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
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