Sinister collection

The young man felt a shiver run down his spine as he gazed at the mask in his hands.

The details were eerily realistic, every wrinkle and facial line captured with terrifying precision.

But most chilling was the empty look in the eyes, devoid of soul.

-That mask is old now, but you are young. It will come in handy in my collection, -the raspy voice of the faceless old man sounded from the doorway.

The young man turned around, horrified, and his gaze fell on the mask-covered walls.

Dozens of faces frozen in agonized expressions stared back at him, like souls trapped in a macabre limbo.

-What is this place? -he stammered, his mouth suddenly dry.

The old man approached slowly, his thin, hunchbacked body casting a sinister shadow.

-This is my collection, my masterpiece, -he whispered- Each mask is a person who once walked through that door, seeking help.

The young man stepped back, stumbling over the objects scattered on the floor. His hand twitched around the mask, his only potential weapon.

-Don't resist, -the old man warned- They all end up in my collection in the end.

A piercing scream echoed through the walls, drowned out by the sepulchral silence of the masks watching impassively.

The door slammed shut, sealing the young man's fate for eternity.