SUBMISSIVES CULT

Chapter 17: The Unveiling

Isla

The mansion had always been a place of shadows, an intricate web of secrets woven into the very walls. But today, it felt different. The air was thicker, the darkness deeper, as if the house was alive and aware of my presence. I had wandered through the labyrinth of corridors, feeling pulled by something I couldn't name. It was an urge, a compulsion, like a whisper in the back of my mind telling me I needed to find something hidden.

At the end of a long, forgotten hallway, I found it. The door was small, nearly invisible in the dim light, tucked away in a corner as though it didn't want to be found. The wood was old and cracked, and the handle was cold, like the touch of death itself. I hesitated, every instinct telling me to turn around and leave, but my curiosity was too strong. I needed to know what lay behind that door.

With a deep breath, I turned the handle, the creaking sound loud in the silence, and pushed the door open. The room was dark, so dark that for a moment, I couldn't see anything at all. But as my eyes adjusted, I felt my heart stop.

The air was thick with the scent of old blood and decay, mingling with something even more sinister—an almost suffocating sense of malevolence that clung to the walls like a living thing. The dim light from a few flickering candles revealed the room's contents in slow, horrifying detail.

The walls were lined with dark, ancient symbols etched deep into the wood, their meanings lost to time but their intent clear—they were wards, spells of binding, protection, or perhaps something darker. The symbols seemed to pulse with a life of their own, glowing faintly in the candlelight as if they were alive. But it was the shrine in the center of the room that made my blood run cold.

It was unmistakably a shrine, and it was unmistakably dedicated to me.

Dozens of photographs covered the walls—images of me from every stage of my life. Some were recent, taken without my knowledge, but others were old, from a time I could barely remember. There were pictures of me as a child, playing in the garden, smiling with innocence, unaware of the eyes that watched me even then. Red strings connected the photos in a chaotic web, leading from one image to another, and all of them eventually pointed to one central image—me, as I am now, staring back at myself from the center of the shrine.

Beneath the photographs were relics—strands of my hair, pieces of clothing, small items I'd lost over the years and forgotten about. There were locks of hair, some tied with ribbons, others simply pinned to the wall. But the most disturbing were the pictures that included my father, with the red string tied tightly around both of us, connecting us in some twisted, symbolic way.

A cold sweat broke out on my skin as I took it all in. This was no simple obsession. This was a ritualistic altar, a shrine built with purpose, with intent, with a dark desire that I couldn't fully comprehend. It felt like I was standing in the heart of something ancient and evil, something that had been growing in the shadows for years, feeding on my image, on my life.

Fear gripped me, tight and unrelenting. My legs trembled as I took a step back, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. What was this? Why had Dominic done this? What did it mean?

As I turned my gaze to the far end of the room, I noticed something else—a small, dark altar, draped in black velvet. On top of it were more of my belongings, arranged carefully, almost reverently. A hairbrush, a book I'd cherished as a child, and a single red rose, wilted and dry, lying on a piece of parchment. The parchment was old, the edges frayed, and written on it in dark, heavy ink were words in a language I didn't understand. But at the top, in bold letters, was my name.

I took a step closer, drawn to the altar despite the fear gnawing at my insides. My fingers brushed the edge of the parchment, and a shock of energy jolted through me, as if the paper itself was charged with some dark power. I snatched my hand back, my mind racing. What was this? What was Dominic planning?