The Faces in the Walls
“When cruelty goes unchecked, it returns tenfold, and the debt always comes due in the end.”
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office, high above the gleaming spires of New York, and admired the view.
His Kiton suit draped elegantly over his exceptionally tall, muscular frame, yet there was a subtle cruelty in the set of his jaw and a predatory hunger in the wolfish grace with which he hulked over his minions.
The city spread below him, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. He smiled, slow and satisfied, as he surveyed his kingdom. This was everything he had worked for, bled for, and crushed men far better than himself to obtain. Power, money, and status fed his ego as nothing else could. He reveled in his towering position over the scurrying ants on the streets below, each locked in their mundane little lives. They were sheep, and he was the wolf positioned above, ready to descend and devour them all.
Turning with fluid grace, he moved to his desk of rich mahogany — an entirely unnecessary opulence, but it fit his status.
As he settled in the plush leather chair, the phone rang, piercing the perfect silence he had cultivated in his inner sanctum. He lifted it without hurry, for no one could hasten him in here.
“Damien Blackwood,” he intoned, ice edging his voice.
“M—Mr. Blackwood, I’m so sorry to bother you,” his assistant, Janet, responded timidly. “It’s just…we have those reports due by the end of the day for the merger meeting tomorrow. And Mr. Thomas asked if you could move up your 10 am to discuss the figures — “
“Janet. Must I remind you yet again how close you are to being replaced? Do not waste my time — ever. The reports will be done when I deem them ready. That is all.”
He severed the call with a snap. Incompetent underlings would be his undoing.
A knock interrupted his irritation, and his lips curled into a wolfish smile as Amanda, youngest of the herd he kept fawning at his heels, entered with requested files. Barely legal, lush, and innocent — just how he preferred them.
He watched with idle pleasure as she approached, eyes averted, fighting to still her trembling hands.
“For me? You shouldn’t have,” he purred, reaching to caress her wrist. She froze, docile, knowing better than to pull away. Power thrilled through him and glinted in his eyes.
Amanda fled his presence like a frightened doe, leaving only the whispered echo of her terror — and cheap perfume — lingering in the room.
The afternoon passed slowly, filled with the back-and-forth predation of high-stakes business. Damien crushed an upstart rival with silken threats and an ultimatum, backed by the full might of his influence. The fool left beaten with his tail between his legs and all his aspirations turned to dust.
Afterward, Damien laughed with his team of lawyers while triumph sang through his veins. “Gentlemen, this victory calls for a celebration!”
On a whim, they went to celebrate at his favorite restaurant, one where the owner knew better than to let him wait.
At dinner, he was a prince on a throne ruling over his court. He snapped his fingers for service, speaking only to issue commands. “More wine. Now.”
The attendants rushed to obey as though their lives depended on his whims. For all they knew, they did; Damien had ruined empires on less. The finest wine and food, experienced in this position of absolute power, made the peasants who served them meaningless; their faces blurred together in forgettable lines. He signed the ludicrous check without looking at it, payback for recognizing his supremacy.
Evening found him at his country club, scotch in hand, holding court amidst like-minded men. They toasted his cunning victory and laughed at the misfortune of his opposition. He watched the ice glitter in their glasses and was satisfied. The idle wealthy around him posed no threat, and their fawning boosted his pride. For now, they served their purpose as an audience.
The alcohol had begun unraveling his control by the time he returned home. Diane waited up despite the hour, ever the dutiful wife; it was one of her few uses. Her cloying questions grated, but he regained command of himself enough to answer without revealing anything of consequence. The help readied his nightly scotch without being asked.
He would need its fortification for what came next.
Damien ascended to his private office seeking a moment of peace. The chaos of the external world ended at the heavy oak door. Here, all was comfortingly uniform: rich wood, engrained and polished to mirror brightness; artifacts from far-flung lands arranged just so, creating an environment orchestrated for productive solace.
He approached the mammoth desk occupying the heart of the room. Crafted from rare Brazilian Rosewood, its surface shone fresh and reflected the dimmed sconces like rippling water.
Damien settled into the throne-like leather chair and let his fingertips trace the silk-smooth whorls across the desk’s surface. The repetitive motion soothed, allowing thoughts to flow unimpeded, as he poured another scotch.
But this time, an unseen force arrested his fingers over one whorl, darker than sable.
Shadows lengthened over the woodgrain, slowly transmuting the whorl into a hollow-cheeked scowl.
Frozen, Damien watched coal-dark eyes manifest within the distorted face, piercing him with palpable contempt. A tremor seized his hand still touching the desk as the spectral scowl stretched wider, its woody surface undulating.
Damien recoiled sharply. The apparition blinked once before receding into varnished rosewood.
“The fu — ?”
Damien jumped up and darted to the center of the study. But the lushly woven Persian carpet underfoot drew his attention. The intricate floral patterns warped and stretched before his eyes. Within the swirling vines and petals, hollow-eyed visages peered out by the dozen. Some appeared in anguish, mouths stretched open in silent screams, while others glared with disturbing malevolence. They surrounded Damien’s feet, undulating within the woven patterns of the rug.
He stood paralyzed as their muted cacophony battered his senses. The face in the desk had been an anomaly — easily denied—but these had multiplied and invaded the very floor on which he stood. There was no dismissing such relentless visions.
Damien forced himself into motion toward the door, refusing to acknowledge the phantom gazes needling his back.
Unease trailed him to the bedroom where Diane waited, concern crinkling her brow. He shed his bespoke suit carelessly on the floor and she rose to hang it, ever the maid. Normally her presence soothed him, but tonight strangeness clung to the room’s edges. Damien’s gaze strayed to the walls, where the ornate floral wallpaper rippled. Was it his imagination, or did scowling faces peer from the delicate patterns?
In bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets smoothed beneath him, Diane pressed close, searching for affection. He indulged her with half a smile and trailed his fingertips down her side. But the floral pattern on her negligee conjured another face, familiar and long dead.
Susan. Her dark eyes accused him from the roses.
He reared back with a shout, accidentally ripping the thin fabric. Only Diane’s startled cry anchored him. A sheen of cold sweat coated his bare torso as he frantically explained away the outburst, blaming the heat, the hour, the alcohol. She hovered uncertainly, then subsided. He avoided her worried stare.
Sleep claimed him slowly that night, after repeated helpings of thirty-year-old Scotch smuggled from the study. He clung to consciousness, but eventually, he convinced himself the strange faces were simply figments bred by stress and exhaustion. His mind played tricks, nothing more. With that rationalization, he swallowed his nightly sleeping pill, which pulled him into a void.
Mist swirled before him, taking the shape of a young woman: Susan. Though her face was gentle, resentment hardened her eyes. Her chestnut hair cascaded over an ivory shoulder left bare by a gossamer gown. Eyes once bright as sapphires gazed out from delicate features. But in these spectral depths bitterness now festered, though her rosebud lips still whispered of lost innocence.
Looking around, he found himself back in that old office building, outside room 302 — her office.
Apprehension pricked him, quickly turning to annoyance.
“I’m here because of what you did to me, D. You thought I was gone, but you carry the weight of it still.”
Damien surveyed her ghostly form dismissively. “Oh, spare me, bitch; guilt is a wasted emotion.”
“Have you forgotten how you left me? Broken, bleeding…violated…”
Damien turned away, a cold chuckle on his lips. “You knew what you wanted. We make our choices. I’m not the one who made you eat a bullet.”
The mist shimmered and Susan drifted back. “You don’t understand…you can’t outrun this forever. I’ll put it in words you do understand…” Her voice echoed as she disappeared: “Debt always comes due…”
Damien stirred fitfully as her warnings pursued him. But in his dreams, he stood defiant as he convinced himself no justice existed beyond what he forged for himself.
Morning sunshine brought no relief from the persecutions, only shifting locales for the faces’ relentless torment.
The scalding water did nothing to cleanse the experience last night. Damien scrubbed violently at the LuxTouch marble shower wall, but still, Susan’s face stared back at him in the swirls of mother-of-pearl and black onyx. Her sad eyes followed his movements while her pale lips mouthed “Murderer…”
Damien scraped his knuckles raw trying to dig away the vision, but the face remained, water dripping down Susan’s cheeks like ghostly tears.
Damien turned off the water with a shaky hand. Steam billowed through the bathroom. Blinking the moisture from his eyes, Damien saw the vision spread. Now Susan peered from within the billowing fog, her begging mouth crying out for justice.
“Leave me alone!” Damien screamed, swiping his arm across a shelf. Bottles crashed to the floor, releasing sweet scents insufficient to mask his shame. Gripping the sink, Damien avoided the mirror, fearful of what apparitions might lurk on the fog-streaked mirror.
Shaving used to calm Damien’s nerves before important meetings. The methodic scrape of the blade on skin reminded him of his disciplined control. Now madness threatened to break through. His hand trembled as he swirled the cream over his stubbled cheeks. He recoiled in disgust when he looked down.
Susan’s face stared up from the white froth. Her cheeks hollow, eyes bruised — reminders of the violence she had suffered at his hand. As Damien rinsed the cream down the drain, her whispers echoed. “I know…I know…”
Coffee usually banished the morning headaches resulting from Damien’s stress and late nights spent building his empire. Now the bitter brew only stirred more visions. He grimaced as Susan’s demanding visage rose to the surface of the foaming cup. Her voice rasped from the steam, “Debt always comes due…”
Damien swept the mug off the counter with a guttural cry. It shattered on the tile, scattering dark liquid like blood. The mess mimicked the grisly scene Damien desperately wanted to forget all those years ago.
“No more!” he shouted, chest heaving. Damien smoothed his hair and straightened his tie, regaining a precarious composure. Grabbing his briefcase, he stormed out the door.
Janet jumped as Damien’s office door banged open. His cursing filled the room, causing her fingers to slip on the keyboard.
“G—good morning, Mr. Blackwood.”
Damien grunted in reply. He paced and glanced around with darting eyes. Menacing faces peered at him from every object. Artwork, Janet’s textured blouse, the screensaver on the monitor — all warped into disfigured masks.
“Get out!” Damien bellowed at Janet.
She fled his office as Damien slammed the door violently behind her. Through the glass, Janet watched him sweep books and papers from his desk. Damien clawed at the walls, tearing down framed awards and credentials like flimsy lies.
The familiar embrace of the office building provided no comfort today. Usually, Damien enjoyed meetings as a chance to exert his influence. Now the boardroom felt like a trap — the walls closing in on him.
He sat rigid in his chair, clutching the seat as the faces emerged once more. Damien blinked to dispel the hallucinations. But Susan’s visage remained, reflected in the abstract art surrounding the conference table.
Mesmerized with terror and guilt, Damien leaned forward. Perched in the gleaming surface, Susan’s face rippled as she mouthed “Admit what you did to me…”
A tear splashed on the glass, merging with the reflection into a distorted mass. Damien shrieked and flung himself back from the table. His leather chair toppled as the stunned clients looked on.
“Mr. Blackwood, are you quite alright?” the CEO asked.
Damien struggled upright, straightening his suit jacket with trembling hands.
“Fine…fine…Excuse me a moment.”
He fled the room. His remaining composure lay shattered on the floor like the fallen chair.
Alone on the elevator, Damien continuously mashed the door close button, eager to escape the oppression of the office. But there was no escape — not when judgment followed him everywhere.
As the floors ticked by, phantom faces materialized in the smudged metallic doors. They muttered and moaned, pressing against the surface as if trying to break through. Damien cowered in the corner with his briefcase clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Shut up!” Damien shouted, lashing out at the doors. They slid open at the ground floor, revealing no ghosts, only startled employees waiting to board. They averted their eyes and gave Damien’s disheveled form a wide berth.
Outside, Damien loosened his tie, gasping for fresh air. He strode down the sidewalk, weaving between other pedestrians. But the faint brush of a shoulder or hand whipped his head around and sent him into a frenzy. The writhing crowds morphed into leering faces. Indistinct voices shouted, “Murderer!”
He broke into a panicked run as if escaping a gruesome past that stalked his every step.
At home, Damien sought solace from the faces that overwhelmed his waking mind. But at night, they pursued him into restless dreams. Images of Susan pleading and broken beneath his hands flashed behind Damien’s eyelids. Her fragile beauty forever extinguished by his cruel ambition.
Damien thrashed in bed, shouting out denials, but Susan’s soft voice whispered in his ear, “Admit it was you…”
He awoke drenched in sweat. Diane stirred beside him. Damien tore away and rushed from the bedroom down the hallway.
The patterned wallpaper in the hall undulated in the dim light, forming leering visages. Damien clawed at the paper.
“Damien, stop!” Diane cried as she appeared behind him.
He whirled around, chest heaving. She recoiled from the madness in his eyes. This was not the man she had married.
“Don’t you see them?” Damien cried. “The eyes — always watching!”
Diane tried to embrace her tormented husband, but Damien pushed her away, shouting that she was blind.
Powerless to help Damien, Diane watched his madness consume him over the following weeks. He grew more violent and more unpredictable.
He prowled through the house destroying decorative objects. Faces peered from patterned rugs, paintings, and even from the lampshade fabric. Nothing escaped the vandalism of his growing paranoia.
Diane tried to clean while Damien was out, but he would return home and tear down the fresh wallpaper she had painstakingly applied.
“I won’t have their spies in my house!” Damien ranted.
He accused Diane of consorting with the faces and their unceasing judgment. Then just as suddenly, Damien collapsed on the couch weeping. He drew Diane onto his lap and kissed her forehead in apology.
“You have to help me, please,” Damien begged. “Don’t let them take me away from you.”
But Diane’s help was not enough to halt Damien’s downfall. His business suffered. Absent from important meetings and unable to focus, his profitable deals evaporated. Longtime partners pulled their investments, spooked by Damien’s bizarre outbursts and frenetic temperament.
Let go from his lucrative career, he retreated further into his fortress. The faces peered at him from every light fixture, appliance, and even the food Diane prepared. He shoved meal after meal away in disgust.
When Damien started breaking mirrors and lighting fires around the house, Diane begged him again to get psychiatric help. He refused, accusing her of wanting him locked away forever. In his paranoid thoughts, admitting himself was akin to handing victory to the phantom faces. As long as he remained free, he could continue fighting their oppressive judgment.
Exhausted, Diane retreated to the guest bedroom, locking the door firmly between them. She needed to protect herself and strategize how to help him before he was lost completely or harmed them both.
Throughout the night, she listened to his raging and then imploring the unknown forces them to let him be.
Morning light usually banished nighttime terrors for most. But for Damien, the sun no longer provided any respite. Exposed to the light, he felt the faces’ scrutiny even more acutely as the light formed sharper contrast. Shut inside the bedroom, the windows boarded up, he found no escape.
Huddled on soiled sheets, empty liquor bottles scattered around him, he trembled uncontrollably. He had barricaded himself against the outside world. But still, the faces remained.
He rocked back and forth, clutching his hair, he screamed into the empty room.
“What do you want from me?”
He clawed at the blank walls where shredded wallpaper faces glared.
He prayed for the release of death. But he knew the faces would follow him even to the circle of Hell reserved for murderers. All he could do was suffer silently; walls erected against a past that could never be truly escaped. The faces assured Damien his sins already lived on in infamy, if not in the world’s eyes, at least in his own.
When he next woke, he knew what must be done. He packed a single suitcase, taking only what was needed for survival. The fine suits and imported furnishings could rot for all he cared.
Damien moved across town into a small rental house barren of luxuries. The impersonal space soothed him with its blank walls and minimalist decor devoid of memories and texture. He stripped the closets bare, donning simple white clothing that matched the empty rooms. Shadows still lingered, but he banished them with defiant illumination.
He hired contractors to install harsh fluorescent lights in every corner. They worked without question, flooding the home’s interior in cold brilliance. The sun’s warmth leeched away and left only an Arctic glare behind. Damien nodded in satisfaction at the sight. Here, the faces had no purchase in the merciless shine.
But as days passed, weariness clouded his bloodshot eyes. He subsisted on Scotch and the slumber of pills, caught between the vise of waking visions and nightmares that lurked behind closed eyes. He drank deep, seeking the icy oblivion scotch provided.
His hands shook constantly now, whether from drinking or sleeplessness, he did not know. His features turned hollow and haunted. When the phone rang, his shoulders jerked with instinctive tension. The caller ID displayed Diane’s name and photo, her smile now morphing into a mocking leer.
Of course, she would be part of their grand deception.
“Damien?” Diane’s voice wavered over the line. “Please, come home. I’m so worried about you. I…love you. Please don’t forget that…”
“You’re one of them,” Damien hissed as spittle sprayed over the phone. “Admit it. You betrayed me to join their ranks. Was my suffering that amusing to you? Hmm?”
“Damien, you’re not thinking clearly. Let me help you through this!”
He ended the call with a choked laugh. Such cunning manipulations would not sway him. He had devoted himself to their pleasures and whims only to receive poison in return. Now they would learn the depths of his fortitude. The battle was not yet lost.
But the phantoms encroached once more in the flickering bulbs. They peered from the reflections in bottles, in the opulence of the liquor, and at the bottoms of his glasses. He could not escape their constant surveillance, the liberty he so craved was always beyond reach.
In the enclosed space, Damien cowered in the middle of the room, unwashed and unshaven. His disheveled clothing hung loose upon his wasted frame as if he were no more than a scarecrow propped up by straw. He flinched at every errant shadow, watching them melt into scowling profiles.
When a knock came at the bolted door one hollow afternoon, Damien stirred from fitful drowsing. Diane’s muffled pleas drifted into the sealed house, begging him to open up, to return to the world. Damien ducked below the boarded window, peering between cracks as she sobbed and continued her fruitless vigil.
At last, her blurred figure retreated. He scrambled away from the window and took shelter in the cupboard under the stairs. There he lay curled beneath the lowest bulbs with their harsh illumination leeching color from his sallow skin. Diane’s cries echoed in his ears. She too was aligned with the enemy. He hissed curses to nothing but the cobwebs.
As his haggard body gave out, Damien almost welcomed the specter of death if it promised an end to the faces’ torment. He had fought with every fiber of his soul, yet still, they broke through. Damien’s periods of lucidity came fewer and farther between now. His only desire was to sleep, perchance never to have to wake again in this unwaking nightmare.
When at last the darkness took him, Damien felt relief wash over his ragged mind. His life’s memories played out in vivid bursts. He saw again the faces of those he had wounded without care. Lovers, friends, business partners…so many were cast aside once their usefulness ended. Their pain had seemed trivial, but now he saw the brimming anguish his selfishness had sown.
Too late, he understood as the black abyss rushed to embrace him. When cruelty goes unchecked, it returns tenfold, and the debt always comes due in the end.
As the curtain fell, his lips shaped a silent cry for forgiveness that would never come. The faces watched impassively; their work was complete.
He passed into their clutches at last.
