The rules of the game are simple. We found them in the mouth of Ander’s father’s corpse.
After the shock of the identity of the mummy had worn off, William Pettigrew anxiously pulled the small scroll out of the body’s withered mouth, and read it aloud:
“This letter is addressed to the following people:
William Pettigrew, Regis’ best friend” he said his own name with surprise.
“Ander Hannigan, Regis’ grand-nephew” Ander, still hovering above the corpse, looked up.
“Greta McIntyre, Regis’ housekeeper” the stern woman’s scowl deepened.
“Graham Willoughby, Regis’ business partner” the man with the pocket watch gasped softly.
“The Jakobe Twins, Forrest and Fawn, Regis’ godchildren” the matching man and woman exchanged glances,
“and Wendy Lake, Regis’ grand-niece.” The young girl’s face remained blank, but her cheeks flushed.
“Lucas Hannigan,” William’s voice read shakenly, “is dead. As you can all see. He has been dead for ten years.”
Ander’s hand clenched into a fist, and he brought it away from the body, and back to his side.
“Although it was not Lucas’ wish to be embalmed, nor was it his wish to die, it had to be so,” Williams’ hands shook as he grasped the paper from which he read. “It has come to my attention, that each of you possesses a level of corruption within yourselves that cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”
No one said anything to this, and William hesitated before he read what came next.
“Each of you is responsible for a number of atrocities, that you, up until recently, have mistakenly believed to be unknown to those around you. I regret to inform you, that is not the case. It’s time to atone for the sins you have committed, as Lucas has made recompense for his.” William glanced to the body lying still in the gold encasement, before he forced his eyes back onto the paper. “
His crime: theft of property belonging to the Hannigan estate. His sentence: death.” William took a deep breath. “I’ve preserved him as a warning. Repent, confess, or face your sentence.”
“This is insane,” Graham started to say, his face turning red and his breath coming out in puffs. “This is crazy. We don’t need to listen to this anymore. We should call the police—“
“Any attempt to escape,” William interrupted, still reading, “will result in your removal from the world of the living.”
Graham hesitated, one foot still turned towards the door. He looked from William, to the body of Lucas Hannigan, and then finally he looked at the ground. He muttered a few more words of frustration, but took a step back.
“The rules for your repentance are simple: the organs of Regis Hannigan and Lucas Hannigan were put into seven canopic jars. One jar for each party member, each with instructions on how to atone for your sins. Find each jar, and be permitted to leave.” William took a shaky breath.
“Fail to do so by dawn tomorrow, and suffer the consequences.”
There was a long pause. Everyone looked at one another, each trying to stifle the panic that was plain on all of their faces. Then, William spoke once more. His eyes ran across the very bottom of the paper now, wide with alarm. “One more thing,” he read. “Like you, I am not guiltless, nor am I so proud as to think myself undeserving of punishment. Therefore, I will be playing this game with you.” A pause.
“In fact, I stand amongst you now, in this very room.”
At this, every one took an immediate step away from who they had been standing next to, save for the twins, who took one step in the same direction in unison.
An unwavering and untrusting silence fell over the group. Then, Ander tore his eyes away from his decayed father, his eyes shining in the candlelight with not-yet-fallen tears and anger.
“Who did this?” he asked coldly.
No one spoke. Then, suddenly, Ander’s hands were tightened into fist onto the collar of William’s shirt. The paper fell from the older man’s grasp, as Ander’s slim arms pulled him up to his eye level with surprising strength. “This is your M.O., old man. Did you do this? Did you?”
“Of course not!” the old man cried, his face turning red from the force of Ander’s hands around his throat.
“This whole time, I thought he abandoned me. But you knew. You knew where he was. You knew he was dead.” He said the last word with a particularly high dose of venom. “You killed him.”
William tried to push Ander’s hands away, and he flinched as the younger man yelled in his face. “N-no,” he spluttered, “of course not. Your father had his issues, but we were friends—“
“You and Uncle Regis were friends too, and you yanked his organs out of his body too, didn’t you?” Ander said, his head bending menacingly over the old man’s. “Where is Uncle Regis’ body?”
William shook his head frantically. “I don’t know, I don’t know, it was supposed to be in there,” he whimpered, waving one hand at the open sarcophagus. Ander looked back to the opening, back to his father’s decayed body, and his face fell from anger to sadness. He loosened his grip on William’s shirt, and let him go.
He slowly sank to the ground, leaning his head on the large golden surface of the sarcophagus’ side. “He was a terrible father,” he said in a hollow voice. “But I never thought... I didn’t want...” he trailed off, and his head fell heavily into his hand.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered bitterly.
The twins, who were now looking incredibly afraid, had their hands clasped together. “Couldn’t we just, you know—” Forrest started.
“—try to leave?” Fawn finished.
Greta, the stern woman, let out a snort. “Go ahead. We’ll probably be standing all around your bodies next. Do you want separate caskets, or would you prefer to be wrapped up together?” The twins shrank back at the woman’s icy words, and their hands released from one another's.
“That’s uncalled for,” the young girl, Wendy, said coolly, and Greta rolled her eyes.
“Don’t scold me, little girl. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“What ‘atrocities’ could they even be talking about?” Fawn asked nervously. “Forrest and I haven’t done anything.”
“Me neither,” Greta added quickly.
Everyone began to make arguments for their innocence, no one listening to another’s defense in favor of spouting their own.
“Let’s all just settle down, now,” William said loudly, though he looked anything but settled. Everyone fell into a pensive silence.
I, meanwhile, was growing increasingly uncomfortable. My heart was beating fast and hard in the quiet, and my hands grew slick with sweat. I set my glass on the mantle of the fireplace behind me, to keep it from slipping from my grip and joining the remains of Ander’s that still glittered on the floor.
Something about this was very wrong, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone noticed.
A matter of seconds, actually.
“Sam.”
I looked up. Ander was staring at me. Every ounce of the friendly air he had had when we last spoke, before the unveiling of his father’s corpse, was gone. Instead, his gaze was full of force, full of accusation—like a predator who’s suddenly spotted its prey.
“You weren’t on the list.”
He was right. William had read seven names, which accounted for each person in the room and their relationship to Regis Hannigan. Except for mine. I had the overwhelming feeling that I was somewhere that I shouldn’t be, seeing and hearing things I wasn’t meant to. But, I knew what this looked like to everyone else.
I had just become their prime suspect.
“I know,” I said quickly, instinctively taking step back. “This has to be some kind of mistake, I told you, I don’t know why I’m here—“
“That’s convenient,” Greta said quietly, and this time, no one corrected her.
“It’s true, the tape just showed up to my office. I don’t know who sent it.” I tried to battle back the panic rising in my voice. “I’m not part of this, I swear.”
Ander took a step towards me, his eyes redder than they had been before, his hands clenched tight into fists. “You are part of this, you have to be. You’re the only stranger here.”
I shook my head and took a step back. “Ander, the letter said your dad died ten years ago. When I was a kid. It doesn’t make any sense— “
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be working with someone,” he interrupted with barely contained rage. “Tell us the truth,” he let out in an anguished shout of grief and fear, and I took one more step back, tripping over the fireplace pokers in their stand, and slamming my back hard against the brick of the fireplace.
Clang.
Ander’s pursuit ceased and I stood still, as we both looked at what had just fallen down from the chimney and into the fireplace.
It was a shiny brass container, dusty with the ash of the hearth. It was about as large as a loaf of bread, and it had cracked as it landed, spilling its contents, which were now seeping out across the brick and down onto the carpet. It pooled at my feet, reddish brown and murky. Bits of something spongy and squelched over the edge and onto the floor. The smell that drifted from the slurry was acrid, bitter, and unfortunately, familiar.
I picked up the two halves of the container, still dripping with stagnant blood, and pressed them together at the crack. Then, I turned it around, to show the others the two very distinct images that were on the front.
One, the top, was a small sculpture of an animal, some sort of monkey.
The other, taped securely to the front, and stained red, was a photograph.
It was a photograph of Graham Willoughby.
And, something else—it was lying in the bottom of the fireplace, submerged in ash and chunks of flesh—a plastic bag. Most of it was coated in blood, so it was impossible to see what was inside.
However, I could still read what was printed on the label.
“Jar #1”
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Credits
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