Book Five, Chapter 71

Before I opened my eyes, all I felt was a pang in my heart.

Something deeply, deeply painful was on the horizon. I didn’t know if it was the horizon in front of me or behind me, but as I sat there still breathing the air of a dream, I knew that this character I was playing was real.

They weren’t always. Most of the time, it felt like they existed within the four corners of the script alone, but in this story and some others, I knew there was more to this character.

I could never explain it to Antoine or Riley, but sometimes I could just feel it—that this was a person, a person who had lived a life and whose story I was borrowing. And her story was sad and painful and not over.

The others humored me the first few times I brought it up, but, not feeling it themselves, they didn't have much to say. I never really blamed them for that.

I was Kimberly Madison, the girl with no real problems, just the Eye Candy.

Others at Camp Dyer had reported something similar, and the Atlas talked about it, but it never said anything concrete. So a lot of players just claimed it wasn’t real, that it was in my mind, that maybe I was sensing something in the script, or I was being scripted.

After all, I had to have some role that made me worthwhile. I wasn’t a fighter, and I wasn’t a planner. I was a face, a big ball of emotion, and I was beautiful, so it must be in my head. Gentle nudgings from the script.

I opened my eyes, still groggy.

“Ma’am, I asked you if you knew how fast you were going,” a voice said with an unnatural slowness, like a memory in a dream.

With a jolt, I realized what was happening.

I found myself behind the wheel of some kind of convertible. There was no reason to try to figure out what kind because the brand names in Carousel were knockoffs.

To my left, a man stood beside my door, not much older than me. He had a long nose, red hair, and adult acne.

And he thought I was attractive. My trope, Social Awareness, told me that, but so did his eyes.

He was smiling—no, smirking.

Ever since coming to Carousel, I had met so many NPCs that stared unapologetically. This place had monsters and ghosts and all kinds of dangers, but somehow, it was the NPCs who couldn’t get their eyes off of me, who couldn’t resist the opportunity to flirt, that sent my skin crawling.

The question was, was this in their script and Carousel was forcing them to make me uncomfortable, or was it in their nature, and that was the reason Carousel picked them to begin with?

“I’m sorry, officer, I didn’t notice if I was speeding,” I said, keeping my tone light and playful. I could play a dumb blonde.

“When you rounded that curve, you were going at least 80 miles an hour. I eyeballed it. Do you know how dangerous that is?” the man asked as if he were my father—as if he wasn’t admonishing me for breaking the law but rather felt the need to scold me and teach me a lesson.

“You don’t think I was going that fast, do you?” I asked, on the verge of tears. “It’s just that I’m not used to a car with a big engine like this one.”

“This tin can does not have a big engine,” the man said. He took the bait. He had no name on the red wallpaper, but he looked like a normal NPC to me.

Officer Stares-Too-Long was the only name I knew for him, and sure enough, not long after that thought passed through my head, that was what appeared on the red wallpaper below his poster: Officer Stares-Too-Long.

“You want to see a big engine? Look behind you.”

I turned my head and saw his gas-guzzling police cruiser, about twice as long and one and a half times the width of my little convertible.

“Wow,” I said. “I bet you could chase down just about anything in that car.”

“Of course I could,” Officer Stares-Too-Long said. “I know this area like the back of my hand.”

He smiled at me, and suddenly, whatever desire he had to scold me seemed to fade away.

Flattery it was, then.

“Have you ever been in a real police chase?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t really call it a chase. I mean, I catch them so quick, you know,” he said, clearly lying. He had done nothing but write parking tickets and yell at people for littering; I was sure of it.

“Oh my gosh, I would be so scared to chase somebody down,” I said.

“It’s part of the job,” he said. “So, what brings you to Carousel? Are you going to be tubing on the river or…” He paused for a moment as he stared at something in front of me. I followed his gaze and saw a photograph tucked up under the windshield, clearly visible, of a group of people—one of whom was me—posing in front of an old, beautiful Gothic mansion.

“So you’ve been up to Witherhold Manor, huh?” he asked.

Apparently, I had.

“Yes,” I said. “It was really scary.”

“It’s not that scary,” he said. “Mostly just old. The wind howls over the busted roof and makes a whistling sound, and people get scared for nothing. We’re always chasing teenagers out of that place.”

He wasn’t that far from being a teenager himself.

“Well, you must know everything about it, then,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m from Carousel. I grew up here, and the stories about that place… Mostly just good for tourism. I’m not sure if I believe the stories about the werewolves, but there are definitely some odd things that happen in these hills.”

“Like what?” I asked, ever eager, smiling innocently.

“Hikers go missing every other year, it seems like. Sometimes they disappear forever, other times they turn back up a few months later with no memory of what happened, looking like they’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

“Do you think it has something to do with the wi—with…”

“Witherhold Manor?” he said.

“Yeah, that,” I said with an embarrassed smile.

“That depends on who you ask,” he said. “They say the place is guarded by werewolves, or ghosts, or maybe the ghosts of werewolves, I don’t know. But they’ve been coming up with rumors about that place ever since the family that built it died out. You know, in fact, that place just got sold. Some rich fellow came and bought it from the town. It was supposed to be a pretty big deal; he’s going to fix it up as a historical location. We’re supposed to stay away from it. I don’t mind. Let him chase the teenagers out.”

“You have more important things to do, right?” I asked.

“You know it,” he said.

“Well, I don’t know how fast I was going, but I promise, promise, promise that I will go the speed limit if you just let me go, just this one time,” I said.

I smiled at him, and he blushed, then said, “I’ll let you off with a warning this time, Miss…”

“Madison,” I said. “Kimberly Madison.”

“Well, Miss Madison, welcome to Carousel, and don’t you worry about those werewolves and ghosts. The most dangerous thing here is forgetting to wear your life jacket on the river.”

He smiled and laughed at his joke, and then I laughed, too. It was funny in a dorky way. Riley would have liked it.

Eventually, he walked back to his squad car and left me sitting in my convertible on the side of the road.

Witherhold Manor, huh?

That entire interaction was Off-Screen.

I hated it when that happened; I hated wasting my charm—not that I had to use a lot.

He was a normal NPC, so my Moxie versus his… I’d win every time. But sometimes, NPCs are a little more complicated than that. Sometimes, they have their own tropes, and it’s not just about having high Moxie. You also have to have a good story, play your role well, and hope that whatever trope they have, you’ll still come out on top.

Officer Stares-Too-Long was not a complicated NPC; he was just there to help introduce me to the world of the story—a story about werewolves and forests and ghosts from the sound of it.

I looked over at the seat next to me and saw my purse on top of a map that showed me where I was supposed to go. I scrounged around the car, looking for clues about who I was. The first thing you were supposed to do in a Storyline was figure out more about the character you were playing.

And I was playing a survivor.

More than that, I was playing a Final Girl. I had a picture of myself in front of the manor that the map said I was driving toward, and I had a newspaper clipping about a tragic accident and the mysterious deaths of high school students—all except for one survivor, Kimberly Madison.

I read through it and stared at the pictures of the victims, memorizing their names: John, Tomas, Sarah, Jesslyn, and two or three others whose names had not yet been revealed, at least at the time the article was written.

As I scrounged around for more clues, I found a letter in a beautiful envelope.

Witherhold Manor
Carousel, October 14, 1982

Dear Ms. Kimberly Madison,

I hope this letter reaches you as a spark in the dark, as I understand well the weight of the work you have undertaken. My name is Egan Kirst, known to some in the business world, though I suspect that world is of little interest to someone as committed as yourself. Allow me to be more direct: I am a lifelong admirer of the truth—and I believe our paths are aligned.

It was through your interview in Frontier Watch that I first became aware of your strength and dedication. To have survived, then found a way to confront and expose a world that others either ridicule or refuse to see—well, few can claim to have done so with such conviction. You have not only survived but become a beacon, a rare champion for those who are otherwise silenced, not to mention a splendid hunter in your own right.

It is with that in mind that I extend an invitation to you, one that I believe carries particular significance. I am hosting a gathering on the evening of October 31st at Witherhold Manor here in Carousel. As you may recall, the manor borders the woods where your life was irrevocably changed. And though the years have passed, the land’s stories remain as mysterious—and as potent—as ever. I imagine this invitation may feel like a return of sorts. In truth, it is my hope that together we can delve into the questions left unanswered since that night.

The evening promises both good company and invaluable perspective; several of the invited guests have experience with similar, let’s say, matters. But it is your unique insight, your ability to see through the veils and expose the truth, that Witherhold truly awaits. I will be providing a substantial honorarium—$2,500—as well as full arrangements for your travel and stay, though I suspect the mysteries of the manor may provide the richest incentive of all.

Should you choose to accept, please respond by way of the courier who delivered this letter. I believe this is more than just a gathering, Ms. Madison. It is an opportunity for truth, perhaps even for resolution. And Witherhold, I am certain, will be waiting.

Yours in truth and admiration,
Egan Kirst
CEO, KRSL Corporation
Host of Witherhold Manor

A dinner party—that explained why I was wearing the dress. My history with that location explained why I had shorts underneath and flats that were good for running, second only to actual athletic shoes. The werewolf thing explained why I found a silver letter opener tied to my inner thigh.

I was prepared for things to go bad.

After I’d searched the car for any other clues, I began driving toward Carousel, not knowing exactly where my character’s story was leading.

I was filled with a lot of nervous excitement that did not belong to me.

And a little that did.

~-~

I arrived in town five hours before the dinner party was to start. That meant one thing—it was time to start talking to people.

That was what I brought to the table. Antoine could fight, Riley could see tropes and come up with plans, and I could be the center of attention. I could let the audience get to know me, maybe even like me, as much as I resented needing that.

So, that’s what I set about doing: just talking to people. I parked my car at a small motel and wandered from place to place, looking for NPCs who might engage with me.

It was nerve-wracking.

In some ways, it was scarier than walking alone in the woods, knowing a monster could be lurking. But the fear here was different. As I looked through the crowds of hikers, swimmers, and fishermen, I worried I would miss something or not do well enough.

I was always afraid to let the others down.

That fear started to rear its ugly head as I failed, time after time, to get anyone to talk to me in a meaningful way—not like the officer had, with his flood of information.

They spoke, sure, but in short, unremarkable ways, never letting the conversation unfold. That was the telltale sign: when people just kept talking, as long as you kept pulling the thread, you knew you were onto something.

After two hours of chatting with cashiers and drunk teenagers heading for the river, I felt like I was failing entirely.

I hadn’t even been On-Screen for more than a few seconds at a time. What was I doing wrong? I tried to think it through. The plot cycle was still at the very beginning of the Party Phase, so it wasn’t too late—but I needed to get a move on. I needed to figure out why Carousel had dropped me here.

As I pondered this, walking on a thin, worn sidewalk along the road, a woman with a flattering pixie cut waved to me.

She was just an ordinary NPC—a waitress, in fact—and she waved me over to take a seat at a small diner with outdoor benches and picnic tables.

I was so eager for an interaction that I practically ran over, and as soon as I sat down, I was On-Screen. That meant I hadn’t screwed up yet.

“What’ll you have?” she asked as if she hadn’t just waved me over and was a little annoyed to see me.

“Just some French fries,” I said.

The formerly friendly waitress gave me a look of disdain like she hated her job. She rolled her eyes and said, “It’ll be just a minute.”

As strange as it was, I liked those moments when I caught a glimpse of what might be the "real" person, watching her put on this facade of annoyance. But that was the last time I would speak to her. I had no real scene here.

Why was I brought to this place? Was I supposed to have said something else?

I looked around, hoping to make eye contact with someone.

From my spot on the bench, I could see across the street to the motel parking lot where my convertible sat. A cluster of teenagers hung around, but none were messing with my car. Beyond the motel was a trailhead leading down into the woods and eventually to the river—I’d seen it while wandering around, looking for interactions.

And then, I saw what I’d been meant to find.

I saw a dead woman.

Knowing immediately what I needed to do, I stood up from the bench, squinting to get a better look. Beyond the motel was a group of hikers with beach towels draped over their shoulders, and beyond them was a trio who looked like they’d just come from a grungy music festival.

In the center of them was a woman with long black hair, red lips—red as blood—and bare feet. She walked with a sure, confident stride.

“Sarah!” I screamed.

This was my character’s friend from the article I’d found in my car—one of the friends who was supposed to be dead.

I screamed her name again, louder, and this time she looked at me. Our eyes met, and we just stared at each other On-Screen.

Social Awareness told me she remembered me. It told me she had strong feelings, but I couldn’t tell what they were. She looked like an ordinary NPC, but according to Social Awareness, her Moxie level was 7, which was strong enough to resist my insight trope a bit.

She was hiding something, but I couldn’t say what. Lots of NPCs had higher Moxie than their Plot Armor would suggest. Carousel used them to manipulate players without them knowing.

NPCs had a trope that hid their Moxie and didn’t apply it to their effective Plot Armor. It didn’t ever come up unless you were interacting with them in a very specific way, a way related to their purpose in the story.

I started moving toward her.

“Ma’am, your French fries,” the waitress called after me, having conveniently delivered them just as I spotted my supposedly dead friend. But I ignored her.

I called Sarah’s name again. As I ran to cross the street, a car suddenly honked, tires squealing on the pavement. I swore I’d been watching where I was going, yet this car had come out of nowhere, trapping me on my side of the road just long enough for Sarah and the two men with her to vanish without a trace.

When the car passed, I looked around, panicking, trying to evoke the emotions my character must be feeling.

“Sarah!” I called out one last time, but she was gone. And the scene was over. And the story was just beginning.