Book Five, Chapters 67 and 68

After about ten minutes of driving, I finally connected with a familiar road—a road that normally led to the Powerworks Pavilion. But this time, as I drove along, I saw that I was supposed to turn left onto a small road leading further uphill, one that had been washed out when we’d been here before.

There was a simple sign showing the way to the Manor. The other road, the one we usually traveled down, seemed to lead to a quarry instead of a space base/power station. I suspected they had shut it down a long time ago because the sign was so rotten I could barely read it.

So, up the mountain I drove.

I glanced at my watch and realized I was making good time. I suspected that time itself was being toyed with, but I couldn’t prove it.

The further I drove, the more signs of the estate I began to see: old, crumbling walls, a well surrounded by a gazebo, wind chimes, and other decorations hanging from the trees. I began to realize that, in a way, autumn had made its first strike here at the top of the mountain, even though everywhere else, summer still had a little fight left in it.

It was dreary and damp. Perfect for an abandoned manor.

I drove onward until I reached a gate guarded by three armed men. One of the men glanced down at a clipboard and walked up to my window as I arrived.

"Name?" he asked as I rolled down my window.

"Riley Lawrence," I said.

"Drive right on through, sir. Stick to the right and park in front of the big house."

I nodded and forward I went. They didn’t even check my ID. What kind of security were they?

The gate's presence had tricked me. I had assumed I was almost there, but I still had another mile to go.

Then I saw it as I rounded a curve.

At first, I noticed the large fountain in front of the house, which had probably not had running water in many, many years. But it was beautiful, featuring a sort of angel—or perhaps a naiad—dancing in the water that didn’t run, playfully being chased by a wolfhound, all of it tarnished by time and neglect.

I drove onward, noticing that there was a placard on the fountain that I’d need to get closer to read, but I’d have to park my car first.

I saw Kimberley’s convertible and Antoine’s truck parked and decided to find a place next to them.

I got out of my car and set myself on a path back toward the fountain, intent on reading whatever inscription I had spied from the road.

When I got there, I was met with a simple poem:

"In twilight's rest, our darling sleeps,
The chain of sorrow, love still keeps."

"Bound no more by moon's embrace,
She finds her peace in silent grace."

"Beyond the bars of night and grief,
Her spirit soars, at last, released."

"In hallowed earth, where shadows lie,
We leave our love, a soft goodbye."

All I could say was, "Huh. That's interesting."

I stared up at the woman I had at first believed to be an angel but now saw as a beloved and indomitable spirit of a young daughter, probably taken too soon.

After a quick scan to see if there was an opening to an underground vault or something, I walked back toward my car and looked at my watch again, realizing I had more time before I had to go inside.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go into the spooky, old, gothic mansion; I just didn’t want to miss something out here.

So, I went back to my car and opened up the trunk, and thank goodness I did. What I was met with was a milk crate—the old wooden kind—filled with tape reels in little metal canisters, each labeled with a title written on a piece of tape. I shuffled through them and immediately knew that most of them didn’t matter, and I knew that because the three that did matter appeared in my head on the red wallpaper.

The only way I could figure it was that, like all the other information I had gotten so far, this was information my character would absolutely already know, and that by checking the trunk, I had  gained access to it.

I let the tapes in my mind start to play, beginning with one labeled Background Info: Werewolf Soft Springs 1985.

The tape was of an interview done with an older woman who spoke about the lore of werewolves. I was rubbing my hands together as I watched it; I must have looked like a real fool, but this was great stuff.

You have to learn the basics of how a werewolf works in the universe of the movie you’re in.

These werewolves had a lot of typical qualities, like hating silver.

According to the woman, as she showed off what appeared to be a friendship bracelet made of silver, werewolves were particularly sensitive to the metal. Then she went on with more details, like the magical connection between wolves of a pack or that a werewolf will remember you for decades.

In fact, she claimed that the same werewolf had visited her every few years since she was a little girl.

Someone with my voice asked her why. That was even creepier than Carousel copying my handwriting.

She said it was because it was her brother who went missing when they were children.

That would have sounded kooky if someone in the real world said it.

I could only imagine what it would be like to try to find the truth about something supernatural in a world where magic existed but was denied by the public at large. It would be hard to sort through what was real and what was nonsense.

But if I were to make a guess based on the way the woman spoke, she really was being visited by her werewolf brother.

She went on to list a few other details like the curse being spread by saliva. And she said something peculiar to wrap up the short interview: "All werewolves are in love. That’s why they howl at the moon."

That was a new one for me.

That was the whole tape, and while I wanted to watch the others, my time ran out. I took a look up at the Manor and quickly walked toward the front door.

It opened before I even had a chance to knock on the old, rusted knocker, which was just a round metal loop inside the mouth of a wolf, appropriately enough.

"Mr. Lawrence," a tall, olive-skinned man said to me with a polite smile while I still held my hand in the air, reaching for the knocker like an idiot.

On the red wallpaper, his name was Duval, Mr. Duval.

"Hello, I got an invitation to be here tonight," I said, holding up my envelope.

"You did, Mr. Lawrence, and I am so pleased that you arrived," he said. He didn’t stick out his hand for me to shake; his hands were firmly at his sides as he bowed in greeting.

He was an old-fashioned butler.

As I walked past him to get inside, I started to wonder if perhaps there was going to be a murder and if he was the one who did it.

"The other guests are in the gentleman’s parlor," he said. "I must make further arrangements for tonight’s dinner if you’ll excuse me."

I nodded and smiled as if to release him from whatever bounds of servitude a butler signed on for.

I took a look around the Manor, just taking things in.

My first observation was that there was no electricity. The place was wired, but for whatever reason, the electric lights—antique and beautiful, though covered in dust and cobwebs—were not on.

Lanterns were placed around the entrance area. Was that called a foyer or a lobby? I couldn’t remember, but it was a grand, large area that would have been quite beautiful if not for a hundred years without maid service.

Large shelves were placed here and there with books that appeared to be authentic from the time period rotting right on the shelves. They had not done much to clean up around the place except sweep paths between the rooms.

This was going to be a real, authentic glamping experience.

There were three rooms leading from the entryway, and I decided to pick one at random. By luck, I found the gentleman’s parlor, where three guests were already there, looking awkwardly at me as I entered the room.

We were On-Screen.

"Hello," I said, trying to pretend my character had people skills. "Riley Lawrence."

The first person to greet me was a Dr. Andrew Hughes, who crossed the room with grace and authority, extending his hand for me to shake.

"If you have any doubts about your choice to come this evening," he said, "you should know that the whiskey is almost as old as the house—and smooth as the Carousel River."

"That’s good," I said, not quite matching Andrew's tone. "Need a little booze to exchange our ghost stories, don’t we?"

"I don’t know if we’ll need it, but we definitely have it," Kimberly Madison said from across the room.

She and Antoine were standing next to each other awkwardly as if they were choosing not to speak to start their On-Screen relationship slowly.

"So, does anyone know what the deal is? Are we really here just to talk about werewolves?" I asked.

"That's all anyone wants to talk about with me," Kimberly said. "Why should the richest man in the world be any different?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

We were On-Screen, so I couldn't ask questions like, Where's Lila or Michael? or, maybe more importantly, What exactly is the countdown that we were supposed to be racing against?

Instead of talking about what we were doing there as players, we started feeding lines to Carousel that it might use to help set up the werewolf situation.

"So, can you believe we're actually in the Witherhold Manor?" I said. "I mean, you trace werewolf lore—no matter how far back you go—it comes through here. You’d almost think that werewolves died off before the 1800s and then popped up again in little old Carousel out of nowhere."

That was something the old lady had told me in the film I watched, but now I could repeat it and sound smart and informed.

"I have little interest in lore or superstition," Andrew said. "Kirst told me he had an intact claw from a werewolf. I may be a sucker for it, but I packed a bag immediately."

"Physical evidence is hard to come by," I said, just piecing things together. "That's why I always like to capture things on film. I figure the more people learn about the dangers we all know about, the better."

"People don't want to know about the dangers we know about," Antoine said. "You could show it to them, and they’d choose not to believe it. People want to feel safe, and you can't feel safe once you know werewolves exist, once you know that your life is a hunt, and you're either the hunter or the prey, and you won't know till the end."

That was a very intense choice for Antoine to go with. I liked it—Carousel must have given him a pretty heavy backstory.

We spoke some more, mostly with one-liners like the ones we had done already. It wasn't until Kimberly got one in that the story started to move forward again.

She said, "I've been running from werewolves since I was a teenager. Never thought I would be back here, but you can't run from your problems forever. It'll be nice to tell my story to people that believe me for a change."

And that was it. Duval, the butler, opened the door and asked us to reenter the entryway.

When we did, we found Michael standing next to a man named Hawk Kipling. Hawk had a plot armor of 30 and a bunch of tropes that I couldn't see. Apparently, it was the situation where a Paragon had gotten scaled down to my level for this storyline.

To describe Hawk, I could say that I knew immediately he was the Monster Hunter Paragon—and that wasn't just because I had read about him in the Atlas. He had a giant knife on one hip and a gun on the other. He wore what was probably the coolest-looking fanny pack I had ever seen, which I could only imagine was filled with monster-hunting gear. He wore tough boots, jeans, and a large jacket, the kind ranchers used to wear. To top it all off, he had… well, it wasn't a cowboy hat, but it was definitely in the family of cowboy hats.

I couldn't tell what era his character was supposed to be from, but I could tell from the look on his face that he had experienced a lot of violence and action and was ready for more.

Having an advanced archetype Paragon in the story was very useful information because it told us that his advanced archetype was being used to modify this story, turning this, whatever it was, into a hunt. I had experience with that because Arthur had done the same thing with the grotesques.

We had a fight ahead of us, but I had to know that already—because, werewolves, duh.

"Mr. Kirst will be with you shortly," the butler said as he left us in the entryway.

We were On-Screen, so again, no talking, no comparing notes out of character. But we could still compare notes in character.

"I thought he had gathered some people that wanted to talk to us," I said. "Where are the guests? This is supposed to be a speaking engagement or something."

"He didn’t tell me anything about a speaking engagement," Antoine said. "He was looking for advice on killing werewolves."

We looked at each other, confused.

"What did he tell you this was?" I asked Kimberly.

"Same as you," she said. "We were supposed to talk to some guests of his."

"Well, maybe we should ask for half of our pay up front," I said.

At least Andrew laughed at my joke as he went to greet Michael, whose character he had not been introduced to yet. Michael shook his hand, playing the strong, silent type from what I could tell. Even as Andrew introduced himself, Michael simply said "hello" and didn’t respond further.

Before we could make much small talk, however, the man of the hour decided to make an entrance.

At first, I heard clapping from above us, upstairs, and then I saw him appear at the top of the stairs and begin to walk downward, slowly, deliberately.

"I have before me some of the greatest minds in paranormal investigation that the world has ever known. I'm just getting goosebumps at the thought of it," he said.

“It occurred to me that monster hunters of all stripes are rather lonely creatures, aren’t they? Always choosing to travel alone, to live alone, to pursue the darkness alone. So, I thought to myself, How much could we get done if I just gathered together some of the best paranormal minds and really set them to task discussing their occupation?”

"I was very selective in my choice for this inaugural dinner. Antoine Stone," he said, "probably the most prolific hunter of evil creatures known to man. I spoke to a sheriff’s deputy who swore up and down that Mr. Stone saved him from a vampire infestation that nearly killed an entire town."

He left a pause in his speech as he continued walking down the stairs. Antoine didn’t respond, and I didn’t think he was meant to; the pause was there so we could all stare at Antoine and get a good look at the man who could do such a thing.

"And, of course, Riley Lawrence. In a world where dangers see fit to stay hidden, this man shines a light on them. Your work is incredibly important, and of course, I would love to consider myself a patron."

He reached the bottom of the stairs and came to shake my hand. That’s when I got a really good look at him, and frankly, I just didn’t get it.

I had pictured something in my mind when I thought about the idea of an eccentric billionaire, but what stood before me was a man of means but also a man of practicality. He was not dressed up in a tux or anything like that; instead, he wore a simple sports coat and a button-up shirt with no tie, unbuttoned enough that his chest hair was visible.

He didn’t look like the soft-handed fool who would throw his money at people chasing monsters in the dark for his own entertainment, and yet, when he spoke, that’s exactly what he was—a huge fan.

He wore a short mustache and a humble hairstyle. While I was sure his clothes were high quality, they did not look flashy. He just looked like a normal guy—or perhaps as normal as a wealthy CEO could look.

He looked friendly. The only thing about him that gave me pause was that his plot armor was the same as mine, despite him being an NPC. However, unlike Hawk Kipling, he did not appear to be a Paragon.

"Doctor Andrew Hughes," he said after shaking mine and then Antoine’s hand. "I can only imagine the frustration of a man of science trying to understand a creature whose entire existence seems to fade from the fabric of reality whenever the sun rises."

"Well, it certainly hasn’t done much for my career as a medical doctor," Andrew said.

"Oh, I could only imagine. Tell me, how did you first become aware of the existence of werewolves? No, wait—tell me that over dinner. Remind me about it later; I’m sure that you have many wonderful stories."

He shook Andrew’s hand and then went to shake Hawk Kipling’s, with nothing but the phrase, "And Mr. Kipling here needs no introduction, I’m sure—not in this room. The world’s greatest Monster Hunter."

"The greatest living one, at least," Hawk said, his voice deep but playful.

"Mr. Brookes," he said, turning to Michael, "thank you and thank your people. I would never want to investigate the werewolf curse of Carousel without one of Carousel’s own here. I am sure that the oral histories of your people and the knowledge passed down will make this conversation far more productive."

He didn’t shake Michael’s hand; he acted as if it would have been rude to do so. Michael was Native American, but I guessed in this story he was native Carousel-ian. I wasn’t sure, so I decided not to focus on it.

"And last but not least, the girl who lived," he said, turning to Kimberly. "I read your account of that harrowing event, and I could hardly take a breath during it—it was that compelling. Now, I looked at the police records, and they’re claiming that your friends all died of hypothermia or some similar nonsense and then were scavenged upon by wild animals, which would explain all the claw marks. But you and I know the truth—and the rest of us do, too. And maybe, after tonight’s dinner, we can find a way to make sure that everyone knows the truth."

Kimberly was hit by the intensity of Mr. Kirst’s comments as if a gale of wind had just struck her. She reacted at first with surprise at how blunt he was being, but then with a polite smile, and she said, "I’d like that."

"Well, if that is everything," Mr. Kirst said, "I suppose all that’s left to do is eat and discuss. As you may have guessed, I am the special person you have been brought here to speak to, and I intend to learn as much as I can."

~-~

Mr. Kirst led us to a small dining room with a single window.

"You’ll have to forgive me; the formal dining room is currently flooded," he said.

The dining room we were in was probably the nicest in the house. There were very few signs of a hundred years without affection; in fact, it only looked like it had been abandoned for fifty years. If we had to sleep in the Manor for this storyline, this would be the room to do it in.

There was a large round wooden table with place settings ready to go and little name cards for each of us, showing us where to sit.

"I chose a round table because I want this to be a conversation. I don’t want you to try to defer to me just because I’m your host," Mr. Kirst said. "And I hope you’ll notice that the silverware is genuine silver. There could be nothing less for a conversation like the one we’re about to have."

As we walked in, we were still On-Screen, but Kimberly managed to elbow me and point to the painting on the wall of the dining room. It wasn’t quite the painting we had brought. It wasn’t The Omen.

It was a larger version of The Omen. Where the one we had purchased at the flea market only showed the woman’s head and enough of her torso to display her necklace, this one was a full-body portrait of her standing next to a window with a beautiful watery vista.

Still, the silver necklace was probably the most detailed and beautiful part of the painting.

It had no inscription or title that I could see, and when I asked Mr. Kirst about it, he simply said, "Oh, yes, that came with the house. You’d be shocked to know that the looters actually left some good stuff. Perhaps the best home defense is a reputation for being haunted."

I had to give it to him—Mr. Kirst was funny, always ready with a quip. Throughout much of the dinner, he showed himself to be a very curious man who could keep a conversation flowing masterfully.

He asked us about our experiences, and we told him to the best of our ability. Sometimes we were On-Screen, sometimes Off-Screen, as Carousel got its footage of the conversation and the charismatic, strange man who had brought us there.

"So, in all of your travels, you’ve never found a cure?" Mr. Kirst asked with childlike intensity. "Not one potion, not one spell?"

"The cure is silver," Antoine said.

"But that kills the werewolf," Mr. Kirst replied.

"Like I said, the cure," Antoine responded.

"Oh, I see. So you would never make an attempt to return an afflicted back to their human form? You’ve never even considered it?" Andrew asked wine glass in hand.

"Never had the time," Antoine said. "Of course, I don’t study them in a lab. I’m usually running after them in the woods."

That got a laugh.

"Of course, I know the legends," Antoine continued. "To revert a werewolf to its human form permanently, you have to kill the wolf who turned them, but I don’t believe it. It can be hard to sort the chaff from the wheat when it comes to this sort of thing."

"No," Hawk Kipling said. "Not the werewolf that turned them; you have to kill the pack leader. All werewolves are bound to their pack leader, and if you kill their pack leader before the curse has taken hold, they will be freed from it."

"It didn’t take us long to get away from the scientific, did it?" Mr. Kirst asked Andrew with a laugh.

"It rarely does," Andrew responded. "Unfortunately, this space is dominated by folklore and very little study."

We were eating some kind of roast with carrots that tasted like honey while discussing werewolves at length. The conversation was quite riveting, actually, because everyone had been given different bits of lore, and we were all discussing them.

As soon as we started, I had my tapes playing in the background of my mind, casually listening. They were similar to the first tape, just interviews with folks who had lived long enough to have seen some things and heard some things—nothing hard-hitting.

"Now, what say your people?" Mr. Kirst asked, looking at Michael.

"We say the best cure is to never get bit, to never kiss strange women around the campfire, and to always wear silver," Michael said, showing a necklace he wore with an unformed lump of silver dangling from the end. “That’s as close to a cure as you’re going to get unless you’re chasing fairy dust.”

"What is it with silver?" Mr. Kirst asked, taking a large drink from his wine glass. "Why silver? Why does it have some interaction with werewolves? Does anyone have any idea?"

"Silver does have antimicrobial qualities," Andrew offered. "Perhaps the werewolf virus is particularly weak to its presence. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find an intact tissue sample from a werewolf."

"The damn things keep turning back into human samples, don’t they?" Hawk asked.

"As you say," Andrew answered.

"I’m sure that you didn’t have the presence of mind to do tests on that werewolf who shifted while you were operating on them like you were telling us about?" Mr. Kirst asked.

Andrew had told a story of performing surgery on a car accident victim who went wolf in the hospital.

"I didn’t, I confess," Andrew said. "I was afraid for my life and wondering how I was going to get my scalpel back after the beast’s flesh regrew around it."

Werewolves in this story could be drawn out of their human forms when injured.

More laughter. It was a genuinely good time.

"Well, I only asked if you knew a way to revert a werewolf to its human form permanently because I know that Christian Stone—your brother, Antoine—was a hunter who got bitten on one of his hunts, correct?" Mr. Kirst asked.

Silence.

"That was the risk we signed on for. Our dad always told us that you should only want to be alive or dead, nothing in between," Antoine said.

I don’t know where people got off calling werewolves undead, but that was often a category they were put into.

"But you didn’t even think for one moment about curing him?" Kimberly asked.

"By the time I knew he needed curing, it was too late to even think about it," Antoine said. "What’s done is done."

This was a great acting job from Antoine.

"A sad recollection," Mr. Kirst said, "a sad sentiment. More than a few at this table know the same. Miss Madison, would you care to tell us your tale again in your own words now that the conversation has started flowing?"

Kimberly, who had barely touched her food, placed her fork down beside her plate.

"I remember everything," she said, "but nowadays, I don’t really tell the whole story. When people think that you lost your mind in grief, they’re okay with tolerating a simple, vague story—they never want details. I was camping with my friends at an abandoned summer camp.

"We got attacked in the night, and my friends didn’t make it. I did, but I had help," she said. "Those monsters were just tearing the place apart because they could. There’s no way I could have survived. I wish I had more to tell you than that, but truthfully, that’s exactly what happened. It was a fun getaway in the woods, and then suddenly, people were just killed, and those monsters were all around. I kept myself locked away in one of the lodges. Then I heard yelping. When morning came, I went outside to see my friends, who had been mauled, and some naked people with silver bullet holes and stuffed bellies. And I found Antoine getting ready to go hunt down the ones that got away. I’ve been looking for people with stories like mine ever since."

She looked up at Antoine, and they shared a moment, locking eyes. Antoine didn’t say anything, but it should have been clear to anyone in the audience that they had a romantic history if it wasn’t already.

"Well, that is an amazing story," Mr. Kirst said. "Might I throw something by you—a rumor I heard about the cure for the werewolf curse?"

He paused as if we were going to say no.

"See, what I’ve always heard in all of my studies—my quite extensive studies as of late—was that the only way to reverse the curse is to kill the pack leader before the very next full moon. That’s when the curse sets in: the next full moon," he said, looking at Hawk as if completing the lore Hawk had presented. "In fact, I have something in my possession that I would love to show you. We could call it an experiment, but I like to think of it as a desperate last attempt. I’ll be right back."

And so he got up from the table and left the small dining room.

And we were left to wait On-Screen.

The longer we waited, the more concerned I became. Were we supposed to be talking? Perhaps but the plot cycle was moving forward, however slowly, which meant that we were just supposed to stay there and wait. But what were we waiting for?

"Oh my god," Kimberly said. Somehow, she was the first to notice.

She pointed up at the vents at the top of the room. A thin white gas snaked down from them. No sooner did we see it than we started to cough and feel its effects.

It fried my brain almost immediately. I was useless.

We began panicking, screaming, asking what was going on.

Our first thought was to try to leave the room, but when we went to the door, we found it locked and barred from the other side.

Antoine, with all his might, began beating on the door while Michael went to the window nearby. He found that while he could smash it, it was shuttered and, therefore, not usable for escape.

Perhaps with enough time, we could have gotten out; we had a lot of mettle in that room, after all.

But we didn’t have time because the smoke was making us drowsy.

In fact, by the time I felt I had my wits together, it was too late. I felt myself getting sleepy, and the "unconscious" light on the red wallpaper started to light up.

Adrenaline and fear kept me awake long enough to realize that it could be that simple—that this could be the end.

Had we just gotten postered?

"Why is he doing this?" Antoine said. "Why poison us?"

"It’s not poison," I said. "It’s knockout gas." But I didn’t get to say much more than that because my Grit was lower than some of the others in the room, and I soon found myself slinking to the floor.

I was out and at the mercy of Egan Kirst.