Mother died today. Or maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. The passing of time seems to blur in the wake of such an event, leaving one lost in a labyrinth of memories and grief. As I sat by her empty bedside in the dimly lit chamber of our ancestral home, a pall of darkness seemed to settle over the room, casting long, twisted shadows across the walls.

In the stillness of the night, I heard whispers—faint, ghostly murmurs that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. At first, I dismissed them as figments of my imagination, the product of a weary mind grappling with loss. But as the hours stretched on and the whispers grew louder, I could no longer ignore them.

With trembling hands, I lit a candle and ventured into the darkness, following the sound of the whispers as they led me deeper into the house. The air grew colder, and the shadows seemed to dance and writhe around me, taking on grotesque forms that sent shivers down my spine.

I reached the heart of the house—a chamber hidden deep within its labyrinthine corridors. As I stepped inside, I was met with a scene straight from my nightmares. The walls were adorned with macabre tapestries depicting scenes of death and debauchery, while the air was thick with the scent of incense and mold.

There, in the center of the chamber, lay my mother's body—a grotesque mockery of the woman she had once been. Her skin was pallid and waxy, her eyes sunken and lifeless, and a faint smile played upon her lips—a smile that chilled me to the bone. I stumbled back in horror, the candle slipping from my grasp and plunging the chamber into darkness once more.

Mother died today. Or maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. As I fled the accursed place, I knew that it mattered little, for her presence, that dark malevolent stranger would not rest until it had claimed me too.