Chapter 18 - small gift
The corridor reeked of blood and something deeper—like burnt copper laced with the scent of rot. The flickering lights above struggled to stay alive, each pulse of dim light revealing the red mist that coiled around Carl like a living storm. It wasn't mere smoke anymore; it had weight, it had intent—like the breathing of something unseen, something ancient.
The red fog hissed and twisted, forming a grotesque cocoon around Carl. Within that fog, his silhouette flickered—at times human, at times monstrous. His grin flashed through the haze, sharp and taunting.
Simon's long, black tentacle lashed again from the shadows, slicing the air with a shriek that scraped across the walls. It shot forward like a spear, trembling with rage and hatred. The air howled from the force of its speed.
When the tentacle reached the mist—it stopped.
Then came the sound of burning.
The mist devoured the shadow-flesh, eating through it like acid. A smell of charred rot filled the air as half of Simon's appendage dissolved into steaming chunks. The remaining part recoiled violently, twitching and disintegrating into black fluid that spattered across the floor.
Simon screamed—a sound that made the hallway tremble. It wasn't human. It wasn't ghostly either. It was something caught in between—anguish and fury woven together into one piercing cry.
Carl only laughed.
A low, broken laugh that turned manic.
"Again, brother! Come on! You've tried this how many times now?" Carl mocked, tilting his head back, the red mist dancing around him like a crown of madness. "You still can't reach me! Even in death, you're useless!"
He turned his head, eyes gleaming through the haze, and saw Lumian standing at the end of the corridor—silent, calm, observing.
"Hey, aren't you coming?" Carl sneered, his tone playful and venomous at once. "Don't tell me you're scared. And I'm really surprised my sweet family didn't kill you yet. I underestimated you… ah, wait."
He tilted his head mockingly.
"I don't even know your name."
Lumian didn't answer. He stepped forward slowly, each footfall echoing faintly against the cracked tiles. The air was heavy, pressing on him, vibrating with Carl's energy and the red mist's pulse. His breathing was calm, but inside his mind, he was sharp—analyzing every shift, every flicker.
Carl smirked again. "Silent, huh? That's fine. I'll learn your name eventually. Maybe after I tear it out of you."
He took a step closer—then froze.
His mocking grin faltered. His gaze dropped to Lumian's left hand.
Something wet and dark dangled from it.
It was a head.
A woman's head—blood-soaked, her long hair matted and clinging to her pale face. The eyes were closed, the mouth slightly open as if whispering something long forgotten. Blood dripped from the neck stump, trailing down Lumian's arm, painting his sleeve in crimson.
For a brief second, the air stopped moving. Even the mist seemed to pause.
Carl's eyes widened. "You… what the hell—?"
Lumian lifted the head slightly, his expression unreadable, the dim light catching the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
He remembered everything. Every whisper. Every desperate cry from that woman's memory. Her pain. Her hatred.
She was the key.
He'd known he couldn't drag her entire form out of that cursed room. He'd tried. The rules of this apartment bound her there. But there was something that had gnawed at his mind—the memory world had sharpened him, made him think differently. If her body was chained… what about her head?
Could the head carry her essence, her rage, her power?
He had asked her that question himself. She had agreed, her cold eyes glimmering with vengeance even as her voice echoed through the air. If you take my head, I will still see him. Still curse him. Still tear him apart.
And so, Lumian had done the unthinkable. He had taken her severed head, knowing it might turn against him, knowing it could fail entirely. But something in him—something darker—believed this was the only way to confront Carl's "art."
Now, standing under the trembling light, he could feel it—the head was alive. Her hatred simmered in the air like heat before a storm.
Carl finally found his voice. "You're insane," he hissed. "You think some bloody head can—"
Lumian's faint smile deepened. "I told you, Carl," he murmured, his tone chillingly calm. "I have a gift for you."
Then he threw the head.
It sailed through the air, spinning slowly, blood trailing in an arc that glittered in the flickering light. For a heartbeat, it looked almost beautiful—before the world changed.
The head landed just before Carl, and its eyes snapped open.
They glowed a deep, endless crimson.
The woman's scream erupted—not of pain, but of fury. A shriek so raw it cracked the bulbs above, sending glass raining down. The red mist around Carl recoiled, shivering like it had been struck by lightning. Her voice filled the corridor, echoing through walls, twisting the air into chaos.
Carl stumbled back, clutching his chest. The mist wavered. The cursed eyeball above his head pulsated violently, its veins glowing a sickly red, trying to hold its form.
But it was being drained.
The woman's power—her wrath—was consuming it, feeding off its curse, devouring its corruption.
"NO!" Carl screamed, clutching the box that once housed the eyeball. "You can't—YOU CAN'T—"
But she could. Her eyes locked on him, burning through the haze, through the years of torment.
The walls shook. The lights went out completely. The only illumination came from her glowing eyes and the pulsing, dying eyeball writhing mid-air.
Lumian could feel the surge—the clash of curses, rage, and deathly power. His hair whipped in the sudden gust as if the apartment itself were breathing.
Carl fell to one knee, screaming, veins bulging across his neck. Blood poured from his nose and eyes, sizzling as it hit the floor. The red mist shrieked, twisting violently around him, but it was losing shape—being devoured, piece by piece.
The corridor was turning into a battlefield of spirits.
Lumian shielded his face as the psychic pressure thickened. He could hear the boy's faint voice from afar, calling for his mother. The ground vibrated beneath him as unseen hands clawed at the walls, desperate and angry.
Then, all at once—
The red mist exploded.
A wave of pressure blasted outward. Lumian staggered back, eyes narrowing through the haze. Carl's form flickered within the chaos—his laughter mixed with cries.
When the smoke settled, Carl stood again—barely. His eyes were bloodshot, madness swirling within them. The eyeball was still floating, dim, but alive. Half of it was burned, veins hanging like torn threads.
Carl spat blood and grinned weakly. "You think that's enough to stop me?"
Lumian tightened his grip on the knife, raising it slowly. His gaze was steady, his tone low.
"No. That was just the beginning."
The woman's head lay between them, her eyes dimming but still alive, glowing faintly like dying embers. Her lips moved, whispering something—too faint to hear, but Lumian understood.
Finish it.
Carl exhaled, lifting his trembling hand. The cursed eye turned toward Lumian again, veins twitching to life, gathering the last remnants of its energy. The air thickened, humming with malevolent tension.
But this time, Lumian didn't step back.
He stepped forward.
Each motion was deliberate, slow, almost silent. The knife in his hand glistened with reflected crimson. His pupils shimmered faintly—the same faint red that had once belonged to the boy's awakening in the memory world.
Carl's grin faltered.
For the first time, a sliver of fear crossed his face.
Lumian's voice was quiet but sharp enough to cut through the stillness.
"Let's end your art here."
And as he advanced, the lights flickered once more, the woman's faint whisper lingering like a curse in the air—
"Burn him."