The Room of a Thousand Faces

from the Chronicles of Master Jacopo:

The Room of a Thousand Faces

di Jason R. Forbus

«... if it is light you seek, Benedict, why did you choose the caves?

«The caves won’t offer you the light you seek. But keep looking for its rays in darkness, because only in the dead of night the stars shine.»[i]

– Inscription at the entrance of the Santo Speco Monastery, Italy

Complete darkness had fallen upon the small monastery on the mountain. It was a starless night, the kind that wrapped the world in an oppressive blanket, heavy with secrets. The dim light of a flickering torch guided two hooded shadows through a maze of narrow corridors. The master and his pupil felt as pilgrims in their own house, deformed by alien shades and secret whispers. The porticos, so bright during daylight, now resembled the jaws of a sleeping dragon, waiting to swallow them whole.

“W-where are you taking me?” The boy, conquered by cold and fear, hesitantly stammered, his voice barely breaking the silence.

The old master glanced back, his expression unreadable, perhaps commanding silence or offering encouragement. Jacopo never learned the truth. His master remained silent, a stern figure upholding the ancient Rule of the monastery. The silence was absolute. Nothing murmured now; the shuffle of their long robes was absorbed by the ancient, smooth stone floor, as if the very stones wished to stifle any sound of their passage.

They arrived at the “Door That Must Never Be Opened,” a phrase whispered among the monks when the abbey was not around to hear. Jacopo recognized it instantly as the nightmare and mystery it represented to him and his companions. He longed for their presence now; he wouldn't have felt so afraid had they been with him.

The call had come unexpectedly, while everyone else was asleep. Brother Philip had awoken him brusquely, like a herald announcing impending doom. In the dark of night, Jacopo had sensed something was wrong. He had seen it in the old monk's eyes, a different glimmer that sent shivers down his spine. Cold and scared, he had risen from his pallet, following his master into the shadows, thoughts racing.

No key was needed to open the door. As they approached, it creaked on its rusty hinges and slowly opened, as if something waited for them inside. Jacopo started, a jolt of fright shooting through him as the heavy wooden door swung wide, revealing a pitch-black room beyond.

“What p-place is this, Master?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Come,” a voice replied, ancient as the stones themselves, brushing against his cheeks with a puff of dust. “The trial awaits you.”

The master's shoulders remained perfectly still; he had not spoken. But then who had? Where did that voice come from? A chill of dread enveloped Jacopo as he looked up, but the master merely nodded, and the moment had come. After years of apprenticeship, he was finally going to face the trial.

“There is no return for those who fail,” echoed in his mind, a precept that sent a wave of nausea through him. Heart pounding, he made his first, hesitant step into the room. The door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in. The trial was for him alone to face.

Shaking like a leaf, Jacopo began to explore the oppressive darkness surrounding him. He groped through the shadows, blinded by fear. The room was unbearably hot and thick with humidity, suffocating him with an overwhelming sense of dread. What kind of place was this?

Suddenly, hundreds of greenish glows flickered to life, dotting the walls of what proved to be a small, square chamber. At first, Jacopo thought they were candles covered in some Persian powder he could never quite remember the name of. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized what they truly were.

“AAAAAHHHH!!!” An indescribable horror froze the blood in his veins. His legs gave way beneath him, and Jacopo fell clumsily to the ground.

Faces. Everywhere, faces melted into the rock, contorting in terrifying grimaces. Their eyes bulged, nearly popping from their sockets. They groaned, begged, and cursed—victims of unimaginable torment. Those faces stretched toward him, desperate, resembling hungry beggars pleading for alms. The color of their deformed visages held nothing human; their greenish, fluorescent glow illuminated the small room with a sinister light. All those faces belonged to men alone, mostly young boys… young boys like him.

“Jacopo, I’m here.”

Hearing that voice felt like a punch in the stomach. A painful, gut-wrenching blow.

“J-John? Is that you?” His voice quivered, barely audible.

“Yes, I’m over here. Look, on your left…”

“Don’t turn, don’t turn, don’t do it!” he chanted in his mind, desperately trying to resist the pull of dread. But his head turned against his will, and then he saw him—gasping, his eyes wide with horror… yet it was him, dear God, it was his best friend. John had disappeared months ago, in the dead of night.

“Jacopo, they lied to us! My blood is burning; it hurts! Help me, Jacopo, help me!!”

John's agonizing cry pierced through the dark air, and he contorted his mouth, beginning to scream. That scream was inhuman, echoing through the chamber like the wailing of tortured souls.

“NOOOOOO!!” Jacopo shut his eyes and covered his ears, drowning in despair. Seconds felt like minutes as he willed himself to look again.

John’s eyes were closed now, his face still. All around him, the other faces had grown still as well, their expressions frozen in eternal anguish. It seemed they were sleeping now—troubled, tormented dreams trapped in a nightmare.

Gulping, Jacopo turned his gaze toward the ceiling, hoping to find the gates of heaven even in such a hellish place. There, inscribed in elegant gothic letters, was a Latin phrase: “The Room of a Thousand Faces.” Beside the inscription stood two masterfully sculpted high-reliefs. The first depicted the face of a handsome man, his soft curls of stone framing angelic features; the second was the horrific visage of a demon, jaws agape, menacing horns looming overhead.

Jacopo felt a connection between the two sculptures and the trial he had to face, but how? The answer lay somewhere in this cursed room. Despite the fear that gripped his heart, Jacopo felt an irresistible call of duty. He was not going to disappoint his father, not after all the sacrifices made to pay for his studies.

He scraped together the last remnants of courage and began searching the room while trying to maintain a safe distance from the walls. Those faces made him uncomfortable. They possessed a latent, malevolent intelligence, and he sensed they did not want him there. He also felt… hatred—a deep, abiding hatred radiating from their painful expressions.

Sweat dripped down his forehead as the oppressive heat swelled. With trembling hands, Jacopo shed his heavy winter robe, letting it fall to the floor, shrouded in dust. Immediately, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if shedding the weight of his fears.

As it fell, the robe stirred up a cloud of dust, revealing a small niche in the wall. Inside lay a sling, a stone, and a scroll tightly rolled together. Jacopo reached for the scroll with icy fingers, ignoring the unbearable heat surrounding him. Slowly, he unrolled it, his heart racing. The scroll read: “Hit the true face of evil with the weapon of David. Eternal torment awaits him who proves unworthy before the eyes of the Lord. Amen.”

Jacopo read and reread the words, hoping to find more clues, but only one certainty remained: the “weapon of David”—the sling. He held it tightly in his palm. The wood was warm and solid, instilling a flicker of courage within him.

Determined, Jacopo returned to the high-reliefs, challenging the blank stares of the tortured faces. He had examined the room thoroughly, and this seemed the only possible solution to the enigma. Taking a deep breath, he pointed the sling toward the two faces.

“The true face of evil, the true face of evil,” he repeated to himself, acutely aware that making a mistake would cost him more than his life. The obvious choice was to strike the face of the demon—the embodiment of evil itself. Years of careful study of the Scriptures had ingrained this notion in his mind. Yet, doubt gnawed at him, a whisper warning him of potential treachery.

It was the writing on the ceiling that guided his final decision. The Room of a Thousand Faces was a deceptive place, where evil was subtle, lurking behind masks and veils. There was a time long ago when Lucifer had been an angel, “the bringer of light.” Since then, he had adopted a thousand names, a thousand shapes.

A thousand faces, a thousand masks.

Jacopo released the stone from the sling, silencing the treacherous doubts that threatened to paralyze him. The stone struck the angelic face, shattering it into a thousand fragments. In that instant, the room shuddered violently, as if it had been struck by an earthquake. The faces on the walls contorted and whirled, shrinking into nothingness as the horrifying illusion dissolved.

As if by magic, the heavy doors swung open.

The porticos were illuminated by the first rays of dawn, transforming the small monastery on the mountain into a palace of light. When the brisk morning air brushed against his cheek, Jacopo finally realized it was over. Tears streamed down his face as he stepped into the sunlight, the weight of dread lifting from his shoulders.

His master waited anxiously for him on the threshold. Jacopo emerged, the sling still clutched tightly in his hand. As the old monk gazed upon him, the silence of the trial finally broke.

“Jacopo,” he said, voice steady yet filled with reverence, “I declare you Master of the Thousand Faces.”

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[i] Lumina si quaeris, Benedicte, quid eligis antra ?/ Quaesiti servant luminis antra nihil. / Sed perge in tenebris radiorum quaerere lucem / Nonnisi ab oscura sidera nocte micant.