The Uxur was supposed to be paradise.
That was how the handwritten directions described it—a hotel with a view of the sea, hidden in the forest, untouched by the world. Yet as my car rolled along the long, abandoned road that led there, paradise was not what I felt. The asphalt stretched like a black ribbon through the trees, empty and endless, as though no vehicle had passed this way in years. The deeper I drove, the quieter the world became, until even the wind seemed afraid to speak.
Perhaps it was only my imagination. Or perhaps it was the way the setting sun bled slowly into the horizon, staining the sky with the color of dying roses. Either way, something about this place felt wrong—beautiful, yes, but in the same way a lullaby can sound sweet even when it is sung for the dead.
Ten minutes later, I saw it.
The mansion rose from the forest like a dream someone had forgotten to wake from. Golden light from the sinking sun spilled across its green-veined walls, making it glow as if lit from within. It was breathtaking—elegant, vintage, impossibly perfect. Every window was framed with intricate carvings, every doorway crowned with floral designs so delicate they looked alive. Vines curled lovingly along the stone, and the distant hush of waves drifting through the trees wrapped the place in a heavenly hush.
I stepped out of the car, my breath caught somewhere between awe and unease. The air smelled faintly of salt and wet leaves. If heaven had a doorway, it might look like this.
I had barely reached the side path along the towering outer wall when a child appeared.
He stood silently beside me, as though he had always been there. His clothes were dusty, the color of forgotten earth, and his eyes—his eyes were empty in a way no child's should ever be. He held out a key.
"Door opens at 333. Kiss the fated to break the curse."
His voice was flat, mechanical, repeating the sentence again.
"Door opens at 333. Kiss the fated to break the curse."
A third time.
"Door opens at 333. Kiss the fated to break the curse."
My fingers closed around the cold metal before I realized I had taken it. The boy lifted his gaze and met mine.
A violent gust of wind slammed into me.
For a heartbeat the world vanished—and when it returned, I was no longer outside.
I stood in the mansion's entrance hall.
The air inside was still and vast, heavy with the scent of old wood and something faintly sweet, like wilting flowers. Before me rose a grand staircase, its banister carved with winding roses. To my left stretched a dining hall swallowed in shadow; to my right, a silent living room filled with antique furniture that seemed to watch me as I breathed.
I tried the door facing the stairs. It wouldn't move, not even a tremor, as if it had fused with the wall centuries ago.
So I climbed.
Halfway up, I noticed the ceiling.
A painting covered it entirely, a masterpiece suspended above me like a frozen memory. A woman in flowing white walked toward a man dressed in black. His jade-colored eyes were painted with such life they seemed ready to blink, and his beauty was the kind that stole reason from your mind. The woman faced away, her features hidden, yet somehow I knew she was as breathtaking as he was. The artist had drawn them with such longing that the air itself felt charged with it, as though their love still lingered there, unfinished.
I stood at the edge of the stairs, unable to look away.
Drip.
The sound snapped me back.
Water. Somewhere.
I searched every room upstairs, every office and chamber, but found no leak, no tap, no source. The dripping echoed faintly through the corridors like a heartbeat hidden inside the walls.
When I returned to the staircase, the mansion had grown darker. The sound stopped.
Silence pressed in.
I sat down, staring up again at the painted couple. The longer I looked, the more it felt as though the man's eyes were fixed on me instead of her, as though he had been waiting for me to arrive.
A thunderous bang shattered the stillness.
I jumped to my feet and followed the sound. A door beside the kitchen—one I was certain had not been there before—stood ajar. Beyond it yawned a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
The basement.
I lit a candle from the kitchen counter and stepped closer. Cold air poured out, coiling around my ankles like invisible fingers. It was so cold my leg stiffened instantly.
Drip.
The sound came from below.
Every instinct screamed at me to leave. I slammed the door shut and backed away, heart hammering. The mansion had gone pitch black now, swallowing shapes and corners until I could barely see. I stumbled forward, bumping into antiques and walls, sharp edges scraping my skin. By the time I reached the main hall, my legs burned with thin cuts.
That was when I noticed the figure near the stairs.
It stood motionless.
Watching.
Fear prickled along my spine, but curiosity dragged my feet closer. I kept my eyes locked on it so it wouldn't disappear. Step by step, I approached—
—and realized it was only a coat stand beside a tall plant.
Relief burst from me, shaky and embarrassed. I turned—
—and screamed.
My reflection stared back from a mirror inches from my face, eyes wide, candle shaking in my hand. I nearly dropped it. My fingers clenched too tightly, snapping the wax.
I needed light. Real light.
Gathering what courage I had left, I walked back toward the kitchen. I tried not to look at the basement door.
But I did.
It was opening.
Slowly.
No hand touched it. No sound except the soft creak and the breath of darkness beyond. The black inside was so deep it looked solid.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I spun around, back pressed toward the basement entrance—
—and something exhaled across my hand.
The candle went out.
In that single dying flicker of flame, I saw them.
Red eyes.
They glowed in the dark like embers that had waited centuries to burn again.
I staggered back, my heel missing the floor—and the world dropped away beneath me.
---
"Are you alright?"
I jolted awake to sunlight and wind.
Mike stood beside the bed, stuffing clothes into a bag while laughter drifted in from the beach outside. Music played cheerfully on the radio. The room was bright, warm, alive.
My chest rose and fell too fast. "Uxur… the hotel?"
"Yeah," he said casually, tossing me a towel. "Get ready. We've got a lot to do."
"When did you get here?"
"Early morning. You were asleep. Didn't want to wake you."
He sat beside me, frowning slightly. "They said you skipped breakfast and lunch. Did you eat out or something?"
"I'm fine," I murmured. My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "The car?"
"Jack borrowed it for an emergency. I'll get it back. Thing's covered in dust though—we'll have to clean it properly." He laughed and kept talking.
But I wasn't listening.
Because something was missing.
A piece of my memory—gone.
And when I looked down at my arms and legs, thin scratches traced my skin like fading fingerprints.
Proof that somewhere, somehow…
…the night had been real.