Chapter 1 Human Disguise
As evening fell, the sky hung low and overcast. When Dangelo caught sight of the villa that resembled a miniature castle, he nearly decided to abandon the assignment.
Perched upon a low rocky hill beyond the highway, the house was shrouded in grey, resembling an ancient relic more than a residence. Narrow stone steps wound through the bushes, leading to the front yard entrance; the whole scene evoked the atmosphere of the hotel in And Then There Were None.
Dangelo was seeking Archer Michael, a writer of thrillers and suspense novels. His home lay in a remote location, a full two hours’ drive from the city center.
Mounting the stone steps, Dangelo at last stood before the castle-like old house.
On either side of the entrance stood stone pillars—once perhaps linked by an iron gate or low wall—upon which crouched figures that looked like gargoyles or small Demons. Dangelo could not be sure which, only that they seemed menacing. Not until he reached the door did he notice an electric doorbell and a video intercom; evidently Archer Michael was not entirely cut off from the world.
Although most of Michael’s stories are set in imagined worlds, the details feel extraordinarily vivid; his depictions of horrors are so authentic that, if you close your eyes, those very creatures seem poised to appear before you.
His charm lies not only in the uncanny worlds he crafts, but also in the legendary arc of his own life.
His past is as strange as the tales he writes.
Archer Michael was not yet thirty, yet within five years he had married three times—each union ending in the accidental death of his spouse. The term “spouse” is used rather than “wife” because one of them was male; under local law, this did not constitute marriage, only a civil partnership.
Each death was accidental—confirmed by thorough police investigation with final conclusions beyond doubt. Afterward, the writer Mr. Michael never married again, yet public suspicion has lingered—he seemed like a living incarnation of the modern-day Bluebeard.
Lately, public opinion has begun to warm to him once more, transforming him into a figure as captivating as a Demon. After all, his books are exceptional, and from his photographs he appears strikingly handsome.
When Mr. Michael opened the door, Dangelo was quietly taken aback: the man was not gloomy or reclusive, but rather openly cheerful.
Just as in the images on his book covers, Archer Michael had a head of slightly wavy black hair, a scholarly demeanor, a tall slender frame, and a radiant smile. Dangelo had assumed the smile was merely for the photographer; now it seemed that Michael in person was even more prone to smiling than in his pictures.
“I’ve been waiting for you!” The dark-haired writer stood there in a shirt, slacks, and a homey apron decorated with little ducks, a spatula in one hand and an egg pinched delicately in the other. He started to open his arms for a hug but stopped halfway. “Mr. Dangelo Sims, right？ Your email with comments on Turning into Light nearly brought me to tears—heavens, even I never understood it that deeply myself. Come in, please!”
Michael was referring to one of his own short stories, whose gentle title belied its true nature—a ghost tale. Dangelo had done his homework.
At the moment, Dangelo’s identity was that of an editor from a new magazine, planning to conduct an interview about creative inspiration for a special feature.
In reality, though, he wasn’t from any magazine at all. He made his living by selling sensational exclusives to tabloid papers. What he sought were not the author’s new ideas or reflections on writing, but the secrets of his private life—and the tragedies of his late spouses.
Once inside the house, Dangelo realized once again that his assumptions had been wrong.
From the outside, Michael’s home looked like an old family estate, yet the interior had been completely renovated. Some classical details remained, fitting the structure of the house, but overall the design was unmistakably modern: a video intercom by the door, a home theater system in the spacious living room, motion-sensing game consoles and Blu‑ray cases scattered across the couch, and half the room transformed into an open‑plan kitchen.
Such a large place ought to have felt cold and empty, yet its current owner had deliberately filled it with warmth and clutter. Michael seemed genuinely fond of colorful cushions—some stylishly designed, others shaped like bears or rabbits. Along one wall stretched an entire bookshelf that reached the ceiling, its upper shelves accessible only by an A‑frame ladder.
While Dangelo was still busy taking it all in, a crash came from the kitchen—something metal clattering to the floor, followed by a sharp crack or two.
“What happened？” asked Dangelo.
“No, thanks, I’ve got it… really, I can handle it myself!”
Something felt off to Dangelo—the last words came out unnaturally loud, as if Michael were emphasizing them. But he hadn’t pressed him further, had he？
The small oddity didn’t frighten Dangelo; instead, it thrilled him. It proved the writer truly had something worth digging into.
After a while, Michael emerged, cradling the product of his melancholy creativity.
It had been overcast all day, and dusk was darker than usual. In the dim light, the object in Michael’s hands was difficult to make out; even when he stepped into the bright living room, it remained indistinct. Dangelo could only tell that a few bay leaves had been sprinkled on top—everything else was an unrecognizable blur.
As dinner time drew near, Dangelo—who had not planned to dine with him in the appointment—found himself a bit uneasy at the sight of that dish.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” Michael stood before the table with a mournful air. “Had I known it would be a failure, I wouldn’t have gone to such trouble. My hobby is making pastries, though I’m not good at shaping them. The taste should be decent—if you don’t mind, you can give it a try.”
No, I mind very much! Dangelo stared at the indescribable lump on the plate, half convinced those unfortunate souls had been slain by it.
So he immediately donned his professional demeanor, intending to discuss Michael’s work and the new magazine. Michael untied his apron, poured two cups of coffee, and sat down obediently.
They spoke of general topics, such as what first inspired him to write novels and which works he was most proud of. Dangelo had thought Archer Michael would be serious or shy, but he was wrong—Michael loved to talk, perhaps a bit excessively so.
When he felt the timing was right, Dangelo decided to guide the conversation, gradually steering it toward what he wanted to ask.
“Mr. Michael,” Dangelo began, “we’d like to create a clear, well-directed feature—not sensationalism for its own sake. We want to focus on how your life experiences, your shifts in mindset, and so forth have influenced your literary style, rather than making careless remarks about things like ‘the devil’s curse’ or ‘sacrificial offerings.’ So, regarding…”
Michael thought for a moment. “I see. You mean about the people I’ve lost？”
“Yes,” Dangelo replied. “For instance, after going through such grief, how did you manage—time and again—to emerge from it and return to life and writing？” He assumed a look of concern and solemnity, striving to appear serious, avoiding any hint of gossip.
He expected Michael to be evasive; instead, the writer rewarded him with a heartfelt smile. “You’re the first person to ask me that, truly. Many have interviewed me, but they usually want the gruesome details, or ask if I’ve fallen in love again, or what I believe in—do they hope I’ll say Satanism or the cult of Dagon？”
Dangelo was taken aback: Michael’s eyes had suddenly reddened; his mouth fell slightly open, then he paused, before decisively pulling tissues from the box to wipe his eyes.
“This job carries a heavy burden, and almost no one can really understand it,” Michael sighed deeply, gave an awkward smile, and continued, “When Emilee had her artery severed by the shattering of tempered glass,
I thought I could never face… Later, I believed I was healing—until Lewis died in a gas explosion…”
Dangelo was a perceptive man. He sensed at once that something was off in what had just been said.
Michael wasn’t acting—he was telling the truth—but he had left something out.
Dangelo was almost certain that when Michael spoke of “tremendous pressure,” he wasn’t referring to writing. And the phrase “couldn’t face it anymore” never specified what exactly he couldn’t face—was it his marriage, or his novel？
Dangelo suspected that perhaps Michael truly needed to talk. He needed an outlet—for the devil’s curse or a flawless murder, whatever it was, the burden weighed on him.
So Dangelo decided to follow the flow and asked gently, “But you didn’t give up on writing—or on life.”
Michael replied, “No, I won’t give up on what I love. I’m much better now, because I no longer have to…”
At that moment, a heavy thud came from upstairs, like a massive cabinet collapsing to the floor. Dangelo jolted and rose instinctively.
“Excuse me for a moment,” said Michael, standing up at once and hurrying out of the living room. “Probably a window left open upstairs. Give me a second.”
With that, he dashed up the stairs. Dangelo could hear his hurried footsteps fading into the distance.
The wind had indeed picked up. Through the living room window, Dangelo saw the trees outside whipping violently in the gusts. It wasn’t even six-thirty yet, but the sky had gone pitch-black—it looked like rain was on the way.
He sat back down on the sofa, glancing at the chocolates and chips on the coffee table, the unwashed glasses from their drinks, the damp wad of tissue on the couch, and a tablet computer… The strange noise had startled him, yet surrounded by such cozy disarray, it was easy to forget the unease.
Dangelo waited a while longer, but at last began to feel uneasy—Michael was taking far too long. And thinking carefully, that sound hadn’t really been like a window banging in the wind.
He rose, stepped out of the living room, and started up the stairs.
“Mr. Michael, do you need any help？” Dangelo called out.
No answer. He crossed the landing and chose the staircase to the right, leading to the second floor.
There were many rooms upstairs—enough for a small inn. The walls were papered in green with tiny white blossoms, the doors trimmed with pure-white classical woodwork, and lace wrapped neatly around every handle. Most people wouldn’t lavish such care on rooms no one lived in.
To preserve the scene, Dangelo took out his phone and snapped a few photos. Just as he hit the shutter, a shadow flickered through the gap beneath one of the doors.
He held his breath. It was as if someone inside had stepped close to the door—then retreated.
Archer Michael lived alone, occasionally hiring a cleaning service to tidy the place. And he had denied having any new lover of late…
Dangelo was a seasoned seeker of hidden truths. He knew well that even a trace of absurdity often hinted at greater secrets lurking behind the curtain.
At that moment, two muffled thuds came from upstairs in quick succession—one like a body hitting the floor, the other like a door slammed shut with force. Dangelo withdrew from the corridor and immediately caught the sound of footsteps approaching from above.
“Mr. Michael？” he ventured.
This time Michael replied right away: “Nothing to worry about—everything is safe!”
But that answer, in fact, spelled danger.
Dangelo grew more certain that both the house and its master were far from normal—he hadn’t asked whether there was danger, yet Michael’s response was, “safe.”
“Sorry, something happened upstairs… it’s taken care of for now.” Michael led Dangelo back to the sitting room.
Dangelo noticed Michael’s hair was slightly disheveled, his shirt tugged askew. At first, the top button of his collar had been fastened; now, two buttons were left open.
From the author’s carefully composed demeanor, Dangelo suspected something was indeed unfolding. He followed Michael, glancing up toward the upper floor, his mind turning over guesses about the strange truth of this house.
A jagged bolt of lightning split the dark sky, followed by a rolling peal of thunder. Rain was clearly on its way.
They continued their conversation in the windowed sitting room, speaking of the planned new book, the magazine’s positioning, and famed thrillers of the past. Inevitably, the topic circled back yet again to Michael’s three bereavements.
This was, in truth, Dangelo’s mild stratagem—he had deliberately steered the talk in subtle loops until it returned here.
“I cannot imagine her leaving me in such a violent way,” the young author said, head bowed slightly.
By now, the rain outside was torrential, which to Dangelo felt an even more fitting backdrop for their talk. He had the recorder running without Michael’s consent… and at this point, he felt shrouded in mist, for Michael’s choice of words grew ever more chilling.
Michael went on: “I know the rumors out there. Sir, please don’t deny it—you are curious about this, aren’t you？”
Dangelo nodded, awkwardly. “It seems I cannot avoid being impolite… Believe me, I truly don’t wish to force you to recall things you’d rather not mention.”
“Let me ask you this,” the author sighed, “Mr. Dangelo Sims—are you here to write the mysterious and grotesque story of a modern-day Bluebeard, or do you have another aim entirely？ If it’s the former, then write as you wish—be as macabre as you please, I can even help you craft it; I promise to deliver a version that catches every eye. But if it’s the latter… then speak your need plainly. Where have you come from, and why have you come？”
Dangelo clenched his fist in secret.
In truth, it was the former he sought—the most worldly, sensational sort. Yet sitting here, he was growing ever more curious. He wanted to know what had truly happened in this place.
He decided to keep the conversation going, mixing truth with fabrication. “I’m a freelance writer, I—”
Before he could finish, a thunderclap burst close by.
Michael sprang to his feet, looking toward the staircase beyond the living room.
By then, the sun had already set. The house was growing darker, and the rain showed no sign of stopping.
“What？” Michael spoke to the air. “Impossible! I just reinforced it!”
Dangelo sat frozen in shock. The writer’s expression was deadly serious—almost fearful—as he went on speaking to the empty space. “This is bad. It deceived me! I thought it was a Mortal Kind!”
Michael completely ignored Dangelo, leaping toward the stairs as he shouted, “Vulture, with me! Guillemot, watch the other one!”
Who？ Dangelo stood up slowly, wide-eyed.
Michael’s posture was that of a man talking to unseen companions. As he passed, a gust of wind brushed over the dust covers on the cabinets and the dried flowers in the vases—currents no single person could have created.
Dangelo steeled himself, switched on his recorder and the voice memo on his phone, tucked them securely in his pocket, and followed.
As he climbed the stairs again, a shrill cry echoed from the second floor—it sounded part animal, part human, like a woman’s scream. He didn’t stop to look, simply chased the footsteps up to the third floor.
He heard heavy thuds, followed by a cascade of crashing objects.
Dangelo rushed toward the sound. A red cord hung in midair, arched high against the wall as though binding an invisible body. Before he could even process the sight, he heard violent crashes behind a pair of double doors nearby.
He burst inside—and the scene before him shook him to the core: a gray-skinned, powerfully built creature had Michael pinned against a desk, one hand gripping his jaw and throat, the other forcing his arms above his head.
Michael still clutched a piece of chalk so tight it looked ready to snap. Complex geometric figures covered the walls, many already marred or broken.
Dangelo stood transfixed. He had never seen such a being—tall and lean, his physique that of a model, his muscles taut beneath ashen skin. His features were stunning yet sinister, exuding menace. From his back stretched two black, batlike wings. His hair gleamed with a crimson sheen, and his eyes burned red as fire.
The creature slowly raised his head, glaring at the intruder with a savage blend of contempt and fury.
Dangelo’s gaze darted around the room before settling on Michael. What on earth was happening here？ What was this creature—and what was it trying to do to Michael？
He almost found it laughable that, in such a moment, the first thought to cross his mind was “an attempted assault”… simply because the posture of the creature and Michael looked far too suggestive.
Then it struck him that this crude suspicion might actually be true—the gray-skinned figure was stark naked! And what lay between its legs was taut, raised high, its size in proportion to the body so large as to be frightening.
Michael drove his knee hard into the creature’s abdomen. The blow failed to make it let go, yet the hand gripping his neck slackened slightly.
Seizing the chance, Michael strained to shout toward Dangelo:
“Sir! Help me! It’s not all that strong—you can beat it!”
The creature lowered its gaze again to lock with Michael’s eyes. Michael tried to look away, but its hand forced his head back. In its scarlet eyes, alternating flashes hinted at an attempt to seize control over its human prey. Michael resisted, and it had yet to succeed.
As it kept trying, the monster slowly pressed its body lower, forcing its hips between the man’s legs. Dangelo stared, shaken, his palms slick with sweat, his whole frame taut.
“What are you waiting for!” Michael shouted fiercely to Dangelo. “There’s no time… please! Stop pretending to be human!”
Dangelo thought that, in the language of literature, his feeling in that instant could be rendered thus—his heart had skipped a beat.
“So you knew from the start…”
Narrowing his eyes, Dangelo decided to set that surprise aside for now.
Then, in a burst so swift no human eye could follow, he was suddenly upon the creature.
His heart would never skip a beat—after all, it had not beaten for a long time.
