①Cursed red roof mansion
December 24, 1899, 7:00 p.m.
A stormy night with an ominous moon piercing through the clouds.
On the cold shores of Loch Ness stands a mansion with a red roof.
It was once a prestigious residence owned by an aristocratic family. But even they were ultimately ruined by a cunning werewolf who deceived them.
The scandal had been the talk of the upper class.
Since then, the mansion fell into disuse and came to be feared as a cursed place.
It was during this time that a pitiful man who worshipped werewolves purchased the mansion for a bargain. Riding the wave of the occult craze, he plotted to revive it as a werewolf museum.
To celebrate, he invited a few eccentric individuals with ties to werewolves to the mansion.
This is where our story begins.
---
A woman in a red coat stepped down from the carriage and staggered through the blizzard toward the mansion. She knocked on the hard wooden door with her numb hand.
The old wooden door slowly and heavily creaked open. The light of a chandelier illuminated the woman’s face.
She was greeted ceremoniously by a silver-haired butler with a refined demeanor—or so it seemed. His piercing glare and twisted smile betrayed an unmistakable vulgarity.
**Woman in Red Coat**: “Excuse me, is this the venue for the gathering of ghost stories hosted by the infamous slave trader Bill?”
**Butler**: “Please give the secret password, madam.”
**Woman in Red Coat**: “Long live the werewolf.”
**Butler**: “No mistake. May I have your name?”
**Woman in Red Coat**: “Marianne. A dancer from Brittany.”
**Butler**: “Miss Marianne, welcome. The master is very eager to hear about your tale of being tried as a witch in Brittany. Right this way, please.”
Exhausted from her long journey, Marianne took a glass of brandy and collapsed onto a sofa near the fireplace. She quickly and shrewdly scanned the room, observing the furniture and paintings.
*(…It’s as if Bill bought not only this mansion but also the aristocratic bloodline with it… His tastes are completely different from mine. He’s overjoyed at having secured the lowest rank of nobility—a baronet—by throwing a few donations from his ill-gotten gains in the now-forbidden slave trade. How disgraceful. And this mansion… it gives me the creeps…)*
Marianne clenched the letter from Bill in her hand, determined to confront the tasteless rich gathered here. After the witch trial, she had lost both her patron and her companions, and had been in a state of mental collapse. Bill’s letter, which arrived at such a time, said:
*"On a whim, I have invited some disillusioned gentlemen from my gentleman’s club to my mansion. French witch, come entertain them. I look forward to hearing the tragic tale of your life. — Bill, Master of the Cursed Mansion."*
For a mere dancer like Marianne, finding a new patron in the upper class was the only way to survive. Summoning what strength remained, she took the ship ticket Bill had enclosed and made her way from a frozen French port town to the blizzard-stricken mansion on the shores of Scotland.
As the light of the fireplace illuminated Marianne’s profile, lost in thought, the sound of rhythmic knocking echoed from the front door. The butler opened it, revealing a tall, lanky man in a red-feathered hat who greeted him with a tip of the brim.
**Frank**: “Good evening. I’m Frank, a novelist hired by the master of this mansion. I was told to record every detail of tonight.”
**Butler**: “Please give the secret password.”
**Frank**: “Long live the werewolf. …A fitting password for Bill, who’s so obsessed with the study of werewolves.”
**Marianne**: “Oh my! It’s not werewolves learning to speak human languages, but humans learning to speak the language of werewolves? I had no idea Bill was *that* eccentric!”
Marianne let out a surprised, high-pitched shout as she stood up. The hem of her fluttering skirt shook off the snow that had blown in with Frank. Frank’s eyes were drawn to Marianne’s soft, swaying brunette hair and her slightly flushed face.
**Frank**: “My, what a lovely lady we have here—an extraordinary beauty. I’m Frank, a novelist. It’s an honor to meet you.”
**Marianne**: “Call me Maria, Frank. You seem like a very pleasant gentleman.”
Maria smiled sweetly at Frank, and he squinted as if dazzled. Placing his right hand elegantly over his left chest, he spoke in a refined tone.
**Frank**: “Beautiful Maria, your delightful French accent reminds me of my mother, who was an artist. Please forgive me if I find myself feeling an unexpected warmth and nostalgia for you.”
**Maria**: “Oh, so you inherited your wonderful sense of aesthetics from your French mother. Then, where did you get that keen insight?”
**Frank**: “My father was a strict British military man… but I’m nothing more than a humble novelist hired by Bill. Please, pity me enough to let me spend this stormy night by your side. Should you ever face danger, I swear to protect you with my life. You are like a beautiful illusion—a flower blooming in the blizzard, Maria.”
**Maria**: “Writers really do know how to express their hearts so honestly.”
Maria flashed Frank a carefree smile, and their laughter rang out across the grand hall. From deep within the hall, a shabby old man staggered forward, clutching a bottle of whiskey.
**Old Man**: “Ah, young guests, welcome! I’m one of Bill’s old hunting companions, you see. I drop by to drink his liquor whenever something’s going on.”
The butler, who had been standing motionless like a stuffed animal, finally spoke.
**Butler**: “The master is currently attending to another guest who arrived earlier. He will join you shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy some brandy. If there’s anything you need, do not hesitate to ask. …Sandra, go inform the master that all the guests have arrived.”
**Sandra**: “Yes, sir.”
The maid, Sandra, bowed quietly and disappeared soundlessly like a ghost. She was a beautiful blonde girl with lifeless eyes that betrayed her fearful, frail demeanor.
The old man, red-faced and claiming to be Bill’s hunting friend, launched into exaggerated stories of his hunting exploits. Maria found it dull. Frank, on the other hand, responded with polite nods and humble words when asked about his own experiences, charming the old man with his courteous demeanor.
Soon, the master of the mansion, Bill, descended from his study on the second floor and greeted his guests.
**Bill**: “My dear friends, welcome to this wretched abode on such a stormy night. Let us enjoy dinner and share our sins and curses with one another. Marianne, the French witch, you shall begin.”
As dinner was prepared, Bill, Marianne the dancer, Frank the novelist, Nick the spiritual researcher, Nick’s assistant Freddy, Sean the investor, and Chris the adventurer took their seats. Bill’s old hunting friend lounged by the fireplace, drinking rudely.
The butler and Sandra continued serving wine with their usual gloomy expressions.
Bill was a stout, dignified old gentleman in a fine suit, with white hair and a commanding aura. His sharp gray eyes scrutinized the guests, exuding an oppressive presence. He was infamous in high society as “the madman who whispers the language of werewolves.”
**Bill**: “Now, everyone gathered here seems to have quite the taste for the macabre—after all, you’ve come to this cursed mansion on the final holy night of the 19th century to speak of your own vile secrets.”
Chris, the adventurer, spoke up immediately. He was in his late twenties, with thick black curls, bright green eyes, and a strong jaw. His loosely worn black suit carried the scent of foreign tobacco, and his defiant gaze and mysterious aura stood out.
**Chris**: “I’m a gold prospector from Alaska. I have countless bizarre stories from around the world. I’m here to find someone willing to invest in me. Next year, I’ll strike it rich. Money’s what I’m after.”
Sean the investor opened his mouth. He was nearly forty, with neatly parted black hair and quiet, dark eyes. His expression was tense and cynical, his meticulous appearance giving him an aura of coldness.
**Sean**: “Really, I came all this way for money, but this has been a complete disappointment. Bill, building a werewolf museum in a place this remote will never be more than a rich man’s hobby! I’m a man who only cares for profit; I’ve lost interest. And unlike you, Bill, I can’t even speak the language of werewolves.”
Nick, the spiritual researcher, listened with a strange, thin smile. He was in his mid-thirties with long brown hair and a beard, his golden eyes shining sharply as he grew visibly bored with Bill’s rambling. His handsome, masculine features were offset by eyes that gleamed with deceit.
**Nick**: “As a spiritual researcher, let me say this: Bill’s study was impressive as a werewolf archive—from mysterious gypsy biographies to tattered scrolls from the East. But still, I’m thoroughly disappointed. Despite all that, we’ve learned nothing new about werewolves. Even though I went through the trouble of bringing along a man possessed by a wolf.”
The man Nick called “wolf-possessed” was a pale young man in his mid-twenties with messy black hair. From between the strands, dark purple eyes and a snake-like tongue peeked out—a classic morphine addict’s face. His sharply defined features exuded a mix of refinement and malevolence as he gave a creepy smile. His ornate cufflinks glinted.
**Freddy**: “Hehehe… For twenty years, I’ve dreamt every night of becoming a wolf and fleeing. I wake up drenched in cold sweat, exhausted, unable to do anything. I live day to day, kept alive by drugs… soon, I won’t know what’s dream and what’s reality…”
Maria looked at Freddy with pity and quietly made the sign of the cross.
*May God have mercy on him!*
Frank, tossing his well-groomed hazel hair, smiled warmly at everyone.
**Frank**: “I’m not much of a speaker, but I’m delighted to meet such a unique group of people. Tonight promises to be quite interesting. And if I end up turning your stories into novels for my own livelihood, please, let’s forgive each other as fellow survivors of this stormy night.”
With that, Frank drained his wine with graceful poise and flashed a playful smile.
