Who is Masson?

Everyone in this town knows the story of the O’bryan family. In the remote town of Whillertown, a tragedy occurred Twenty five years ago. Whillertown was a small place, the number of houses could be counted on your fingers and toes. On a mound of land, right in the middle of a lake with green waters, stood the O’bryan mansion. The family was not especially wealthy, but they had more money than anyone else in town. One early morning, flames rose over the mansion, trapping the entire family inside. According to forensic investigations, someone had left a towel near the stove, which caught fire. The flames then spread throughout the house, and the case was closed.

Masson was a detective from the big city who had just moved to Whillertown after his divorce. The house he bought was still covered in soot and dust accumulated over the years. The real estate company that sold it to him had fixed the interior, but outside it remained exactly as it had been since that incident in the 2000s. The air inside was cold and damp. He walked through the hallway, entering the living room, which was completely dark, and moved carefully to avoid tripping over the furniture. Behind him, the sound of small footsteps echoed, along with the laughter of a little girl coming from the walls. He reached his hand toward the fireplace, searching for the switch to turn on the light. In the darkness, he felt the footsteps getting closer and closer. His heart pounded as the air around him grew heavy. His fingers finally found the plastic switch, and he turned on the light. He scanned the room, searching for the source of the sounds. The room was empty, only furniture covered with sheets and a ceiling fan that slowly began to spin. He sighed in relief, letting himself sink into the overwhelming silence that told him he was alone. But when he turned around, horror filled his eyes. On the wall, written in soot, were the words “Nothing is real.”

That same night, Masson was in his room reviewing police records. He examined the O’bryan case carefully when someone knocked three times on his door. He stared at the gap beneath the door for a few seconds, then slowly got up and opened it. On the floor lay little girls’ dresses, neatly arranged.

“You are not real,” was written beside them.

Masson picked one up. It was blue with white ribbons. He then looked at a photograph in one of his files. The dress belonged to Emily O’bryan, the youngest daughter, who had died at six years old in the fire. Masson pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. His head began to ache, and everything felt confusing. He decided to take a shower to calm himself. He stepped under the water and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth run down his back. The phrases echoed in his mind “You are not real”, “Nothing is real.”

While he drifted deeper into his thoughts, a childish laugh echoed once more from the other side. He quickly rinsed his face and pulled back the curtain. The mirror was fogged, and with childish handwriting, someone had written “You are not Masson.”

—I think I’m going insane —he muttered, wiping the message away.

That was when he noticed a small photograph on the sink. It showed the previous family who had lived in the house: Mr. and Mrs. O’bryan, and little Emily. But on the left, there was a boy who did not appear in any records. He looked older than Emily, about ten years old.

On the back of the photo, written in black marker, was a single word, “Who?”

Masson’s paranoia grew. He saw shadows following him, and claimed that at night, someone whispered to him in his sleep. On the second day, the footsteps and laughter returned. The one he called Emily left soot-written notes everywhere:

“You are not you.”, “You are deceiving yourself.”, “It’s not true.”

On the third night, Masson tried to sleep. He didn’t understand the meaning of the notes, didn’t know what Emily was trying to tell him.

—Please, leave me alone —he whispered in his dreams.

That night, he dreamed of his days in the orphanage, when he was just twelve years old. Being so old, it was difficult for a family to adopt him, but after a long wait, someone finally took him in and gave him their last name. By the fourth morning, Masson looked completely worn down. Dark circles framed his eyes, and his pale face made him look like a ghost. From the kitchen came the smell of charcoal and burned metal. He ran to the stove and turned off the flame, waving away the smoke with a kitchen towel.

—That’s enough, Emily! —he shouted hysterically— I don’t care what happened to you, just stop tormenting me!

He threw a cup against the wall, watching it shatter. Exhausted, he sat down. He didn’t want to reopen the O’bryan case. He didn’t care if it was true or not. He was convinced he was Masson, and he didn’t need the ghost of a dead girl to deny it. He rubbed his eyes in frustration when the door sounded again. Three knocks. With a tired sigh, he opened it. Photos of the family were scattered across the floor, again showing the strange boy. They formed a path leading to the living room. Masson followed them. Hanging from the ceiling fan was Emily’s blue dress, almost completely burned. With a spark, the television flickered on. A face appeared on the screen under the words “WANTED” in red letters. The familiar face made Masson’s eyes widen.

—A week ago, in the early morning of June twenty-sixth, Mr. Jackson O’bryan escaped from the psychiatric center located in Hasehill —the news anchor reported.— The missing man stole a doctor’s car and is believed to have fled at three in the morning. This man suffers from a delusional disorder and thinks his name is Masson. If seen, please contact authorities immediately.

The broadcast was interrupted by uniformed men who burst through the door. The police had entered the ruins that Jackson called home. The worn floor and crumbling walls were remnants of the fire that had left the mansion uninhabitable to this day. They restrained him and took him back to Hasehill. Since then, Masson has not spoken another word.