Marcus took a step into the cottage.
The cats were still in their places, acting like they owned the place. One of them stared at him steadily, its eyes glinting with something unreadable.
Then, without warning, one of the cats stood on its hind legs.
It was plump, gray, and its eyes shimmered with a strange flicker. It raised one tiny paw and spoke in a voice that seemed to mimic human speech—faint, fragmented, and oddly feminine:
"Go… go. This is not your place."
Marcus didn't recoil. On the contrary, an intrigued smile tugged at his lips.
"A dream? Or is this… some kind of chickpea-induced hallucination? Maybe a twisted welcome ritual?"
He was about to step further when the air shifted.
It thickened. Grew colder. As if something dark had awoken in the bones of the cottage.
And from the shadows, a man emerged.
Or rather—a figure in the shape of a man, but entirely devoid of soul.
He was old, towering, wrapped in a decaying black cloak. His eyes… weren't human. They looked like deep, endless wells filled with something ancient and terrifying. His wrinkled face tensed as he spoke, voice soft, yet slicing through the air like a blade:
"If you want to live… turn back. With every step you take here, you'll lose a year of your life… no—ten."
Marcus froze. Unsure whether to laugh, run, or believe.
Before he could decide, before the shadow of the old man could move again—someone else appeared.
Or rather… manifested.
The scene seemed to bend, parting like a curtain of fog. A subtle glow emerged to his right, and standing there was a man.
White hair like ancient snow. Eyes crimson as cursed wine. And a smile—oh, that smile—gleaming like a pearl pulled from the jaws of a fable.
He spoke gently, as if he'd known Marcus forever:
"Welcome to my home."
And then he laughed.
He laughed as though everything that had just happened was the prelude to some absurd comedy. And strangely, Marcus found himself smiling. Then laughing too—his body rejecting fear and surrendering instead to the sheer absurdity of the moment.