On a besoin d’aide dit John il y a eu des objets de disparu dans le manoir. On doit appeler l’inspecteur Orest khladov , il accepte immédiatement l’affaire et se rendit sur les lieux. Monsieur khladov commença par interroger le personnel sans aucun résultat il se rendit dans la pièce où avait disparu les objets, il remarqua des empreintes de pas près de la fenêtre cassée, c’est un bon début et puis en quittant la pièce il remarqua un petit bout de papier glissé sous une petite table,il le prit délicatement et lu le message. Les objets disparu sont dans la maison du jardinier. Nouvelle piste à suivre,il se demande si ce message est un piège. Il décida de suivre la piste et c’est rendu dans la petite maison du jardinier, il a trouvé une belle boite en bois sculptée dans laquelle il y avait les masques et dans la cour arrière il y avait la superbe moto de collection. Il va falloir interroger le jardinier. Le jardinier finit par avouer sa faute qu’il avait planifié la disparition des objets depuis des mois. Les masques et la moto ont été rendu au propriétaire et l’inspecteur Orest Khladov classa l’affaire. Merci 🥰

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Orest Khladov had handled trivial puzzles before, missing cats, misplaced keys, the occasional suspicious neighbor, but nothing that tightened his pulse quite like the invitation to Mystery Manor. The closer he rode to the estate, the more the air hummed, as though every brick whispered, Finally… someone has arrived.
Katherine met him at the great doors: a young woman with a soft smile and trembling hands. “Welcome to the residence of Mr. X,” she said, though her eyes swept the empty hall as if expecting it to answer back. “I’m his personal assistant. Please follow my advice if you wish to avoid… unpleasant incidents.”
Then she leaned close, voice thinned to a terrified whisper.
“And, I beg you, help me escape this place.”
It was then she told him about the missing artifacts:
The Ghost Mask. The Lion Mask. And the Need for Speed motorcycle.
They had vanished the night Mr. X left for business, and the house was “offended.”
Orest nodded. “Let’s start.”

They entered the Sakura Room…
The room breathed petals. Lanterns glowed with gentle pink. Orest scanned the floorboards, shelves, shadows—until a paper note on a folding screen caught his eye:
“He who hides his face smiles.”
He followed the faint laughter-like rustling to a tall ceremonial drum. Inside, tucked beneath its rim like a secret grin, was the Ghost Mask, crimson-lipped and far too pleased with itself.
“Cunning,” Orest murmured. “But a little too cheerful to stay hidden.”

They moved on to the African Room…
Drumming echoed, though no performer was present. Carved wooden figures stood in a solemn circle around a stone firepit. Hanging from the neck of the tallest statue was another note:
“The leader always stands in a circle and wears a mask.”
Sure enough, on the statue’s stern face rested the Lion Mask.
“Classic,” Orest sighed. “Hiding in plain sight.”

Lastly, out to the Pumpkin Field…
Katherine led him outside, though each step clearly cost her courage. Vast pumpkins sprawled across the yard like orange sentinels. A scarecrow leaned crookedly as though watching him.
A sign carved into a wooden board read:
“The field hides the road.”
Orest glanced across the rows. One pumpkin, gargantuan and  glossy, was too perfect. Too symmetrical. With a push, it toppled over, hollow.
Underneath lay the Need for Speed motorcycle, perfectly polished, absurdly ready for a race.
He laughed. “Of course. What would a house of riddles be without transport?”
We need to find the culprit, Orest thought.

With all artifacts recovered, the house’s tension eased; lights brightened, floorboards ceased groaning, paintings straightened. But Orest felt a chill.
“Someone wanted these items found,” he said. “Not stolen forever, but hidden as clues.”
Katherine swallowed. “Then who—?”
The answer creaked from the staircase.
A figure stood there wearing a black half-mask shaped like a letter A.

“Mr. X is not the owner,” the figure said. “I am Mr. A, the architect of the house. And my home awakens only for a worthy opponent.”
Orest stayed calm, voice low. “And the point of this game?”
“To see whether you could free her.” Mr. A nodded toward Katherine.
The floor shifted beneath her feet, boards sliding apart like a trap ready to swallow her.
Orest reacted instantly, hurling the recovered Ghost Mask at a lantern rope overhead. It struck perfectly, breaking the cord. The lantern plummeted, severing the mechanism that triggered the trapdoor. The floor froze. Katherine collapsed into his arms, pale but safe.
Mr. A growled. “Impressive. But not enough.”
“Oh, I think it is.” Orest swung the motorcycle key he’d found beneath the pumpkin. “You left fingerprints on this. That’s all I need.”
The house doors groaned open, siding with Orest.
Mr. A fled, but the Manor shut him inside the Pumpkin Field. By the time authorities arrived, he was cornered, with no more riddles to hide behind.

Katherine exhaled the first pure breath she’d taken in months.
“You saved me,” she whispered.
Orest smiled gently. “No. The Manor saved itself. I just listened.”
But inwardly he knew the truth: something had changed.
This case was more than his first major assignment.
It was an invitation.
And Mystery Manor… was far from finished with him.

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D8ab2f

она стояла у окна и была в полной растерянности. Орест привез фургон с «похищенными» вещами, и сейчас бережно распаковывал маски и мотоцикл. Увидев ее в оконном проеме, он весело замахал руками и с какой-то щенячьей радостью завопил: «я нашел их, я нашел!!!!»  Взбежав по крутым ступеням, перепрыгивая на ходу через пороги, молодой детектив вбежал в комнату куратора Домика. Яркий румянец заливал и без того красивое лицо , кудрявые волосы  разметались по крепким молодецким плечам. «Ах, до чего же хорош, паршивец!»- подумала она.
Все то время, пока детектив разглядывал пленки с отпечатками пальцев, изъятые с найденных предметов, заполнял протоколы, отчитывался руководству о скором завершении дела, Она стояла с грустной улыбкой на лице. Она не разделяла его внезапной радости, и это показалось Оресту немного странным.
А в ее голове роились мысли, перескакивая друг через друга, не давая сосредоточиться ни на одной « Ах, до чего хорош, паршивец!» - мысли начинали центробежно повторяться. « как же мне признаться, что я две недели разрабатывала план по заманиванию этого молодого повесы в Домик. Я тщательно выбирала места, куда спрятать маски и отогнать мотоцикл, мастерила на поле эту дурацкую тыкву, заметала искусно(как мне казалось ) следы…. И все ради того, чтоб этот красавчик задержался в моем Домике на все время поисков и расследования. День за днем мы бы виделись, болтали, я бы за ботилась о нем. Возможно, мы бы подружились для  начала,  а там гляди- и чего-то вышло бы…. Но этот фрукт испортил все мои планы! И собирается уезжать! Нет, из этих лап еще никто не вырывался,  этого точно допустить невозможно, надо придумать новый план, и очень срочно…»
(новый план - в новом квесте 😂)

Отредактировано Тигра (2025-11-29 00:15:24)

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Даже тигры любят игры!
Ррррррр! 🐅
f1ec22

The Secret Golf Heard in the Laundry Room
It was always at 2:17 a.m. when the house finally shut up. The kids were asleep, the dog had stopped dreaming about squirrels, and the refrigerator clicked off like it, too, had somewhere better to be. That was the hour the laundry room belonged to Harold.
Harold, fifty-three, divorced, accountant by trade, and (though he would never say it aloud) a man who still believed in omens.
He would creep downstairs in his bathrobe, carrying one knee-length sock. Just one. Navy blue, argyle, the left foot. The right one had vanished six months ago into the same black hole that eats Tupperware lids and good intentions. Harold had stopped looking for it. Some things, he decided, are not meant to be reunited.
He opened the dryer door slowly, the way a priest opens the tabernacle. Inside, the drum was still warm from the last load. He placed the sock on the little rubber lip, stepped back, and whispered the ancient incantation known only to the widowed and the insomniac:
“Come out and play, you bastards.”
Then he waited.
First came the soft thud of something shifting in the back. Then the metallic tick-tick-tick of a ball bearing rolling along the drum. Then the unmistakable ping—the sound a titanium driver makes when it kisses a balled-up athletic sock at the exact sweet spot.
The laundry room had its own golf course.
Hole 1: The Agitator Open
A par-3 over the mountain range of damp towels. Harold’s sock (now miraculously stiffened into the shape of a Pro V1) launched off the rubber fin, ricocheted off a bottle of Tide, and dropped two inches from the fabric-softener cup. “Gimme,” Harold muttered, lips barely moving. The dryer gave it to him.
Hole 2: The Lint Trap Chasm
Par-4, dogleg left. The sock-ball had to carry the yawning vent, avoid the gravitational pull of a forgotten dryer sheet, and land on the smooth plain of the control panel. Harold held his breath. The sock soared, caught an updraft from the warm exhale of the machine, and stuck the landing like Koepka in his prime. He allowed himself the smallest fist pump, the kind that doesn’t wake teenagers.
Hole 9: The Spin Cycle Apocalypse
Par-5, 580 yards, played entirely inside the washing machine during the final rinse. The drum began to turn. Slowly at first, then faster, water sloshing like Augusta’s creeks in a thunderstorm. Harold stood on a milk crate, nine-iron fashioned from a wire hanger, waiting for the sock to emerge on the crest of a wave. When it did—sopping, defiant—he took his stance between the detergent drawer and the ironing board.
One practice waggle.
“Be the ball,” he whispered. “Be the goddamn ball.”
He swung.
The hanger connected with a wet thwock. The sock rocketed upward, struck the ceiling light, caromed off the open door, and—miracle of miracles—dropped straight into the delicate-care mesh bag hanging from the shelf like a cup cut from the jawbone of fate.
Harold froze. The washing machine hit its crescendo and fell silent. Even the house seemed to hold its breath.
Dead center. A 10. An ace on the impossible closing hole.
He did not cheer. Men who play secret golf at 2:17 a.m. do not cheer. They simply close the dryer door, retrieve their single knee-length sock—now dry, warm, and smelling faintly of victory—and pad back upstairs.
Tomorrow night the course would reconfigure itself. The towels would form new dunes. A lost Lego would become a water hazard. And the right sock, wherever it was, would remain forever lost—because some mysteries are more sacred when they stay unsolved.
Harold placed the sock on his dresser next to its lonely partner from last week’s triumph, turned off the light, and whispered into the dark:
“Still got it.”
Somewhere downstairs, the dryer clicked on by itself, just once, like a slow clap from an audience of one.

The next night…

The ripped sock hung from the dryer door like a battle flag: heel blown out, toe threads waving surrender.
Harold didn’t care. At 2:03 a.m. it was the only ball he had.
He dropped it in, shut the door, hit “high heat,” and stepped back.
One rip made it perfect. The hole became the mouth of the sock itself—an open wound that screamed down the fairway of tumbling sheets. Every revolution whistled through the tear: a banshee drive, 300 yards inside a 24-inch drum.
Thwack. Bounce. Ping.
It kissed the lint trap, flirted with a bra strap, then dove straight into the dark heart of a fitted sheet folded like Augusta’s 12th.
The dryer spun its applause.
Harold opened the door. The sock sat alone in the middle, steaming, victorious, more hole than sock now.
He lifted it gently, like a green jacket made of cotton and defeat.
“Still counts,” he whispered.
Then he carried his tattered champion upstairs, past the sleeping house, and laid it on the pillow beside him.
Even legends limp home sometimes.

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde

Quête : «  Le golf qui en savait trop »
John adore ses nouvelles chaussettes. Il les aime tellement qu'il ne veut plus les enlever. Or la gardienne de John trouve qu'elle commence à sentir la mouffette, une odeur insupportable, il est hors de question pour lui de les  enlever donc impossible de les laver  elle demande l'aide de toute la famille. Papa avec sa lampe frontale la nuit à l'affût des chaussettes  de John, maman qui tente la course-poursuite. Tout le monde a lourdement remarqué que c'est un enfer. Mais non,  non,  non, rien à faire. Sauf que John vient de rencontrer sa nouvelle voisine. Et là John est horrifié, il prend ses jambes à son cou et s'écrie : Maman, papa vous pourriez laver mes chaussettes les parents tellement heureux sont allés à la salle de lavage immédiatement et ont déposé les chaussettes dans la laveuse pour les laver enfin c’est un succès.

Merci 🥰

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Mamie code 667a2c