The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

  Regus was standing over me, and I was confused. It took me a second to remember that although I had believed him to be dead for two decades, this was obviously not the case. That video wasn’t from 1975. It could have been recorded right before it was mailed to me. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaking. The old man smiled. “Well, the games gone a bit off course, in the best way.” A feeling of hope rose ever so slightly in my chest. “The game. This is part of it, right?” Regus let out a quiet, ominous chuckle. “Sort of. My own personal game.” He leaned over, and I watched his latex-gloved hands begin to fiddle with the bags of fluid on the tray beside me. “For you, I’m afraid this is going to be very real.” A shudder ran through me. I began to pull harder at my bonds, not bothering with subtly, writhing on the cool metal. Regus didn’t give me a second glance, and I soon understood why—no matter how much I str

  We ran. Of course we ran. The sight of Graham’s head, so crudely stacked upon Forrest’s fresh corpse was almost too much to bear. We took each twist and turn fast and reckless back to the dining room, where we could at least pretend there was safety in numbers. I blindly followed Ander’s shape in front of me as we fled, still unfamiliar with the house. My eyes skated the edge of each corridor, hoping to find a path that lead to an exit, but I didn’t find anything. We rounded the final corner into the doorway, and as we did, I felt a sharp pain in my nose. Ander had stopped suddenly, and I was following so closely that my face slammed into his back. I felt the blood drip, warm and gentle from my nostrils and onto my shirt, and as I started to speak, I suddenly saw the rest of the group in the dining room. Or rather, what was left of them. It was how I’ve always imagined the end of Hamlet, though I’ve never seen an actual prod

  To say I was surprised is a bit of an understatement. But after a couple of minutes of shocked silence, a few deep breathing exercises, and falling heavily into a chair, an explanation was brought forth. To put it simply, this had all been an elaborate game. One ‘lucky’ participant willingly signs up to be the main character in a horror story. The side characters are always the same, and the protagonist is always missing from the list of party invitees at the start. It’s an incredibly high-budget production, and an extensive number of waivers are supposed to be filled out prior to the event, because, as we’ve seen, there are pretty much no rules. Minor injury is permitted, and you have free range over the house—you just can’t kill anyone, or leave the premises. It was the ultimate Choose Your Own Adventure. “You alright man?” Ander asked, squatting down so we were eye level. “Is your name even really Ander?” I asked in a quiet croak. A warm

  When Ander and I returned to the dining room, we had only one canopic jar with us. We had decided to leave Wendy’s—or rather, Fake Wendy’s—behind, for a multitude of reasons. Although it’s unlikely that Wendy is responsible for the death of Ander’s father (and perhaps of Regis himself), she could still be in league with the responsible party, and exposing her could spell death for those of us left .f If Fake Wendy didn’t know that we were on to her, we were free to observe her with little suspicion. Few things had changed in the dining room since we had left it. Forrest’s bonds were still hanging loose and empty on the chair at the head of the table. William and Fake Wendy were standing around the wooden structure, their piteous gazes on Greta. The older woman’s head was in her hands, the photograph of the corn husk doll, the creased piece of paper, and the still closed envelope sitting in front of her. We entered without a w

  Speaking over the frenzied screams and sobs from Forrest in the dining room, I finally told the others about the tape. There had been stunned silence as we stood around the parlor. Fawn’s body had been moved, unceremoniously dragged from the fireplace to the foyer. You could follow the long streak of blood like breadcrumbs to where Graham and Fawn’s corpses lay under cloth. Wendy had been the first to speak. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” This was a valid question. “I only just realized that my invitation had been different, when Fawn and Forrest and I were in the bedroom.” I was sweating now, my hands nervously intertwining as I spoke, “There didn’t seem to be any time to mention it, things were moving so quickly. And I knew it would make me stand out more than I already do. Like I don’t belong here.” “You don’t belong here,” Greta retorted, her photograph, paper, and unopened envelope still clenched tightly in her grasp. “You weren’

  Fawn’s body fell to the ground, still impaled on the poker, a ribbon of blood snaking out of her parted lips and dripping soft onto the floor. I stood up from where I’d been kneeling by the sarcophagus, and rushed to where she lay. “Fawn,” I said, panicked, my own heart pounding as I frantically felt her wrist for a pulse. Her eyes had rolled back to the whites. They fluttered once, twice, three times, before a gurgle popped a bubble of blood in her mouth, and everything went still. I took my violently shaking hands off of her skin. They had already turned sticky with the drying fluid that covered them. Slowly, I brought my head up. Forrest was standing above us both—his face held the same expression of hollow shock that his sister’s had when she realized she had fired that final bullet at her brother’s chest. Then, Forrest opened his mouth, and out came the loudest, most mournful wail I had ever heard. He lunged

  I’ve heard gunshots before, but there’s nothing quite like a single shot ringing out in a silent dining room. No one moved in the seconds after Fawn pulled the trigger—save for our eyes, which moved in unison to Forrest’s chest, looking for any sign of blood blossoming from that spot across from his heart. But, none came. Fawn unclenched her tightly shut eyelids, and examined the revolver, a curious expression on her face. Her skin paled as she saw what we all soon did— Instead of a bullet, protruding from the barrel of the gun was a tiny flag. It was red, the same scarlet as the letters in the jars. It read, in stark white lettering: BANG! It was like something out of an old cartoon, which was disturbing on its own, even amidst the relief of discovering that the final shot had been a blank. Fawn stared vacantly as William gingerly removed the cold metal from her trembling hands. As he turned it over, I co

  It was a little past midnight, and Graham Willoughby was dead. William placed a white tablecloth over his body, but we left him in the foyer. We decided it was best not to disturb the crime scene, when we make it out of this—if we make it out of this—and are able to call the police, since we definitely didn’t dare to now. Eventually, Ander and Wendy joined us, and we gathered once again in the parlor, where Graham’s untouched last meal of lung sat on the small table. We were silent for a moment, but not out of respect for the dead—it was the reverberating quiet of six people rendered speechless in the face of palpable fear. We had put the pocket watch and the handkerchief on the now closed lid of the sarcophagus, the cloth stained with the note that told us what we already knew: we were running out of time. “Are we going to talk about it?” Ander said bitterly. “Talk about what?” William asked. “The initials,” Ander answered impa

  It was Greta who scraped up the ash, blood, and lung paste out of the fireplace and onto a china plate. We set Graham up in the parlor, at a small table and chair. William disappeared, then came back with a silver fork and a cloth napkin. We watched, solemnly, as Graham prepared for his grim feast. He looked down at the rancid mixture before him. “Are we sure this is what the note meant?” he asked shakily, his face tinged green. “It seems extreme.” “This freak embalmed my father ,” Ander said with frustration. “If anyone as an affinity for the extreme, it’s them.” Graham picked up his fork with a trembling hand. Very carefully, he stabbed the prongs into a spongy cube of lung, and stringy bits hung down as he lifted it towards his face. His eyes scanned around at the small crowd witnessing his suffering. “You’re wasting time, you know. We only have until dawn to find all these damn jars.” “He’s right,” William said, nodding gravely. “We