The Cabin Is Always Hungry

LAST RESORT

Part 11

The Last Resort Manor looked like something you weren’t supposed to ever know nor look at. Not during the day. Not in the waning afternoon. Not if you wanted to have a good night sleep. There, perched up on the cliff, surrounded by trees in every shade of green, rust, and gold at the edges, just high enough to make your stomach turn if you looked at it too long, was the manor.

The building looked like an oversized letter b, a Jacobean beast of black brick and narrow polished windows, angles and tall archways, with sharp gabled roofs. Multiple stone terraces jutted from the eastern and western wings, the balustrade cracked and weathered. A single wrought-iron spire rose crookedly from the lone central tower, where it loomed over an inner courtyard.

It cost me eight thousand crystals to build from the ground up—three hundred million dollars of brick, foundation, and furniture all to create a gruesome past. Now, watching it in all its glory, those resources were well-spent. The Rumor had infested Point Hope with its made-up history, roots reaching so deep into the earth that no one doubted its sudden presence in our reality.

A place was just as important to the archetype that resided in it—also important to the Dungeon Core. The more scary-looking and ominous the place felt, the faster the Resolve of delvers dropped, all thanks to Dread Effects. I got lucky when I decided to put my dungeon in the forest. Forests are scary, I thought. But an abandoned asylum-turned-manor? Super fucking creepy. Its Dread Effects could attest to it.

That was by design.

And like all scary places, it needed a story.

With my Core’s full access to Rumor (and the breadth of my imagination), mostly everyone in Point Hope knew this place wasn’t always a manor in this new version of reality. This had been a state-run hospital once. It’s the kind of place where you didn’t go to get better so much as your sorry excuse of a family shoved you in there to be forgotten. Aunt Betty just went to live in a farm in Canada, sweetie. That type of excuse. Back when ignorant people were still ashamed to have family members with a mental illness or with disabilities. People muttered about it even now, and the name—The Last Resort—hadn’t helped its reputation any. It wasn’t its real name, just what the locals had started calling it sometime in the ‘40s and ‘50s. A joke that wasn’t very funny. They still called it that to this day. It’s fun to listen to the kids in Point Hope talked about it with [ Fractal Omniscience ] just to scare each other off, laughing and goofing if the stories got under their buddy’s skin. The stories growing bolder and grander with each added lore that I never made with [ Rumor ], but came from the more imaginative minds of the residents of Point Hope. A story becoming real, breathing a life of its own. The stories even reached as far as Brighton, Groveland, and Salem, which I hadn’t intended, but welcomed nonetheless. One even reached Carol at Remley’s bar, thinking some breakout happened by the most insane and violent patients and killed a bunch of the staff, as she told Henry.

—or to trespass.

Again, like all creepy places, it needed a twist: an explanation as to why the place should be haunted.

So, I created one.

In 1979, the same year The Amityville Horror came out, and if you believed the rumors, what happened in this asylum would’ve made the Lutz family run screaming back to Long Island faster than twenty-eight days. The state packed up the patients in a hurry with no notice nor paperwork, and the staff vanished into thin air. Although, a dozen or so patients were missing during the move. Escaped. Killed. Or maybe…they’re still here. At least that’s what the locals liked to believe. Boring stories with scary twists were always fun to tell at campfires, which plenty of visitors to North Cedar Lake would like to do in the future. Plenty of true crime podcasts would love to devour these kinds of fucked-up mysteries.

For the residents in Point Hope who didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural crap, or a quick google search on Wikipedia, The Last Resort used to be a state-run asylum for the criminally insane. Four floors of screams, medical torture, and constitutional violations. Lobotomies in the basement. Electroshock therapies. Waterboarding. Some pretty bad shit. Then one day the state decided it cost too much to keep the lights on and combating the negative press that’s been building around asylums across the country during the deinstitutionalization movement. So they shut it down, bolted the doors, moved the patients around to other facilities across the country with a much better track record, and after that, the place just... sat there.

Empty.

Rotting.

Waiting.

That was forty years ago.

And someone just bought it for dirt cheap, gutted it, tried to turn it into something livable and modern. Big kitchens. Spacious living rooms. Wine cellar. Too many bedrooms and bathrooms. Libraries that rival the local universities. Solariums. New plumbing. Hardwood floors. A bowling alley and an indoor pool. The whole shebang. There were over twenty-two bedrooms spread across the manor’s three upper floors: ten on the west wing and twelve on the east wing. All of them were already furnished. And rumor has it, the place actually looked fucking nice because the dude that owned it was fucking loaded—a true bachelor paradise.

Enter The Duke, the mysterious owner, and everyone in Point Hope were curious…perhaps curious enough to visit? To take a look at the manor? To be nosy and stumble upon something they shouldn’t?

One can hope.

Rumor mechanics were fun to play with, though I didn’t like how I had to be careful with my words and what I put out there for the world to fake-know. I couldn’t risk something to bite me in the ass in the future, or give away my hand to those who might be hunting me. I knew the Cult of Astaroth salivated over my gem, but what if there were other cults who knew about Dungeon Cores? Fortunately, the rules of creating a Rumor were simple: It must have something to do with an archetype I created or with a location or an object within my dungeon. Easy-peasy.

As the clock struck past one, the night deepened hungrily. The manor was the perfect setting for a delve tonight.

“The stage is set, my lord,” Jessica said, pouring herself two glasses of wine in the drawing room and handed Henry the other glass.

“Showtime?” Henry asked me after accepting the glass of wine from the demon.

I triggered [ Phantasmal Cold ], bringing the manor’s temperatures lower to shed the delver’s Resolve.

“Yeah. Showtime.”

A small, new prompt appeared in my vision at the bottom left corner, one that I had never seen before. At the very bottom of it was a small disclaimer. Courtesy of the Immaran Guild. I reckoned the guild provided this for the spectators, wherever they were watching, probably eager for the bloodbath to start. And they’ve decided to show it to me, too.

SCENARIO 3

01:09 AM

6 Hours Until Dawn.

3 Delvers remaining…

Interesting. This would technically be my fifth scenario, but the guild only counted the Hodges’ massacre, Allie’s group, and this upcoming delve as the official scenarios of my dungeon. It’s probably because these were the only scenarios under the influence of the guild.

Shooing the prompt away, I flew over to where we kept Wendy and the others on the east wing.

Time to wake up.

SCENARIO 3

01:15 AM

6 Hours Until Dawn

3 Delvers remaining…

Wendy was dreaming. That she knew.

She couldn’t tell at first. She was by the lake in the late afternoon. The sun was shining, warm against her body. The water lapped around her toes. The birds were singing. Kate and Sheila were lying on a beach towel, sunbathing. Mark Ambor playing through Kate’s phone. It was supposed to be in the middle of Autumn when the days were colder, and the trees were shedding their foliage. But it felt like she was back in the heights of summer.

DeJa’Vu.

She was here before—she was sure of that. Kate, Sheila, and her last summer. After the breakup with Jake, throwing out two years of empty promises. Before Sheila dated Kevin. Before Wendy’s grandmother passed away, her mom moved back to Eugene, leaving her all alone in Point Hope. What did Kate say again? “We can’t be the only girls in their twenties who is not enjoying the summer. Let’s Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants this summer!” They didn’t go that far, but the lake seemed like an alien world they could escape to. The real world couldn’t come in to bother them for one afternoon.

God, Wendy couldn’t remember when they last hung out with just the three of them. Probably Coos Bay, what, three years ago? Life’s a pimp who forces you with a hand you didn’t ask for, and you’re supposed to just take it. What can you do but grovel on as time ticks by with or without you? But today was nice. Today, Wendy, Sheila, and Kate got to be themselves. Got to be young.

But today wasn’t today, is it? No, like she said, this happened before. She could almost see it, pierce through the thin veil that surrounded her, forcing it upon her, felt like swimming through molasses just to see the things she wasn’t supposed to see. She was dreaming. This was a memory. And her best friend wasn’t there with her.

But where is here exactly?

Wendy didn’t have an answer.

She centered herself back to the lake again, but the music had died down to static. Though Kate and Sheila were still bobbing their heads to the song as if it was still there. The birds were gone. The sky was still blue but had lost its vibrant color; the sun was turning into a dull blaze. The cold returned.

On the horizon, across the lake, loomed the asylum, leering down at her—at them—red eyes and red smiles, salivating with anticipation.

In the wind, breathing across the stirring lake waters, someone softly whispered, “Wake.”

And the lake vanished around her, and all was not right in the world.

Wendy woke with a start to a hushed, breathing room.

The room smelled off: old, slightly musty, and sweet. It was also too big. The ceiling didn’t have the popcorn surface of her apartment, but it had an ornate plaster finish, tinted a gaudy off-cream color that Martha Stewart would throw up over. The walls were of a different color, too, with one painting of a cornfield surrounding a lonely cabin in the distance hanging by the mantle that she never owned. And she definitely didn’t own a mantle or a fireplace inside her room. This was not her bedroom. Not even close.

Wendy sat up slowly, head pounding like a motherfucker. A twitch from behind her right ear almost made her squirm and laid back down on the bed, only she forced herself to stay up on her elbows, keeping her head leveled. Bad idea. It felt like she had slept long enough. That was another weird thing. The mattress was too plush, too soft underneath her. She was not used to how the bed practically cradled her like a princess, and not giving her a mild backache every time she woke up before her shift. And silk sheets? No, hers were those basic floral sheets and comforter she got from Walmart, cheap enough that she could wiggle in a couple bottles of vodka and a tin of chocolate-covered biscuits when she bought it. Not this Pottery Barn crap that almost cost half of her paycheck.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom; the lights coming from three frosted glass sconces on the wall of incandescent bulbs, filling the room in this dull amber glow. But it was enough for Wendy to see the entire room. “Where in the hell–,” she trailed off.

Everything in the room looked antique and expensive, yet at the same time, looked like something out of her grandmother’s living room. Dark wood furniture with clawed feet. A large vanity dresser with a honey-oak trifold mirror; the dresser itself crowded with perfume bottles, ivory hairbrushes, and makeup kits. Heavy golden-cream curtains hung over the windows, drawn tight. A tall wardrobe loomed next to the fireplace with the latter already had a fire roaring warm.

On the other side of the fireplace was a brown rocking chair, where a small porcelain doll sat in a faded yellow and black polka dot dress that made it look like it was wearing a bumblebee. Its eyes were fixed toward the bed. Toward Wendy. She instinctively looked away from it.

As she scooted to the edge of the bed, she realized something was off with her clothes, too. She was no longer wearing her work clothes from Remley’s. Gone was the dirty and smelly apron and the stifling, uncomfortable fabric shirt. Instead, she now wore a lime-green off-shoulder maxi dress that went all the way down to her ankles. She was also wearing this beautiful pair of nude platform shoes that she immediately recognized as vintage Prada. Holy Streep, how much do those cost? She thought about it for a second.

Then, she felt something sticking to her cheeks as if it was plugged with something. Wendy sauntered over toward the vanity mirror and found herself caked in makeup straight out of a vintage magazine. Even her hair was elaborately styled into a '60s full fringe like Brigitte Bardot. She had gold hoop earrings, a pearl necklace wrapped around her neck like a noose, and half of her fingers and wrists covered in expensive rings and bracelets.

For a second there, she almost didn’t recognize herself. She didn’t remember putting any of these on. Did someone…? No, she couldn’t even finish the thought. Goosebumps went up her spine, and all she wanted was to find the way out.

“What’s this shit on my face?” Wendy groaned. She got a whiff of something citrusy swarming her, and realized that it came from her. The creep who brought her here even put perfume on her. I’m going to fucking kill whoever did this, Wendy seethed. She didn’t want to imagine what they wanted out of this. She needed to focus her energy on getting the hell out.

As she grabbed a couple of tissues from a box on the dresser, and was about to scrub the makeup off her face, a shiver crept up her spine when she saw them. There, in the far corner of the mirror, something... no, someone was watching. Two glowing red eyes, like two angry embers set just above the darkness of her reflection.

Wendy’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart lurched in her chest against her ribcage. They weren’t in the mirror. They were behind her. Outside. She spun around, panic catching her muscles, but when she looked at the window, nobody was there.

Adrenaline spurred her into action.

Wendy’s hands trembled as she marched toward the window, pulling back the curtains with a sudden jerk. The fabric hissed as it tore free of its perch, and she stood there, glaring into the darkness beyond, daring whatever it was to show itself. But only the outline of her reflection on the window stared back. Her bout of courage quickly dissipated. For a moment, she thought of retreating further into the room, but she stubbornly stayed rooted on the spot.

Maybe she’ll spot some movement out there, but then what would she do next? She hadn’t thought that far. She felt stupid she didn’t grab a weapon during her march across the room. Those scissors on the dresser looked decent for a stabbing. The tissue was still in her hand, crumpled under her fist. What am I going to do with this? Throw snot at the creep? If someone was watching her from the windows, they would have attacked her by now, and then what would she use to protect herself? The rings around her fingers?

It dawned on her.

How could someone watch her from outside when they didn’t have anything to stand on? There was no balcony out there. She realized she was in the upper floors of, well, wherever the fuck she was, and peering down below, it looked like a huge drop. The only way someone could be outside her window was if they climbed to the windowsill, but then, she would have seen them by now, either dangling by the side or under. Unless they had wings, but that was impossible.

How did I end up here? The last thing she remembered was taking the garbage outside Remley’s after she clocked out of her shift and…well, there’s supposed to be something after that, right? Something she was desperately missing. She vaguely remembered approaching someone and striking up a conversation, but who? There was a car, but she couldn’t remember the model. It looked old, but brand new at the same time. She groaned. Trying to recall it only made the headache worse. There was that British guy…wait, did I talk to him?

Out of the corner of her eyes, an envelope slid through beneath the gap on the door and the person’s shadow walking away. Wendy ran toward the door, grabbed the handle, and turned.

Locked.

“Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me. Hello? Hello?! You gotta get me out of here! This isn’t right! This is kidnapping, you know! You’ll go to jail for this!” She screamed, pounding her fist on the door, but the stranger’s footsteps were fading until she could no longer hear them.

“Hello? Anyone? Answer me!”

No one answered.

“Fine! Screw you, asshole!” She slammed her fist on the door, frustrated.

She turned around and looked down at the white envelope on the floor. It took her a minute to gain the courage to pick it up. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be any good. She tore the flap open and pulled the ivory stationery card out of the envelope, and a strong whiff of patchouli hit her nostrils. On the page, written in elaborate cursive, was an invitation.

Dear Beloved Guests,

You are all cordially invited to The Duke’s dinner. You have been dressed appropriately for tonight’s grand occasion. Once ready, please proceed to the Parlour Room on the ground floor in ten minutes.

Wendy read the note three times. “Who’s the Duke?”

She threw the envelope and the stationery on the bed.

None of it bode well. Her gut told her not to attend this weird dinner party and run away from this place, and she usually trusted her instincts. It saved her many times in Cabo. But run to where? She didn’t know where she was and how far she’d need to run just to find and get help. And she didn’t know this house or how big it was. Bad luck that tonight’s cloudy, no stars or moonlight to guide her, so she’d be stumbling in the dark for who knew how long. And if it rained? Well, that’s just not fair.

Wendy focused on the first words again. Dear Guests. Plural. Did that mean there were more people kidnapped like her? Were they in the other rooms? Were there more rooms?

Phone.

She needed her phone.

She spent a good chunk of that time searching for it. Nothing.

She stared at the note on the bed. Ten minutes was almost up.

Suddenly, the door’s bolt clicked loudly; the door was now unlocked. Taking a deep breath, Wendy strode toward the door, grabbed the handle, turned, and pulled it open again.

She poked her head out onto a dimly-lit empty hallway that extended on both sides. Whoever slipped the note was long gone. Taking another deep breath, Wendy stepped out onto the hallway. She felt naked standing there just a step away from the door. The unfamiliar bedroom seemed like the safest place to be, though she couldn’t find it in her to go back inside.

Instead, she headed left where she believed the stranger went after slipping the note, passing by more pastoral paintings and oil portraits of old people in older-looking period clothing that only unnerved her the longer she looked at them. The hallway was lined with those kinds of paintings rich people hang when they want to feel connected to dead people or to rural fields they’d never catch themselves working on.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

One painting showed a kid in a yellow vest, his neck swallowed up in one of those stupid frilly neck things. The poor thing looked like he was choking on lace. It made her think of Da Vinci or one of those famous dead guys. What were they called? Re-naya-sance or something? She always couldn’t pronounce that damn word.

Then the boy’s eyes moved. Shifted slightly.

No. Couldn’t be.

She froze. Waited. Listened to her own breath start to rattle a little. Took three careful steps, her eyes never leaving his.

The boy’s gaze tracked her.

No—Jesus. She was seeing things, right?

She stopped on her tracks, planted her feet. Stared him down. Dared him to move again. Dared him to do more than just look.

Move…

Move…

Move…

I am not seeing things. Move!

A door creaked open further ahead, making her jump.

A man stepped out, slow and stiff, like he wasn’t sure what was waiting for him. He wore a suit and a bow tie, but it hung on him wrong like it was a borrowed costume he didn’t know how to fill. Their eyes met.

Wendy knew that face.

Jared McArdle.

“Jared?” Wendy blinked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He squinted through the low light. “Wen? The fuck?”

He stepped forward, then staggered. Caught himself against the wall with a grunt. “Ahh! Nail on a brick!” He winced, favoring one side.

Wendy hurried toward him. “What? What happened?”

“My shoulder,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Okay, don’t move.” She eased his jacket open. His shirt was soaked at the shoulder. Dark red and still wet. “Jesus. You’re bleeding.”

“I am? Is it bad?” he said, like it was news to him. Looked down. “Huh. Shit. You’re right. I think I got stabbed.”

“You think?” Her voice climbed. “You didn’t notice it before walking out of your room?”

“Look, I was busy trying to find a way out, and I thought I just slept on it wrong. They dumped me on the bed on my stomach.” He hissed. “Oh man. Yeah. That’s—yeah. That’s bad. I need to sit down. Yep. I can feel it now.”

“Hold still, idiot. You’re only making it worse.” She undid the buttons, pushed his shirt aside—and froze. The wound was stitched. Sloppy, but stitched. “Someone already sewed you up. Did you do this?”

Jared blinked at her. “Really? I didn’t do that. I told you. I just woke up. It was that British guy. Probably him.”

“What British guy?”

“You know? The one from the bar? The one Kate’s been climbing over all night? I think he’s the one who stabbed me.”

“And why would he do that? Did you do something to him?”

“I don’t know!” he snapped. “Because he’s British! Europeans are weird. Why is it always my fault?”

“Because you’re you.”

“What does that supposed to mean?”

Wendy shot him a pointed look.

He looked away.

“Something’s wrong with him, though.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Jared paused for a moment. Shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Fine. Be that way. She didn’t have the energy to argue with him, but he was hiding something. “Good news: looks like the bleeding’s stopped, but you need a doctor real soon. I’m scared it’d get infected.”

“Well, do you see a hospital around here, Wendy?”

“Let me see. Huh. I barely noticed,” she said sarcastically. “Silly me. I forgot we were kidnapped. Thought we were at the goddamn Holiday Inn.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They took my damn phone. Do you have yours?”

Wendy shook her head. “Same. I can’t find mine.”

“I figured. It’ll be too easy.”

“Too easy for what?”

Then, a voice boomed from down the hall. “Is he okay?”

They both jumped. Roy Sherman stumbled out from the corner of the hallway, shirt wrinkled, bow tie hanging loose around his neck. His suit jacket looped around his arm. He flinched at the painting of the boy with the yellow vest, muttered something under his breath as he walked past it.

“I said, is he okay?”

Wendy steadied her breath. “He’s fine. The bleeding stopped. Can you stand, Jared?”

Jared nodded, barely.

Wendy turned to Roy. “Are you…a guest? Or did you—?”

Roy snorted. “Hell no! You think I kidnapped you? Girl, you’ve known me for six years. You ever seen me lift more than a twelve-pack? I’m the marshmallow man with a mortgage. If I ever looked like Jason Momoa, it was in my past life. And I probably died fat then, too.”

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you knew who Jason Momoa is, Roy.”

“Look, kid, I’m not that old. I still watch cable,” Roy said, flashing his invitation card. “You guys got this creepy little letter, too?”

Jared nodded toward the fireplace inside his room. “Yep. Burned it.”

Roy sniffed the note. “Motherfucker’s fancy. Do you guys know where we are?”

Wendy and Jared shook their heads.

“I…might have an idea,” Jared said. “I think we’re at the asylum.”

“This doesn’t look like the asylum,” Roy said.

“Used to be. Not until that British guy bought it. He renovated the place, remember? And I think…I think this is it. The manor.”

“The tourist? That’s who kidnapped us?” Roy looked bewildered. “I didn’t see the man who attacked me, but they got me on the back of the head.”

“It makes sense. Rich people don’t have taste,” Jared said looking around the hallway’s decorations.

“I personally like it,” Roy chimed.

“Wait, how many of us are here?” Wendy asked. “Did you see anyone else?”

Roy shook his head. “Nope. They put me in another room past the left hallway back there. I think it leads toward the stairs. I didn’t go that way though when I heard you two.”

“You saw more rooms?” Jared asked.

“All of them locked. I tried,” Roy answered.

That’s when they heard it.

Music.

It started soft at first. Then gradually getting louder. Strings. Piano. A woman’s voice—mournful, smooth like whiskey. A love song. It filled the hallway.

“You’re all hearing that, right? That’s not just in my head?” Roy asked hesitantly.

Wendy nodded. “Yeah. I hear it.”

“Oh good,” he said, patting down his pockets. “Thought it was just me being drunk.” He stopped, growled. “Son of a bitch. They took my flask. That was a gift from my brother.”

“Hey, Roy. Can you help me with him?” Wendy asked.

“Oh. Right.” He grabbed Jared by the jacket.

“Not the—Aahhh! You old fuck! That’s the bad arm!”

“Shit, sorry! You’re all slippery, man.”

“I’m slippery because I’m bleeding!”

“Well, your leg ain’t hurt too, is it?”

“Just get me the hell up.”

Roy grunted, hauled him upright again by the scruff of his jacket. Jared wobbled but stayed standing.

“You good?” Wendy asked him.

Jared nodded, jaw clenched. “I’ll live.”

“Let’s get downstairs.”

“I don’t think we should go down there,” Jared said.

“You want to jump out of the window? Be my guest. We’ll find the front door downstairs and get the hell out that way,” Wendy said. She started walking, not waiting for them to follow.

“And if it’s not there?” Roy asked. “What if there is no door?”

“What kind of question is that?”

Roy shrugged. “I’m just saying. This place gives me the creeps.”

But Wendy didn’t answer. She veered off toward a narrow console table against the wall. She picked up a heavy silver candlestick and tossed the candle aside; Felt the weight of it in her hand like a bat.

She turned back to them, eyes cold.

“It’s just one tourist, right? One guy? What do you boys say about giving him a Point Hope welcome?”

Roy grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

They found the grand staircase. It looked like something out of a wedding catalog Wendy used to flip through, back when she still thought shit like that might happen for her. Iron rails and balusters, Turkish rugs and carpeted stairs, glass chandelier shining at the ceiling. Vintage-looking. A place with history you could see and feel through the walls. The stairs were wide enough for four people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, but none of them did that. They moved single file and took the stairs slow. Jared cradled his bad arm, Roy kept glancing behind them like he expected something to crawl out of the walls. Wendy stayed in front, candlestick at the ready. They looked down as they descended. Three floors of polished clean space, spiraling toward a foyer that gleamed with old money.

The music swelled as they got closer. Doris Day’s voice, sweet and syrupy, singing Dream a Little Dream of Me, the kind of tune you’d hear at a nursing home or a funeral slideshow. They reached the bottom, and the foyer opened wide. A round oak table sat dead center like a showroom centerpiece. A statue of a copper lion waited on top. Teeth bared. Frozen in mid-snarl.

Beyond that, the parlor door gaped open.

But Roy wasn’t heading toward it.

“Door!” he shouted. He didn’t need to spur the others.

They bolted across the floor toward the double doors leading outside. Heavy, iron-wrought wood. Reinforced steel in the hinges. A door that looked like they belonged on a castle more than a house. Wendy reached it first and yanked the handle.

Locked again.

“Damn it!”

She yanked harder. Still nothing.

This can’t be happening. We’re almost out!

“Move out of the way!”

Roy barreled past her, threw his shoulder into it like a linebacker.

Thud.

The door barely budged.

He cursed. Backed up and tried again.

Thud.

Same result.

“Fuck!” Roy massaged his sore shoulders.

Jared stood there, leaning against the wall. “So much for the front door.”

Wendy glared at the door. “Yeah. So much for that.”

“What now?” Roy asked.

Then a scratch, a skip, a pop from the parlor room, and three seconds later, Frank Sinatra took over with his signature croon, singing I’ve Got You Under My Skin like he meant it in the worst possible way.

“I guess we wait for our host,” Wendy said.

“And beat the fucking shit out of him?” Jared chimed.

“That too.”

They walked back to the parlor room.

The parlor looked like what Wendy thought Architectural Digest would salivate over. One of those things you’d see during celebrity tours of their houses. Nice. Neat. Aesthetically-pleasing, which meant a full team of studio hands curated it.

The furniture didn’t look sat on. Off-white leather couches with no creases. A long glass coffee table with nothing on it but a couple of thick books about Swedish interior design and Modern Dance, and a single orchid in a thin black vase with not a petal out of place. Wendy walked past and ignored it.

Recessed lighting overhead glowed low and golden, suffusing the room in this dull amber lighting. It bounced off the chrome fixtures, the marble fireplace, the perfectly dusted shelves lined with hardcovers of books that might as well looked like encyclopedias. The whole room smelled like cedar and lemon polish. A black gramophone sat in the corner with a vinyl record spinning in lazy circles.

There was a small bar in the other corner with a cabinet fully stocked with hard liquor. Bottles lined up by color and height. Not a single one looked touched.

From across the door were these large windows; the outside barely in their reach.

They tried to open the windows but it was also locked and reinforced. They tried throwing a chair at it, but the glass didn’t break. Tried it a couple of times.

“What the fuck’s this made out of?” Roy said, huffing.

They don’t want us to leave, Wendy thought. More and more, the situation didn’t sit right with her. She was missing something. But what?

“Of course it doesn’t,” Jared said, chuckling. “Add that to the list of weird shit tonight.”

Jared sat on the couch in defeat.

“Bah! I need a drink,” Roy said, throwing the chair away. He already broke the furniture’s leg.

“Its leg’s broken,” Jared pointed out.

“They can fucking bill me,” Roy said.

But Wendy wasn’t giving up yet. She tried walking to another hallway, to another room and find another way out, but when she caught a glimpse of the dimly-lit hallways connected to the foyer, she changed her mind. It wasn’t a good idea to split-up right now, not when she didn’t know who was waiting on the other end. She retreated back to the parlor.

“Nothing?” Roy asked. He already raided the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Wendy shook her head.

“Darn.” He lifted the bottle. “Want some?”

She nodded. “Might as well.”

“Me, too,” Jared said. “Might help with the pain.”

“Coming right up.”

Roy handed the other two each a glass, and they drank it in silence. Waiting.

Five minutes later, they heard footsteps coming from outside the foyer, growing louder.

Wendy stood up and grabbed the candlestick. Roy grabbed a bottle, ready to throw it like a fastball. Jared stepped back, frantically looking for a weapon, and ended up grabbing the thick architecture book, also preparing to throw it. It wasn’t ideal, but its heavy enough to stop whoever was coming.

A woman stepped onto the parlor’s door frame. Blonde hair, dressed in a long, spaghetti-strapped red dress, and wearing red lipstick to match. At first, Wendy thought she was another guest, another kidnapped victim who found her way down from the upper floors, but the woman flashed them a knowing smile.

“Who the hell are you?” Roy asked from the bar.

“My name is Jessica, thank you for asking. The Duke would like to see you now.”

Without hesitation, Roy threw the bottle at her, but she moved like a whip, knocked the bottle out of the air like it was nothing. It rolled harmlessly across the carpet. Unbroken. Before Jared and Wendy could act, she pulled a pistol behind her, pointed it at him. At her.

“Nuh-uh. Back up you two,” she said. “Behave. Stay cool now, little darlings. Keep your wits about you. The night is still young. There’s more of me to go around. Don’t you worry.”

She held the gun for a beat longer, then lowered it.

“Follow me,” she said. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“The Duke,” Wendy said. “You mean the British guy who came to Remley’s? That the same guy?”

“Yes. And our master.” Jessica pivoted her heels, hair swaying, and walked out of the parlor room and down the hallway.

None of them moved at first.

But they followed.

What else was there to do? Wendy sighed.

“What are we thinking?” Roy whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jared said. He put the book back on the coffee table. “Find better weapons?”

Wendy said nothing, but she kept the candlestick close.

Jessica walked ahead of them, still in that red dress, hips swaying, the pistol in her grip. No rush. Like she knew how this would end.

Then, the hallway opened into the dining hall.

It was huge. A table stretched across the room made to of lacquered dark wood, gleaming under a pair of chandelier lights. Too many chairs lined both sides. Too many for just them. Wendy felt like she just stepped into the set of Bridgerton. Only this isn’t Bridgerton, and this is not a TV show, Wendy thought.

At the far end sat a man in a maroon suit and white shirt.

The Duke.

He didn’t get up. Just looked up from his wine like he’d been expecting them all night. Like he didn’t just kidnap them and brought them to his house.

Wendy froze.

That face—she recognized it. That was the guy. The handsome one Kate was talking to earlier, before all this shit started. Same slicked-back black hair. Same lazy arrogance. Same charming smile. Like he owned everything in the room, including them. Jessica glided to his side and took her seat next to him. Set the gun next to her plate like it was part of the silverware. She also flashed them a smile, gesturing for them to come closer.

On their end of the table, three place settings waited, a sign that’s where they—the guests—should sit.

Wendy sat on the left. Roy and Jared sat across from her. White plates, polished forks, red wine glasses already half full.

Roy grabbed the wine glass and drank it empty. He gave the others a shrug.

The Duke and Jessica sat too far to reach quickly. If they tried something, they’d have to run all the way down to the end, giving plenty of time for the woman to shoot any of them first. But she couldn’t all shoot us, right? Wendy could see her hand resting just inches from the gun. Her eyes calm. Calculating.

But there’s only two of them. Surely we can overpower them, right? Wendy looked at Jared across the table. But not with one of us already wounded. Better wait.

“Welcome to my manor. The Last Resort,” The Duke said, his voice smooth, confident. “I apologize for keeping the three of you waiting. Does the clothes I provided fit you well?”

Nobody answered.

Jared shifted in his seat. Tried to look cool, calm, but failed.

Wendy caught it with the way his jaw clenched, his fingers twitching near the tablecloth. Jared was scared. She couldn’t blame him. The whole room felt like a setup. They’d just walked into a trap and someone had locked the door behind them. But there was something there, too. The way Jared couldn’t look at the Duke in the eye. Like he knew something she should. Jared caught her gaze, and slowly shook his head. He moved his lips, but Wendy was a piss-poor lip reader, and she didn’t catch what he said.

Wendy landed her gaze back at The Duke.

He stared right back. Smiling like he was about to eat them alive.

And maybe he was.

“Eat,” he said.

All of a sudden, food, literal food, sprouted from the table in a span of a second. Wendy jerked back in her chair. Jared cursed. Roy damn near knocked over his wine. Steaks and potatoes for the boys and A nicely-charred salmon for Wendy. Her favorite.

“Holy shit!” Roy exclaimed. “How did you...”

The Duke’s expression barely changed. His gaze piercing. “Eat,” he said again.

Jared swallowed. “Why don’t you say what you have to say, and get it over with already?” Though his voice wavered at the end. “Why did you bring us here?”

“I can’t have company for dinner?” The Duke asked. “Forgive me. I was impolite. Where are my manners? I should have introduced myself. My name is Duke Henry Louis Duncan, your host and the owner of the manor. It is a pleasure to meet the three of you. Now, please. Eat. I made sure to provide you your favorite meals. And I promise you, there’s dessert after you finished your dinner. It’s a treat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Wendy found herself saying, slightly pushing the plate away. She didn’t think she should speak up, but it was too late to catch her words.

The Duke’s face softened. “Oh, well, that’s okay, Ms. Morrison. I’m not here to force you.” He took a sip of his wine.

Wendy looked down at The Duke’s plate. There was nothing there. “You’re not hungry?”

The Duke paused. Looked at her. Smiled. “Oh, I am famished, Ms. Morrison.”

Jared went pale. “Because…because you’ll eat us, right?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Roy asked.

“He’s a vampire, Roy.”

Roy held the silence for a beat longer. “Um, what are you talking about, kid?”

“That motherfucker over there is a vampire. I saw him. I remember now.”

“Vampires are not real.”

“Food just appeared on the table, Roy. That about sums up who we are dealing with,” Jared said.

“I’m drunk. I don’t know what I saw. But I’m pretty sure vampires aren’t real.” Roy turned to Wendy. “Right?”

Wendy didn’t answer and kept her gaze at Henry. “Are you?” She asked.

“Yes. I am,” Henry answered casually like he just told them about the weather.

“You’re lying,” Roy said, shaking his head.

“Are we gonna eat or keep on yapping?” Jessica asked, looking down at her plate. It wasn’t until Wendy craned her neck that she got a good look at her plate. Raw flesh. Some sort of bloodied organ. Liver or kidney, maybe? Wendy looked away from it in disgust.

“Yes, dear. You can eat.”

Jessica grabbed a fork and a knife and dug through the offal, taking a big bite. Red juices running down the side of her lips and licked it off.

“Look, man. I’m sorry I attacked you on the parking lot, okay? I’m sorry I tried to stab you! I was stupid!” Jared pleaded.

Wendy whirled her head around. “You did what?”

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Roy muttered, fist down o the table.

But Jared ignored them. “I was jealous. I was drunk. You were talking to Kate, and she likes you. I can see that she likes you. She never looked at me that way. And…I wasn’t thinking. I was mad. I was furious. And I just want you to go away. You gotta believe me.”

“So…you’re going to stab me in the parking lot instead?”

Jared was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Jared burst into tears.

Wendy didn’t know if Jared was faking because she knew him too well, grew up with him in this godforsaken town. The man couldn’t apologize for shit. But here he was, blubbering and groveling in front of this man. It was horrifying to witness.

“I accept your apology, Mr. McArdle. That’s very nice to hear, and I believe you are truly being sincere.”

Jared let out a shaky breath of relief. “I just want to go home,” he said, wiping away his tears.

But Henry wasn’t done speaking.

“But I’m afraid I can’t let you all go.”

“I won’t talk about this. We will leave you alone. Forget this ever happened, okay?” Jared pleaded again.

“It’s not just that, sorry,” Henry said, almost gently. “As I said… I am famished. And you—the three of you—you’re on the menu.”

Jessica perked up. “Oh? We’re killing them now?”

Henry frowned. “Looks like they’re not hungry. I gave them their final meal, but they refused.”

He stood.

The room got colder.

“I guess it’s time for the main event.”

Wendy shoved her chair back and stood fast. Didn’t care when it crashed to the floor behind her. Jared and Roy also stood up.

“No! Please! You have to let us go!” she said. “Like he said—we won’t say anything. We’re good at keeping things quiet, okay? If you want Jared because he tried to kill you, then, you can have him.”

“What the fuck, Wendy?!”

“Shut up!” Wendy shouted. “We have nothing to do with this. Me and Roy. Please. Just let the two of us go, and we won’t bother you. We won’t go to the cops!”

Henry tilted his head. His smile gone now.

“If only it were that simple, Ms. Morrison.”

He turned his eyes to Roy. Then to Jared. Back to her.

“But you know what I am. I kidnapped you. I brought you here. I can’t risk it. But…”

Wendy hiked her breath. Please. Please, please, please…

“But I will give you time to get out of here.”

“We’re giving them what?” Jessica snapped.

Wendy almost wanted to leap. At least there was a silver lining. If I could convince him to—she paused, watching Henry whispered into Jessica’s ear and the woman got up from her seat, walked through a side door behind Henry, and came back a minute later with four other men.

Wendy’s heart sank.

The Sawyers. She only recognized Luke by face and name, but she vaguely remembered running into his brothers in the past. Why are they here? She didn’t recognize the fourth man. Huge, broad-shouldered, and wearing a creepy fox mask. He dragged a double-sided axe behind him.

“Alan? Garth? Luke? What are you doing here?” Roy asked sharply. “You're in on this?”

Alan crossed his arms. “Hi, Roy. Thanks for the beer the other night. Sucks to see you in here. Sorry, man.”

Roy couldn’t find the words.

Alan turned to Henry. “Why’d you call us in here?”

“Well…there’s only three of them. It’s a small delving party, and it doesn’t seemed fair if we gang up on them when one of them is already wounded. They’d be dead in five minutes. Maybe ten. It’s not a guarantee we’ll collect any essence. And it’s not gonna be fun.”

“So? We’ll draw it out like always.”

Henry grinned. “How about we make them choose instead?”

Luke frowned. “Choose what?”

“The hunter. The archetype hunting them. That way, we can still have some fun. We can even take bets.”

Garth and Alan perked up with the latter.

“Uh, look, I know we’re new to the dungeon, but I don’t think that’s how any of this works,” Luke said.

“Shush!” Jessica leaned forward. “Go on, Henry…”

“Like I said, there are only three of them, and all of us have been begging each other to get a kill tonight. Well…this is a solution.”

“I know. That’s why we’re here,” Luke chimed in again, but Jessica shushed him. “We’ve decided the newbies should get the kills tonight. Especially me, because I’m the youngest.”

“Um, I didn’t agree to that,” Jessica said, raising her hand. “Who let this goose in charge?”

“That is why—” Henry reeled everyone back to the topic “—it is better if they choose who instead. The delvers. They are the impartial party. Not us.”

All their heads whipped to the other end of the table. Then, to something above them. What in the hell? It looked like they were listening to something. Or to someone. Wendy was more confused. Delvers? Choosing? Archetypes? What the hell is this?

Henry regarded them again. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

“What?” Jared asked.

“Choose. Goliath. The Sawyers. Jessica—”

“Hi,” Jessica said sultrily, waved at them with her fingers.

“—Or me,” Henry said. “There are more, but they’re on guard duty tonight. We don’t want to be interrupted.”

“For what?” Jared asked again.

“Aren’t you listening?” Wendy snapped impatiently. “They’re letting us choose who’s hunting us across the manor in some fucked game.”

“Oh.” Jared didn’t wait for a beat. “We pick the chick then.”

Jessica beamed. “Who? Me? Yay!”

“Hold on. We need to decide as a group,” Wendy said. She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth and why she was even going along with this. This is fucking nuts!

“We can handle her,” Jared said.

“Just because I’m a woman? Now, I’m offended,” Jessica huffed. “Just kidding! I don’t care.”

“No, not her,” Roy said from behind. “I know a crazy chick when I see one.”

“Aw, thank you!” Jessica took another bite of the offal from her plate. “I like you out of the three.”

Roy shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. Let's not pick her. She's got a gun."

Jared was frustrated. “And what? He’s a vampire! Just a big fat no on Axe-Man over there. No offense. And the Sawyers, well, there’s three of them against the three of us. Three-on-three. I don’t see our chances improving there if we fight them.”

“So what? We take the—oh my god, I can’t believe I’m even saying this—the vampire?”

“How about we don’t choose at all? Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” Jared said.

“Then, we hunt you. All of us,” Henry said. “Ms. Morrison, you asked for a chance, well, this is what I’m offering.”

"What's stopping all of you from going after us anyway?" Wendy asked.

"We may not look like it, but we are true to our word."

Wendy needed to think. She wouldn’t choose the Sawyers. Like Jared said, there were three of them, which meant three people would be hunting them.

She didn’t like the big guy from the back. She had dated plenty of men who wore the uniform, and the way he carried himself stood out to her. Military. Heavily-trained. She couldn’t have that.

As much as Wendy liked to call herself a feminist, Jessica was short, skinny, and looked like a wind could blow her over the beach, but Roy was adamant not to pick her. And she didn’t like how the woman responded when Jared picked her earlier. She was too eager. Favored that outcome. Wendy looked down at Jessica’s plate and the pile of diced raw liver on it.

That left Henry.

“What about you?” she said.

“No, he’s a—”

“—A vampire. Sure.” Wendy doubted if that were true. “If he is a vampire, does that also mean that woman is also a vampire? The Sawyers, too?”

“I…I don’t know…”

“Hey, we’re not vampires, lady,” Luke said, offended, but Garth elbowed him to shut up.

“Then, we pick you, Duke,” Wendy said. “Guys? Come on. Let’s just get this over with already.”

“Yeah. Okay. If we gotta pick, we're picking him,” Roy said. "Sorry, Jared."

“But he’s the one who kidnapped us! We shouldn’t pick him!”

“There’s three of us and one of him. I’ll take that chance,” Roy said.

“Jared, come on! If he’s a vampire, then we know how to kill one. Garlic. Stake to the chest. Sunlight.”

“From the movies!” Jared wanted to pull his hair out. “Fine! If you’re not all vampires, then what are you?” He pointed at the woman.

“Um, should I even say it out loud?”

“Might as well, darling,” Henry said. “They know I’m a vampire. It's only fair they know who you all are.”

“Urgh, Okay. Spoiling the fun. If you really wanna know, handsome, I’m a Demon. Horns, tails, and all. I possess you and I kill you from the inside. Drag ”

“We’re werewolves,” Luke said. Alan and Garth glared at him. “What? They asked.”

“And the big guy over there isn’t much of a talker,” Jessica said. “But he’s the classic slasher. Masked killer. Summer camp counselors dying one by one. He has the highest kills among us, by the way. Personally, I wouldn’t pick him. Your chances go way down the drain.”

Goliath glared at Jessica, annoyed.

Wendy, Jared, and Roy couldn’t believe their ears.

“They’re fucking insane, I tell ya,” Roy chuckled. “Are we really listening to this horseshit?!”

“So, Jared, you’re the last vote. Me or Henry?” Jessica asked.

“You’re a demon, you said?”

“Yes. The one and only.”

“Which one? Exorcist, Conjuring, Insidious, or Evil Dead?”

“Oh. Er, I never really thought about that.”

Jessica tapped her chin with her finger.

“I guess Evil Dead.”

Jared turned to the others quickly. “I choose the vampire.”