowed by his chorus of ghosts, another sound tore through the quiet. "KSHHH-KSHHH!" An old radio in the corner of the room, which had been nothing but a silent piece of junk, suddenly came to life. After a few seconds of static, like a soul trapped between frequencies, a nostalgic melody from a dead world began to play, followed by the voice of a man filled with fanatical zeal.
Radio: "War is the 'Devil'! A devil of chaos born from your selfishness, you filthy-blooded Luszha!..."
Hmm, just routine indoctrination. Oldred thought cynically.nostalgic. Suddenly, he heard another, more tangible sound. "Thud… Thud… Thud…" A rhythmic, heavy thudding from the floor above. The heartbeat of something waiting for him. Calmly but alert, he reached for the crowbar lying beside him. He scraped the tip of the crowbar against the side of his steel arm, creating a shower of sparks in the dark room. The smell of ozone and hot metal filled the air as he transformed the simple tool into a sharp iron fang. "Shreeek… Shreeek… Shreeek…"
Radio: "...but, no longer! We, the Sons and Daughters born from the cruelty of gunpowder and steel, are now reborn through the grace of the 'Father'! The Father is the one true 'God'! He is here to fix us all and to purify the lost and despicable souls! You! We bring purification! A final war to end all wars! We bring 'redemption' for you, the damned, until we are all clean, in conscience and body! Until we have only one direction... one vision... one faith... and one absolute unity!"
The voice on the radio began to crackle, as if the machine itself could not withstand the intensity of the sermon. Oldred stood, his movements efficient and without hesitation. He hid the now-sharpened crowbar behind his military coat, his single eye glancing warily at the ceiling.
He held his mask, the cold object that symbolized his devotion to a master who hated him. The final words from the radio came through, broken and dying.
Radio: "...follow the Father... with the Father..."
*Click.* The radio went dead. And with a synchronized motion, Oldred put his mask back on. The Blind Dog had returned.
He ascended the stairs with measured, careful steps. "TUK… TUK… TUK…" The sound of his boots on the old wood replaced the thudding from above. The closer he got to the door at the top of the stairs, the quieter it became. There were no more strange noises. He opened the door slowly. Before him lay a dark bedroom, lit only by flashes of lightning from a large, rain-streaked window.
And inside the room… were dozens of mannequins. All with flaming red hair, standing in various strange poses, filling the room like a silent forest of his obsession. Their empty plastic eyes seemed to stare at him, reflecting the lightning in cold glints. Oldred walked among them; he only felt… strange. Uncomfortable? The door of a large wardrobe at the far end of the room was slightly ajar. And from that crack, the same piano music from his hallucination returned, now with a melody that was clearer, closer, and more real than the roar of the rain outside.
Readying the crowbar in his hidden hand, Oldred stepped forward. He felt as if he was being watched from every direction. On the floor, right in front of the wardrobe, he found something. A single strand of red hair. He picked it up. It was warm, and so familiar. As if hypnotized, pulled by an invisible thread, Oldred walked toward the large wardrobe.
He stepped inside, into a darkness that smelled of sandalwood and mothballs. As soon as his feet crossed the threshold, the wardrobe door slammed shut behind him with a final "BLAM!" Total darkness enveloped him, before several small candles along the stair railing lit themselves.
The small lights revealed an impossible scene. He was not in a wardrobe. He was standing at the top of a grand, magnificent staircase, made of sturdy wood, that spiraled down into a bottomless abyss. The walls around him were not wood, but giant bookshelves that soared upwards, disappearing into the darkness above and below. Millions of books, millions of unread stories, millions of lives bound in paper and dust, forming a cathedral of knowledge and despair.
The door behind him was now sealed shut. There was no other way. The only way was down, toward the heart of the abyss that awaited him.