Page 50 of Vintage

As I learned more about her being a psycho artist, our shared interests began to emerge, leading to her frequent visits. She brought me my favorite spice cake and unusual flowers, even though I had a passion for gardening that leaned more towards growing vegetables and fruits, a hobby I inherited from my grandfather. I had no idea what kind of flowers she was gifting me.

I started to engage in behaviors I typically wouldn’t.

I upset my wife, ignored my best friend's concerns, visited a girl alone at her place when it wasn’t supposed to be just the two of us, and distanced myself from the friends I cherished. The shift in how I viewed myself was overwhelming, and as I dealt with headaches and physical changes, along with an emotional paranoia I couldn’t quite grasp, I found myself thinking that Willow was the solution. I didn’t read too much into our friendship.

It wasn’t until things spiraled out of control that my wife asked for a divorce. The shock of her words sent me reeling, caught between my confusion and the reality of what had been happening.

My anger took the reins, and things escalated until I found myself in prison, where I finally began to comprehend the situation.

Upon my release, for a few weeks, I focused on renovating the house, hoping to make it a place where my wife wouldn’t be haunted by memories upon her return.

But then, Willow started showing up. I sent her away on the first day, then the second, and it continued until the fourteenth day when I finally confronted her about her true intentions.

That’s when it hit me. She was far more complicated than I had realized.

The henchmen she brought with her ended up abducting me from my own fucking home.

Unexplainable events unfolded around me. I attempted to reach out to anyone, but it was futile. Every call was blocked. My cries went unheard until I finally managed to escape her place after being trapped there for over amonth, regularly drugged. What I uncovered was something far more sinister than anyone had realized.

There isn't just one mansion in the Willow Crest tale; there are two, both designed to deceive.

If you venture there in the morning, the surrounding woods and the lake will create an illusion that guides you to a similarly styled mansion on the opposite side of the water.

However, if you arrive at the mansion after four, as the sun begins to set, the illusion shifts, leading you to the very mansion where the woman from the legend actually murdered the man.

The other mansion was cleverly constructed to mask any suspicions and erase traces of the events that transpired at the original estate.

The oppressive atmosphere around the real mansion muffles sound to the point where hardly anyone can hear, leaving only the red wolves to howl in the night.

I was ambushed while trying to contact Darius around two in the morning, when the town had fallen into a deep silence. Only a few pubs and utility shops remained open, but they were far from my location.

On my second attempt to flee, she confined me to the basement with some kind of creature. It was too dark for me to identify it, but it attacked me, forcing me to defend myself. This was not the moment for compassion towards animals.

In that pitch-black space, I grabbed anything I could find and killed it. Its lifeless body lay rotting beside me for the next four days, its blood staining my skin.

On the fifth day, she released me, but my fear for Amery intensified when I was taken to a room filled with multiple monitors mounted on the wall, displaying every movement in the town. I was horrified to see images and videos of my wife.

The agony of witnessing her under constant surveillance, even when she was away from town, consumed me with dread.

I was indifferent to my own fate, but anything that posed a threat to her unleashed a primal rage within me.

I vividly recall lunging at Willow, my body smeared with filthy blood, as I tried to strangle her in my desperate attempts to end her life. This time, even her dog couldn't pull me away; instead, that bastard struck me on the head with a glass vase three times, followed by a steel chair.

Injured and sprawled on the ground, I felt a sharp pain when she stepped on my right hand with her heels, driving them deep into my flesh. The stingof pain forced a scream from my lips, but it was her threat to harm Amery if I didn’t obey her that truly sent me over the edge.

I distinctly remember striking her then, taking on both her and her dog. If it hadn't been for the foul-smelling chemical she sprayed in my face, causing me to lose consciousness, I would have finished her for good.

Somehow managing a call with my father, hiding from her constant surveillance, I tried to explain the bizarre circumstances that led to my separation from Amery.

Who would have thought my wife would lose her mind, dig up graves, and launch a rescue mission for me?

But in the end, all she found was sheer betrayal.

I wrapped up the whole sob story, leaving the final decision and control in her hands. If she chose to believe me, I’d consider myself fortunate, but if she didn’t, I had no right to prevent her from walking away, and perhaps she should. I was dirty, and I felt so. I was consumed by a heavy sense of regret.

"That's all I have to say. If you have any questions, just ask." I attempted to peer through the curtain of her hair that hid her face.

She sat beside me on a small chair, her head lowered. There was no sound, not even a whisper, but the visible tremor in her shoulders revealed that she was crying. It was far too quiet, and it broke me.

---