There Is No Way Out. Andrew Zolt

next day, Madame Letitia made her decision and informed the Count.

      “Everything is prepared, madame,” said the Count, his voice calm and final, as he summoned the executor.

      The young man arrived.

      He was bare-chested, his muscular body gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Madame Letitia felt her pulse quicken, desire rising in her like a forgotten flame.

      “Please,” the young man said, gesturing toward the door of the chamber.

      Madame Letitia followed him, walking along a corridor lined with rich carpets.

      Candles burned on either side, casting golden light against the stone walls.

      Her heart beat wildly – like a young girl on her very first date.

      “What’s your name?” she asked, looking up at him with a coy smile.

      He turned, smiling gently.

      “Call me… whatever you wish, madame. Tonight, I am yours.”

      She laughed softly.

      “You’re so handsome. I… I feel young again. I’ll call you Luciano.”

      “You… are radiant, madame,” he said, gently brushing her cheek. “Tonight… you are a goddess.”

      She closed her eyes in delight.

      “You know just what to say…”

      He whispered compliments as they walked, his words weaving around her like silk, wrapping her in their spell.

      Her heart sang. She believed every word.

      They reached the door. The young man swung it open.

      “Please… after you.”

      Inside, dozens of candles glowed. On the bed – silken sheets. Everywhere – rose petals.

      In the vases – fresh white lilies.

      Madame Letitia stepped inside, both hands pressed to her chest.

      “Oh… my God… it’s… beautiful…” she whispered. “Like in my dreams…”

      She walked slowly through the room, her fingers tracing the bed’s ornate headboard, pausing to smell the flowers, laughing softly.

      “So beautiful… so tender… so perfect…”

      She turned to the young man.

      “Come to me…”

      “Soon, madame…” he said quietly. “But first… I want to show you something. Look… over there.”

      She turned her gaze toward the corner of the room.

      And in that moment – the hammer came down on the back of her skull. A dull, sickening crack.

      Madame Letitia collapsed forward, a puppet with cut strings. Her face landing against the silk.

      Blood seeped from her head, blooming across the fabric like a dark rose.

      The young man looked down at her, his face now cold, impassive.

      “Rotten old fool,” he muttered with disdain.

      He spat on her corpse. Turned.

      And he went out, closing the door behind him.

      In the corridor, the Count awaited him.

      “Well? How did it go?” the Count asked, a lazy smirk curling his lips.

      The young man shrugged.

      “She died happy,” he replied evenly.

      The Count laughed. The young man laughed too.

      And together they walked away, leaving behind the corridors, where the walls wept, and the portraits whispered.

      Madame Letitia’s body was carried out the back entrance.

      Two silent young men, their faces pale and still as plaster masks, wrapped her carefully in an old, worn sheet.

      Blood seeped through in patches, a macabre map spreading across the fabric.

      They descended the spiral staircase beneath the castle.

      There lay the catacombs. They began with a narrow corridor, smelling of damp and mold, and then opened into a chamber filled with piles of bodies. Men, women. Young and old.

      Some still wore rings on their fingers. Some dressed in fine gowns. Others in plain robes.

      But all of them – equally discarded.

      The young men approached the heap.

      Without ceremony, without a word, they threw Madame Letitia’s body atop the others.

      Her body landed with a wet thud, slipping slightly down, coming to rest against a half-rotted arm,

      against a skull grinning with hollow sockets.

      One of the young men sneezed, waving away the stench.

      “Rotten old fool,” he repeated with a smirk.

      And together they left, leaving her there – among the others, among all those who had dreamed of a beautiful death.

      ***

      The Count stood at the window, gazing out at the endless sea.

      The wind howled against the glass. The embers crackled softly in the fireplace.

      He held a glass of wine.

      A faint, weary smile played at the corners of his lips. He was thinking.

      “How ridiculous they are… All of them, the ones who come to me… Each dreaming of a beautiful death. A cinematic finale. As if their dull, miserable, meaningless lives could end in some grand spectacle.”

      He took a sip.

      “But why? What does a beautiful death change? What does it leave behind? You dream of a ballroom? Of love? Of one final kiss? Fools. Death has no stage. Death is nothing but the final period.”

      He turned toward the hall.

      Candle shadows slithered across the portraits.

      “They pay me for a lie,” the Count said aloud. “I give them that lie. They pay for a dream. I sell them the dream. But they all die the same.”

      He smiled faintly.

      “And it doesn’t matter who I kill… they wanted it. I am only the executor.”

      He walked to a large armchair. Sat down. Closed his eyes.

      And in that silence – among the bitterness of wine and the scent of smoke – he felt righteous.

      “I am more honest than any of them. Because I know: death is never beautiful.”

      ***

      And then, one day – she arrived. A girl named Amelia.

      Her beauty was almost perfect.

      There was a depth in her eyes – a bottomless knowing – as if she had already seen death… and chosen it.

      She didn’t haggle over the price.

      She said only: “I want to be beheaded. On a scaffold. Like a queen.”

      The Count was stunned.

      Her features looked carved from the same marble as the statue in his hall.

      Amelia seemed shaped in the image of his long-dead wife – the only woman he had ever truly loved.

      Yes…

      Once, Alberto had not been the cold, indifferent monster he now was.

      Amelia became an obsession.

      He couldn’t kill her. He locked her in the highest tower, where