Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 3: Haunting Labyrinth.

My mind churned with troubling possibilities, each one darker than the last. Hesitation gnawed at me, a cold dread slithering down my spine. Yet, relentless curiosity propelled me forward. I inched closer, the floorboards groaning ominously under my weight.

Driven by curiosity, I reached for the umbrella with trembling fingers. The coarse fabric sent a shiver down my spine as I brushed against it.

A glint of something caught my eye – a scrap of paper, barely clinging to the handle. Hope flickered in my chest, a fragile ember against the encroaching darkness. Perhaps this anomaly held a key, a whisper of the truth this room desperately tried to conceal.

The paper unfolded like a decaying map, revealing a cryptic message: "The Shaque holds six bar lords." The desperate scrawl seemed to writhe on the page, the ink a faded echo of a bygone terror.

A bloodstain, a vicious scar on the corner, marred the fragile paper. The silence in the room intensified, broken only by the rasp of my breath. A tremor ran through me, a physical manifestation of the dread that seeped into my bones. My gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the oppressive weight of the message held me captive. "Zayn," I whispered my name, a plea for strength echoing in the emptiness.

The iron grip of fear tightened around my throat, urging a desperate flight. But a spark of defiance, stubborn as the maddening crawl of irritation on my leg, held me rooted. This cryptic message wouldn't cow me entirely. The note crumpled in my fist, the inscription a cold brand against my palm.

Gritting my teeth until my jaw ached, I fought the rising tide of terror. A shuddering gasp escaped as I shoved the note deep into my pocket. Reaching out with a trembling hand, I pushed the creaking door wider, revealing a sliver of a dimly lit chamber beyond.

Driven by a need for illumination, my gaze darted across the room. It landed on a rectangle jutting from the damp wall – a switch. With a surge of determination, I thrust my hand forward. The cool metal felt like a lifeline in the clammy air.

A satisfying click echoed in the silence, followed by a sputter. Then, a wave of light flooded the room, momentarily blinding. I squeezed my eyes shut, wincing against the sudden brilliance. As my vision adjusted, I blinked, the world slowly coming into focus.

The once-hidden room was unveiled. Shadows danced across the walls in a macabre ballet, cast by the flickering bulb overhead. My gaze settled on a dusty table in the room's heart, adorned with a single, ancient urn. Its surface held a dull sheen of neglect, yet despite its emptiness, it emanated an undeniable allure. As I inched closer, my weary reflection stared back from its abyss.

A delayed shiver wracked my body, a reaction to the storm's fury. My clothes, plastered like a second skin, sent a jolt of prickling discomfort up my spine. Instinctively, I reached up to scratch my scalp. Waterlogged strands, heavy as lead, clung stubbornly, refusing to be tamed.

With a frayed sigh that seemed to escape from the depths of my soul, I attempted to clear my clothes. My fingers brushed against the fabric of my pants, then froze. A gasp escaped my lips, a sharp hiss that sliced through the quiet.

The flesh beneath my usual tautness hung loose, disfigured by a network of angry red welts, as if the tempest itself had raked its mark upon me. A horrifying gash stained my vision—a bloody rip slashed on my left leg. Beneath it, an unrelenting itch raged, a fire that seemed to burrow into my very core.

Consumed by the exasperating sensation, I clawed at the affected area, momentarily forgetting everything else. My balance, already precarious, gave way entirely. The world lurched sickeningly, and with a heavy thud that vibrated through every fiber of my being, I slammed into the unforgiving ground.

Dazed, I stared at the cracked ceiling, a million questions swirling in my head like leaves in an ocean. Sleep, a relentless predator, finally claimed me as the itch subsided. With a shuddering breath, I closed my eyes, desperate to find solace in oblivion. But the darkness within offered no comfort, only a chilling sense of foreboding.

The fading rays of the sun, casting an ethereal glow through broken windows, heralded the return of nature's nocturnal symphony. It felt like a mockery of the peace I craved but could no longer grasp.

Groaning, I cracked open an eye, my stiff neck protesting the night's slumber. A rasp escaped my throat, a parody of a yawn. Turning to stretch, a shiver ran down my spine as the chill of the concrete floor seeped through my clothes. The night, though fleeting, had offered a strangely heavy sleep. "What kind of sleep, exactly?" I thought.

Rising with a grimace, I brushed dust off my pants, wincing as the distant sun's weak warmth barely touched my skin. A fierce growl erupted from my stomach, a hollow ache against the long hours, or perhaps even days, without food.

But the most terrifying sensation came not from my empty stomach. It was the absence of the maddening itch. In its place, a cold, slick emptiness spread across my leg, the fabric of my pants clinging to a shape that was no longer there.