6 Locks v2 18+

The Vampire

Rain whispers against the windows. Somewhere in the darkness, a clock strikes midnight. You wake in a bed far too comfortable for a kidnapping. Black silk sheets. A canopy of embroidered velvet. Candlelight trembling against ancient wallpaper. The air smells of roses, extinguished fires, and the peculiar sweetness of something left too long in a locked room. Beyond the tall windows, crooked trees claw at the sky beneath an enormous Halloween moon. You attempt to sit up. _Clink._ An iron chain runs from your wrist to the bedpost. Oh, good. You're in a storybook. A particularly unkind one. Across the room stands an oak door secured by six locks, each fashioned in a different, intricate design. A silver key rests on the nightstand, tantalizingly close to your fingertips. The portrait above it depicts a beautiful woman whose face has been scratched away. You have just enough time to wonder what sort of person decorates a bedroom like this before three deliberate knocks sound from the other side of the door. A woman's voice follows, warm as mulled wine. "My, my. You're awake." The locks begin to turn. The door opens, and a woman glides inside wearing a black silk gown with a blood-red lining. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her dark hair falls in glossy waves, and two delicate fangs peek from beneath a smile practiced over several centuries. She carries a crystal glass filled with something dark red. Well. That's reassuring. She regards you with the air of a hostess discovering an unexpected guest at her dinner party. Her gaze drifts to the chain around your wrist. "Oh." A pause. "That's rather excessive." She sets down her glass and approaches the bed, her heels clicking softly against the floor. "I suppose I should introduce myself." She draws herself up, tilts her chin, and adopts an expression of magnificent menace. "I am a creature of the night. A hunter of mortal souls. A terror whispered of in hushed voices from one end of the world to the other." Another pause. "Would you like a pillow?" You stare at her. She looks genuinely concerned. "Your neck must be terribly uncomfortable." Somewhere inside the walls, a clock begins to tick backward. The woman's smile falters. For one fleeting moment, she looks toward the sound with an expression that has nothing to do with theatrical menace and everything to do with fear. Then she notices you watching. The smile returns, a little too quickly. "Never mind that, darling. We have until sunrise, and I'm afraid we're terribly behind schedule." She produces a small silver key from somewhere inside her gown and lets it swing from one finger. "Now," she says, settling onto the edge of your bed, "shall we make a game of this?" Her eyes meet yours. They're strangely familiar. And for reasons you cannot begin to explain, you suspect that the most dangerous thing in this room isn't the chain around your wrist. ---

Scroll to read the full scene

The Witch

Rain scratches at the windows. Somewhere in the darkness, a clock strikes midnight, then seems to think better of it and falls silent. You wake in a bed far too comfortable for a kidnapping. Black velvet curtains. Silver-threaded sheets. Candles burning with little green flames. The air smells of cinnamon, old books, and roses that have been dead for a very long time. Beyond the windows, crooked trees bend beneath a swollen Halloween moon. You try to sit up. _Clink._ An iron chain runs from your wrist to the bedpost. Oh, excellent. A dungeon with thread count. Across the room stands an oak door secured by six locks, each more elaborate than the last. A silver key rests on the nightstand, just beyond your reach. Above it hangs a portrait of a woman whose face has been scratched away. You are contemplating the artistic merits of your imprisonment when three knocks sound from the other side of the door. "Come in," you say, because apparently captivity has already robbed you of your survival instincts. The door swings open. A witch sweeps inside. She's magnificent in the sort of way that suggests subtlety died centuries ago and she personally attended the funeral. An enormous, crooked hat crowns a cascade of raven-black hair. Her fitted emerald corset is embroidered with golden runes, and her sweeping black skirt rustles around heeled boots adorned with little silver buckles. Her generously curved figure makes the whole ensemble look less like practical spellcasting attire and more like the wardrobe department lost a very expensive argument with a fairy-tale illustrator. Tiny brass charms dangle from her belt. A raven perches on her shoulder, regarding you with the exhausted expression of a creature that has heard all her stories before. She studies you. You study her. The raven coughs. "Well," the witch announces, "you're awake." She sounds faintly disappointed. "I had a whole speech prepared." She produces a scroll from somewhere within her voluminous sleeves, unrolls it, and clears her throat. "Welcome, mortal, to my accursed domain. You are bound by ancient magic, your soul belongs to me, and by the next full moon—" She stops. Squints at the parchment. "That's the wrong speech." She flips it over. "Ah. Here we are." She straightens, raises one elegant hand, and attempts a sinister cackle. It comes out as a small, embarrassed cough. "I shall now turn you into a toad." A green spark leaps from her fingertip. It strikes a candlestick. The candlestick turns into a toad. The raven sighs. The witch stares at the amphibian. "That," she says with considerable dignity, "was a warning." She approaches your bed, the hem of her skirt whispering over the floorboards. Up close, you notice that her amber eyes are an unusual shade—one you feel certain you've seen before. She draws a silver key from a pocket, lets it dangle before you, and smiles. "Now, darling. There are six locks between you and freedom, and I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea where five of the keys are." She pauses. "Don't look at me like that. I inherited the house." Somewhere inside the walls, a clock begins ticking backward. The witch's smile vanishes. For a moment, she looks genuinely frightened. Then she notices you watching and snaps her fingers. The candles brighten. Her shoulders straighten. "Never mind that. We have until sunrise to sort out this little inconvenience." She sits on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight, and examines you with unsettling intensity. "Now, I have a question." Her gaze flicks toward the chain around your wrist. "Would you prefer to escape, or would you care to help me figure out why the house has decided it hates us both?" The raven leans toward you. "Choose the first one," it croaks. The witch glares at it. "Nobody asked you, Archibald." The bird looks back at you. "She gets lonely." Silence. The witch's cheeks turn a most unbecoming shade of pink

Scroll to read the full scene