The Crooked Way

 

I volunteer part-time at a homeless shelter in my city. When I first started ten years ago, it was part of the community service I had to do for my drug conviction. I remember hating it back then—part of it was shame, part of it was not wanting to be told what to do. I looked at both the people that worked there and the people who came there for help as obstacles, things keeping me from living my life. Things I had to get past so I could finally start being happy again.

But at some point over that year, I started realizing that I was happy again, and that a big part of it was the time I spent at the shelter. I don’t mean to make it sound like it’s always fun—there are times when it is really sad or boring. A few times that it’s been scary or even dangerous. But generally, it makes me feel better. It helps remind me that we’re all in this together—not obstacles to get around, but people all traveling down the same dark and uncertain roads.

Thanksgiving and Christmas Day are our two busiest days of the year. The cold weather brings in tons more sleepers and we’re running a meal line all day too. It’s usually pretty chaotic, but this year wasn’t as bad. It was still busy, but not as much as I’m used to. At first I thought it was my imagination, but by early afternoon, all the volunteers were talking about it. It would normally be going wide open until seven or eight at night on Thanksgiving, but this year we had slowed to a trickle by three. It was a bit weird—especially when we started comparing notes and realized that we hadn’t seen a lot of our regulars all day long.

You have to be careful working at a shelter. The goal is to be friendly and helpful to everyone, but in a detached way. It may sound cold, but you can’t become friends with everyone that comes through the door, and getting close to anyone who comes to the shelter for help is generally discouraged. I’d thought it was a bullshit rule when I started, but over the years I’d seen a couple of bad situations that developed when people didn’t keep professional boundaries, and so I made sure to treat everyone the same and not get too chatty with anyone in particular.

That being said, there are always going to be people you see more often and talk to a bit more. Regulars that are more outgoing or that you just get along with. People you miss when they aren’t there any more.

Between the ten of us, we were all throwing out multiple people we’d expected to see this year—some of which had been staying at the shelter within the last few days. The topic bothered me more than it should have, a slow-turning dread shifting its weight in the peripheral darkness of my mind. I tried to ignore it, but then Phyllis, one of the oldest and most senior of the volunteers, gave it a voice.

“The ones that were here acted funny too.”

I felt my skin prickle at her words as I looked around the old gymnasium that contained both our food line and the bedding area for families. There were a pair of couples, both with two kids, sitting together at one table on the far end of the gym. They’d both been staying with us for a few days and I’d helped one of them get signed up for temporary housing just that morning. And they’d all seemed perfectly nice and normal since they’d arrived. But then I looked over to the eating area.

There were just over a dozen people there, clustered together at two tables and eating silently. That wasn’t that strange by itself, though we were all used to more noise during holiday meals. It was that it had been the same all day, even when there had been over a hundred people in the room. Rows upon rows of people eating silently, their eyes meeting and then flitting away, like dark birds sharing a secret before fluttering off in separate directions. I’d noticed it unconsciously earlier, but I’d been busy and preoccupied. But now that I thought about it, I thought I knew exactly what Phyllis meant.

“You mean the way they’ve been all quiet?” Jordan was a newbie—he was pulling community service himself, though he did it with a lot more enthusiasm than I’d shown at his age. “Just looking around and staring and stuff?” He caught my eye and seemed to be encouraged by my nod. “I mean, it’s kind of creepy.”

Richard gave a short snort. “You people. So sorry that the traumatized homeless don’t conform to your perfect ideals. Maybe they’ve got other things on their mind than acting chatty for some weekend warriors who don’t have anything better to do,” he glanced at Phyllis, “or have to be here,” he glanced at Jordan before raking his eyes toward me. Phyllis went to respond but I beat her to it.

“Wow, Richard. You’re so enlightened. Please teach us how to be better people. But speak up, will you? It echoes a lot when you’re that far up your own asshole.”

Jordan’s eyes went wide as Phyllis and some of the others started laughing. Richard’s face flashed red and for half a second I thought he might actually swing at me, but then he just turned on his heel and stalked off toward the storage room. Phyllis reached over and patted my arm.

“Good one, girlie.”

The brief confrontation had broken the tension, and after another minute or two, people started meandering off to clean up or get ready to go home. I quickly forgot about how spooked I’d felt just a few minutes earlier, and by the time I was carrying out bags of trash to the dumpsters, it had left me completely.

That’s when I saw Eddie Camp in the alleyway.

He’d been one of the people I’d missed that day. A regular for the last five or six months, he had a long salt-and-pepper Santa beard and always wore a red baseball cap that said “Alabama”, though I’d never been sure if it was a reference to the state or the band. And he had a deep, rich voice that he claimed had once belonged to one of the premier radio show hosts in Seattle. I could believe it—he was friendly, funny, and great at telling stories in that jolly but soothing way he had. He would only come into the shelter to stay on especially hot or cold nights, but he rarely missed a meal when it was offered, and despite everything, he’d always looked remarkably healthy and happy when I saw him—full of energy and never complaining or asking for anything except what was offered.

When I saw him last Thursday afternoon…well, I hardly recognized him. He looked like he’d lost thirty pounds in the two weeks since I’d last seen him, his eyes small, darting stones sunk deep into pits of yellowed skin beneath the brim of his red cap. His lips were dry and cracked, and he licked them nervously as he eyed me from the shadows of the alley.

“J-Jenna? Is that you?”

I frowned. Was something wrong with him? He’d talked to me a dozen times, and now he seemed to barely recognize me. “Um, yeah, Eddie. Is everything okay?”

He stepped forward, and in the better light I could see how his clothes hung on him now. I went to say more, but he was already nodding and talking. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. I’m just real hungry. Got something in there I could get?” Eddie pointed a trembling finger toward the garbage bags I was carrying.

I started shaking my head in confusion. “Eddie, what are you talking about? Come in and get something to eat. We’ve got plenty left.”

His pebble eyes darted toward the rear door and then back to me as his lips began trembling. “No, no, I can’t do that. Just…just if you’ll leave this here, I’ll find something good. It’ll be okay. I’ll put the rest in the dumpster when I’m done. I promise.”

“Eddie, just come inside and…”

“No! I can’t, I said. They won’t let me in there.” His eyes widened and he reached out to grab my wrist. “Oh, please don’t tell them I said anything. Please.” Looking down, he seemed to suddenly realize he was holding on to me. He let go, trying to smile as he stepped back. “I’m sorry, girl. I’m just hungry.”

I was a little freaked out, but I still wasn’t afraid of him. Not really. He’d always seemed safe enough, and at the time I was more worried about what had him so clearly terrified. “Eddie? Talk to me, man. Who won’t let you in there? Let me help you.”

He started to shake his head, but then he stopped. He looked at me again, seemed to really see me finally. And for the first time, he seemed a little like his old self.

“Jenna, this isn’t a good place. Not any more. People are turning here. Turning mean and strange.”

I nodded, confused. “Yeah, people can be assholes. Is someone messing with you?”

He shook his head. “I’m doing a bad job explaining because I can’t really explain. But…something is taking over here. I see it in the street folk. People I used to be friends with, they have either disappeared or…they belong to that group now.” When I frowned at him, he glanced at the rear door and then back to me. “It’s…a religion maybe? Or a gang? I don’t know. They call it The Crooked Way. They want everyone to join, and if you don’t, you get disappeared. I’ve been panning for days to get up bus fare. I’m gone first of next week.”

I felt myself getting angry. “Eddie, that’s not right. They shouldn’t run you out of town. And they sure as shit aren’t going to keep you from going in and eating at the sh…” I stopped as he grabbed my arm harder than before, his voice low and breaking with terror.

“You aren’t listening. They’re not right any more. I’ve seen things the last few nights…You’d just think I’m crazy. But look for the signs. They all have a little mark on them somewhere. Their back teeth…they go black, but it isn’t rot. And they smell like…” He looked past me, his face hardening into a mask of fear. Glancing my way a final time, he then turned and ran away, stumbling down the alley and out of sight.

When I looked around, I saw two figures standing at the opposite end of the alleyway. I couldn’t be sure at that distance in the dimming light, but I thought I recognized them from the shelter. I raised my hand in greeting, but then they were gone.

---

I haven’t been back to the shelter since Thanksgiving—I was supposed to work on Sunday, but I wound up calling in sick instead. And I haven’t felt well lately, that much is true, but a lot of it is lack of sleep. I keep thinking about Thanksgiving and how strange it all was. And I worry for Eddie too. I hope he’s on a bus headed to somewhere warm and friendly where he won’t be hungry or so afraid.

But I don’t think so.

Because this morning I went out to get some groceries and found a man sitting on the steps of my apartment building. The guy looked to be in his late twenties, but with the worn-down, stretched-thin look of someone who’s had it hard. He stared up at me as I passed, his face unfamiliar and oddly expressionless. I barely noticed.

I was busy staring at his red Alabama hat.

“Miss, are you familiar with The Crooked Way?”

I blinked, half-walking, half-stumbling down the remainder of the steps backwards as I tried to put distance between myself and the man. My heart was thudding in my chest as I turned to cross the street and get away. “N-no, I’m not. No…no thank you.”

I heard the man laugh behind me as I began to run. Laugh and say the thing that still scares me the most hours later as I sit writing this in the public library, unsure of where I’ll go when it closes.

No worries, Miss. You will be.

You will be.

 

---

Credits

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Twelve) [FINALE]

 

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 struggled, there was no way I had the strength to free myself.

“It’s about time to change your bags, eh?” the old man asked without looking at me. He held up the bag with the clear liquid to the light, tapping it gently. Small air bubbles floated up to the space at the top, and I felt sick.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, my jaw tense with fear. Regus gave me a side glance, as though just reminded that I was there.

“All in good time Sam. But I wasn’t speaking to you.”

He moved away from my body. I lifted my heavy head to track him, my neck cramping. He carried the bag to the far side of the room, to where the curtain concealed something unknown. He reached a withered hand out and pulled back the veil—

I still can’t shake the image of it. There were two IV stands, each holding a plastic bag like the one that Regus had carried over. One had about a half inch of the clear liquid left in it. The other was fit to burst, fat with the amount of blood that had been deposited within it. Each had a long tube cascading down, and each were connected to a limp hand embedded with a needle.

It was Ander.

His eyes were half-closed and vacant, staring up at the light that shone on him without squinting. He was bound much like me, with leather straps holding him in place. Not that they needed to. He was completely unresponsive, and most notably, he was absolutely gray. Not in the metaphorical way that a character might turn gray with fear or sickness. It was as though all color had been drained from his skin. He looked like a monochromatic corpse.

“Ander!” I cried out, but didn’t get a response. I feared the worst, until I saw it—the smallest movement in his lips, the shape of some words I couldn’t make out, as though he was trying to answer me. His eyelids fluttered as Regus took the almost empty bag off of the IV stand, and began hooking up the new, full bag. “What are you doing to him?” I called with panic.

“I’m saving him,” Regus answered, checking to make sure the bag was secure, and then moving to the other side. He removed the bag full of blood off of the stand. It was so full a line of red began to run down and drip off of the bottom. “Maybe save isn’t the right word. Preserve. I’m preserving him.” Regus put on the empty bag, and as he reattached it to the stand, the cord attached to Ander’s hand pulled slightly. The unconscious young man let out a slight groan.

It clicked in my mind, suddenly and terribly. The two IV’s, the two bags, that awful smell of chemicals and death—

Ander was being embalmed alive.

Telling him to stop wasn’t going to do any good, that much went without saying. Instead, I asked the question at the very forefront of my mind. “Why?”

This time, Regus did look over at me. “Why not?” I hesitated, unsure of how to answer the question. He let out an impatient sigh. “I started this business as a celebration. Though much of what you learned about me and my ‘family’ is fake, it is true that I am an Egyptologist. I thought I had found a way to mix together everything I love about forgotten culture, science, and performance. To quell this urge of mine to educate the disillusioned young people that would take bait such as this. The promise of a thrill without any of the actual danger.” He shook his head. “But that’s not enough. It was never enough, to watch a fake story run its course over and over. I wanted, more than anything, to participate in something real. And you’ll get to experience it too.”

His tone almost sounded as though he thought I was lucky. “Well, isn’t this some sort of... business?” I asked carefully. “Won’t people notice when none of your actors, or your customer, come back from one of your—your parties?”

At this, he gave a full, deep laugh. “How kind of you to worry about me. I assure you, Sam, I have taken every precaution when it comes to my staff. I only hire those with a limited circle of contacts, and have provided a thorough excuse for each to explain their lack of communication.” He looked at me, a glimmer in his eye.

“And as for you, my customer—well, no one knows you’re here, do they? To those in your life, it’ll be as though you’ve just disappeared.” I closed my eyes for a moment. He was right. I hadn’t known about the party when I arrived, and it was clear that Regus had forged whatever forms I was meant to sign. No one at the newspaper knew where I had gone.

I mustered up whatever ounce of bravery I had left within me, and said that classic and futile phrase: “You’re not going to get away with this.”

Regus’ smile widened. “Do you really think this is the first time I’ve done this?”

He leaned over and examined Ander’s slack face. He reached a thumb and pulled up on his eyelids, revealing unresponsive pupils underneath. “I think he might finally be out. It takes a surprising amount of embalming fluid to kill a man, even one as scrawny as this.” He paused. “I’ll be able to remove the organs soon. The brain hook is my favorite.”

The old man made his way back over to my slab. “Now we can start on you.”

I pulled against my bonds again as he rolled forward another IV stand from somewhere behind me. The leather was rubbing painfully against my wrists now. He hung the empty bag and connected the long tube. Then came the needle.

Despite the violent shaking of my entire body, I felt the familiar bee-sting bite of a needle going into the flesh of my arm. He adjusted something, and as I watched, drops of my own blood began to fall from my vein and into the plastic.

Then came the second bag, the one that I feared the most.

“Please. Don’t.”

He ignored me. Soon the bag was hung on the second stand.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He traced the tubing to its end and inserted it into the needle. I turned my head to look at Ander. His eyelid gave two more flutters, so he wasn’t dead yet. I wondered if he could tell what had happened to him. Or if he knew I was about to meet the same fate.

The sharp point of the needle pressed against my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

CLANG

I quickly opened my eyes. The old man was no longer looming over me, and the needle was no longer aimed at my arm. Instead, a woman stood in his space, in a pose I’d seen her in before.

Greta, spittle and blood streaming from her mouth, eyes more red than white, stood with the large piece of her canopic jar raised above her head.

“Greta,” I said breathlessly, briefly forgetting that this was not this woman’s real name. She didn’t say anything as she lowered the jar and began to undo my bonds. Her hands were shaking violently and she blinked quickly. Whatever poison she had been forced to ingest hadn’t been a high enough potency to kill her immediately, but it had certainly taken its toll.

“You have to help Ander,” I said quickly. She had freed one of my hands, and I started on my other arm. She turned her attention to Ander, and paused at the sight of him so destitute on his slab.

She stepped towards him. “I’ll get him. You go,” she croaked, before coughing violently, gasping for air. She took the IV’s out of either of his arms, and started on his buckles. I quickly took out my own needle with a wince.

I was so engrossed in removing my own ties, I didn’t notice that Regus had gotten up.

“Greta!”

My warning came too late. Just as the woman turned around, Regus’ hands were around her neck, each fingertip pressing against the purple bruises I had seen earlier. I supposed Regus was responsible for those, too.

Regus let out wild snarls and grunts as Greta tried to pry his grip from her neck. Her face turned red, then violet, as the two bashed around the room, knocking against one of Ander’s IV stands and knocking it over. The bag of blood splattered on the ground like a water balloon.

I finished my last buckle. I could see that behind me was a doorway, one that undoubtedly led out of the basement and towards an escape. But I couldn’t leave Ander. Not like that.

I was undoing his bonds as fast as I could, as Regus and Greta continued to swirl around the room. Greta pushed Regus hard against the shelves on the wall, and one jar fell to the ground, the suspended creature within squelching cold and wet onto the concrete.

Last buckle. Ander was no longer bound to the slab, but he was unconscious. “Ander,” I said, lightly smacking the sides of his sallow cheeks. “Ander.”

His eyes fluttered ever so slightly open. “Sam?”

“We’ve got to go. Now.”

I helped him off the table, but his knees buckled when his feet hit the floor. We made our way towards the door, me dragging him along. There was a loud crash as Greta and Regus knocked the metal tray of tools to the ground. Regus was on top of her, and although the older woman’s legs thrashed around violently, I knew there wasn’t much hope.

“A little bit farther,” I said quietly to Ander. I stole one glance back at the two struggling on the floor, just in time to see Regus reach a hand out, and grab one of his tools. It was a long, thin metal pole with a hook on the end.

It didn’t take much force to plunge it through Greta’s chest.

She struggled for another moment, then fell still.

Before Regus could turn his eyes towards Ander and I, we were gone.

We had been under the house, as I had suspected. I was incredibly grateful that I recognized where we were when we emerged—only one turn away from the parlor.

Graham’s decapitated body was still there, covered in the sheet, though of course, Fawn’s body wasn’t. We stepped over it, and were quickly out the door.

I urged Ander’s tired body on, and pushed him as gently and as quickly as I could into the back seat of my car. He made no sounds of protest, and I couldn’t tell if this was because he understood the dire situation we were in, or if he had again fallen unconscious. Or worse.

I got into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. I backed down the dirt driveway without turning my head, my eyes transfixed in front of me instead, on the silhouette of the old man standing in the open doorway of that great and horrible house.

My adrenaline had lasted me on the drive to hospital, the speed of which was both unsafe and absolutely necessary. The sun was finally rising as I burst through the doors, no doubt sounding insane as I tried to explain to anyone that would listen what exactly had happened.

But once I was in the waiting room, as doctors and nurses tried to save Ander’s life, I fell into a deep sleep.

When I woke, it was late afternoon. My entire body ached, drained from the stress of the evening. I eyed the small bruised dot on my arm, where the needle that was meant to empty me of my life-force had once been embedded, and shuddered.

I approached the woman at the desk, and asked her about Ander. “The guy I brought in here—is he alright?”

I waited with bated breath for the answer. He had looked so terrible when I had last seen him, it seemed unbelievable to think that was something he could come back from. But, to my great surprise, the woman smiled. “He’s perfectly fine, sweetheart.”

“He checked out a few hours ago.”

I blinked. That couldn’t be right. “Are you sure?”

The woman nodded. “Absolutely.” We stood in silence for a few moments, as I tried to unpack what she had told me. Then, it looked as though she suddenly remembered something. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She rolled her chair back, and fumbled around for something in the bottom drawer of her desk. “He left you this.”

She held out her hand, but I didn’t take it. I only stared.

It was a small red envelope.

I drove home with it in my pocket. I went in the front door and placed my keys on their hook. I sat in a chair at my kitchen table, and just looked at it, sitting there on the wood.

Then, I opened it.

It was a small bit of paper. Written on it, in the same font as every punishment I had read before, were four simple words, which I read again, and again, and again:

“Thank you for playing.” 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Eleven)

 

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 production – an absolute slaughter. Greta was still sitting in her chair, her head laid flat against the table. There were purpling bruises swelling around her neck, and a bit of foam dripping from her mouth. The spittle crept over the wood and wet the photograph and papers that still sit in front of her. The alleged strychnine pill from her jar was missing.

Wendy was still across from her, sitting upright in her chair. But not through any will of her own—instead, as her vacant eyes looked on, a fresh bullet wound dripped from the very center of her forehead in time with the blood from my nose. At least, I thought it was a bullet wound. Letting my gaze fall behind her head, I could see what it really was: the fire poker, driven through the back of her head, through the wood of the chair, staking it in place. The tip broke through to the other side, just barely exposed beneath the broken skin of her forehead.

My first thought was Fawn. She was the only one that wasn’t in either of the massacre rooms, and although I now knew her to merely be an actor playing a part, I still couldn’t shake the image of her shooting the revolver at her brother. Maybe there was something there, something that wasn’t part of the game.

But then we saw her feet.

They were peeking out from the other doorway, on the far side of the dining room. “Ander...” I said cautiously, nodding towards them.

“I see,” he answered, and we both began to creep towards the other doorway. We stepped passed Greta’s slumped over form, and I tried to avoid looking at Wendy, though it still felt like her eyes were following me across the room.

We stepped carefully and quietly to the other side of the doorway. Fawn must have been coming back from where she and Forrest had stepped out to, when he was going to fill her in on my situation. What had happened in that brief moment that had allowed for such a violent scene to play out?

Her feet had been the first thing we had seen, but we hadn’t expected them to be the only thing. Turning the corner, we saw the bottom part of her legs, clothed in the same khaki as her brother’s body lying in the closet, with her shoes at the bottom. But above the calf, there was only a huge rectangle of wood. An overturned bookcase had fallen, volumes scattered everywhere, with Fawn’s body crushed beneath.

“Christ,” Ander said quietly, his eyes transfixed on the pile before us. Then, he quickly turned to me. “We have to get out of here. Follow me.”

And then we were off again, this time running away from the dining room. As we traveled, things began to look a bit more familiar—I remembered some of the paintings on the walls from when I had first made my leisurely walk into the building, what felt like lives ago. We were getting closer to our escape, and I began to hear the distant hum of cicadas singing in the grass outside—

And then, suddenly, Ander was gone.

Some sort of force, an unseen arm, had pulled him down a hallway. I was running so fast I was a few steps past it before I realized what had happened.

I hate to admit it, but I hesitated. Part of me, a large part of me, felt the animalistic urge to leave everything behind for the sake of my own safety. Fight or flight. But through this entire ordeal, Ander had been sort of comforting to me. Even if he was just another liar, even if he had been part of an experience that had been terrifying and horrific—he had also become somewhat of a friend. And this, whatever this was—neither of us had signed up for it.

The hallway he had been pulled into was dark, and though I knew I had to move quickly, I stepped slowly and cautiously into the inky blackness. “Ander?” I called out, but heard no response. There was one sound—a slight creak of the floorboards, other than that under my own feet. That creeping feeling worked its way back into me, that there was someone else there, someone very close—

Something cloth was suddenly forced up against my mouth and nostrils. A sweet taste hit my tongue, and suddenly, the darkness of the hallway was replaced darkness of a wholly different kind.

Long before my eyes knew to open, I could smell it. It was like the very worst aromas of a doctor’s office, all sharp and chemically. When I did open my eyes, I couldn’t see. There was a large light hanging overhead, blinding me for a moment. But after a few blinks, they adjusted, and a newfound surge of terror coursed through my body.

It was one of the very worst sights one could wake up to. I was lying flat on a cold metal slab in a freezing room. The walls were lined with shelves of various jars full of pickled things that looked like they were once alive. The air had the heavy, musty feeling of the underground, and I suspected that I was in a basement of some sort.

I tried to sit up, but it was no use. There was a large leather strap buckled around my chest, pinning my arms down. My hands were strapped similarly to the platform I lay on, the same for my legs and feet.

“Hello?” I called out, turning my head to one side, only to be met with another unwelcome sight: a metal tray full of instruments, like at the dentist’s office. Only there were no brushes or plaque scrapers—instead, there were two IV needles, and two bags. One bag was deflated, empty—but the other was full to the brim, with a clear solution. I suspected, with dread, that it wasn’t water.

I turned my head to the other side, but there was nothing to give me any clues—just a large curtain on a railing. There was no way to see what it was covering, not that I was sure I wanted to know.

“Hello?” I called out again, more frantically. I was flashing through every horror film I’d ever seen, wondering if I had any sort of escape methods hidden in my memory, even if they were fictionalized. But there was nothing. Usually, when a character wakes up in the creepy- medical-experiment-basement, they aren’t going to make it to the end of the movie.

“Someone, help,” I called out, though I feared it was futile.

But, someone answered.

“Oh, Sam. Do be quiet.”

A face appeared over my head, framed in the bright light. It was so covered in shadow that I couldn’t make it out at first. But soon, as my eyes adjusted, I recognized it. A voice I had heard and face I had seen only once, and never in the flesh.

Leaning over me, as I lay bound to an operating table, was Regus Hannigan. 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Ten)

 

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 smile spread softly across his face. “No. But we are contractually obligated to insist t you call us by our character’s names. We wouldn’t want to break the fiction,” he laughed.

I nodded hollowly. Although relief had seeped back into my bones, so did embarrassment. It was ridiculous that I had ever though any of it was real. The sudden drop in adrenaline had made my body feel heavy, and I was officially drained.

In the doorway, Forrest reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, square, and black—a walkie talkie. He pressed the button and spoke into it. “Hey, uh, we’ve hit a bit of a snag down here. You might want to meet us in the dining room.”

At first, I had been confused as to who he had been talking about. But when she arrived, it made perfect sense—though the last I had seen her I had been frantically feeling for a pulse in her wrist, there was Fawn, looking as healthy as ever. Her shirt still had a circular spread of scarlet from her puncture ‘wound’, but there was no longer a fire poker protruding from her chest.

“What’s going on?” she asked the room.

“Nothing in my jar,” Ander answered, motioning to the red mess within his container. Though I was relieved to know that it most likely wasn’t human organs that swam within the jars, I had no desire to ask what the substance truly was. I know blood when I smell it.

“Well that sucks,” she said casually. Then, she turned to me, and smiled a customer-service smile. “There’s our special guest. You’re doing really well, better than most we’ve seen. How are you liking it so far?”

I opened my mouth slightly, faltered, then closed it again. Forrest gave her a slight nudge and shook his head. “Let’s talk in the next room” he said quietly, and the two walked out.

Ander must have seen the way I had looked at Fawn, because he suddenly spoke up. “I suppose it’s worth mentioning that Graham is fine too. He cut himself a deal so he only works the early shift. Beheaded, replaced with a decapitated dummy, and he’s home for dinner. Lucky bastard.”

I nodded. Of course. There had never been a meal of lung, nor a crude decapitation. Just a story I had fallen for, wholly and completely.

A few moments passed. “What’s taking William so long?” Wendy asked with a yawn. “If he plans on picking up where we left off, he’s really cutting it close.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Greta added with a nod.

“I’ll go check on the old man,” Ander said. “Want to come with me Sam? You look like you could use the walk.”

Although my knees felt weak even when sitting in the chair, I agreed. The two of us left the room in search of William.

Wandering the halls with Ander felt strange, since the tone had shifted so drastically from the last time, when Ander had dragged me into the spare room and showed me Fake Wendy’s jar. It had been so shocking, to find out that there had been a case of mistaken identity. Little did I know that everything that had happened up to that point had been a lie.

“It was a rubber ball under the armpit, by the way.”

I furrowed my brow at the shape of Ander walking in front of me. “What?”

“If you were wondering why you didn’t feel a pulse on Fawn. Rubber ball under the armpit does the trick. Cuts the blood flow to the wrist. Oldest trick in the book.”

I nodded absentmindedly. Of course. How could it have been anything else?

We passed through the parlor, where the body, which I now knew to be fake, still lay underneath the sheet. Ander, a true professional, didn’t even spare it a second glance before stepping around it. I, however, hesitated.

“Wait.”

I knelt down, feeling silly as my hands trembled. Ander watched as I peeled back the sheet.

It was remarkable. I had never seen a headless body, but I was sure the differences between this dummy and a real one were few and far between. The skin had torn so perfectly, the elasticity pulling back on itself so it bloomed like petals around the raw edge. The stump and everything that lie within it, despite being a new sight, seemed disturbingly familiar—as though the body will always recognize something that lies within itself, even if the mind cannot.

Gently, I pressed a finger to the open wound. It came back red and cold. Amazingly real.

“Let’s go. The others are waiting,” Ander said patiently. I couldn’t help my incredulity, but I slowly stood up, and continued with him. We walked down a few more hallways, one’s I hadn’t been down next (perhaps they came later in the story), until we reached a dead end. It was remarkably difficult to find, but I supposed that was the point. They wouldn’t want a customer stumbling upon a direct line to the organizers of the game, lest the spell be broken.

It was shabby looking door to a broom closet. Ander raised a hand and knocked on the wood. “William? Have you gotten ahold of them?” We waited, but there was no answer.

“Maybe he’s already on his way back,” I said. “It takes kind of a long time to get from the dining room to here.” I honestly just wanted it to be over. I was done. I wanted to be out of that house, away from the unwrapping party, and these people I had come to know and then un-know over the course of a few hours. Maybe once I was out of that madhouse I would be able to figure out how exactly I ended up there in the first place.

Ander turned the antiqued doorknob, but it didn’t budge. “What the hell...” he said, trying to force it harder. When it still didn’t give, he pressed his shoulder up against the wood and gave it a shove. “William?” He called out again, before once again banging against the door.

“Here, let me help,” I said, noticing that his slight build wasn’t doing much. We lined up, facing each other. “One, two,” I started, as be both reared back.

“Three.”

The door burst open. I saw what I had feared—the image of a man, slumped down on the floor, in front of an old-fashioned telephone mounted onto the far wall. The receiver hung low by the cord, the resonate buzzing of the dial tone the only sound to be heard.

Only, the man wasn’t the one I had expected.

It wasn’t William who lay on the floor of the closet. No, the face was unmistakable.

It was Graham Willoughby.

The real Graham Willougby, I figured, since we had seen the headless doppelganger laying in the parlor moments before. His eyes were slightly open and glazed over, suggesting unconsciousness, and his chin had fallen heavily upon his chest in a bent position.

Part of me was hesitant to act. Was this just a leftover stunt from before the party had gone wrong? Or was this a last ditch effort for the actors to deliver on the premise of their company? One final scare for the night?

But then Ander took a step back. I turned to look at him, and there I saw something that chilled me to the bone—for the first time ever, I saw what fear truly looked like on that man’s face.

“Ander,” I said shakily, trying to keep the sound of desperation out of my tone. “Ander, is this part of it? I don’t care about the game or the story, just tell me.”

He wasn’t speaking, his mouth quivering as he stepped back again. I followed his eyes to where they were traveling, down from Graham’s face and along his body.

And then I noticed it.

He was dressed oddly. He hadn’t just changed clothes from his costume. There was something that felt strange, almost discordant in the way he looked. More than just the clothes, the proportions of his very being just seemed off, like a fun-house version of the man I had briefly known. He was wearing khakis and a sweater, which was an odd choice, seeing as it was a muggy July night—

And that was when it hit me. He looked disturbing because his bottom didn’t match his top.

The detached body of Forrest Jakobe, still clothed in the outfit that matched his sister’s, lay still and dead upon the floorboards, proudly wearing Graham Willoughby’s head like a crown. 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Nine)

 

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.

1. 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

2. 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 word, and as the three looked up at us, Ander solemnly motioned to the jar in his hands, which bore his photo. I watched Fake Wendy’s eyes for any sort of recognition, but couldn’t catch anything.

“We can do it at the same time, if you’d like,” Ander said to Greta, and I was surprised at the sudden kindness in his voice. The older woman hesitated, then shook her head, her eyes glazed over in not-yet-fallen tears.

“I’d rather go first. Just get it over with.” Ander nodded, seeming a bit relieved. “But we can do our… punishments at the same time, if you don’t mind.” She looked hopefully up at Ander, who reluctantly grimaced.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said in a low voice.

He walked around to the other side of the table, and took the seat across from Greta.

Once he sat, Greta picked up her folded piece of paper, and began to read in a trembling voice:

Greta McIntyre,

Confess your sins.

After your confession, open the envelope.

Accept your punishment.

Greta put down the paper, and replaced it in her grasp with the photograph. I could see over her shoulder the image of the cornhusk doll in the dirt, it’s crude red-smudge smile sending shivers down my back.

“Before I worked for Mr. Hannigan, I had a difficult life. I was twenty, with no parents and no prospects. I lived on the street for a time. It was hard,” she said this all coldly and methodically, as though distancing herself from the emotion of her past as much as she could. She swallowed. “Until I got a job at a Children’s Home.”

Her finger traced the outline of the doll. “It was wonderful work. I really do love children. I cooked and cleaned, and read to the little one’s before bed. But that didn’t mean that all of my problems had disappeared. I had debts, and they needed to be paid.”

“It was easy to steal from the Home. They had so much trust, you see. And after working there for a few years, I was treated like family. No one was watching when I skimmed off the top of the donations. No one except Jeremy.”

Her hands were shaking harder now, her eyes transfixed on the doll. “He had been my favorite. I had taught him to make corn husk dolls, and then he would teach the others. He wanted to help the other kids so much, I don’t think he realized he was as bad off as any of them. So when he caught me stealing money, he wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to tell the other staff.”

“I convinced him to wait. I told him that I would tell them myself, that he shouldn’t worry himself with such adult matters. And he believed me, because he trusted me. But I knew he wasn’t going to just let it go.”

A few tears made their way over her waterline and down her weathered cheek. “I lured him out to the woods. I told him if we gathered enough twigs, I could teach him how to make another kind of doll, one he could show the others.”

“The Children’s Home had an accident, a few years back. A little girl wandered away from the building and into the woods, and had drowned in the lake in the center. So, I led Jeremy to the bank of the lake and…”

She raised her hands up in front of her eyes, as though unable to accept them as a part of her body. She took a shaky breath, her words broken at the end by a sob.

“I strangled him.”

That same sick feeling came back to my gut, but I fought it back down. Even though Greta’s story was terrifying to hear, I was trying to keep my eye on Fake Wendy. But her face betrayed nothing, save the same horror and disgust that the other’s faces, and my own, reflected.

“I rolled his little body into the water and then I just… I just left him.” Greta was weeping steadily now, her breath coming in short huffs and her voice growing thick. “I waited a bit, after they found his body and decided he had drowned, just like the little girl had. Then, I quit the Children’s Home, and found work with Mr. Hannigan.”

She looked again to the paper in her hands, this time with incredulity. “I had gotten away with it, and I never told anyone what had happened. How could they have known…” It was a question that all of us had, but none could answer.

There was a moment of silence. Then, William spoke. “And the envelope?”

Her hands reached for the scarlet paper, peeling it open with long fingernails. She turned it upside down, shook it slightly, and two things fell out. One, the piece of paper, with the cryptic instructions for her punishment. Two, a small white pill.

Greta read the paper first:

No blow as strong as a betrayal of trust,

The strength of which may take your breath away

William leaned over, peering skeptically at the pill in her hand. Then his eyes widened, and he pulled away quickly. “Strychnine,” he said quietly.

“Rat poison?” Ander said with shock.

“How is that a punishment,” Fake Wendy asked, “Won’t that just kill her?” I took a mental note of this comment, though I had no idea if it was significant or not.

“Not necessarily,” William answered slowly. “A small enough dose might not be lethal. Still the effects are going to be… unpleasant. Asphyxiation, for one.” He reached out his hand and lay it gently on Greta’s shoulder. The woman, however, pulled away.

“I’ve been running from this for decades. I deserve this.” She stared at the pill in her palm, then looked up. “Your turn,” she said grimly to Ander.

Ander paled even deeper. He looked at the jar in his hands, then raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to William. “There’s a dog on mine. Does that mean there’s a puppy in this one?” He let out a nervous laugh, but William didn’t crack a smile.

“That’s Duamatef, the jackal.” He paused. “It holds the stomach.”

Ander’s smile dropped. His hands moved to remove the lid, which came out with a pop. Then, holding his face out of the path of the wretched odor that now drifted from the opening, he stuck his arm inside the jar.

The squelching sound of Ander’s arm against the long-dead flesh within the jar was sickening. He felt around for a few moments, his eyes shut tightly. The scarlet stood out stark against his sallow skin. Then, as more time passed, and he didn’t bring his arm back out, he opened his eyes, and frowned.

“Uh… I’m not feeling anything.”

I felt a brief sense of relief drift back into my body. “Are you sure?” William asked.

“Reach all the way down to the bottom, maybe it sunk,” Wendy said. I took another note of this—it was as though she knew how the contents of the jars tended to behave. Like maybe she was the one who had planted the clues in them to begin with.

Ander stuck his arm in even farther, then pulled it out, the suction of it making a loud slurp sound, but he didn’t even flinch. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing in this one.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, suddenly, the tension in the room broke.

Greta got up from her seat at the table, no longer crying. “Here, let me try,” she said, and without a moment’s hesitation, stuck her arm into Ander’s jar. After a few moments of feeling around, she pulled it out, her hand empty. “He’s right, there’s nothing,” she said matter-of-factly, looking at William.

“Well shit,” William said, his scholarly air suddenly dropping. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. Then, he suddenly looked to me. “I’m so sorry about this, this never happens.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You know, it’s a lot of props to get in order,” Ander said, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, one white, one red. “Makes sense that some of them get lost.”

“Did you just say props—” I started to ask, before I was interrupted. A familiar face had just entered in the room, a face I had hoped not to see again. I recoiled, stepping backwards until my leg hit hard against the chair behind me.

“Is someone going to give me my cue?” Forrest said impatiently, reentering the dining room. His face was still bloodied, and there were rope marks around his wrists. But, other than that, he looked normal. His one remaining eye wasn’t bulging, his mouth wasn’t foaming—

What was going on?

“Sorry, the jars empty,” Fake Wendy said, and Forrest groaned.

“Ugh, that sucks. I felt like we had such a good rhythm going.”

William let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll go make the call. See if they can get the stuff out to us in time and we can pick up where we left off.” He patted me on the shoulder lightly. “Again, really sorry about this.” Then, he left the room.

We stood in silence for a few moments. I looked to Ander, the one person out of the entire group that I had grown to ever-so-slightly trust. “I’m sorry,” I started, “what exactly is going on here?”

“Props guy messed up, forgot the stuff in my jar,” Ander said simply.

“No, I mean like… what are we doing here? Are we not—Is this not—” I took a deep breath, feeling scared and stupid at the same time. I didn’t know how to phrase the question.

Fake Wendy, Greta, Forrest, and Ander all stared at me in mild confusion. Then, one by one, realization rose to their faces.

“You do know this is fake, right?”

My mind was reeling. “W-what?”

“Oh my god,” Ander said with a disbelieving laugh. “You think this is real? Seriously? A mummy-themed horror puzzle?”

“Don’t be rude man, he’s really freaked out,” Fake Wendy said, looking at me with pity.

“You mean you didn’t sign up for this? Didn’t sign the waivers or anything?” Greta asked, her cold demeanor dropped as she spoke to me with concern. I only shook my head. “Well, someone did it for you, I suppose. What a nasty prank.”

“Oh wow,” Ander said, all humor gone from his face. “I thought you were just really into the story. Or that you had some serious acting chops.”

“You’re telling me,” Forrest said, gingerly pressing his fingertips to his face. “He gave me a pretty sizable cut. It was tough to put on the prosthetics in between scenes.”

Then, he stuck his fingers underneath the wound across his face, and slowly and deliberately peeled it away. Beneath was healthy skin, a working eye, and a small band-aid above his eyebrow.

Panic seized me. “Someone tell me what this is, right now.”

Ander stood up from his seat at the table, and walked until he was in front of me. He reached out a lanky arm, the one that wasn’t coated in red, and placed it on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry Sam, we thought you knew.” He paused.

“You are the one and only participant in Regus Hannigan’s Immersive Murder Mystery Experience.” 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Eight)

 

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’t even mentioned in the letter at the start of all this.”

“I know,” I said quickly, “I don’t understand it either. But I think I am supposed to be here.” I didn’t mention the math I had done earlier—that since Fawn and Forrest had shared one jar, there were six left, one undoubtedly with my picture on it.

Wendy shook her head tiredly. “Even if we want to believe you Sam, it’s still undeniable that you’re an outlier in all this. You aren’t like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, like maybe he’s a murderer,” Greta said bitterly.

“That’s enough.”

William spoke calmly, but with authority. “It’s time we take a moment to try to sort out some of the specifics of our situation.” He took out from his pocket a small pad of paper and pen, and flipped through to a blank page.

“We know that there are five jars left, with only a few hours left to find them. We aren’t even halfway done,” he said grimly, as he wrote out five jars on the paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Ander shift uncomfortably, but decided I had imagined it.

“We know Graham is dead because he tried to leave,” William continued, “and we know Fawn is dead because Forrest killed her,” his eyes flitted to me for just a moment, and I wondered how firmly he believed what he was saying.

“Here’s what we should be wondering,” William said, and he wrote the following list on the sheet:

Rules

Head

Regis

22

7

He held up the pad of paper and pointed to his first word. “First off, Rules. I’m a bit concerned over the nature of Fawn’s death.” He swallowed nervously. “Graham died as part of the system. He tried to leave, and he paid the price. Fawn, however,” another suspicious glance towards me, “died under circumstances outside of the game. I’m concerned, as we all should be, that this may bring unwanted consequences upon the group, or upon the offending parties.”

It was my turn to feel uncomfortable, as I sensed everyone’s attention turn to me for the moment.

“Next, Head,” William continued. “Graham Willoughby’s body was found by the door, but where is the head?” I blinked in surprise. It seemed so obvious, yet I hadn’t even considered it. “Our tormentor is obsessed with Egyptology, to the point that they embalmed Lucas Hannigan. So why decapitate Graham, and then hold onto the head?”

His finger moved down the page. “Similarly, Regis. If we are to believe that the contents of half of the canopic jars belong to the body of Regis Hannigan, then where is his mummy?” He turned his head solemnly towards the sarcophagus in the center of the room. “I embalmed him myself, and placed him into this sarcophagus, twenty-two years ago. Sometime between then and now, his body has been moved. But to where?” His finger moved again.

“Which brings me to my next point. Sam has shared with us that he received a video of Regis as his invitation to this gathering, instead of the paper envelopes that the rest of us received. As executor of Regis’ estate, I admit that I am the one who mailed out the invitations, which had been left under lock and key in a safety deposit box by Regis before his passing. However, there seems to be a three-year discrepancy between the two—Sam’s tape says the unwrapping party was to take place twenty-five years after Regis’ death, yet the invitations state twenty-two.”

At this, Ander interrupted. “Assuming that Sam’s video is the untampered invitation, why would someone want to move the party up three years?”

“That is precisely the question,” William said. His finger slid down once more. “And finally, seven.” His eyes drifted up filled with something between suspicion and pity, until they met mine. A familiar cold spread from my neck down my spine. “Seven jars, which we took to mean that each of us mentioned in the letter would have one. But Forrest and Fawn shared theirs.”

The room grew even quieter, as all movement stopped. Then, four sets of eyes turned to me.

“Mr. Singer,” William said softly, “I’m afraid you might have a jar.”

There was dead silence, as I struggled to form words. To tell them I had already come to that same conclusion hours ago wouldn’t do me any favors. Neither would telling them that hearing someone say it out loud filled me with a dread I had never felt before. Rather than voice the emotions that were violently swirling within me, I decided instead to make an observation:

“It’s gone quiet.”

Almost in unison, the group looked confused, and then disturbed.

We couldn’t hear Forrest anymore.

It didn’t take long to get back to the dining room, but I had already suspected what we would find. There was the chair, at the end of the table, the neckties dangling loose on the arm rests, the seat empty.

I felt a deep, terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Forrest, who may or may not believe that I had murdered his sister, who’s eye I had definitely gouged out, was now loose inside this large unfamiliar house. I didn’t have to wonder who was most in danger.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, clutching my stomach. “Where’s the bathroom?”

William looked at me for a moment, as though to discern whether or not I was faking. I must have been a bit green, because he quickly answered. “Down the hall, on the left.” I took a lurching step towards the doorway, but then he spoke again. “It’s unwise for you to go alone, especially with... recent developments,” he said, motioning to the empty bonds. “Best someone go with you.”

“I’ll go.”

I was surprised, and a bit unnerved, that it was Ander who offered to accompany me. But I wasn’t feeling up to speculating in that moment, and the two of us quickly made our path down the hall. Ander was leading the way, since he’d been in the house before. We were approaching the turn to the left, but I had begun to overcome my shock, and the bile that had been rising in my throat had gone down. “Hey, I don’t think I actually need to—“

I was cut off as Ander yanked me to the right at the split in the path, and pulled me down the hall. “Hey!” I said, my heart beating fast in my chest, but his grip didn’t loosen. Was this it? Was Ander the murderer after all? He had been normal when we first met—maybe not normal, but he had seemed fine. But now here he was, dragging me farther into an unfamiliar house that he seems to know so well.

Was I about to die?

“I have to show you something.”

We turned into a room. It must have been a sitting room at one point, but all of furniture was covered in large white sheets, coated in a thick layer of dust. Ander shut the door behind us, then turned to look at me. “Sam,” he said seriously and quietly, “can I trust you?”

Startled as I was, I nodded my head. “Yes.”

He stared at me for a moment more. Then, he nodded back. He moved towards one of the sheets, under which I could see the shape of an armchair. Then, he pulled something out, something that had become all too familiar of a sight.

A canopic jar.

“You found another jar?” I said, feeling an odd mixture of relief and dread. Relief because it didn’t seem as though Ander wanted to kill me, and we were one jar closer to being done with this whole mess. Dread because, well, opening these jars always ends in tragedy. “That’s great. But why are you keeping it in here—” Then, I saw the face in the photograph pasted on the front.

Ander had found his own jar.

“I’m too afraid to open it, and I know if I show it to the others, I’ll have to,” he said, his hands trembling as he spoke. His bottom lip wobbled slightly, before his mouth set into a hard line, and his eyes became stern. “But I also know I have to open it either way. And I think I already know what’s inside.” He set the jar down next to his feet. “But that isn’t what I wanted to show you.”

He bent down, reached back under the sheet, and pulled something else out.

Another canopic jar.

He had the back to me, but I knew for sure what it was going to be. Ander had called me into this room because he knew I had a jar, and he knew I had a jar because he had found it. There was no avoiding it now, especially since William had voiced his speculation to the group. It was time for me to learn some horrible truth about myself. My breath left my lungs shaky, and cramping nausea surged back into my abdomen.

And then he turned it around.

“Oh,” I said with surprise. I took a few steps towards him, and squinted.

“Who is that?”

Ander bent his neck so he, too could look at the photograph. It was a young girl, a teenager, with a bright smile and braces. Her hair was a faded blonde, and she had a small beauty mark on her chin. She was utterly and completely unfamiliar.

“I think,” Ander said cautiously, “this is supposed to be Wendy.”

Realization dawned on me, chilling and terrible.

“Then...” I said slowly,

“Who’s standing in the dining room?” 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Seven)

 

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 at me. It seemed instinctual. I think the image of me, a stranger, kneeling next to his sister’s dead body made more sense to his mind in that moment than what he had actually done.

He quickly was on top of me, hands pounding my chest with fists of rage and grief. I tried to fight him off, but he had the advantage as soon as he decided to attack. I looked to my right, where Fawn’s white eyes stared back at me. I had little doubt that if I didn’t find a way to stop Forrest soon, that would be me in a few short minutes. Then, I turned to my left--

I brought my hand up quickly, striking Forrest across the face with the object I had felt. He immediately fell backwards, clasping his hands over his right eye as red seeped between his fingers. Glancing down at my own palm, my blood intermingling with the stain of Fawn’s, I could see what I had found—a particularly large shard of crystal, from Ander’s dropped brandy glass, when he had first discovered his father’s death. That seemed like so long ago.

Before Forrest recovered, I took off.

By some miracle, I remembered the path back to the study. I burst into the room, but everyone was already staring at the doorway, no doubt because they had heard Forrest’s outburst.

I stood there for a moment, out of breath, the soreness in my chest making it hard to fill my lungs. William, Wendy, and Ander still stood around the room, forming a half circle around Greta, who was on the floor. Her jar was still closed, and she cradled it in her arms like a child.

“Sam,” William said cautiously, “What’s happened?”

I realized how it must have looked. Me, the unknown guest, barging into the room, my hands covered in blood. “Forrest, he...” I was surprised at how hard it was to actually say.

“He killed Fawn.”

Greta got up off of the floor, and the room quickly separated. Me, standing by the door, and the other four, gazing at me with mistrust. Ander looked as though he might pass out. “He did?” he croaked, and I nodded. If I’d gotten the correct impression that he had been under the influence of something at the start of all of this, he was definitely sobering up now.

Four sets of eyes collectively scanned my hands for blood and my eyes for truth.

Then, without a sound, Forrest walked in.

He wasn’t covering his head anymore, and I could see the full extent of the damage I’d done. The shard of glass I had raked across his face had made a deep gash, from his right temple all the way to the left side of his jaw. His one eye was staring at me, bloodshot and angry, while the other was just...gone. I couldn’t tell if it was somewhere destroyed within the mottled flesh that hung from his face, or if we would find it later, rolled under some chair in the parlor.

Slowly, he raised his hand, and pointed directly at me, the two of us so close his finger brushed the end of my nose, causing me to flinch. I was too frightened to move, my legs suddenly heavy and useless.

Bits of spittle flecked red came from his mouth as he spoke three remarkable words:

“He killed Fawn.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach turning. “Forrest, you killed Fawn.”

I stole a glance at the rest of the group. This couldn’t look good. I was literally red-handed.

While my gaze was turned, Forrest stepped forward, and before I knew it, his hands were around my throat. He began to squeeze.

There immediately was yelling. I tore at his grip, but it was too powerful, and the lack of oxygen was making me weak. Ander and William pulled at Forrest, yanking him by the waist backwards, but it wasn’t working. Forrest was looking into my eyes as I lost feeling in my face, the one remaining eye so much like Fawn’s, who still lay dead on the floor in the parlor.

Then, just as I was starting to see spots, the grip loosened.

There was a great thump, but I was too busy spluttering and coughing to look. I gingerly rubbed my neck as my vision sharpened, and I was able to make out the sight in front of me:

Forrest, on the floor, the one intact eye closed. There was so much blood and viscera in a pile on his head and the carpet that I thought, for a moment, that his head had actually exploded.

Then, I looked up. Greta stood, one jagged half of her canopic jar raised above her head, ready to let it swing at Forrest’s head again.

We decided to tie Forrest up in the dining room. It seemed like the best course of action—the parlor had the sarcophagus, the broken glass, all sorts of things in it that he could potentially get into trouble with.

Plus, his sister’s dead body.

The contents of Greta’s jar had been much of the same as everyone else’s—a photograph that seemed to cause her deep emotional pain, a piece of folded paper, and an envelope. She hadn’t opened the paper yet, nor the envelope. But the photograph she stared at for quite some time.

It was a little creepy to me. It was a picture of one of those corn husk dolls, the kind you see in books about colonial times. It looked old, and was smudged with dirt. The worst thing about it—a crude red smile drawn onto the face with a shaky hand.

After Greta had been able to set down her jar’s contents, she had expertly wrapped a bandage across Forrest’s eye, a long piece of gauze that wrapped around his head. William went back to the master bedroom and used some of Regis’ old neckties to tie Forrest’s wrists and ankles to the chair he sat in. The one at the head of the table, where he had last spoken with his sister.

He had stayed unconscious from Greta’s blow until after William was done tying him up. Then, his head began to roll, and his eye fluttered open. It darted from person to person as he saw everyone watching him. It settled on me, and his hands and feet jerked, like he was trying to move towards me. I immediately took a step back, even though I knew he couldn’t get up.

“What is this?” He spat angrily, looking at his bonds. “What’s happening?”

William spoke softly and slowly. “There was an... accident, Forrest.” He paused, his hands nervously intertwining in front of him. “Fawn has died.”

His gaze turned back to me. “That was no accident. He killed her.”

“No, I—I didn’t,” I said, my voice weak and raspy from Forrest’s throttling. I couldn’t tell if Forrest was just trying to pin his own murder on me, or if he had genuinely experienced a mental break.

“It was him, he’s a liar,” Forrest said, and it was clear that he was getting more and more worked up. He began writing in his chair, the legs scraping slightly against the floor boards. Red was bleeding through the gauze now, and the sight was nightmarish.

Ander looked at me skeptically. “What’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I croaked back, but that wasn’t necessarily true. There were a number of things I had kept quiet about, and at this point, it was only a matter of time before they came out.

“Perhaps we should go to the parlor to talk,” William said. “And, of course, to attend to Fawn’s body.”

The rest of the group nodded, Wendy looking grim, and Greta still cradling the one un-shattered half of her jar. At the mention of his sister’s corpse, or perhaps at the sight of the rest of us exiting, Forrest began to writhe even more. Foaming spit began to seep from his mouth, tinged pink from the blood of the wound on his face. “Wait, wait, wait,” he let out in an animalistic scream, but we didn’t stop.

“Ask him about the tape.”

That was the last thing we heard before we left the room. We stopped, and everyone’s attention turned to me, and an even more powerful sense of dread spread throughout my body. Each person looked at me in a mix of confusion and apprehension. William, however, appeared more curious than anything else.

“Yes, we definitely need to talk.” 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Six)

 

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 could see that there was smaller writing on the back of the flag.

“Let grief Convert to anger,” William read, “blunt not the heart, enrage it.”

“Macbeth,” Wendy said softly, and William nodded. We let the quote reverberate throughout the room, the full sentiment of it sinking deeply into each of us.

“How do you even know that?” Ander asked incredulously, but Wendy didn’t answer. Perhaps she was busy considering the same unfortunate truth that had only then come to me:

Whoever was orchestrating this knew how the game of roulette would end—that one of the twins, in the wake of learning the full truth, wouldn’t be able to resist spending the last bullet on the other.

It was reassuring, at least, to know that Fawn hadn’t broken the rules after all.

But still, knowing secret information about each of the party’s attendants was one thing—but being able to correctly guess how their minds would react in a tense situation is something else entirely.

Unless, of course, the twins were behind all of this.

Forrest, clearly shaken, raised a hand, and pressed it against the spot on his chest where we had all expected a wound to be. He looked at his sister. His voice was quiet and empty. “You would have done it."

Fawn slowly started to shake her head. “No, I—I wasn’t...” she started, but, realizing there was no real defense she could make for herself, instead fell silent.

William, however, wasn’t listening to the words being exchanged. Instead, he absentmindedly took a seat on the side of the table, his attention focused on the revolver and flag in his hands. “It’s interesting,” he said, “that the perpetrator would choose to quote Macbeth.”

“I thought so too,” Greta said, taking the seat next to him.

“Why is that?” Wendy asked.

William smiled softly. “Regis loved Shakespeare. He has a complete anthology of his work in his study.” I felt a pang of sadness at William’s sudden tenderness—it was easy to forget, amongst all of this, that he was closer to Regis than anyone. Even after all this time, it can’t be easy to be here, with a group of mostly strangers, rooting through his things.

“And a bust,” Greta said suddenly. “A bust of Shakespeare. It was always such a pain to dust, the rare few times I’d been allowed to clean in Mr. Hannigan’s study.” Somehow, I had completely forgotten that Greta had been Regis’ housekeeper.

“It could be a coincidence,” William said, “but I have the overwhelming feeling that nothing this person does is unintentional. I suggest we search the study.”

Wendy nodded, as did I. The twins remained at either end of the table, both still shocked at what had transpired between them. “Fawn, Forrest,” William said quietly. Neither twin turned their attention towards the man, their gazes locked on each other. “I suggest you stick with the group.”

Though they seemed mentally detached, they got up from the table with the rest of us, and followed as we made our way to the study.

They seemed to be in shock, and to be honest, I was sort of glad.

I knew I was distrusted in this group, and I frankly didn’t trust any of them either. It felt best to keep my knowledge of the tape I had received as close to the chest as possible. And if Fawn and Forrest were too distracted with their own drama to speak out about it, then that may buy me some more time to figure things out.

Although the rest of the house was clean and precise, like a movie set from a Victorian period piece, the study was a bit different. It looked as though it had been used by a madman—papers covered every surface, open books with extinguished candlesticks balanced on their pages—even though Regis had been dead for decades, it looked as though he could still be doing work at his desk this very evening.

William let out a heavy sigh when we entered the room. “I’ve kept this room closed off since Regis’ death. As long as I could. I knew whoever inherited the place would open the door eventually, I just...” He trailed off.

“There’s the bust,” Greta said, pointing to the half-hidden marbled profile that was only slightly visible through an open newspaper that covered its face. She dug it out and held it. “What now?”

“Check around where it was,” Wendy said, moving towards the desk and rummaging through the papers, causing William to wince. The twins stood in the doorway, neither offering to help, nor speaking to one another.

“Wait,” Greta said suddenly. She shook the bust in her hands. “I think... I think it might be in here.”

We gave her a wide berth. Then, she smacked the edge of the bust against the ground.

The bottom of the marble crumbled away with a sharp crack. Then, a gleaming, brass canopic jar slid out of the bust, and onto the floor. We all stared at it for a moment, the question hanging heavy in the air—who’s jar would this be?

Greta used her hand to wipe away some of the rocky dust that had obscured the photograph on the jar’s surface. Then, when the face came into view, she quickly jerked her hand back, as though something had bitten her. And it was clear to see why.

Greta’s picture was on the jar.

She let out a small sound, like a whimper of fear, or else disappointment. The rest of us looked at her with a pity, and from Wendy, Ander, and William, a bit of relief.

“It’s a shame about the bust,” she said shakily, nudging the broken pieces with her foot. It seemed as though she was stalling, no doubt dreading whatever the things contained within the jar would reveal. “One less part of the inheritance.”

To my surprise, Ander gave out a short, involuntary laugh. “That’s so weird. I had actually forgotten why we had come here in the first place.” Then, he looked to William. “You never told us who inherited Uncle Reggie’s property.”

“It won’t matter if we’re all dead by the end of tonight,” Wendy said bitterly.

William shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know myself. That information is in a sealed envelope in the parlor. I was instructed by Regis to open it at this very party, after the unwrapping, and no sooner.” Then, his eyes widened a bit. “Actually, someone better go fetch that. It’s the only copy I have. Someone could tear it up, and then Regis’ final will would be lost.” He turned to me, and the two figures beside me. “Sam, why don’t’ you, Forrest and Fawn go look? Maybe give them a chance to cool off."

“Safety in numbers,” I said back, though I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I walked in silence back to the parlor, the twins trailing behind me. My eyes kept flitting to check each corner, to ensure that they hadn’t reconciled just in time to plan my murder.

Back in the parlor, I started looking around, searching for the envelope that William had described. Fawn began to search too, but Forrest didn’t move.

“I don’t see anything,” I said, after checking the surfaces of the tables.

“Me neither,” Fawn answered. She glared at Forrest, who appeared to be staring into the fireplace, at the last bit of goo that hadn’t been scraped up and served to Graham. “You’re no help,” she said to her brother, in a low, malice-filled voice. Still, the other twin said nothing.

I moved over to the sarcophagus, and knelt down. William had been standing right beside it, it wasn’t too far of a stretch for it to have fallen from his person and under the podium that held the golden casket.

As I peered into the small crack of darkness between the piece of furniture and the carpet, I did something I’d been trying to avoid—I thought. I thought about what was going to happen if we didn’t find the jars in time, what sort of terrible punishment this lunatic would have waiting for us at dawn. We had found Jar #1, which had been Graham’s, and Jar #4, which had been Forrest and Fawns—they’d just found Greta’s, so we’d see what number hers is when she was done opening it in the other room—

Uh oh.

Just then, it hit me.

The note that William had read said that there would be seven jars we would need to find over the course of the night. Seven jars, with each jar being attributed to one of the seven guests that were also included on the list: William, Graham, Greta, Fawn, Forrest, Ander, and Wendy.

Except, Fawn and Forrest shared a jar that was assigned a single number, Jar #4.

Meaning that there was going to be one for a guest that wasn’t on the original invite list.

In other words, I’d realized that I might very well have some atonement in store.

I stayed on the ground, staring deep into the empty chasm. There was no envelope there, but I wasn’t ready to come up yet. I certainly wasn’t sure if I should tell anyone, but the total number of secrets I was keeping from the rest of the group was piling higher and higher.

“There’s nothing under here—” I started to say, but I was interrupted by a strange series of noises.

Schleck.

There was a soft, wet sound, followed by the gust of air being sharply exhaled.

I brought my head up.

Forrest was still standing by the fireplace, but I could see now that he hadn’t been staring at the residue of Graham’s last meal coagulated in the ash—no, he had his gaze fixed on the fire pokers that stood in a stand next to it. The same stand that I had tripped over at the beginning of all of this, that led to me finding the first jar.

Only, not all of them were in the stand.

Instead, one was in Forrest’s grasp, his arm pointed straight out, and the tip emerging scarlet from the right side of Fawn’s back. 

---

Credits

 

The Last Unwrapping Party On Earth (Part Five)

 

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 impatiently. “R.W.H. We all know what that means.”

“Regis Warren Hannigan.”

I hadn’t even thought about that, but it wasn’t enough evidence to convince me of any one thing. “Maybe it was just something they grabbed from inside the house? It might not mean anything.” I said tentatively.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Greta said with a leer.

“It’s a valid point,” Wendy combated. “This house is full of the old man’s stuff.”

“Leave the detective work to the adults,” Greta shot back.

“I’m older than I look,” Wendy said with a huff.

“Alright, alright,” William said hurriedly. “Let’s settle down.” He swallowed nervously. “A man is dead. I would guess by his position in the foyer, that his gruesome death was a result of his attempt to escape the house. From now on, we need to be smart. Leave this impulsiveness, and this anger,” he said, looking to Greta and Wendy, “behind us.”

The room fell into silence tinged with shame. It oddly felt like we had just been scolded by a parent.

Finally, William spoke again. “Did anyone find anything?”

“No,” the twins quickly answered in unison, as Fawn tried ineffectively to tuck her blood-coated arm behind her back.

“Yes,” I said, at the exact same time.

This earned me two angry glances, then two heavy sighs. “We found our jar,” Forrest said in defeat. “It was upstairs, in the bedroom.” He revealed the papers he had in his hand, and Fawn brought out the photograph.

“An old car?” Wendy said, “That’s your big secret?”

The siblings exchanged glances with one another, but this time, they weren’t looks of silent understanding. Instead, they were glares of distrust.

“It seems,” Fawn said, “that both of our wrongdoings have to do with our brother.”

“Great, there’s more of you,” Greta muttered.

“Not anymore,” Forrest answered darkly.

Neither of the siblings offered any more information. Then, to my surprise, William addressed me: “Sam, could you go fetch us the jar?”

“Me?”

William nodded, and no one protested. It seemed that the suspicion that had been cast upon me had been momentarily shifted to Forrest and Faun. I traveled back up the stairs, to that same bedroom.

My stomach turned as I saw what lie on the ground. The jar, open when it had been dropped from Fawn’s hands, had now spilled out onto the ground. It formed a dark circle, the same that had seeped out of the first jar and out of the fireplace, and the same as the one that had surrounded Graham’s headless body. It was becoming all too a familiar sight.

I picked up the jar, which was mostly empty—I hoped, for a multitude of reasons, that Forrest and Fawn’s punishment would have nothing to do with the jar’s contents.

I took a step towards the door, then stopped.

There was an added weight to the jar. It was made out of brass, which was heavy enough on its own—but as I walked, there was movement inside, a dull thud of something rocking against the sides of the container.

I took a deep breath. Then, I thrust my arm inside.

The inside of the jar was cold, which immediately struck me as strange, although it made sense. It had been stored in a metal jar for quite some time. Yet, when I think of the feeling of blood on my skin, I expect warmth.

There it was—something even colder still, wrapped in plastic, lying at the bottom of the jar.

I pulled it out, and upon seeing what it was, immediately brought it downstairs.

“Uh,” I started awkwardly, “this was at the bottom.”

The reaction of the gathering was immediate and understandable—most people would recoil at the sight of a stranger holding a revolver, even one wrapped firmly in blood-soaked plastic.

We took Graham’s plate of viscera and put it by the fireplace, replacing it on the small table with this newfound bundle. William began to unwrap it—although there was no one here that I trusted, he seemed to be the only one who had even a hint of confidence. And maybe that was something I should have been worried about.

It was a black revolver. That’s about the best way I can describe it, I’m not much of a gun fanatic. But there was something I had missed the first time—another small slip of paper, rolled up and tucked right in the gap of the trigger.

William read it out loud. “It’s time for a game. The rules are simple: old fashioned Roulette. First, make your confessions. Then, spin the chamber once. Take turns putting the pistol to your chest—you know the place—and pull the trigger.” What little color was left in William’s face drained from it. “First one to die, loses.”

We moved to the dining room. The four of us not involved in the game stood against the walls on either side of the long table that stretched the length of the space. At one end, sat Forrest. At the other, Fawn. In the center was the photograph, the one of the old car. William held the pistol in hands that trembled.

“I think,” he said heavily, “you have to tell us the story first. Whatever it is you two have done.”

“That’s the thing,” Fawn said. “I know what I’ve done. What I don’t understand is why Forrest would be involved in this too.” She looked down to her hands, fidgeting in her lap. “This was between me and Ferris.”

Forrest’s face was the picture of confusion. “This is between me and Ferris,” he said. “I’m the reason he’s dead.”

Fawn’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell slightly ajar. “I’m the reason he’s dead.” Her gaze drifted to the image of the car in the center of the table.

“I cut his brakes.”

Forrest actually sat back in his chair with the force of the words that his sister had just uttered. “You what?” he asked incredulously.

I could see the light of the chandelier overhead shine in the tears that were building in Fawn’s eyes. “That day—the day of the accident. I was angry. I went into his car and... and...” her voice faltered, but we all knew how that sentence ended. “I didn’t mean it, Forrest, I was just upset. I knew you two were planning to run away. To leave me behind.”

“You didn’t mean it?” Forrest repeated with malice. “You were upset?” His face burned red with rage. “This whole time, I thought...” his anger faded only slightly, replaced with a tinge of sadness. “He was coming to meet me. We were leaving that night, and he was supposed to pick me up.” He looked back to Fawn coldly. “I didn’t know you even knew what we were planning.”

Fawn blinked, and a tear rolled over her waterline and down her cheek. “Why were you going to leave without me?”

“You don’t deserve an explanation you—you murderer” he hissed back at her. Then, he turned to William. “We’re ready to start. Let’s get this over with.”

The older man hesitated. “That’s it? Are you sure that’s all you’re meant to say?” he questioned tentatively. I understood his suspicion. Fawn cut her brother’s brakes and killed him, sure, but Forrest’s entire crime had been attempting to run away with his brother when they were teenagers? Something seemed off.

“That’s it,” Forrest said, his mouth thin and grim. He glared at Fawn from across the table. “Give me the gun.”

William waited a moment more, then, he gave the cylinder one hard spin. We all listened in the hushed silence as the metal clicked into place. “Seven bullets in a round,” William said nervously. Then, he handed the gun to Forrest, who took it.

Forrest turned the barrel of the gun at his chest. He moved it around slightly, until it was in a spot on his right side, directly across from his heart on the left. “This is the spot, isn’t it Fawn?” he asked bitterly. “This is where that fence post went straight through our brother after you cut his brakes, right?”

Fawn didn’t answer. She only watched as Forrest, staring hatefully back at her, pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. First bullet was cleared. Forrest put the gun back on the table, his body shaking with adrenaline. He let out a gust of air. Then, he slid the revolver across the length of the table. Fawn caught it at her end. She picked it up, but didn’t aim it.

“Why were you two going to run away?” she asked quietly.

“Our parents were rich, emotionally unavailable sociopaths, Fawn. How could we not want to leave that behind?”

“But,” she said, even softer, “without me?”

“It was complicated,” Forrest said vaguely. I thought I saw a hint of guilt break through the anger in his expression. But he didn’t add anything more.

Fawn waited a moment, before turning the gun towards herself. She, too adjusted it to the same spot in the right of her chest. She looked at her brother, a long, sad look. Then, she pulled the trigger.

Click.

The second shot was empty. She slid the gun back to Forrest.

The next three shots continued in silence.

Click, slide, click, slide, click.

With every click, the room’s level of apprehension rose. Beads of sweat collected on each of the siblings’ brows. Forrest finished his third shot, then slid it back to Fawn.

Only two shots left. So if Fawn didn’t die in this round, that meant it would be Forrest.

Fawn picked up the gun, but just held it in her hands, no taking aim. She looked at her brother. “Forrest. You’re not telling us everything.”

The man avoided her eyes as his gaze skirted around the room, at the audience that was witnessing his fate unfold.

Fawn motioned to the revolver in her hands. “Please. Only two shots left. Don’t let me die with unanswered questions.”

Silence hung heavy in the air.

“We were going to kill Mom and Dad.”

Everyone’s attention turned to Forrest. He stared at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. “We had everything ready. A special kind of poison, expensive, and undetectable. It was supposed to go into their drinks that night. I’d made a test batch, to make sure it would fully dissolve in the liquid. Some water in the old kettle. Nobody ever used it. Sometimes the housekeep used it to water plants.”

He paused.

“I was already out, gathering supplies, when I realized I hadn’t emptied the kettle.” He twisted his hands together with discomfort as he continued. “Like I said, nobody used it, but I had a bad feeling. I found a payphone, and I called the house. I asked Ferris what he was doing, and he said—” he choked slightly, as though the words were difficult to get out. “He said he’d just had a cup of tea. Our housekeeper had been given the day off, and he couldn’t figure out how to use the electric one. So he’d used the old kettle.”

He took a shaky breath. “I panicked. I told him to come meet me. I didn’t want to tell him about the mistake I’d made. He agreed. We hung up the phone. And that was the last time we spoke.” He looked at his sister. “I always thought I had killed him. But at least that would have been an accident. You took him away on purpose.”

Fawn still held the gun in her hand. She was staring at her brother with a hollow, blank expression that was difficult to place. “You were going to kill our parents, and run away with our brother, leaving me completely alone. An orphan.”

Forrest didn’t say anything.

“I loved you,” Fawn said in a low voice. “I thought you loved me too.”

“I always loved him more, Fawn. And I think you knew that. That’s why he had to go, right?” Forrest met his sister’s eyes, each lit with an identical fire of rage and hurt. Forrest leaned forward, slightly closing the gap between his sister and himself, at either end of the lengthy table. Then, he said something, something he wouldn’t be able to take back:

“It should have been you.”

The words hovered in the air around the two for a brief moment. Then, Fawn raised the revolver.

She aimed it directly at that spot on the chest, the one on the right side, across from the heart.

Only, she didn’t turn it towards herself.

Instead, she had her arm outstretched, aiming at the spot on her only remaining brother—the same spot that had ended the life of the first.

“Wait,” William said quickly, taking a half step forward. “This isn’t right, this wasn’t what the rules said—“

Fawn didn’t listen. Instead, she met eyes with her brother, and again, they seemed to share that same silent understanding—the kind that only two people who have been together since their beginning, can.

She pulled the trigger once.

Click.

She pulled it again—

BANG 

---

Credits