There Is No Way Out. Andrew Zolt

day, she was silent.

      But the ghosts of his past victims began to return – not in dreams this time, but in mirrors.

      They whispered without mouths, stared without eyes, left footprints on the floor.

      One night, he heard footsteps behind him – and saw his wife.

      She said: “You can still become human again.”

      He understood then: if he killed Amelia, he would destroy the last flicker of light left in him.

      “But what would I do with that light?” he thought. “It’s far too late to change anything.”

      And so – he made his decision. He would do it himself.

      That night, the Count climbed the stairs to the tower.

      The moon hung high, a silent witness. The wind battered the windows, moaning like a warning.

      Amelia stood at the window, dressed in white – simple, light fabric swaying gently around her.

      Her hair shimmered silver in the moonlight. She turned to him, and her gaze was calm.

      “Are you calling me, Count?” she asked softly.

      He nodded silently. She smiled.

      “At last… I’ve been waiting.”

      He held out his hand.

      She placed hers in his. Her fingers were cold – like marble.

      They descended to the great hall.

      The scaffold awaited.

      The candles threw blood-colored light across the stones. The shadows trembled like living things.

      Amelia approached it. Kneeling slowly, she lifted her eyes.

      “I’m ready,” she said.

      “And so am I,” replied the Count.

      He raised the sword.

      The blade caught the flame’s glint.

      No hesitation. No remorse.

      He brought the sword down on the girl’s neck. A muffled thud.

      Amelia’s head rolled across the floor, coming to rest at the foot of a pillar.

      Her eyes were closed.

      The Count remained standing, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the sword.

      He stared for a long time at the body, at the blood spreading across the stone.

      “So this is it. No more of her. No more beauty. No more silence. No more… meaning.”

      He turned. Walked away – slowly, heavily.

      His footsteps echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, hollow and distant.

      He climbed to the upper hall – where, beneath the great dome, stood the statue of his wife.

      That same statue. White. Immaculate.

      With a face that once looked upon him with love… and now stared into nothing.

      He stepped close. Placed his hand on the cold marble.

      “Goodbye,” he whispered.

      And he brought the sword down.

      First the shoulder broke. Then a crack traced across the neck.

      Then the whole statue collapsed, shattering into pieces, splintering under the weight of centuries of grief.

      Dust rose into the air. Marble crunched beneath his feet.

      The Count let the sword fall. Closed his eyes.

      And for the first time in many years, he felt emptiness.

      Total.

      Pure.

      Absolute.

      Without memory.

      Without hope.

      Without beauty.

      And without forgiveness.

      The Silence Keeper

      Kernville. A small, neat, quiet, peaceful town. Very peaceful. Very quiet. At least, it had been recently.

      At first, it was just a rumor. Whispers spread across social media that in Kernville, you couldn’t make noise at night. From eleven p.m. to six a.m. Not just discouraged – strictly forbidden.

      Yet no one officially banned it. No one handed out fines for breaking the silence.

      It was just that by morning, anyone who broke it was found dead. With bloody foam at their mouth.

      The first was a drunk from the outskirts. He was yelling songs in his backyard at two in the morning. By dawn, they found him on the lawn outside his house. A stiff, lifeless corpse.

      Then the dogs died. All of them. In one night. Their fatal flaw: the bad habit of barking themselves hoarse at anything and everything.

      The cats remained. But they began to move silently. They were wiser than the dogs – they understood what was happening.

      Next to depart this world was a group of teenagers who threw a loud party after 11 p.m. By the time the police arrived, they were all already dead.

      One night, the town lost power. An emergency generator kicked on, humming loudly into the silence.

      It lasted five minutes before bursting into flames, taking the whole substation with it.

      Later, the garbage truck that used to rattle down the streets before six A.M. – its engine exploded without warning, ripping the driver apart.

      The rooster’s crow at sunrise, the birdsong that used to fill the morning – all gone. No more birds, no more roosters. Even the flies and mosquitoes seemed to have fallen mute.

      The town fell silent. From 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. – completely.

      The residents quickly adjusted to the new rules, and those who refused to adapt met bad ends.

      There were some who came to love the silence. They had never truly experienced it, always surrounded by the constant noise of life, but when it arrived, they realized what a pleasure it was.

      They began to sleep better, learned to meditate, to explore their inner world.

      The most zealous defenders of silence burned down the music school, prayed silently in church, and taught their children to speak softly – almost in whispers.

      Silence became the town’s ultimate law.

      No one knew exactly how it started. But a few had their theories.

      They whispered it had something to do with him —the stranger who had recently arrived. The one they called “Lurch,” like the butler from The Addams Family.

      Tall. Gaunt. A face like a wax mask.

      He dressed like a man from another century —long black coat. Gloves. Wide-brimmed hat.

      He had bought the old mansion on the hill. It had sat empty since the seventies. The owners had asked an absurd price no one would pay. But he did. Without negotiating.

      He never attended any town events. No games at the stadium. No films at the cinema. No coffee shops. The only time people saw him was in the tobacco store, buying the most expensive cigars. And he never spoke a word.

      Then came the pink stickers: on the corners, in buses, on school doors.

      Just three words: “Thank You for the Silence.”

      The police tried to find out who was plastering them everywhere. But they found nothing. As if the wind itself had put them up.

      Eventually, people started leaving. The ones who feared the silence. The ones who hated it.

      ***

      Alexander arrived in Kernville in June, all