(We couldn't post the chapter yesterday because the site was down on our end, and we were unable to access it. Our sincerest apologies!)

Hello everyone!

First and foremost, we want to wish you all the happiest of holidays! Whether you're celebrating with loved ones, enjoying some quiet time, or just indulging in some great stories, we hope this season is treating you well. We are infinitely grateful for your support, comments, and enthusiasm. You make writing this story so much more rewarding!

Without further ado, we're delighted to bring you a brand-new chapter. Thank you for being here, and we can't wait to hear what you think!

Enjoy the read, and happy holidays!

Maya tries to find a comfortable position on her meditation cushion, but every movement only exacerbates her discomfort. Night has just fallen, enveloping the manor in a heavy darkness that the snowstorm seems to thicken. All day, it has trapped the place and its inhabitants in a bubble of perpetual twilight, where time stretches and the air itself feels frozen.

No new visions have come to haunt the young woman, too focused on burying herself in a book or politely convincing Harriet that she's really not interested in an interview about her life after Jimmy. She did try to reassure herself by contacting her loved ones with her phone, but Robert, passing through, had lectured her on the importance of "disconnecting." Maya still had time to receive a few responses, Hannah, in particular, advising her to "get the hell out of here" as soon as she could.

The young woman is puzzled by the staff's ever-changing moods: while Ashford had been warm and welcoming upon her arrival, she now seems increasingly impatient. Likewise, Robert seemed annoyed by the broken cup incident and even more by the mere sight of her phone. As for Jeffrey, it seems like he spends his life upstairs.

"Red flags," Hannah had texted her, followed by a string of exclamation marks, and Maya could only agree.

Now settled in the living room for their next exercise, she struggles to find an ounce of serenity within herself. The sofas have been pushed against the walls, and yoga mats, blankets, and cushions are now arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace, where the flames dance gently. In other circumstances, this setting might almost be comforting, a warm cocoon to escape the snow and cold howling outside. But here, now, Maya feels only a vague tension, a growing discomfort.

Ashford stands in the center of their semicircle with an ease that seems calculated. She sweeps the room with a confident glance, her hands clasped in front of her. Her smile seems warm, almost maternal, but Maya can't help but detect an underlying note of control.

"Good evening, everyone. I hope you've had a good day despite this storm that certainly gives us no respite. And your dolls seem to have survived, which is excellent news."

Some participants, visibly more at ease, smile or nod. Harriet and Camille even giggle softly at her joke. Maya furrows her brows and observes the reactions around her. Something has changed.

Camille, wrapped in a blanket, looks almost radiant. She admires her doll, smoothing the fabric with care and tenderness. Harriet smiles openly, the kind of smile she hadn't shown before. She too seems to have taken great care of her doll.

Elias, true to himself, stays attentive, his gaze fixed on Ashford with an intensity that betrays his desire to do well. But even he seems more relaxed, as if the exercise has had a calming effect. Simon, on the other hand, has lost his provocative attitude and his mask of nonchalance. He seems strangely absent, lost in his thoughts, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a corner of his cushion. He barely looked at Maya when he entered, as if nothing had happened or as if he didn't see her. What could Ashford have said or done to put him in this state?

Fred, however, remains a very grounded presence. Sitting cross-legged, he observes the scene with a clarity that, for Maya, contrasts with the rest of the group. His gaze briefly meets hers, and a slight raise of his eyebrows seems to communicate a silent thought: Doesn't all of this seem strange to you too?

Ashford moves toward a corner of the room and returns with a small, polished wooden box. She taps lightly on the lid to get everyone's attention.

"Before we begin, I'd like to ask a small favor. Your cell phones, please. It's just to avoid any distractions. They'll be safely stored in my office and I'll return them to you at dinner."

One by one, the participants comply, Maya reluctantly. Ashford closes the lid with a satisfied smile.

"Thank you, everyone. Now, we can begin in peace. As you've probably noticed, our exercises have a lot to do with symbols. They are the cornerstones of exploring the mind, the unconscious, and its infinite complexities."

She starts walking around the circle, her movements measured, her words carefully chosen.

"Symbols play a fundamental role in the healing process. They offer us direct access to the unconscious, that part of us that we repress, that we sometimes even hide from ourselves. They amplify emotions, allow us to reconnect with repressed experiences, and most importantly, they open the door to psychological reorganization. All of this is to better understand and accept our weaknesses, our doubts, and to overcome our limiting beliefs."

She pauses, her gaze sweeping over the group once more to capture every reaction, every micro-expression. Maya prefers to hide as much of her emotions as possible, pretending to be very interested.

"In short, symbols allow us to create meaning. They bridge psychic elements that words alone cannot connect. And the meaning we create together forms the basis of your transformation. You are here to reconnect with yourselves, but also to leave these walls different. Better. Freer."

Ashford claps her hands, a sharp and energetic sound that immediately captures the group's attention.

"To begin this session, I'm offering a small symbolic ritual, simple but powerful."

She turns toward the entrance of the room as Robert enters, carrying a tray with a porcelain teapot and several matching cups. He distributes and fills the cups one by one as Ashford continues.

"Take your cup. Appreciate its weight, its shape. Breathe deeply, let the scent fill you, calm you. When you're ready, take your first sip, but slowly. Let the tea dance on your palate. Notice what you feel. Be careful, it is very important that you keep each sip in your mouth for about fifteen seconds. If you drink too quickly, it won't have any effect."

The group follows silently, each sinking into what seems to be a strange moment of reflection. After a long hesitation, Maya brings the cup to her lips and immediately recognizes the special tea they've been served since their arrival, only this time much more intense and bitter. She's surprised they offer it to her again after telling them she's particularly sensitive to it. Confused, she discreetly glances around at the others.

Around her, the participants seem absorbed by the ritual. Harriet holds her cup with both hands, her eyes shining with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Elias gently inhales the steam rising from his tea, his expression peaceful. Even Camille seems to find a certain tranquility in the gesture. Simon, strangely, appears to be falling apart, as if on the verge of tears.

Ashford continues, her voice soft but firm, almost hypnotic.

"This practice of mindfulness, my dear participants, invites us to slow down, to leave behind the bustle of everyday life. Each sip of tea is an opportunity to connect with ourselves, a purification of the negative energies that weigh us down. It is a moment to express gratitude for what we have, for the nature that provides us with this drink, and for ourselves, for our ability to appreciate this moment of calm."

Maya slowly shifts her gaze toward Fred. He looks extraordinarily serious, tense – perhaps even more: on alert. She watches him hold his cup to his lips, as if taking his time to drink, but the movements of his throat clearly indicate otherwise, swallowing the liquid in one go, or nearly. From the corner of her eye, he looks at her, tapping his cup with his fingertip, and she understands that he's encouraging her to do the same.

Maya feels her stomach twist. He knows something. Is there something in the tea? What is happening? She quickly mimics him, pretending to take her time but swallowing the liquid as fast as possible. Despite this, she feels her vision blur slightly and is certain she hears whispers hanging in the air.

Ashford's voice, soft as a silk murmur, still echoes through the room.

"There we go. Now that we are all aligned and centered, we can dive deeper into our exploration."

She points to the fireplace, where the fire crackles gently, casting shadows around the room. The flames illuminate the faces of the participants, some tense, others simply perplexed.

"Now that your dolls are infused with your past, it's important to let go. To leave your guilt behind, along with everything that's been weighing you down."

Camille grips her doll so tightly that her knuckles turn white. The young woman looks like she's about to cry, her eyes shining with palpable fear. Ashford continues, more firmly this time, as though she expects some resistance.

"To get rid of things that poison you, you need to throw them into the fire, and by doing so, you cleanse yourself. It helps you let go of the things holding you back, so you can move on and take control again. It's about burning your old personality and finding a new one. A better one."

Ashford's words strangely echo in the living room. Something in her voice, an almost authoritative insistence, sends shivers down Maya's spine. Fred breaks the silence, his tone laced with a hint of irony that contrasts with the heavy atmosphere.

"And you believe that's a good thing? Destroying your past?"

Ashford blinks, as if the question is as absurd as a child asking if water is wet.

"Of course it's a good thing!" she exclaims, her tone slightly defensive. "We're all shackled to our pasts. The weight of it... it holds us back, keeps us from becoming who we're meant to be. People suffer from excessive guilt. Excessive self-criticism, excessive self-doubt… evils of excess. If you rid yourselves of these... evils, then you're free to realize your full potential."

Fred doesn't respond, but his lips press into an unreadable pout. Slowly, he glances at Maya, a subtle but heavy look. Ashford, seemingly wanting to sweep away any opposition, continues with visible enthusiasm.

"Now, who would like to go first?" she asks, gesturing toward the fireplace, her smile encouraging, almost pressing.

Maya hesitates. The sooner she burns this doll and gets this strange exercise over with, the sooner she can resume her evening: dinner, sleep, then tomorrow morning announce to Ashford that she has to leave. Yes, she'll even convince the others – especially Camille – to do the same. And speaking of Camille...

The young woman bursts into sobs, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable spasms. She hugs her doll to her, with an intensity that resembles a mother protecting her child. All eyes turn to her, some filled with compassion, others, like Fred's, with palpable concern. Even Simon, usually so apathetic, slightly squints his eyes as he observes the scene.

Ashford, however, reacts immediately. She approaches Camille with an almost mechanical maternal ease, kneeling beside her. She gently rubs her shoulders, her voice softening into a soothing, almost hypnotic tone.

"It's okay, darling. It's very brave of you. Just let it out. Let it all out."

Camille shakes her head, unable to speak, her hands trembling as she grips the doll. Ashford smiles gently, as if this is all part of the exercise.

"You see, this is exactly what I was talking about. It's an emotional thing. We can see here that Camille has clearly become very attached to her doll. And that's okay. It just means this exercise is doing its job."

Maya looks away, uncomfortable. Something in Ashford's way of rationalizing the young girl's distress deeply unsettles her. The psychiatrist gives them a smile that seems almost soothing, but something in her expression feels too calculated, too precise.

"I understand, it's not easy to do this as yourself."

She turns away, walking to a corner of the room where a small wooden chest rests discreetly. She kneels and opens it, carefully rummaging inside. When she stands up again, she holds several identical masks, pure white, with smooth faces, no features, just two gaping holes for eyes.

Ashford returns to them and hands a mask to each of them. Maya takes hers reluctantly, a wave of discomfort rising in her throat. There's something deeply unsettling about this absence of features, as if this neutral face is waiting to be inhabited. Fred, sitting next to her, turns his mask over in his hands, frowning, his eyes showing growing suspicion. The others look only curious at most.

"Masks allow you to play at being someone different for a while. You'll see you might find it quite liberating."

Maya raises her eyes to the psychiatrist, a growing tension in her stomach. "Liberating" isn't the word she would have chosen.

"I want you to step outside of yourselves. To let something else, someone else, take over. Let another personality express itself, take possession of you, so to speak."

Fred furrows his brow even more, looking as if he's about to throw his mask away. Camille, on the other hand, remains frozen, her mask resting on her lap like a sacred object. Elias, still attentive, stares at Ashford with an almost unsettling intensity.

"It's easier with the mask on," Ashford continues, her smile widening. "People are not as afraid to be free about themselves when they're wearing a mask. It helps with the trance. Let this other come to you, into you... and let it express itself."

Maya tightens her grip on the mask in her hands, her gaze shifting from Camille to Fred, then to Simon, who has taken his mask without a discernible expression. Worse, she's certain she hears more and more torn whispers slicing through the air, an anxious warning, a pleading to flee. She knows it's pointless to resist openly, Ashford will only push harder. Better to get it over with as quickly as possible. She takes a deep breath and, almost mechanically, raises the mask to her face.

The cold material against her skin makes her shiver, and she adjusts the straps with slow, automatic movements. Once the mask is in place, the light from the fire becomes dimmer, almost distant. Her breaths echo in the confined space of the mask, amplified, hoarse, as if she's trapped in a small box.

Then, the voices explode.

They overlap, each becoming a little clearer, a little more insidious. A disorienting cacophony floods her mind. Maya blinks behind the mask, panic rising as the words creep into her thoughts.

"Run."

"Leave."

"Quick."

"He's here."

"He's back."

"He wants to get out."

"He will."

Maya freezes, one hand instinctively pressed against her chest. The voices entwine, tear apart, multiply at a speed that makes her feel nauseous. Her heart races, and she feels as though she's suffocating.

The whispers are far more numerous than at the Sea View Hotel, older, as if this place has been saturated with them for centuries. They become a tide, an inexorable force that pushes her to the brink of fainting. She feels as though she's dissolving, losing her footing, drowning in this invisible crowd.

Maya clenches her fists, trying to cling to something, anything. She breathes deeply, but even her breath feels foreign, alienating. She senses that Fred is staring at her through his own mask, his unease palpable despite the anonymity of the white face. Ashford guides them with a soft but commanding voice, as if orchestrating an ancient ritual.

"Let yourself go. Feel your soul lifting. Then wait… for the moment to break free. Then… Break… Free."

Camille suddenly lets out a visceral, almost animalistic scream, throwing her doll into the flames. The fire crackles with intensified fury, swallowing the fabric and the memories it represents. Almost immediately, Harriet follows suit, her own scream full of rage, a raw and primal release. The dolls rise one by one into the air before disappearing into the blaze, like fragments of abandoned souls.

Maya hesitates, feeling her own doll like a weight in her hands. She doesn't feel the overwhelming emotion of the others, just an almost desperate urge to get it over with. With a swift motion, she throws the doll into the fire, without ceremony. But as the fabric begins to burn, something changes.

The lights flicker.

First once, then twice, as if the electrical system is experiencing an overload. A strange vibration runs through the room, and Maya feels a cold tingle crawling up her spine. The whispers in her head reach an unbearable volume, a chaotic crescendo of screams and pleas that seem to tear her skull apart. She presses her hands to her head, fingers digging into her temples, tears involuntarily spilling from her closed eyes.

She hears the fire crackling louder, the others' breathing quickening, but mostly, those voices—the same voices—screaming in a loop in her mind. The pain becomes unbearable. Maya rips off her mask in a panicked gesture and throws it to the ground. She opens her eyes, gasping, and the sight unfolding before her freezes her blood.

In the flashing light now frantically flickering, Maya discerns shapes. Ethereal human forms stand behind each participant, their outlines indistinct and trembling. They reach a hand towards the mask-wearers, like shadows trying to cling to them. Some seem desperate, almost pleading, their gestures imploring. But the one near Fred is different from the rest. Maya can't look away from this presence: a dark, shapeless mass, seeming to ooze pure malice. She recognizes the man, the same one from the room with the woman in red.

A visceral terror grips her. The air feels as though it's slipping away, a sensation of vertigo crushing her lungs. The black mass, denser than the others, reaches out with a twisted hand, nearly brushing the edge of Fred's hat. Maya feels a scream rise within her, uncontrollable, unrestrained.

The lights explode in a deafening crash as a violent, freezing gust of air suddenly rushes down the chimney flue, extinguishing the fire with a sharp snap, plunging the room into total darkness. The last thing Maya manages to see is Ashford, still standing, motionless, at the center of the chaos, oddly serene…

Smiling.