The square was silent under the moonless sky. Torches flickered, casting long, crooked shadows across the cobblestones. A hooded figure led the condemned up the creaking wooden steps of the platform. The crowd whispered, voices trembling in fear and anticipation.
“Do you have any last words?” a voice called from the darkened crowd. The condemned did not respond. A chill ran through the assembly as the ropes were tied, the block set, the axe raised.
The executioner’s arms trembled. He swung the axe high—but the air seemed to resist, thick and heavy. The blade fell, slicing through the silence with a hollow thud. Yet nothing happened. No blood. No body fell. Only a faint heartbeat echoed from beneath the hood.
A murmur of confusion rose. The crowd shuffled uneasily. The condemned’s hood twitched, as though something beneath it breathed… or watched. Eyes gleamed red in the shadows. The torches dimmed as if the night itself had grown jealous of the light.
Then came the whispers—soft, sinister, almost like chanting. The air felt wet, heavy with anticipation. The ropes strained against an unseen force. The platform groaned. Something was moving beneath the hood, faster now, shaking violently.
“It’s just a trick!” someone shouted, their voice cracking. But the words were swallowed by a sudden cold wind that swept through the square. Torches flared, sputtered, and went out. Darkness consumed everything.
The condemned laughed—or was it a growl? A grin split the hidden face, far too wide, far too cruel. The axe, still held by the trembling executioner, dropped to the ground with a clang that reverberated like thunder.
Red shadows stretched across the walls, twisting unnaturally. The square became a theater of illusions, each figure warped, each scream echoing as if multiple voices cried out in unison. And then—the ropes snapped. Not with the sound of breaking fibers, but with a wet, gurgling noise that made the air tremble.
The condemned stepped down from the platform, hood still on, silhouette trembling with an impossible grace. No one dared move. Only the shadows shifted, alive with dark intent. A final heartbeat echoed. The crowd vanished. Only the platform remained, empty, yet drenched in unseen horrors.
The torches never returned. And in the silence, you could hear it—the faint, mocking laughter of something that should not exist, whispering your name… The fake execution had ended. But the darkness had just begun.