Chapter 43. Secret Game (12)
‘Where is she?’
Lyla opened another door—she’d lost count of how many by now—and looked inside.
It was almost identical to the room she had just checked. A bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a nightstand. The only difference was a large picture frame hanging next to the bed in this one—a three-horned sheep sticking its tongue out.
“Where are you hiding?”
She shouted and flung open the wardrobe, yanked up the hanging sheets of the bed, but as always, it was empty. Only her furious, exhausted voice echoed through the void.
“Is this your rule?”
As Lyla shouted, giggles echoed from somewhere in the air. Like something scratching at a wound with tiny claws in amusement.
Don’t get angry. Lyla took a deep breath. If she lost her temper, she would be playing right into its hands.
But you’re already being played. Lyla thought. Or was it her thought? Maybe it was someone else’s voice. It was getting hard to tell. She didn’t care to tell anymore.
What did it matter? Maybe she’d be stuck in this place forever, opening doors in search of a child she’d never find, her body eventually turning to bone.
Maybe that would be easier…
“…No!”
She forced strength into her weakening fingers and slapped herself across the cheek.
It wasn’t the first time she’d done it. Her pale cheeks were now red and swollen from repeated slaps. It looked like she’d been struck repeatedly by a violent hand.
This time she’d slapped herself too hard—her lips tasted metallic. Lyla checked if she could still open and close her hand, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and stepped back into the hallway.
There were only three rooms on the second floor. Even so, she had already opened more than a dozen doors. She’d lost count halfway through. Maybe she’d opened twenty—or even thirty.
The rooms were all nearly identical. Same layout, similar furniture. But nowhere was the girl to be found. Each room was slightly different—wallpaper, frames, mirror sizes, the shape of the window.
But regardless of the layout, there were only a few places a child could hide: under the bed, in the wardrobe, or beneath the vanity.
Still, Lyla hadn’t found a single strand of hair. Her nerves were fraying. Her skin crawled, her body hair stood on end.
—Are you going to give up?
Lyla’s head jerked up at the sudden voice. Something seemed to move in the air.
“This is cheating!”
—No, it’s not.
She could almost see the child tilting her head nonchalantly. The casual image only infuriated her more.
“You’re hiding your presence! This isn’t hide-and-seek!”
—You’re just not finding her.
Laughter followed. Lyla scowled deeply, then parted her lips.
She said ‘her’. Lyla thought. Does that mean there’s someone else in this house? Another child besides the girl?
—That’s not a girl.
Lyla gasped. She instinctively spun in place, staring into the air. But all she saw were pale stains on the wall and strange floral patterns opening like beastly maws.
“You’re saying that wasn’t a girl earlier? What does that mean?”
—That’s not a human. You’ve been tricked.
“Tricked?”
—It’s a trap.
Silence fell again. Lyla bolted out of the room, panting. The hallway was the same as before.
No—was it longer?
Frowning, she cautiously stepped forward. The floor creaked. Then, behind the railing that overlooked the floor below, she saw a door. One that hadn’t been there before.
It was different from the others. The only door in this strange house that looked as though it had endured over a century.
The corners were gnawed away by rats, mold ate through parts of the frame, and sharp cracks ran down the center. Yellow, poisonous-looking mushrooms grew along the splits.
Lyla bit her parched tongue and stared at the doorknob. Once smooth and polished, it was now battered with scratches, as if someone had struck it repeatedly with something sharp.
The moment she touched it, a dull pain struck her. Like a massive chunk of iron had slammed into both her stomach and solar plexus. Her thoughts vanished in an instant—only pain remained, flickering in her head like a dying oil lamp.
“Urgh…!”
Lyla hastily let go of the knob and retched. Her insides twisted violently.
Fortunately, the searing pain vanished just as suddenly as it came. But something worse took its place—fear.
It wasn’t a physical pain. The sensation was pure terror—so sharp and real it felt like an illness.
Lyla’s eyes returned to the doorknob. She was afraid to touch it again. That same pain—that fear—would return. And whatever lay beyond that door might be worse.
But so what if it was?
She bit down hard on her tongue. The jolt cleared her mind. Like an arthritis patient moving gingerly, she slowly opened and closed her hand and grasped the knob. The pain was overwhelming.
No. This isn’t real. Lyla gritted her teeth and turned the knob. This is a memory. This is the “core.”
Creak.
The rusted knob finally shifted.
“Get… out…”
The door wouldn’t budge. It felt like something heavy was blocking it from behind. Lyla leaned her full weight against it and clenched her jaw. Thunk.
“Come… out now!”
BANG!
A thunderous sound echoed. Her ears rang.
Something exploded, Lyla thought.
As her consciousness blurred, her body tumbled through the doorway.
Lying on the floor, she slowly took in the room: a small bed, a sink, a wardrobe. Wallpaper with daisies.
A child’s room, Lyla thought. The girl’s room. Probably the one from the portrait…
Just then, the wardrobe door across from her creaked open. The inside was empty, but the wood was badly scratched—like something had clawed at it endlessly.
Lyla rose. Dizzy, probably from hitting her head, but she ignored it.
She approached the wardrobe and threw open the doors, peering inside with horror. Scratches everywhere—absolutely everywhere.
Something’s wrong.
Her eyes blinked slowly. The claw marks were one thing, but something felt off.
She crouched before the wardrobe, stood up again, stretched her hand over the marks.
Like measuring a child’s height, she awkwardly bent her knees, her gaze dropping lower.
No… that can’t be. Lyla thought. How could someone…
Her trembling fingers reached inside.
As she felt along the bottom, something sharp pricked her finger. She pulled her hand out—blood. She leaned in.
“No way…”
The base wasn’t fixed. Like a lid, it had a narrow gap and was nailed down at the front edges.
Lyla backed up, panting, then kicked the door. Bang! The flimsy panel fell off. A long, rectangular darkness smiled back at her.
She placed one foot on the back panel and lifted the bottom. The rotting wood cracked and splintered.
Ignoring the pain as splinters dug into her hands, Lyla ripped away the boards. When the hole was finally large enough, she peered inside.
A black floor. Just the size of the wardrobe. Small, thin bones scattered across it.
“No way…”
She reached toward them—when suddenly, a girl with braided hair appeared behind her.
“Wrong one! You lose!”
With impossible strength, the girl shoved Lyla.
Her body crumpled into the small hole, and the wardrobe door she had kicked off slammed shut.
Complete darkness swallowed her.
* * *
Leading his team to the sinkhole, Eustar began testing how close they could get before it disappeared. After several trials, he drew a line with his sword sheath at the edge of the stable area.
“You can see the sink from here.”
The team nodded. Within the line, the sinkhole was visible—a perfectly circular, jet-black pit that evoked horrible thoughts just by looking at it.
“We have to extract the energy source that created the sinkhole. That’s the only way to find Miss Chrisrad.”
Robsker spoke.
“But Eustar… isn’t the problem that the source doesn’t stay here?”
“I’ve been thinking about that too. Unlike other ghosts, this one moves like a monster, playing ‘tag.’ But what comes from the sinkhole always returns to it. If we throw something more interesting into the sink—something more tempting than being the ‘tagger’—it might be drawn back.”
“That’s why you brought this,” Robsker said, looking at the giant heart of the Echeneis beast. The grotesque gray lump sagged inside a special container of solution.
Eustar nodded.
“This is just the first and secondary bait. We’ll have to hope we can find the real one—before it’s too late.”
He looked at his team.
“Toss the heart into the sink.”
