Chapter 633

The old mansion stood silhouetted against the bruised twilight sky, a skeletal finger pointing accusingly at the gathering gloom. Locals whispered its name, Blackwood Manor, with a tremor in their voices, their tales painting pictures of shadows and sorrow.

For Jafar, stepping out of the hired car and onto the gravel driveway, it was more than just a whispered legend; it was a magnet.

He had journeyed further than anyone he knew, all the way from the humid embrace of Brunei to this island draped in mist, solely to witness this place.

His breath hitched, not from the chill that bit at his exposed skin – a stark difference from the tropical air he was accustomed to – but from the sheer weight of the house's presence.

It wasn't grand in an opulent way, more imposing, like a granite cliff face that had somehow been carved into a dwelling.

Dark wood and grey stone dominated the facade, windows like vacant eyes staring out from beneath heavy brows of gabled roofs.

"Spooky, right?" A voice startled him, pulling him from his reverie. It was Ben, one of the friends he had made online, the reason he was even here.

Ben was tall and lanky, with a grin that always seemed a touch too wide, his enthusiasm infectious, if sometimes overwhelming. Behind him stood Chloe, quieter, more observant, her eyes already scanning the mansion with a thoughtful intensity.

Jafar nodded, finding his own grin spreading. "More than spooky. It's… heavy."

Chloe nodded in agreement. "You can almost feel it, can't you? Like something sad happened here. A lot of something sad."

Ben clapped Jafar on the back, his usual exuberance bubbling back up. "Exactly! That's why we're here. The Forgotten Thirty-Eight, remember? Supposedly, they never left."

The Forgotten 38. The legend was what had drawn Jafar in. Thirty-eight souls, lost within these walls, their stories twisted into local lore, whispered warnings to stay away.

Some said they were workers who perished in a fire, others claimed a disease swept through, taking everyone within.

The most chilling story, the one that truly snagged at Jafar's imagination, spoke of a terrible accident, a collapse in the old servant's quarters, burying dozens alive, their cries unheard, their existence slowly erased from memory, forgotten by all but the house itself.

"Come on," Ben urged, already heading towards the heavy oak front door, its dark wood swallowing the meager light. "Let's not waste any time outside. The real fun starts inside." He pushed the door open, its hinges groaning in protest, a sound that echoed unnervingly in the stillness of the evening.

The entrance hall was cavernous, swallowed in shadows despite the last vestiges of daylight struggling through dusty, high windows.

The air inside was noticeably colder, a damp, clinging chill that seeped into Jafar's bones even through his jacket.

Dust motes danced in the weak light, making the space seem alive with unseen particles. The scent was old, musty, like dried leaves and damp earth, with a metallic tang that Jafar couldn't quite place.

"Wow," Chloe breathed, stepping inside, her voice a whisper that seemed to be absorbed by the very walls. "It's… intense."

Ben was already pulling out a flashlight from his backpack, its beam cutting a cone of light into the gloom. "Let's check out the main rooms first. Living room, dining room, that sort of thing. Then we can head upstairs, maybe try and find the servant's quarters if they even exist."

They moved cautiously, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets worn threadbare in places. The living room was vast, dominated by a fireplace large enough to stand in.

Furniture draped in white sheets sat like ghostly figures, their shapes hinting at forgotten elegance. In the dining room, a long, heavy table stood in the center, still set with dusty plates and cutlery, as if the inhabitants had simply stepped away and never returned.

Jafar trailed behind Ben and Chloe, his senses on high alert. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle from unseen corners, made him jump. He kept expecting to see something, a shadow flicker in his peripheral vision, a whisper carried on the stagnant air. But there was nothing. Just the oppressive stillness, the heavy silence that seemed to press down on them.

"Anything?" Ben asked after a while, his voice low, almost hushed despite himself.

Chloe shook her head. "Just… cold. And quiet."

"Too quiet," Jafar added, the silence feeling unnatural, almost expectant. "Like it's waiting for something."

They continued their exploration, moving through the silent rooms, each one echoing the same feeling of abandonment, of time stopped. Upstairs, bedrooms stretched out, each holding the echoes of past lives.

A child's room with a rocking horse frozen mid-rock, a lady's room with a vanity still holding bottles of dried perfume, a gentleman's study with books stacked haphazardly on shelves, as if their owner had been interrupted mid-thought.

As darkness deepened outside, the shadows within the mansion grew longer, deeper, more menacing. The air seemed to thicken, the silence becoming heavier, less empty and more… present. Jafar could feel a prickling sensation on his skin, the feeling of being watched. He kept turning around, scanning the gloom behind him, but there was never anything there.

"Maybe we should try the basement," Ben suggested, a slight tremor in his voice now, his earlier bravado starting to wane. "Basements are always creepy, right?"

Chloe hesitated. "Are you sure? It feels… different down here now."

Jafar agreed. There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere, a shift in the very air they breathed. The silence was no longer just empty; it felt charged, like static electricity before a storm. The cold had intensified, now biting through his layers of clothing. And the metallic scent was stronger, sharper, tinged with something else now, something faintly… rotten.

"Come on, don't be chicken," Ben said, trying to recapture his earlier confidence, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "It'll be an adventure."

They found the basement door at the end of a long, shadowy hallway, its wood dark and warped, a stark contrast to the lighter wood elsewhere in the house. The handle was cold, slick to the touch. Ben pulled it open, and a gust of icy air rushed out, carrying with it a smell that made Jafar's stomach churn. Decay. That was it. The metallic scent was rust, yes, but underneath it was the unmistakable odor of something decaying.

The basement stairs were steep and uneven, disappearing into absolute darkness. Ben's flashlight beam danced nervously ahead, revealing damp stone walls, dripping pipes, and the glint of something metallic on the floor.

"This is… nasty," Chloe muttered, holding a hand over her nose.

As they descended, the silence above was replaced by a different kind of quiet, a suffocating stillness that muffled even their own breathing.

The air grew thick, heavy, pressing in on them, making it harder to breathe. The flashlight beam illuminated a large, open space, filled with shadows that seemed to writhe and shift at the edges of the light.

And then they heard it. A sound so faint at first, so low, it could have been their imaginations. A soft scraping, like nails on stone, coming from the deeper shadows.

Ben froze, his flashlight beam shaking. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

Chloe nodded, her eyes wide. "Yeah… what was it?"

Jafar felt a cold dread spread through him, numbing his senses. He knew, somehow, instinctively, that they had gone too far. They had stepped into a place that didn't want to be disturbed, a place where the forgotten still resided.

The scraping sound came again, closer this time, sharper, followed by a low, wet cough. And then another. And another. A chorus of coughs, soft, ragged, emanating from the darkness, surrounding them.

"Maybe… maybe we should go back upstairs," Chloe suggested, her voice barely a whisper now.

Ben didn't argue. He started to turn, his flashlight beam swinging wildly, when something moved in the shadows ahead. A shape, indistinct, formless at first, then solidifying, becoming… human-shaped. More than one. Dozens of them.

They emerged slowly from the darkness, their forms flickering in the weak flashlight beam, gaunt, emaciated, their skin stretched tight over bone, eyes dark pits in hollow sockets.

They were thin, almost skeletal, draped in rags that clung to their decaying flesh. And they were coughing, a symphony of wet, painful sounds that echoed in the confined space.

The Forgotten 38. They were real. And they were here.

Jafar felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Fear, raw and primal, surged through him, paralyzing him. He wanted to scream, to run, but his legs felt rooted to the spot.

"Hello?" Ben stammered, his voice cracking, the bravado completely gone, replaced by sheer terror. "We… we didn't mean to intrude."

The figures didn't respond. They just continued to cough, their dark eyes fixed on them, unblinking, unmoving. They didn't seem aggressive, not overtly, but there was something profoundly unsettling in their stillness, in their silent observation.

One of them took a step forward, then another, then another, slowly, deliberately, shuffling through the shadows. The others followed, a silent, spectral procession, their coughs filling the basement, each one a mournful, agonizing sound.

They were closing in, surrounding them, not with violence, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, a suffocating presence that pressed down on Jafar's soul. He could feel the cold emanating from them, a bone-deep chill that was more than just temperature; it was the cold of death, the cold of oblivion.

"We need to get out of here," Chloe whispered, grabbing Ben's arm, her voice tight with panic.

They started to back away, slowly, cautiously, keeping their eyes fixed on the advancing figures. But there were too many of them, and they were closing in from all sides, cutting off their retreat. The basement was no longer just a space; it was a trap.

Jafar could feel the air growing heavier, the darkness deepening, the coughs echoing louder, closer, each one resonating in his chest, a physical pain. He felt like he was drowning, suffocating not in water, but in sorrow, in despair, in the weight of forgotten lives.

One of the figures reached out a hand, skeletal fingers extending towards Jafar. He flinched, expecting to feel a cold touch, but the hand stopped just inches from his face, hovering there, trembling slightly. The figure coughed again, a rasping, wet sound that seemed to vibrate in Jafar's very bones.

And then Jafar saw it, in the dim light, in the hollow sockets of the figure's eyes. Not malice, not anger, not even hatred. Just… sadness. Profound, immeasurable sadness. The sadness of being forgotten, of being lost, of being trapped in this place, in this darkness, for eternity.

He understood then. They weren't malevolent. They weren't trying to harm them. They were just… lost. They were reaching out, not to attack, but to connect, to be seen, to be remembered.

But it was too late. The fear had taken root, the panic had set in. Ben screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound that echoed through the basement, and he shoved past Chloe, scrambling backwards, tripping, falling, crashing into the damp stone wall.

Chloe screamed too, a shorter, sharper sound, and she turned and ran, blindly, desperately, towards the stairs, stumbling, her flashlight clattering to the floor, plunging them into near-total darkness.

Jafar was left alone, surrounded by the Forgotten 38, the coughs now deafening, the sadness palpable, pressing down on him like a physical weight. He wanted to run too, to escape, to join his friends in their panicked flight.

But he couldn't move. He was frozen, not by fear now, but by something else. Pity. Empathy. A dawning realization of the true horror of this place.

He looked at the figure in front of him, the one with the outstretched hand, and he saw not a monster, but a victim. A soul trapped in suffering, yearning for release, for recognition. He reached out his own hand, slowly, hesitantly, and placed it in the skeletal grip.

The cold was intense, shocking, but it wasn't painful. It was just… cold. The figure's grip tightened slightly, a fragile pressure, and the coughs around him seemed to soften, to lessen, as if a breath had been held for too long and was finally being released.

In that moment, Jafar felt a connection, a strange, terrible bond forming between him and the Forgotten 38. He understood their sorrow, their loneliness, their desperate yearning to be remembered. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he would never forget them.

But his friends had run. They had escaped, leaving him behind in the darkness, in the cold, in the silence broken only by the mournful coughs of the forgotten.

And as the figures closed in around him, their skeletal hands reaching out, their dark eyes fixed on him, Jafar understood the brutal, heartbreaking truth.

He had come to Blackwood Manor seeking a story, seeking fear, seeking an adventure. And he had found it. But the story wasn't about the Forgotten 38. It was about him.

He was the one who would be forgotten. His friends would tell tales of the haunted mansion, of their terrifying escape, of the ghosts they had seen. But they would not tell of Jafar.

They would not remember the boy from Brunei who had stayed behind. He would become another whisper in the legend of Blackwood Manor, another shadow in the darkness, another forgotten soul lost within its walls.

And in the endless silence of the basement, as the cold enveloped him completely, Jafar wept, not for himself, but for the terrible, beautiful sadness of being remembered, and then, just as easily, lost to time.

His tears, however, went unheard, unremembered, swallowed by the darkness, just like him.