The boy’s sobs filled the room, echoing off the cold cement. His chest heaved, and for a fleeting moment, he thought maybe just maybe he’d been spared. The man’s knife had stopped short, buried in the wall instead of his flesh.

But then, the man’s smirk returned. He stood, pulled the dagger free with a sharp twist, and walked toward the far corner of the basement. The shadows seemed thicker there, the candlelight struggling to reach. He dragged his chain along the floor as he moved, the metallic scrape puncturing the silence like nails across a coffin lid.

The boy’s eyes followed him, wide and frantic.

The man crouched beside a large wooden cabinet; old, scarred, with deep grooves etched into its doors. He placed his ear against it, listening. A faint thud answered from within, followed by muffled cries. He chuckled, a dry, broken sound.

“Oh, right,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. “You haven’t met the others, have you?”

He unlatched the cabinet doors.

From the darkness inside, two more children spilled out both younger than the first, no older than ten. Their wrists and ankles were bound, their faces streaked with tears. They collapsed onto the concrete, trembling, their muffled pleas swallowed by filthy rags stuffed in their mouths.

The man looked at them fondly, almost like a proud father presenting his children. “These two are very special,” he said, crouching down and stroking the tangled hair of the smaller one, a girl with wide, glassy eyes. “She hums to herself when she thinks I’m not listening. Just like my brother used to. And him…” he tugged the boy’s chin up roughly “…he has the same eyes. Same accusing eyes.”

The chained boy across the room struggled harder, the sound of rattling iron chains desperate and hollow. His muffled screams grew frantic as he realized he was not the first.

Or the last.

The man’s neck twitched sharply, his smile cracking into something wild. He dragged the smaller boy from the cabinet closer to the candlelight, forcing his face up for the chained victim to see. “Do you see?” he hissed, spit flying from his lips. “They keep coming back. Faces, voices, memories. I collect them. Because if I don’t, they’ll leave me again. Like she did. Like he did. Like they all do.”

He let go of the child and stood, pacing, his boots leaving streaks of dried blood across the concrete floor. He pressed his palms against his temples, twitching. His voice grew louder, echoing in the confined space:

“But they can’t leave me if I keep them here, can they? If I make them sing, if I make them bleed, if I carve the truth into their bones. They stay.”

He turned abruptly, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, locking onto the chained boy once more. His expression softened into something almost tender. “And you… you’ll be my star. You’ll shine the brightest when I finish the song.”

He raised the dagger again, humming, while behind him the two newly revealed captives whimpered in unison, tiny voices swallowed by the walls.

The basement was alive now, full of muffled cries, rattling chains, the scraping of boots and steel. A chamber of echoes, where time had no meaning.

And in the center of it all, the man sang his lullaby, each note broken, each word twisting further into madness

:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”