Bailonz Street 13

As I walked down the hallway, I felt a cold, eerie presence approaching. It wasn’t my imagination! I could hear footsteps—the muffled sound of the carpet being pressed down. I sat frozen in my chair, the pen still in my hand.

The sensation drew nearer to the door, and then I heard the doorknob being turned. Good thing I locked it, or it would have come in. Holding my breath, I stared at the jiggling doorknob, praying fervently for Liam Moore to return.

Click.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The sound repeated, followed by incessant knocking.

Knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock.

Then, silence.

Was it gone? Just as I thought that, the doorknob to the door connecting to Liam Moore’s room began to turn violently.

‘What the hell is this?’

This is a horror game. I had forgotten, but it was indeed a horror game. Ominous background music played. Thump. Thump. Thump. I felt a tinge of fear.

Liam!

Breathing became difficult. The sticky, humid, heavy air was gradually filling the room. Despite having the key, the door opened.

How? How did the person outside my door move to Liam Moore’s room?

I felt a chill!

And then, beyond the slowly opening door, I saw her.

A woman with disheveled hair, dressed in pajamas.

The door opened.

She was smiling.

‘How?’

The door connecting to Liam Moore’s room should also be locked. It was strange that it opened, and her presence was even stranger. Everything about this moment was bizarre, and yet, there was no one to explain this oddity.

As the woman with the elongated smile entered the room, my breath caught in my throat. An inexplicable terror gripped me. With every step she took, the air grew heavier.

“Oh, someone’s here….”

Her dreamy voice floated through the air. Leaning against my chair, I exhaled quietly, fearing that even the slightest movement would get me caught. I recalled Liam Moore’s words: never let anyone into the room, and if someone does enter, don’t leave your seat.

However, Liam Moore didn’t know one thing: that someone capable of opening a locked door could be in this mansion.

The woman dragged her feet as she walked. Her long pajamas were stained with soot, and her disheveled hair was matted at the back. Feeling the bone-chilling cold pierce my flesh, I absurdly wondered: Is this a person? Who could carry such coldness?

I tried to shake off the chill and spoke first, perhaps in an attempt to dispel the fear.

“…Who are you?”

I asked. She looked down at me with a curious gaze, as if surprised that I spoke first. But she didn’t answer my question.

“A guest, I see.”

Her tone was as if confirming something she already knew. I vaguely realized that remaining silent was pointless. Whatever I said, a lie would be uncovered, and those dark eyes would see the truth….

It felt similar to when I first met Liam Moore. Anyone listening to his calm speech would feel the same.

Her attitude of observing us since our arrival made me even more frightened. Where had she been watching from? The uncomfortable chill, the shivers I couldn’t suppress, were due to my inability to adapt to such things.

Her hand suddenly reached out. I flinched and pressed myself further against the chair, thinking it would distance me from her hand.

Her hand stopped just before my face, and she smiled strangely.

“A smart person.”

But not as much as I am.

Muttering softly, her hand drew closer. I might have resisted. At that moment, I saw something transparent distort at her fingertips. It was like a thin film, like a soap bubble.

Even though the window in the room was large and bright sunlight was streaming in, the room didn’t warm up.

The film around me shone in rainbow colors for a moment before tearing apart with a purple hue, and then her bony, icy hand touched my shoulder. The frigid cold penetrated my shoulder, even through my woolen jacket.

Her expression was gentle. As if asking whether to add sugar to tea, her face was utterly natural.

“Sorry to startle you, guest. But I wanted to meet you. As the hostess, I felt it was my duty.”

“Hostess.”

The following words shocked me even more.

Hostess!

We must remind ourselves why we came to this mansion. Our purpose was the wedding of Christine Besson and James Stranden, the union of two families! But if there’s already a hostess….

“James Stranden is already married….”

Bigamy?

Reading my expression, she laughed. I stood there, wide-eyed, listening to her laughter.

She continued laughing for a while before patting my head. Despite her youthful appearance, her actions were like those of an elder.

She looked up, as if checking an invisible clock, and then back at me. Then she spoke quickly.

“My name is Amelia Jokins. Remember it well. I have much to say, but sadly, we don’t have much time now. I’ll come find you tonight. Then, we’ll talk more.”

With these words, she left the way she had come. Her exit was as smooth as rewinding a tape. The door closed. Click, the doorknob turned.

All the coldness disappeared with her departure, as if she had taken it away with her….

I spoke, as if trying to stop her.

“Wait, don’t go! Explain…!”

＊ ＊ ＊

I reached out and opened my eyes.

Seeing the wooden surface in front of me, I momentarily thought I had fallen face-first onto the floor.

Realizing I was sitting, I saw I was at my desk. My cheek had been resting on the desk. Had it been a dream? I felt momentarily dazed.

The woman was gone. The soap bubble-like film was no longer visible. The room was warm, filled with a reddish glow.

Then, I felt a sense of oddness again. Searching for the source of the reddish light, I scanned the room and the shadows cast by the window.

…The sun is setting. I clearly remember it being noon. If I had met the woman, it should have been daylight, before lunch. But….

I recalled the conversation between Liam and James about delegating the handling of Justin Besson’s corpse to the servants. Having nothing more to do, I returned to my room, sat in the chair, and started writing.

To confirm, there was ink and a half-inserted pen in front of me. The paper contained notes on James Stranden’s conversation, written thoroughly but trailing off into smudged, sloping letters.

…Had I fallen asleep while writing?

I stood up and opened the door connecting to the next room, despite knowing Amelia Jokins wouldn’t be there.

What met my eyes was black hair gleaming in the twilight. A few strands fell naturally, giving a soft impression. A tall man lounged in an armchair, resting his chin on his hand.

Liam Moore.

Thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes, double eyelids, and dense eyelashes. He wore a robe loosely, with his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. His gray eyes, catching the light, looked almost transparent.

He looked like a painting, lost in thought, as I stared at his face in the dimming light.

“Ah, Jane, you’re awake?”

As soon as I let go of the doorknob, he asked without taking his eyes off the book. We could now recognize each other’s presence without any action.

…Wait, he said awake. Did he come to my room?

I asked, slightly bewildered.

“Was I asleep?”

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