Chapter Text
My friends and I were in the middle of recording a livestream. We were on our way to a strange house, the mansion of the late murderer, Ryuzaki Isamu. The skies were cloudy, the air was heavy and our footsteps echoed inside the mansion.
"Chat, this mansion is so darn creepy! No wonder why a murderer used to live here."
The mansion indeed was worn out. Paintings on the wall were all faded and mucky, and the walls were covered in dust and cobwebs. I panned the camera towards one of my friends who was inspecting a painting of a man drenched in blood with an axe in his hands. I did not think much of it, though it was creepy. Who would even keep a painting like that in their house? Geez... I turned around and saw another painting, and another, and another. The hallways were covered in framed paintings. Well, I'd infer that the family had so much space in their house all they could've done to lessen the emptiness was to add paintings. Our group moved closer and closer to a room at the end of the dim hallway. The internet said that the room at the end of the hallway we were inside (We mapped the place out earlier, the internet gave us a floor plan. It was pretty easy since some people on the internet don't do shit except research about old cases and murderers.)
The team prepared to enter the hallway, and I panned the camera towards my friend, Ryomu.
"Alright everyone, this is the so-called bedroom of the infamous killer. Are we ready?"
We prepared to barge in the locked door. One of my other friends prepared to kick down the door with others supporting him.
"3... 2... 1!"
The door to the room fell down, completely broken. The air became heavier, much heavier. Though, it didn't make sense. The bedroom was ordinary, nothing was out of the ordinary. Till, a gust of wind entered the room. We all felt it, it was strong. Abnormally too strong, although the weather is cloudy, there shouldn't be any wind inside this mansion. We're too deep inside the structure.
"AHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!"
One of my friends exclaimed, bewildered by the wind. I, on the other hand, was shook by the wind but I wasn't that scared. (I think) I looked around, everything was already covered in dust. I inspected the room alongside my friends. They kept talking about how scary the experience was towards the viewers, but I was more focused on finding out more about this murderer. (I'm no different from those internet geeks, arent I?) I saw a box nearby, and since no one would probably reprimand me for opening it, I obviously opened it. Nothing can surpass curiosity. It was a box of puzzles, to my disappointment. I sighed and looked back towards a shelf.
I approached the shelf and I came across three pictures of the man. All dusted by the winds of time. I grabbed each picture and a cloth. I wiped the dust off each picture and put them back on its shelf.
The first one had a rusted frame; I inferred it was because of time's cruelty, as it was the picture of the man's childhood. The conditions and years that have gone by wore and rotted its frame. How obvious. Frozen in an image, stood a little boy with a crooked smile and a messy hairstyle right in the center of the portrait. Some could say his appearance would appear awful because of his visible features, while others could say that the boy just loved running about; some may have found these imperfections 'adorable'. He stood in the middle of an awful lot of women, his family members perchance. Only three other males were in the picture other than the little boy; perhaps this family was abundant with women rather than men.
Such a horrible face this one held. Once I had inspected the boy's posture and appearance further, this boy harbored a feeling one truly could not understand. His fists were closed, ever so tightly. If you look closer, blood is seeping out his nails from the pressure of his nails against thin, chubby skin. Oh, how horrible! Is he even human? His smile gives nothing of the such! And his wrinkles cracked the skin of his young, little face. Had he not learned manners? Does the lad not know how to smile appropriately? I turned away from that picture to the second on the right.
And the image in my eyes told me of one fine teenage boy wearing a neat uniform. It struck me, how come? The change was drastic, such a shock. The uniform appeared to be in the style of a 50s Japanese uniform, though it is not clear whether the uniform derives from his college years or high school years. This time, his hair was neat, slicked back. Not a follicle of hair was standing up, nor out of place. Impressive, the gel in his hair was neither too much nor too little, exactly on point. There was no smile nor grin visible on his face, as serious as can be. His position on the office chair was orderly and quite elegant. He was comparable to a young and fine gentleman, raised with the manners and etiquette of a proper human being. Was this truly the same boy from the first picture? They held no resemblance to one another, not even a hint. Maybe it was just growth related to puberty. My gaze left the second image, and it fell back on the third.
And oh, how the last photograph held the most grim, terrifying image of all. It held the same handsome young man, yes, though he was older, perhaps? He looked quite the same. But there was something different. He was wearing a uniform, only that of prisoners on death-row would wear. That neutral expression was no longer; he seemed much more joyful than any of the previous pictures that were investigated. The joy on his face was eerie; his grin reached from ear to ear. He was smirking, undoubtedly with malicious intent. How come? Had he not lost that eerie sense behind him since he was a child?
His hairstyle was ruffled and disheveled, a definite contrast to his teenage years. He was being held by guards, and their expressions were nothing but terror, full of it. As if the man would slaughter them without mercy, as if his doings were so grim that even death himself was afraid. And back to his face, a horror of a face. That grin, unlike his childhood self, was full of it. He felt all; he was not forced, neither was he oblivious to the idea of happiness. Truly, he was feeling absolute joy. As if he were floating on cloud nine, as if life were complete. Gosh, why was this man so joyful to be executed? Question yourself: How did he get to this point?
The guillotine behind him explained that this man was currently about to be executed; however, the man still looked young. Heck, he looks as if he had not reached his 30s! Surely this was a mistake. How could a soul like his become driven to madness? Well, that would be how I would react if I didn't know this man was a murderer. Though, was it miserable being this man? Was it miserable to be held down? It did not seem so to him; it was as if he had found all the answers he needed, and so life had no meaning once he found the answer he had longed for his whole life. Oh, I was so intrigued by this I grabbed the last picture oh so violently. But then, I let go and it shattered on the floor. I grabbed the camera and I panned the camera towards myself. Though, that isn't to much use, right? I know you can read my thoughts, so why not just use my thoughts to communicate? Tell me, viewer. Yes, you. I can see you, the one painstakingly reading this grim story. Pray tell, what do you think happened to this man? I for one, sure do want to find out. What happened?
Just before I could finish talking to myself in my head, my friends stared at me in shock. I stared at them back, why were they looking at me so grimly? I looked downwards, I stabbed myself in the gut with a glass shard.
"Ryuchi? RYUCHI!" My friends screamed.
I grabbed the glass shard and pulled it out. Red, hot liquid gushed out of my body, but the pain remained inside me and exploded into my torso. I carved my stomach open and the intestines inside me dropped to the floor. They all rushed to my side, screaming my name but I stabbed myself in the head before that could happen. It all faded to black.
But you still want to know the fate of the man he was talking about, am I right?