Maya is curled up between the wall and the mirror, squeezed into the narrow space that barely allows her to breathe. Her legs are pulled tightly against her chest, her entire body wound like a spring about to snap under the weight of terror. Her hands tremble as they press against her mouth, muffling desperate sobs. Tears stream ceaselessly down her cheeks, tracing wet paths as she fights to hold back the screams threatening to shatter the silence. Every sound in the room echoes in her mind like a hammer blow, amplified by the crushing grip of panic tightening around her chest.
Ashford, imposing in her cold composure, stands directly in front of the mirror, her slender figure bathed in pale light. Her perfectly tailored black suit and meticulously tied-back hair give her an almost otherworldly appearance, as though she were carved from ice. She studies her reflection in the mirror with methodical focus, her measured movements contrasting sharply with the brutality unfolding behind her.
Thudding sounds fill the air—sharp, violent blows punctuated by grunts and muffled groans. Maya has been listening to them for what feels like an eternity, each impact making her flinch a little more. She should run, she knows she should race down the stairs to alert Jenks, to call for help. But her body refuses to move. Her legs feel like lead, frozen in place.
Ashford takes her time, as if the chaos behind her holds no significance whatsoever. She adjusts a stray strand of hair that has slipped from her strict bun, smoothing the fabric of her suit with almost affected care. Finally, she speaks, her voice soft yet as sharp as a blade.
"I find you particularly ungrateful, Mr. Hall."
She turns slowly, her piercing gaze settling on Jimmy. The poor man slumps in a chair, his arms hanging limply, his body nearly motionless. His lip is split, blood trickles from his nose, and a bruise is already swelling on his cheekbone. His once-clean shirt is wrinkled and stained, clinging to his thin frame with the sheen of sweat. His breath is shallow and uneven, as though he's struggling to reclaim control of his battered body.
Maya averts her eyes for a moment, but she can't stop herself from looking back at Jimmy. He is no longer the cruel, relentless predator who hunted her through the halls of the hotel. No, here he is a victim, reduced to an almost pathetic state. This isn't what she wanted. Not this violence. Not this cruelty.
Robert and Jeffrey step back, their knuckles reddened from the blows they've delivered, leaving Ashford room to move forward. She approaches Jimmy with calculated slowness, almost theatrical, as she counts on her fingers in an exaggerated display of patience.
"We found you, hiding, fed you, sheltered you. We even went out of our way to arrange your aunt's rather… necessary departure," she says, making a small gesture with her hand, as though that act were nothing more than a trivial detail. "And because of that, you inherited this estate, a comfortable sum, and even these apartments instead of something less… accommodating in the basement."
Jimmy keeps his head low, his chin nearly touching his chest. He breathes slowly, deeply, clinging to a rhythm he seems to have repeated a thousand times. Inhale. Exhale. Control. His eyes are closed, and Maya finds herself wondering if this control is what keeps Hugo from surfacing. What she sees looks like a broken man, but she's starting to understand that he's still fighting, in ways she can't fully grasp.
Ashford, however, does not share the same patience. She begins to lose her composure, and it shows in her voice, despite the almost pleasant tone she continues to affect.
"All we have asked of you is to let us meet your… unfortunate companion. Hugo, isn't it? We've been patient, extremely patient." Her voice grows heavier, each word carrying more weight. "But every attempt we've made, you've blocked us. Nothing in this house has responded. Not the walls, not the objects, not even the former guests of your hotel we brought here in an attempt to establish a connection."
Maya feels her breath catch. She hugs her knees tighter, clinging desperately to whatever remains of rational thought in the midst of this chaos. Ashford leans slightly closer to Jimmy, her voice growing sharper.
"And now, we're running out of patience, Mr. Hall. Perhaps a little less of your… control could help us."
Jimmy lifts his eyes slightly but says nothing. His face, despite the bruises, remains closed off, every tense muscle revealing a silent struggle. For the first time, Maya understands that this control isn't just about resisting Hugo. It's an act of defiance against them.
Ashford lets out a weary sigh and makes a dismissive gesture toward Robert and Jeffrey. The two men step forward, their expressions blank, ready to pick up where they left off. She begins to turn away, but a broken outburst from Jimmy stops her in her tracks.
"Why are you doing this? Why won't you just leave me alone?"
His voice is hoarse, rasping from pain and the beatings, but it resonates enough to catch Ashford's attention. She halts, one foot already pointed toward the door, and seems to hesitate, as if weighing the pros and cons of offering an explanation. Then, with chilling calm, she steps back toward him. Slowly, she crouches in front of him, balancing gracefully on her heels, and places a cold, controlled hand on his knee.
"You see, Mr. Hall," she begins, her voice smooth and deliberate, "years ago, our director, Mr. Ryan Rand, developed a keen interest in… let's call them peculiar subjects: magic, the occult, paganism. At the time, they were the fantasies of a young man, a simple fascination without much consequence. But as he grew older, he began to notice strange patterns. Connections in legends, stories, testimonies. And he came to understand that beyond the myths, there might be something… real. Are you familiar with Faust?"
"A pact with the devil...?" Jimmy struggles to lift his head, his split lips twisting into a painful grimace.
A trail of blood trickles from his mouth. Ashford tilts her head with a patient, almost condescending smile, wiping it away with the tip of her fingers.
"Hmmm… Not necessarily the devil himself. Nor even a demon, though we are still exploring that possibility. We prefer the term 'entity.' It avoids negative connotations, you see? But the principle is the same: an individual strikes a deal with an entity in exchange for something valuable. In your family's case, I would wager on great creativity. Perhaps even fame? Your father was a renowned magician, after all. And you yourself made quite the promising start, didn't you?"
Maya, still curled up near the mirror, holds her breath. Every word from Ashford resonates within her with terrifying coherence. Nothing she hears feels irrational, and that is precisely what petrifies her. Jimmy doesn't contradict Ashford either. Neither he nor Maya are what one might call rational minds. Not when one shares his body with another personality of unparalleled violence, and the other communicates with the dead.
Ashford seems delighted by the silence, savoring the tension in the room. She continues, her voice soft and almost friendly, a sharp contrast to the horror of her words.
"But as you can imagine, striking such a pact is not… simple. Humans are complicated. Chained to their past, their emotions, their guilt. Making room requires effort; it demands clearing away the excess, cleaning the slate, so to speak. But in return, the rewards are priceless: wealth, knowledge, talent, fame… A true symbiosis. For such results, the price is not so high, really."
Jimmy slowly lifts his eyes to her, his gaze haunted by memories and regrets he does not share.
"You think so…?"
His voice is weak, but laced with palpable bitterness. Ashford waves an elegant hand, as if brushing aside a trivial objection.
"Accidents happen, of course. But it's worth it. Oh, and no, before you ask: neither my associates nor I are that fortunate. We are not Prime Candidates; we cannot aspire to become such… vessels. But you, Mr. Hall, you are."
Jimmy gently shakes his head, his features etched with exhaustion and despair.
"I never did anything!"
Ashford smirks, amused by his ignorance.
"Indeed. And that is precisely the fascinating mystery, isn't it? You inherited this entity. It was passed down to you by your father at his death. How old were you then? Two, three years old? And ever since, it has been within you. You are the heir to a pact that likely dates back several generations."
She pauses, studying his face as if searching for an answer she already knows.
"This is why you are so valuable to us. We want to speak to Hugo. To understand when and why this pact was made. How it has endured through time to reach you."
Jimmy stares at her, incredulous, almost dazed. He shakes his head, first slowly, then more forcefully.
"No… I won't let you. It has to stop with me."
Ashford clicks her tongue, like a mother mildly irritated by a child's stubbornness.
"Your death, then? That has been considered, I assure you. But what would happen to the entity in that case? We cannot take that risk. So, here are our options: either you quietly step aside, allowing us to speak with Hugo… or we ensure you have a child. It would take more time, of course, but it might prove to be… easier. And for you, who knows? More pleasant."
Jimmy flinches, his face twisting with revulsion.
"You're insane…"
Ashford tilts her head slightly, her smile widening.
"Perhaps, Mr. Hall. But insane or not, we will get what we want. Since you've been with us, I've never seen you this emotional. And it's not as if we haven't given you enough time."
The psychiatrist straightens with an unsettling grace, as if the weight of the situation is nothing more than a minor detail to her. She adjusts her jacket with a gesture as elegant as it is cold and signals to Robert and Jeffrey to wait. Turning back to Jimmy, her gaze is piercing and icy, laden with an authority that leaves no room for escape.
"We've tried to learn what we can on our own since you refuse to cooperate," she continues, her voice low but clear, tinged with a hint of controlled frustration.
She steps closer, her heels clicking against the wooden floor like the ticking of a countdown. Jimmy, breathing heavily, barely lifts his eyes toward her. He is drained, slumped in the chair, but his fists clench weakly—a faint, instinctive resistance.
"Since this entity has been in your family for generations, we made sure everything led us here. Your aunt, for example. She wasn't very cooperative when she was alive, but she knew. She called it a curse. According to her, your grandfather had it as well. That's why she chose to take her husband's name and decided never to have children. She was convinced the bloodline would end with her, that she would put a stop to all of it. What a waste that would have been, wouldn't it?"
A faint smile touches her lips, an expression halfway between amusement and disdain. Maya, motionless in the shadows, feels a shiver of revulsion. Every word from Ashford seems more calculated than the last, each revelation more insidious, yet she remains captivated, unable to tear her attention away. Her tears have stopped flowing, replaced by a morbid fascination she cannot control.
"But let us return to your entity. Just as with you, we hypothesize that it has left behind a trail of violence, chaos, and death—ghosts, in essence. It's on them that we've focused our research. These spirits, Mr. Hall, are far more useful than you might imagine. That's where the idea for our little… experiment was born: you, your entity, our test subjects, and ghosts."
She pauses, as though savoring the weight of her words. Jimmy turns his head slightly, his gaze hazy and unfocused, but he finds nothing to say. Ashford seizes the moment to continue, her tone almost academic now, as if delivering a lecture.
"We carefully selected former guests of your hotel. Those who survived, at least. We offered them a therapeutic week, supposedly to help them overcome their trauma. In reality, we were preparing the ground. Their minds needed to be… cleansed, freed of attachments, so the spirits in this manor could find refuge within them. Once embodied, these ghosts become infinitely easier to interrogate."
She waves a hand dismissively, as if brushing away the inefficiency of traditional tools.
"Spirit boxes, Ouija boards… Too random, too imprecise. And unfortunately, we don't have a medium on our team. But a spirit within a living host? That allows us to obtain clear answers. It's much more effective."
Maya feels her heart race. Part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity of this explanation, but she knows doing so would be self-deception. Every word from Ashford resonates with experiences Maya herself has endured—voices she's heard, visions she's suffered. And it terrifies her to her core.
The psychiatrist continues, unperturbed, her eyes gleaming with a triumphant light.
"The first seminar was… let's say, a disaster. Most of the subjects left even more unstable than they arrived, which, ironically, helped us cover our tracks. The second, however, was a success. All our test subjects had hosted a spirit, and we finally began to gather information. We estimate that the initial pact dates back to the 17th century, but unfortunately, no spirits from that era have come forward. So, we had to try a third seminar."
She leans closer to Jimmy, her lips curling into a predatory smile as she tilts his face up by gently lifting his chin with her fingers.
"Almost a success this time. But the spirits here are restless, very restless. We don't have the time to untangle their stories to understand their motivations. My boss wants results, and he wants them tonight. You are going to give them to us, Mr. Hall, whether you like it or not."
Jimmy weakly shakes his head, his gaze clouded.
"Never…"
Ashford crouches before him again, her eyes burning with unsettling intensity. She brushes his cheek with a touch that is almost tender.
"When we have what we're looking for, Mr. Hall, and when we've found a way to protect Hugo, I promise you this: I will grant you the death you so desperately desire."
Her voice is soft, almost soothing. But Jimmy turns his face away, shuddering with disgust. A flicker of irritation crosses Ashford's eyes, and her jaw tightens. For a brief moment, she seems to battle the urge to slap him, her fingers curling before she regains control. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she straightens, cold anger seeping into every gesture.
"Very well, as you wish," she says, stepping back, poised to leave. "I'll leave you alone with my assistants. Perhaps they'll find out what it takes to coax your little… inner friend out since nothing else seems to affec—"
Suddenly, she stops. Her words choke off, her gaze freezing in the middle distance, as if struck by an idea so forceful it halts her in her tracks. Her mouth opens slightly, her lips forming a soundless murmur, and her face shifts into an expression that hovers between revelation and satisfaction.
She raises a commanding finger, demanding silence, though no one dared to speak. Then, slowly, she pivots toward Jeffrey, her gaze gleaming with a dangerous intensity.
"Fetch Maya."
Her voice is soft, almost calm, but the implicit threat behind her words is unmistakable. Maya suddenly finds the strength to rise, bracing herself against the wall. She feels an overwhelming urge to run, as though convinced they already know where she is. Jeffrey hesitates for a moment, startled by the order, but eventually inclines his head and takes a step toward the door.
Before he can reach it, a hoarse groan tears through the air.
"No!"
Jimmy's voice, cracked and trembling, suddenly rises, saturated with panic. He pushes himself upright slightly in the chair, his battered body protesting every movement, but his eyes blaze with life—pure, visceral terror. The unexpected outburst seems to freeze time in the room. Ashford stops, her smile returning slowly, sharp as a razor's edge. She turns back toward Jimmy, one eyebrow slightly arched, savoring her apparent victory.
"Oh? So that's what gets a reaction from you… How fascinating."
She steps closer again, her measured pace exuding predatory precision, leaning in until her face is mere inches from his. Her cold, piercing eyes bore into his, searching for any emotion that might grant her an advantage.
"You see, Mr. Hall, everyone has a weakness. And I believe I've just found yours."
"Leave her alone," Jimmy pleads, his voice strangled.
He averts his eyes, but this time it isn't out of disdain—it's shame, despair, a resignation laced with deep-seated fear. His hands tremble slightly, his fingers gripping the chair. Ashford lets out a short, sharp laugh.
"Really? Begging me now, are you?" She shakes her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "You had the chance to make this easier, but no. You chose to resist. And look where that's gotten you… Go get her."
She straightens, her face returning to its impassive mask, and motions to Jeffrey to hurry up.
"Don't touch her!" Jimmy screams, his voice raw, torn apart by a mix of despair and raw rage.
In a sudden burst of strength, he surges to his feet, his battered body swaying precariously, but his eyes blaze with an intense, almost manic light. He lunges at Ashford, but before he can reach her, Robert leaps forward. The hulking man swings a massive fist, slamming into Jimmy's face with brutal force. The blow echoes like a thunderclap in the room, and Jimmy's body crumples backward, crashing heavily to the floor.
Maya jerks violently, her trembling hands almost dropping what she's holding. Everything happens so fast that her mind struggles to catch up with reality. She wants to scream, but her throat is locked tight, her voice smothered by sheer terror.
A heavy silence follows, broken only by an eerie sound: laughter. Low at first, a guttural chuckle, then rising into higher, almost childlike bursts. Jimmy's body shakes as he slowly pushes himself up onto his forearms, his face obscured by his disheveled hair. When he lifts his head, his shoulders are quaking with uncontrollable spasms of laughter.
And that voice… Maya freezes, a cold sweat trailing down her spine. She knows that voice. Oh no…
"Ohhh, look what you've done!" Jimmy sing-songs mockingly.
But it's no longer really him. His voice is higher-pitched now, almost nasal, a disturbing blend of childish amusement and cruel delight. Hugo Punch is back.
"You naughty, naughty little eggs. Cracked, broken… SPLAT!" He mimics an egg cracking open with his hands, fingers spreading suddenly in a grotesque parody. "You know what we do with bad eggs, don't you?"
Robert and Jeffrey instinctively take a step back, startled by the abrupt shift. Ashford narrows her eyes, watching with fascination.
"We SMASH them!" the voice shrieks with malicious glee, and Hugo bursts into hysterical laughter that fills the room, grating like nails on a chalkboard.
He rises slowly, his movements fluid, almost like a dancer's, as he circles Ashford and her men. Maya, overwhelmed by visceral panic, presses herself against the wall behind her, desperate for something solid as her legs threaten to give way. She clutches the strange object and the notebook tightly to her chest, her heart pounding so hard it feels as though it will burst.
"Hugo doesn't like them!" he continues in a sing-song tone, tilting his head to the side, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. "They're dirty, mean, nasty. Like children… Hugo doesn't like children. They scream, they cry… they break everything! And when they break Hugo…"
He bursts into louder laughter, only to stop abruptly, his face suddenly grave, almost cold. His voice drops, becoming a low, threatening murmur.
"… Hugo breaks back."
Ashford allows a calculated smile to flicker across her lips. She steps forward, raising a hand as though to soothe what she perceives as theatrics.
"So, here is the famous Hugo at last. You've kept us waiting."
He tilts his head, his lips stretching into a sinister grin.
"The impatient ones… end up shattered." He takes a sudden step toward her, causing Ashford to flinch slightly despite herself. "Tick-tock, tick-tock… bad eggs don't last."
Ashford raises her hands carefully, her palms facing Hugo in a gesture meant to pacify. Her voice, usually so commanding, betrays a faint strain as she fights to maintain her composure.
"We are truly delighted to have you here with us, Hugo. You are… an absolutely fascinating curiosity. We have so many questions for you, so much we'd like to learn."
Hugo only half-listens. He moves slowly around the room, one deliberate step at a time, his motions almost casual, yet a palpable current of danger surrounds him. Maya, pressed tightly against the wall, feels her breath quicken as she tracks his every move, each step reverberating in her mind like an unspoken threat.
Suddenly, Hugo halts. His eyes settle on the cricket bats mounted on the wall, like a child spotting a toy. His grin widens, grotesque, transforming his face into a macabre mask. He strides toward them, his fingers brushing over one of the bats before he carefully lifts it down. Turning it in his hands, he strokes the polished wood with a deceptive gentleness, his expression flickering between fascination and unmistakable malice.
Ashford keeps talking, but Maya detects the slightest tremor of unease in her voice, a faint thread of fear that she cannot fully suppress. For the first time, Maya realizes that Ashford is losing the control she once believed unshakable.
"If you would be so kind as to wait a moment… I'll contact my superior. He'll definitely want to speak with you personally. What do you say?"
A heavy silence falls over the room. Hugo, still preoccupied with the bat, doesn't answer immediately. He appears to test its weight, gently tapping it against the floor, the dull thud echoing ominously, a promise of violence yet to come. Robert and Jeffrey exchange uneasy glances, the tension clear in their expressions. Their earlier bravado seems to falter in the presence of Hugo's unnerving energy. There's something irrational, unpredictable about him—an almost toxic aura that makes the air feel heavy, suffocating.
Finally, Hugo turns, resting the cricket bat casually behind his neck, his arms stretched back as if a relaxed athlete. Yet his eyes gleam with a chilling light. He stares at a spot on the ceiling, a predatory grin tugging at his lips, and speaks with a tone almost joyful, tinged with childish mischief.
"I'll tell you what… go ahead. Go talk to your superior…" He lowers his gaze, meeting each of theirs in turn, his grin stretching into something almost inhuman. "…and while you're at it, find yourselves a nice little hole to hide in. Because, you see…" He lets the words hang, tapping the bat lightly against his shoulder. "…I get bored verrrry quickly."
This time, Ashford visibly falters. She struggles to reclaim her composure, but the mask slips, and Maya catches a glimpse of panic in her eyes that she never thought possible. When Ashford speaks again, her voice cracks ever so slightly.
"Now, now, Hugo, I'm sure we can find some common ground. There's no need to be… impulsive, is there?"
Hugo tilts his head, his eyes glittering with cruel amusement.
"Ten…"
Ashford blinks, caught off guard.
"Ten? I… I don't underst—"
"Nine…"
Hugo takes a step forward, the grin on his face remaining fixed, like a grotesque mask.
"Eight…"
The reaction is immediate. Ashford and her men, who were initially frozen by the oppressive aura radiating from Hugo, suddenly scramble for the door in disorganized chaos. Their hurried footsteps thunder across the floor as they retreat, breathless, as if they've only now grasped the magnitude of the disaster they've unleashed.
Hugo is left standing alone in the center of the room. He doesn't move at first, savoring the tension lingering thick in the air. His fingers drum idly on the handle of the bat he still grips. Finally, he pivots slowly—very slowly—toward the mirror. His grin widens, a demented grimace that reveals bloodstained teeth.
He walks forward with a deliberate, measured pace, each step imbued with feigned nonchalance, a calculated slowness. When he reaches the mirror, he pauses, staring at his reflection, which is distorted by the flickering light. Then, with deliberate intent, he raises a hand and brushes his bloodied lip.
He looks at the blood on his fingers with a near-curious expression before smearing it onto the mirror's cold, smooth surface. Maya holds her breath. A voice in her head screams, panicked: Move! Do something! But she remains frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from the grotesque scene. Her legs refuse to respond, as if an invisible force pins her in place.
Through the tears clouding her vision, she sees Hugo draw a bloodied heart. Then, without taking his eyes off the mirror, he whispers in a soft, coaxing, almost sing-song voice, but laced with icy cruelty.
"I'll see you soon... Maya."
Hugo then leans toward the mirror, his lips gently touching the surface to plant a kiss.
It is only at that moment that Maya starts to run.