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.
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Credits
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