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
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