IV. The Beauty and The Beast

Before the curse, before the blood, there was a house.

A lonely mansion atop the hill, proud and silent, where the marble still gleamed and chandeliers danced with fire.

There lived Belle.

Daughter of a wealthy noble, stern and feared.

Her dresses were silk. Her windows, carved glass.

But beneath the beauty of its halls, something was rotting.

Her father shouted more than he spoke.

The servants avoided his gaze.

Belle did not smile.

The walls were tall, the doors heavy, and the garden… the garden refused to bloom.

In town, they said the family was blessed.

But the shadows that fell at night didn’t come from the sun.

They came from within.

And each night, when Belle closed her eyes, she wished to wake somewhere else.

Free.

Far from the house.

Far from her name.

Belle’s father was feared far beyond his lands.

Servants whispered that his voice could crack glass.

That when he grew angry, dogs didn’t howl… they fled.

He cursed everyone the same — the poor, the nobles, even his own daughter.

Among his servants, one in particular had stopped fearing him.

An old butler, face withered by time, who had endured thirty years of screams and blows.

One night, after finding a young gardener beaten half to death,

he slipped into the forest in secret.

There, beside a lake black as tar,

a woman who never blinked awaited him.

She wore rags and smelled of ash.

She did not ask for gold.

Only a word: “Yes.”

He spoke it without hesitation.

Then, the witch smiled.

She said all within the house would pay for the pain they caused.

That the curse would be deep.

And the punishment, just.

The servant nodded.

He thought he had chosen justice.

He did not know… he would beg for death.

The curse didn’t strike like lightning.

It crept through the walls like damp.

First, the chandeliers — they no longer gave light.

Then, the mirrors: they stopped reflecting.

Belle’s father noticed his nails thickening into claws.

His voice turning rough… inhuman.

He didn’t ask for help.

He struck harder.

The servants began to change.

One by one, their bodies twisted — as if their bones remembered an older shape.

Skin stretched.

Mouths split.

And no one spoke of it.

They just worked.

They bled.

They growled.

And they obeyed.

The mansion decayed from within: marble cracked, doors groaned, wax dripped black from the chandeliers.

Belle did not witness it.

She had fled years before, worn down by constant beatings and cruelty.

Since then, she had lived in the village, under another name.

And every night, she pretended not to remember the place…

that still dreamed of her.

The rumors came like a cold wind.

In the village taverns, they spoke of screams on the hill.

Of lights flickering in the abandoned mansion.

Of figures wandering the fields at midnight.

Belle didn’t want to believe it.

But when a child swore he saw “a creature with human eyes crying among the trees,” something cracked inside her.

She remembered her father’s voice.

The way his hands trembled when he was drunk.

And also… how he wept the first time Belle tried to leave.

Because deep down, she hated him.

But she also loved him.

So one moonless night, she returned.

She crossed the forest with a torch and a heart clenched in silence.

The mansion didn’t recognize her.

Where there had been columns, there were ruins.

Where there had been gardens, only mud.

The door stood open.

Inside, the air smelled of rust, of soil…

and flesh.

The mansion smelled like an open grave.

The curtains hung in shreds.

The walls were blotched with mold and lichen.

The chandeliers drooped from the cracked ceiling like twisted corpses.

Belle moved forward, swallowing fear like molten iron.

She recognized every corridor, every corner…

but everything felt tighter.

As if the house had breathed while she was gone.

In the main hall, the mirrors were shattered.

Claw marks scored the stone.

And remains.

Piles of bones.

Strips of dried flesh.

Scraps of fabric stuck to the floor, as if something had licked them clean.

Belle thought of fleeing.

Then she heard it — a growl.

Low. Painful.

A sound that froze her marrow.

From the darkness, two eyes stared back.

They glowed like damp embers.

The body behind them was not human.

It stepped forward.

And roared.

Belle screamed.

And ran.

The roar still echoed in her ears as she ran down the corridor.

The portraits watched her with hollow eyes.

The shadows moved of their own will.

Belle descended the staircase without thinking, stumbling, scraping her hands on crumbling stone.

The front door was open… or perhaps it had never been closed.

The forest greeted her like a toothless mouth.

Branches. Thorns. Roots.

She ran.

She breathed in short, panicked gasps.

Behind her, the creature followed.

It dragged itself. It slammed into trees.

It growled — not with rage, but with desperation.

Belle didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

It was her father.

And he only wanted to reach her, to touch her, to beg.

But his body no longer knew how to say “I love you.”

Only how to roar.

Belle screamed, crossed a stream, fell twice.

Mud clung to her waist.

The night swallowed her.

And finally…

she fell.

And could not rise.

Belle tried to crawl, but her legs no longer obeyed.

Her nails were bleeding. Mud clung to her lips.

Then — a crack behind her.

And a shadow.

The creature arrived, panting, dragging its limbs and claws like every step was agony.

It stopped.

It looked at her.

Belle shut her eyes, waiting for the end.

But instead of claws… she felt an embrace.

Tight. Warm. Trembling.

The monster wrapped its arms around her clumsily,

as if it still remembered how.

Belle screamed.

Tried to break free — but it was too late.

The curse slid into her like fog in bone.

Her veins burned.

Her thoughts blurred.

Her eyes turned dark.

The creature whimpered, like a child who doesn’t understand what it has done.

Belle collapsed to her knees.

And screamed.

But not with her voice.

It was no longer hers.

The curse had passed.

And there was no turning back.

They walked together beneath the rain.

Two misshapen figures — once father and daughter, now something more.

Something less.

The larger creature limped.

The smaller one no longer wept.

The trees parted as they passed, recognizing the curse as part of the forest.

The mansion emerged from the fog like a forgotten memory.

The door remained open.

Inside, the others were waiting.

Monstrous servants with blind eyes and hands like branches.

None of them spoke.

None ran.

They only bowed.

Belle looked at the ruins, the walls now alive with moss and flesh.

She felt she had come home.

She did not remember her name.

She did not remember why she left.

She only knew she belonged.

The father took her hand.

Together, they climbed the stairs toward the heart of the house.

And for the first time, there were no screams.

Only stillness...

damp, deep, eternal.

Moral of The Story.

“They lived happily ever after. Just not as you expected."

— The Lost Tales