Exactly fifteen years ago, you lost your sister. According to law enforcement, she went missing without a trace. You will never forget that evening.

It was an ordinary day. An early morning, getting ready for school together with your older sister. She did your hair in two ponytails, tying them with big white bows, and walked you to school. She was studying at an art academy located not far from your school.

That morning marked the beginning of a personal nightmare for your parents and you. After each failed search, law enforcement and charitable organizations would only shrug and say, "She vanished as if the earth swallowed her up."

Time passed. The fate of your sister stopped mattering to anyone else, and her case was left to gather dust on an investigator’s shelf. All your hopes faded. You had to start your life from scratch.

The city became a place of darkness for you and your parents. To escape that suffocating shadow, they decided to move. That’s where you finished school, built a new life, and followed in your sister’s footsteps — enrolling in an art academy.

Final exams were approaching. You were sitting in front of yet another painting you were supposed to submit three weeks ago. The silence in the room was broken by a notification. You reached for your phone with one hand and squinted to read the tiny text on the lock screen:

"Don’t trust anyone. I didn’t kill him. Come to the city where the wormwood blooms. There you will see everything."

A link to a news forum was attached. The headline featured your sister’s name and her photo. From what you could gather, she had allegedly killed a famous artist who had kept her locked up, forcing her to paint. He would hang her works on the wooden walls of his house or sell them at auctions for millions. Rumors in the city said he went mad after seeing one of her paintings.

Within three hours, you decided that packing your things and buying the first train ticket with your last savings was the best choice. You didn’t even consider that someone might be playing a cruel joke on you.

The train brought you to an abandoned village. Only a few houses stood — some in good condition, unlike others that were literally rotting where they were built. There were no hotels, almost no living souls. You had no choice but to ask the locals for a place to stay.

A young man named Leon took you in. He lived with his grandmother and raised cows and sheep. He sold cow’s milk to neighboring villages — that’s how he made his living.

Late that evening, you were sitting at the table with him. His grandmother had made pancakes, then went to bed. In a whisper, you told Leon the reason for your trip. You showed him the photo of your sister that you kept in your wallet. He immediately recognized her face — and the mole on her forehead.

After hearing his story, you couldn’t swallow the bite of pancake you had taken five minutes ago. Leon barely brought you back to your senses and splashed cold water on your face.

He led you to the living room where a fireplace was burning. He seated you in a soft armchair and went to fetch a painting — the one your sister had made the day before she killed her captor.

He brought it to you. It was her last work. Painted in oil, it showed the entire city — covered in shadow and wormwood. At the center of the painting stood your sister.

— She didn’t kill him, — Leon said.

The real reason lies with a sect of collectors hunting for “cursed art.” The murder was just a front. Behind it was a true cult that believed art could open doors to an altered state of consciousness.

— I’ll take you to the building where they held your sister... But the souls of those who died because of her paintings still wander there. Do you want to go now? It’s scarier at night, but no safer during the day.