Inside a warped, living Inn, ten souls are faced with a supernatural trial — each must enter a door tailored to their psyche, confronting their deepest truths and fears. The Inn itself speaks, revealing that only by seeing can they escape, and among the ten identical black doors lies one lie. As each person steps through, the Inn responds — symbols appear, past traumas echo, and a faceless masked figure watches from the shadows, tracking their progress. One returns changed, not entirely themselves. The others begin to follow, one by one, as the Inn hunts for the cracks in their minds — and the mask begins to smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
They stood in the common room, now elongated and warped — as if time had stretched the wood and brick. The hearth pulsed a dim violet, and the map no longer lay still — it hovered slightly above the table, humming.
Then came the voice.
Not from above. Not from below.
But from within the Inn itself:
“To leave, you must see. One room per soul. Ten doors. Ten truths. One lie.”
A row of ten identical doors appeared in the far wall, smooth and black like polished obsidian. Each bore no handle — only a small carving in the shape of an eye.
The room chilled.
General Pando’ Spiros stepped forward. “Some kind of trial. The Inn is drawing from our psyche. It’s… engineering challenges suited to us.”
Sir Kostanto: “Or punishments.”
Koump’aros stared at the doors. “You all see ten doors, right?”
Doc Pitoros: “Yes.”
Koump’aros frowned. “I see eleven.”
No one answered.
St. Amou grinned, stepping toward one door without hesitation. “Finally. A room that might appreciate me.”
As he touched the eye symbol, it blinked — and the door swallowed him whole in a pulse of shadow.
Gaslord Nikoko groaned. “Oh, this is how people die.”
Gogos leaned close to one of the doors. “What happens in there, stays in there? Or are we all about to get… exposed?”
Nikiforos turned to Gleg. “Innkeeper. This place — is it conscious?”
Gleg didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on a single point in the air.
Behind the bar.
On the shelf.
Where a mask had appeared.
A simple wooden mask — with no eyes, no mouth, and veins pulsing beneath its surface.
Sir Patsir’ I.0. pointed. “That’s new. Who left that?”
The mask twitched.
For a split second, it looked directly at them.
Suddenly, Amou’s door creaked open — and he stepped out.
But something was off.
He said nothing. He just stood there, smiling too wide, a faint blue mist swirling at his boots.
Gleg whispered, “That’s not the man who walked in.”
Unseen… Elsewhere
In a room made of nothing but mirrors, a figure in deep red robes stood watching. No face, only a mask — blank, eyeless.
Beside him, ten shards floated. One for each soul in the Inn.
And slowly, one of them cracked.
“Soon,” the figure whispered.
“They’ll eat each other alive.”
“They’ll eat each other alive.”
The door closed behind St. Amou with a whisper, but even as silence fell again, the room was not still. The air throbbed, like the Inn itself was holding its breath.
Gogos approached the second door, rubbing his chin. “If this place tailors rooms to us, I pity the one made for me.” He turned, grinning. “Or is it pity for you, when I come out as one of you?”
Doc Pitoros: “Spare us the dramatics. We need to be methodical. Enter one at a time, record what happens, and regroup.”
Patsir’ I.0. scoffed. “Sure, doctor. Let’s take field notes while getting mind-slashed by haunted architecture.”
Nikiforos, standing near his door, murmured a prayer. “This place feeds on division. It speaks in illusion. Tread carefully.”
The map shimmered again, and now, each door bore a sigil — one that glowed only when the corresponding soul stood near.
- A wolf for Nikiforos.
- A coiled vine with thorns for Koump’aros.
- A fractured crown for Gaslord Nikoko.
- A closed book for Pando’ Spiros.
- A mirror for Gogos.
- A scale of justice, cracked, for Kostanto.
- A banana peel (unfortunately, glowing) for Patsir’ I.0.
- A serpent coiling around a gear for St. Amou.
- A red cross pierced by a dagger for Doc Pitoros.
- And for Gleg the Brewmaster — a mug overflowing with black smoke.
Kostanto turned to Gleg. “You have a door too.”
Gleg stared at the symbol. “Never seen that before.” He gripped the edge of the counter. “Maybe… maybe I was never just the innkeeper.”
Gaslord Nikoko stumbled slightly, as if something in the room had pulled on his thoughts. “Anyone else feel… like it knows your memories?”
Koump’aros‘s hands twitched. “No… worse. It’s looking for the cracks.”
Suddenly, the doors opened, all at once.
Not outward — inward. They revealed nothing. Just black.
Then a heartbeat.
A second heartbeat.
And from within, each doorway echoed a sound, unique to its owner:
- For Nikiforos, the weeping of children.
- For Gogos, dozens of voices shouting: “Who are you?”
- For Kostanto, the clang of an executioner’s blade.
- For Patsir’ I.0., laughter. Cruel, echoing, familiar.
- For Nikoko, a distant battlefield cry: “Fall back!”
- For Koump’aros, whispers in an alien tongue.
- For Doc Pitoros, the sound of his own voice screaming orders — and no one listening.
- For Pando’ Spiros, silence. But oppressive, total. As if he had ceased to exist.
- For Gleg, a woman’s voice: “You broke the seal.”
Doc Pitoros clenched his fists. “We go in. One by one. No heroes. No cowards.”
Gogos smirked. “Too late for that.”
Kostanto: “Who goes next?”
The map flickered.
A name lit up: Nikiforos.
A name lit up: Nikiforos.
He nodded once, then stepped into his door — and vanished.
A moment later, Pando’ Spiros’ name lit up next. Then Nikoko, then Patsir’ I.0. — the order already decided by the Inn.
Each was chosen. Each would face themselves — or something worse.
And watching from the mirror behind the bar, unseen by all…
The faceless mask now wore a faint crack.
A crack shaped like a grin.
