"Hey, Skelly! Since you're new around here—coming from outside the castle and all—let me show you around," the boy chirped, his voice light, far too light for the darkness that clung to the place. The skeleton cringed at the name. He had no name of his own, none that he could recall, but being called Skelly grated against his very bones. He waved his hands in a feeble attempt to protest, but the boy either didn't notice or simply didn't care.
The boy skipped ahead without looking back, leaving the skeleton with no choice but to follow. Questions clawed at his mind, gnawing at him like a hunger he couldn't satisfy. "Who is this boy? Why isn't he afraid of me?" The skeleton, for all his newfound life, felt none of the answers he needed.
Inside the castle, the walls were lined with paintings—twisted portraits of people and creatures that sent shivers down his bony spine. Their eyes seemed to follow his every step, almost alive in their stillness. The air heavy with a sense of decay and secrets long buried.
The boy bounced along, pointing things out without a care in the world. He stopped in front of a painting of a middle-aged woman, her stern gaze frozen in time. Even the small, fluffy white rabbit cradled in her hands did nothing to soften her. It looked out of place there, delicate and innocent, a stark contrast to the coldness that clung to her like a shadow.
"Look, Skelly!" the boy chirped, grinning. "That's the scary lady. She says this castle is her home."
The skeleton's empty eyes locked onto the painting of the woman, and from the depths of his mind, a single word rose: Mother. He didn't understand why, but the word echoed deep inside him, pulling at something buried in his soul. The strange connection that had been tugging at him grew stronger, more insistent, as he stared at her image. The feeling of familiarity, of longing, was almost overwhelming.
He tried to shake it off, but it clung to him like a shadow. The boy, oblivious, continued skipping down the corridor, pointing out random things and chattering aimlessly. They soon reached an abandoned garden. The air was thick with the stench of death. The boy's carefree attitude conflicted with the grim scene before them.
There, in the garden, lay piles of bodies—old, young, men, women, children, animals, and creatures the skeleton couldn't even name—lay heaped together, rotting and mutilated. Their forms were twisted, broken in ways that spoke of horrors beyond imagination. "Their deaths must have been something no one would envy," the skeleton thought grimly. He hadn't been alive for long, but even he couldn't comprehend the horror of the scene before him.
Movement caught his eye. Among the twisted remains, something was stirring. "Someone's still alive," he realized. Compelled by an odd sense of duty, he walked toward the pile and began shifting the bodies, his bony fingers digging through the dead. A gloved hand emerged, twitching and flailing desperately. The skeleton, remembering his own struggle to rise from the coffin, reached down and grasped the hand, pulling with all his might.
From beneath the mound of corpses, an old man in a soldier's uniform stumbled forward. A gaping hole lay in his chest, and his decayed body was riddled with maggots. The skeleton recoiled, stepping back in horror as the soldier's body jerked to life, bits of rotting flesh falling to the ground with every movement. The sound of writhing, squelching maggots filled the air, crawling through his open mouth, silencing any attempt at speech.
The skeleton stared in shock, unable to comprehend the scene. Meanwhile, the boy—far from frightened—burst into laughter. "He gained a new life!" the boy exclaimed. "The scary lady calls this place the Garden of Life."
There was something deeply unsettling in the child's fascination, his blue eyes sparkling with a twisted kind of wonder. He wasn't afraid, not even disturbed by the sight of the rotting soldier. If anything, he seemed to admire the grotesque scene unfolding before him.
The skeleton, however, felt only dread. Whatever this place was, it was not a garden of life. Whatever it was, whatever twisted force held sway here, it was far darker than that.