Clong… clong!
A muffled, metallic toll echoed intensely—heavy, like chains being dragged—and tore the girl mercilessly out of the void where she had been trapped, dragging her back into that reality suspended between dream and nightmare.
She rose from her wrinkled bed. "Was that really my bed?" she asked herself.
With simple, instinctive gestures, she made a crude attempt at tidying up, tossing a thin, badly worn gray sheet over a narrow white mattress and a pillow stuffed with frayed straw. When she finished, she positioned herself neatly beside the bed, almost in a military stance—precise, choreographed, automatic.
Something was wrong.
She caught a brief glimpse of her clothes. A white pajama—or at least it had once been white—now filthy, almost like a floor rag stitched into the shape of a nightshirt and pants. On her feet, small fuzzy slippers, just as worn.
Clong… clong!
Another muffled sound.
Her vision was hazy, unfocused. She felt light, yet weak at the same time, as if her body had been in a coma for days, weeks… or months. After standing beside the bed for a while, a sharp stab of pain shot through her head—a tearing ache—that sharpened her perception of where she was.
More than twenty beds were arranged inside a large, dark, mold-infested room. Like her, other children stood beside their mattresses at attention. All wore the same ragged white clothing: some with torn shirts, others with pants too short, or, in some cases, so oversized they dragged across the floor like improvised gowns.
She strained her eyes toward one corner of the room. A door stood there, illuminated by small lights on either side—the only source of illumination in the room. What struck her as odd, however, was that despite her vision slowly clearing, she still didn't feel full control over her own body. She tried to look around, but her body did not respond the way it should.
She lowered her gaze to her fuzzy slippers and swore she saw her pinky toe poking through a tear that ran along the entire side of the footwear.
Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, her gaze snapped forward.
She moved one leg ahead and began walking between the beds. A line of children formed. From what she could tell, the others in the room had repeated the same coordinated movement and now stood aligned by the door in the corner of the room.
The door opened.
A figure appeared in the doorway.
"One, two, three…" a short man counted aloud in a raspy voice as the lined-up children passed through the door into a corridor. The girl was second to last in line and noticed that none of the children showed any reaction. "Seventeen. They're all here!" the figure shouted as the last child crossed the threshold.
The corridor was narrow, its walls paneled with very dark, textured wood. Paintings lined both sides, enriching the space. All of them displayed remarkable attention to detail, the girl thought—from finely painted faces to landscapes meticulously rendered in oil. What intrigued her most, however, was how she even knew such things.
As they moved forward, the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, and the farther they walked, the more children joined them from other doors opening into the same hallway—dozens of them, of varying heights and hairstyles; some with pointed ears, others with skin in a wide range of colors.
At last, they reached the end of the corridor. A large hall opened before them, accompanied by a strange smell that made the girl's stomach churn. Three long tables divided the hall in straight lines: two crafted from fine wood and richly detailed, while the third—far simpler—clashed completely with the elegance of the place, as if it had been placed there hastily.
All the children sat down automatically, without any agitation, as though performing a rehearsed movement. The girl sat at the simplest table, facing a small boy with very blond hair and a disproportionately large head.
"Don't forget to eat properly, you little brats," a bulky figure said, carrying a basket of bread and distributing pieces of stale loaf to each child.
The girl took her first real look at the bread placed in a refined bowl before her. Soon after, the same man set a cup in front of her, which—unlike the bowl—was plain and exuded a strong, strange smell. With one hand, she grabbed the bread, noticing for the first time her own arms—extremely white and pale. When she touched it, it felt like holding a stone, so hard and dry it was.
Her stomach clenched, but she ate anyway.
With each bite, she felt her teeth crackle, and when she swallowed, the weight of the food made a sound in her belly. Unlike before, a wave of nausea rose, accompanied by the urge to vomit. A strange smell drifted up behind her—the same scent from the worn cup, now far more intense—spreading throughout the hall.
"Did you mix it like I told you?" a sharp, harsh voice echoed through the room, unlike any the girl had heard before. A female voice.
"Yes, madam," the other two voices replied in unison, both deeper and heavier.
"Good. Today you handle everything. Take them to the music room, and after lunch, let them get some fresh air in the yard," the sharp voice continued. "I'm going to fetch another shipment today. And we're hoping it's the one he wants. We're running out of time."
"Yes, madam," the two voices answered.
Soon after, the girl heard a door close and realized that only the two men remained in the hall.
"'Mixed it like I told you'…" one of them mocked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Do you want to lose your job?" the other replied sharply, his voice lower and controlled. "Or worse… die."
The conversation fell silent for a moment.
The strong smell returned, now very close. The girl felt as though she might vomit the dry bread right there, but her body wouldn't react. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the men—the bulkier one—carrying a pot strapped to his neck with a belt. With a ladle, he filled the children's cups with a shimmering, oily lilac liquid.
Her cup was filled to the brim. One by one, the children tipped the contents into their mouths. When it was her turn, she grabbed the cup and swallowed the liquid.
Deep white.
—
Clong… clong!
Once again, the toll echoed in her head. A bell, she thought. But this time it came with a cough, rising from her own throat.
Losing all sense of time, the girl opened her eyes again, her vision still unfocused. What caught her attention most was not what she saw, but what she heard: musical notes flowing from a beautiful piano at the center of the hall, though no one was playing it.
She was somewhere else now. No longer the dining hall, but a wide, beautiful space filled with statues and artifacts, worthy of a grand noble manor. She noticed that her companions remained frozen, catatonic—some seemed to admire objects, but she was certain they were only acting on instinct. She herself felt her thoughts slowly returning, yet still lacked full control over her body.
"Come on, lunch time," the familiar voice called out, belonging to a tall, extremely obese man with a large red beard, waiting for the children at the doorway leading to the dining room.
As always, the children followed the command, passing through the door, positioning themselves beside the table, and finally sitting down.
Soon, the same man returned carrying three large pots and placed them along the tables.
The usual strange smell was replaced by something slightly more appetizing. A kind of soup was poured into the bowls by the same fat man. Shortly after, the other man appeared—now clearer—through a small side door: much shorter, clean-shaven, with an extravagant mustache.
"Hey… Was the ratio one part acacia sap to two parts lilac tulip… or the other way around?" the man asked as he arrived carrying a pot.
"I have no damn idea! You were in charge of that, not me," the other replied irritably.
"I used up all the sap on this!" the first insisted. "Hasn't the shipment arrived yet?"
The other man shook his head.
"Let's get this over with. Let's feed this slop to the kids and take them to the yard. I want to take my nap," grumbled the red-bearded man.
"Don't even try it. Today it's your turn in the yard, fatso," the mustached man shot back.
"Ah, get lost…"
From that point on, the girl could barely focus. It wasn't that she couldn't hear them—it was that she was fighting a fierce battle against her own consciousness, and the conversation faded into the background.
Clong… clong!
After the brief argument, the man who had left the kitchen began filling the children's worn cups again. Passing behind the girl, he poured carelessly, filling less than a third of her cup. As soon as he moved away, the girl, annoyed, stretched out her arm to bring the lilac liquid to her mouth.
Clong… clong!
But as she began the motion and the nauseating smell rose to her nose, something—a brief pulse of awareness—made her hand hesitate. She froze midair for a few seconds, the cup trembling between her fingers as a fierce headache began pounding in rhythm with the metallic toll echoing in her mind.
After a fraction of a second, and without anyone noticing her strange behavior, the girl lowered the cup back onto the table, still holding the same amount of liquid.
She felt a slight sense of relief.
But all of this occurred only within her subconscious, which, though still dormant, was beginning to rise. Her vision remained blurred, but her hearing seemed sharper than ever.
"Do you think he'll accept this next one that's coming?" one of the men asked quietly. The girl couldn't tell which of them spoke.
"It's been so long… Children keep arriving, and he rejects every single one," the other replied, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth at a distant table.
"The madam seemed confident this time."
"She's always confident. But listen to me—if he doesn't accept this next child, he's going to tear this place apart."
They fell silent for a moment.
"Have you ever…" the other hesitated, swallowing hard. "Have you ever seen him?"
The little awareness the girl had recovered was enough to detect fear in the man's voice, as if he were touching on a forbidden subject.
"No… I've never seen him," the man replied apprehensively. "But once, when I went downstairs with the madam, I saw something…"
"What?" the other asked, curious yet clearly frightened.
"The madam went through that door with a child… and I heard a scream. I swear I saw a dark shadow through the crack… and felt a powerful energy," the man confided. "I'll say it again: never go in there."
The topic ended. After some time, as if by programming, the children stood up in perfect order, staring at one side of the dining hall, awaiting instructions. The girl did the same—but swore she could now slightly contract the tip of her right pinky finger.
"It's your turn, fatso," the mustached man said. "I'm going to take a nap and then make more of this stuff. I'll join you outside later," he added, pointing to the large pot strapped to his chest.
"Ahhh… get me a piece of salami first," the red-bearded man asked quietly.
"Don't tell me you're hungry, fatso," the shorter man replied, laughing.
"No, no… it's for poor Ruffos."
"No salami for that mutt," the red-bearded man said with mild disappointment. "Don't forget to fetch firewood while they're outside."
With that, he exited through a smaller side door, leaving his colleague with the children.
"Well then, kids…" the man kept his voice controlled but changed his tone as he addressed the line of dozens of small figures. "Let's go get a bit of 'sunshine.'"
He finished with a laugh and walked toward a large door.
As the door opened, the children began moving toward it. But something different was happening now: the little girl's movements were slowly returning. She could feel the ground beneath her feet, move her arms more freely, feel her neck and turn her head from side to side.
As she passed through the doorway, while the man waited for the last child to cross, she got a clearer look at the strange figure guiding them.
He had a thick, heavy red beard, bushy mustaches, and a belly so large it seemed to test the strength of the belt holding his pants up. His skin was covered in freckles and boils, he smelled of rancid meat, and the girl swore she saw him stick a finger into one nostril, trying to pull something out.
The march continued through the great hall. The red-bearded man closed the door behind them and guided them to a large glass door at the far end, well past the piano standing at the center.
As soon as the door opened, a light breeze swept inside, refreshing the heavy air of the house. Outside lay a green lawn bathed in sunlight, its rays seeming to restore some energy to anyone who felt them.
Passing through the door, the children entered an outdoor yard completely covered in grass. Scattered around were various toys, enclosed by a tall hedge. The space was large and comfortable, wide enough to accommodate all the children.
As soon as they entered, they dispersed to what seemed like preassigned positions. Some went to the seesaws, others to the swings or to play with balls. Others simply stood motionless before game boards, dazed and unresponsive.
The girl walked to the far corner opposite the door and spotted a pile of wooden sticks, likely part of some improvised toy.
"Well, play nicely, you little brats," the man said. "I'll be back. Don't go making a mess."
He let out a forced laugh and left the area.
Shortly after the man closed the door, a clack echoed through the yard, signaling that it had been locked.
Still under the influence of those invisible strings controlling her, the girl crouched before the pile of wooden sticks. Her body began stacking the pieces, trying to form a small, shapeless structure.
Outside, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But inside, the girl was fighting an intense battle against her own subconscious, desperately struggling to regain control of herself.
Inside her mind, a stormy sea of thoughts formed—fragments of memories, disconnected images, loose words she barely knew belonged to her. The pressure was so intense her forehead throbbed.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry for help.
Clong… clong!
The bell would not stop.
When her body—still moving by automatic reflex—went to place another piece of wood, it simply froze.
Clong… clong!
Her breathing grew heavy. She felt the air escaping her lungs as if she were drowning in broad daylight. The pain in her head was unbearable. Her vision, once distant and blurred, began to clear—like dense fog swept away by a sudden gust of wind.
Clong… clong!
The image of a massive suspended bell appeared in her mind, tolling with overwhelming force.
At last, she felt warmth on her skin.
Her hands finally obeyed.
And then, in a frantic impulse, tearing through the silence of the yard like lightning in a calm night, the girl screamed:
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"