The Veil

In the depths of Venice, where the narrow alleys curl like blackened tendrils and canals run dark as sin, Doge Palace loomed like a relic of unspeakable horrors. Its spires jutted upward, piercing the night sky, as though clawing for escape. Though the palace stood for centuries, it bore a dark history that clung to it like a curse, a place where myth and madness intertwined.

Tina had inherited the palace from a distant relative—a man she had never met. The lawyer who handed her the keys did so with a shudder, as if relieved to rid himself of the burden. She dismissed his warnings as local superstitions, though a shadow of unease had taken root in her mind.

The palace's grand entryway greeted her with an oppressive air. It was not simply cold; it was a bone-deep chill that sank into her very being. The walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, exhaling a damp, rotting breath that tainted the air. Along the hall, faded frescoes lined the walls, but something about them seemed wrong. The painted figures writhed, their angelic faces twisted into masks of torment. Open mouths frozen in silent screams stared back at her as she walked, and though she tried to ignore it, she felt their eyes follow her movements.

A large mirror stood in the grand parlor, shrouded by a stained velvet cloth. The fabric hung heavily, clinging to the glass like wet skin. Despite an instinctive revulsion, Tina tore it away, revealing an ancient mirror. The surface was warped, rippling as though suffering under some immense pressure.

As she wiped a film of grime away, her own reflection emerged. But something was wrong—it stared back with hollow eyes, gaunt features, and an expression of despair that mirrored her own dread. Then, it smiled—a hideous, unnatural grin that stretched her reflection’s face into a grotesque parody.

"Come to us."

The voice was not hers, yet it seemed to echo inside her skull. It wasn’t just a whisper but a multitude of voices speaking in unison, voices that seemed to come from the blackest depths of the mirror. And behind them, a rhythmic thudding began—like the heartbeat of the palace itself, beating through her bones.

The mirror trembled as if alive. The surface began to darken, becoming less like glass and more like liquid, an oily darkness that sloshed and writhed. From this blackness, faces emerged—countless faces contorted in agony, their mouths open in endless silent screams. They pressed against the glass, clawing to get free.

Tina recoiled, her mind struggling to comprehend the horror unfolding before her. She stumbled backward, and the grand parlor seemed to close in around her. The walls twisted, elongating unnaturally, and the air grew heavier with each breath. It was as though the palace itself was alive, a vast and ancient entity that fed upon her terror.

The corridors beyond the parlor were impossibly long, looping back on themselves and narrowing until she could barely fit. The paintings on the walls shifted as she passed, figures straining to break free of their frames. A door awaited at the corridor’s end—dark, dripping with an oily substance that trickled across the floor.

A maddening scratching came from beyond it. Though every fiber of her being urged her to flee, something compelled her to open the door.

The stench that billowed out was suffocating. It was the reek of decay and seawater, of things long drowned and left to rot. And in the room’s darkness, something moved—a figure with limbs impossibly long and crooked. Its skin hung in ragged sheets, wet and gray, revealing the raw sinew beneath. Black eyes stared back at her, void of life but full of a terrible knowing.

"Join us."

Its voice crawled into her mind, as if carried on a current of poisoned air. The creature lurched forward, dragging a swollen, misshapen leg. Its flesh bulged grotesquely, as though there were things trapped beneath it—things with faces that writhed and mouths that moaned.

As Tina backed away, the walls seemed to pulse, narrowing and forcing her toward the parlor once more. The mirror awaited, the surface now a boiling, seething blackness that reached out with wet, clawed hands. She struggled against the pull, but the darkness was like a living thing, tightening around her limbs, dragging her toward the glass.

The liquid mass surged from the mirror, swallowing the floor and rising like a tide. It was not mere water, but a thick, viscous substance, cold as death and hungrier than the grave. It wrapped around her, clawing into her skin, pulling her deeper into its embrace. She sank into the darkness, her vision consumed by the writhing mass of faces and limbs, all pulling her into their endless agony.

Her screams were swallowed by the darkness. As she was dragged under, she could see her reflection one last time—her face pressed against the surface of the mirror, her mouth open in a scream of pure terror. She wasn’t alone; there were hundreds—no, thousands—of faces trapped alongside her, each contorted in their own agony, bound for eternity beneath the whispering veil.

The palace remained, as it always had, a monument to despair and endless suffering. The canals that lapped at its stones ran darker there, and on still nights, when the air was just right, one could hear faint whispers rising from the black waters—whispers that begged and cried out, forever lost beneath the veil.