Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
The sleek bar, with its polished obsidian surface, caught my eye first. Behind it stood a wine fridge filled with gleaming bottles that seemed to glimmer sinisterly in the dim light. In the center of the room was a pool table, its deep maroon feel adding a touch of sophistication to the otherwise debauched space. Mounted diagonally on opposite walls were two large flat-screen televisions, both powered off. The walls of the room were adorned with artwork that ranged from delicately framed depictions of ritualistic scenes to chaotic abstract representations of sin and temptation. Each piece exuded a sinister energy, a celebration of darkness and depravity.
The sitting area, lavishly furnished with plush leather couches and armchairs, was nestled in the shadows cast by a chandelier resembling twisted, blackened branches. The dim lights emitted an eerie glow that danced across the room, creating unsettling shapes and figures on the walls. I avoided looking towards the corner where chains hung ominously, unsure of what they were used for. The concrete floor directly under them stood as a stark contrast to the polished wood surrounding it. I turned my attention to the large portrait hanging between two Alistair pentagram crests, trying to push aside the unsettling feeling in my stomach. The painting depicted Alexander as more sinister and twisted than I had ever seen him.
He exuded both regalness and danger, holding a bloody heart in his grasp. The symbolism was a grim reminder of his power and potential for merciless dominance. Behind him stood two figures, each adding to the ominous tableau.
On one side was the man in the deer mask I had come to associate with Phoenix. He was oddly beautiful. Shirtless, his muscular torso is a canvas of intricate tattoos, each mark telling a tale of darkness and devotion. His presence in the portrait was like a silent, menacing guardian. On Alexander's other side stood a figure draped in a blood-red hooded robe, their face concealed by a smooth, jet-black demonic mask. The anonymity only added to their sinister appearance. Spread out on a raised, dais-like altar, lay a woman's lifeless body. Her bare form was both serene and sorrowful, her chest marked by a deep cavity where her heart once pumped.
There were red stains smeared across her lower half and between her thighs. Who was the woman in this painting? Could it have been one of Alexander's wives? It was a haunting depiction of sacrifice, whether literal or symbolic I couldn't decipher. The scene was shrouded in darkness, the figures cloaked by their protective embrace as they carried out their macabre ritual. In the distance, the looming silhouette of the Chapel could be seen against the starry night sky, its gothic spires reaching upwards like skeletal fingers.
I couldn't help but focus on Alexander's eyes, which were depicted with such realistic detail that I felt a chill run down my spine. It was as if he was staring straight at me through the canvas. His gaze followed my every move, making the room feel confined and intimidating. I tore my eyes away and quickly left the room, eager to escape the unsettling portrait.
As I stepped into the hallway, I impulsively opened the door on the left. I came face to face with rows of metal shelves holding carefully organized boxes. Something about the dated labels caught my attention, and I couldn't resist my curiosity. What could possibly be inside these?
With gentle care, I extracted a random box from the shelf, its weight hinting at the secrets it held within. I unfolded the flaps and knelt. Inside, the box was filled with photo albums and photographs. It didn't surprise me to see this tradition still alive and well on the Isle; it seemed like exactly the kind of place that would value timeless memories captured in images. Running my fingers over the worn covers of the albums, I felt a sense of nostalgia for a time before digital cameras and social media took over. As I sifted through the photos on top, my eyes fell upon the face of an unfamiliar woman.
She was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features and a sweet expression, but there was a haunting sadness in her eyes that added depth to her beauty. As I continued to sort through the old photographs. Her image was a recurring theme. Sometimes she was with Alexander and his friends, other times she was all alone.
Strangely I only saw one or two of them together with his family. Each picture captured a different facet of her. In some, she was full of life and laughter. In others, there was a subtler expression, a shadow of something more complex. It was like watching the gradual transformation of a person through the lens of a camera. My fingers gently grazed over the glossy surface of a Polaroid, lingering on the image of her and another woman I didn't recognize. She was just as stunningly beautiful, with features that almost seemed otherworldly.