The Cabin Is Always Hungry (A Dungeon Core Horror Slasher)

LAST RESORT
Part 21

Duke Henry Duncan landed softly in the gardens, his nice black leather shoes barely stirring the gravel path. The air was damp, fragrant with late-autumn breeze, leaves darkening like bruises at the sides of the path. He folded himself into the wrought-iron chair he had placed earlier in the night, deliberate in his comforts. The round metallic table beside him gleamed faintly under the moonlight, an altar of indulgence: a chilled bottle of sweet red, sweating against the night air; a covered plate of fresh pig's liver, neatly diced inside a cooler; a three-tiered dessert tray filled with pastel macarons; and a plastic blood bag, still chilly when Roy had delivered it hours ago in the same cooler, labeled O+.

Henry held the bag up to the moonlight, admiring the viscous slosh of it, then upended it into his glass of wine. The blend swirled, dark on darker, the tang of iron cutting through the sweetness. He swirled the mixture lazily with his fingers, brought it to his lips, and drank deep. A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he closed his eyes.

From inside the manor, muffled and distorted, came the sound of screaming. Pleas, shrieks, the sickening edge of panic. They carried through the manor's thick walls as if funneled to him alone. He smiled, and tipped back the wine glass again.

"You are not hunting?" Demon asked from behind him.

Henry didn't flinch as if he knew she had always been there. "I'm letting the hounds have fun tonight."

"How very generous of you," Demon drawled sarcastically.

"The Sawyers have been itching for a hunt ever since they've stepped foot in the dungeon. This is me extending an olive branch."

"Ah," Demon said, folding her arms. "The famous blood feud."

Henry hummed with that same decadent vibration in his chest. "You can't fault us for it. Thousands of years of instinct baked into the marrow. If there are other vampires and werewolves out there, I'm sure they'd spit to see me sharing a table with one."

"Why the hatred, anyway?" Demon asked. "Does the System give you a tragic little backstory about this rivalry?"

Henry shrugged, lips curving faintly. "Honestly? I don't know. Neither do the Sawyers. But here, at least, the dungeon neuters it. We can play house without ripping each other's throats out. Maybe vampires and werewolves are just built to hate each other for no reason. After all, we are after the same prey."

"And meanwhile, the puppies are tearing through your expensive décor."

"They can be replaced," Henry said flatly. "I am rich, after all." He leaned forward, the grin sharpening. "Though, I was thinking—would you like to have a bit of fun, Demon?"

Her brows arched, sly. "I'm not opposed to a good fuck."

Henry chuckled into his glass. "Oh, dear God, no. Not that."

Her smile twitched wider. "Then what?"

"Since the delvers are in my lair, I thought it would be entertaining to tell them a little about the rules. Give them the faintest sense of their predicament. It's fun when they know how truly fucked they are." He swirled his drink, thick and dark. "But I just poured myself a very good O-red. Would you like the honors?"

Demon's grin sharpened into something feral. "Can I scare them a little?"

"Of course," Henry said smoothly. "We are friends. Friends share their toys."

Demon turned on her heel and sprinted toward the manor, giddy.

Henry leaned back, glass raised, the cries from inside riding the air like an orchestra hitting its ugly crescendo. "This is why you live forever," he murmured into his drink. "For this music."

SCENARIO 4
10:15 PM
9 Hours Until Dawn
10 Delvers remaining…

Kevin opened the library door casually as if a literal werewolf didn't just tried to attack them outside. When he's got a Glock on his hand, all the worries about a monster almost went away. Almost. The manor's thick walls had given him an arrogant sense of confidence.

Sheila followed behind him. She was more cautious than Kevin and paranoid even at her own shadow. The flashlight from her iPhone stretched long across the carpet, catching the edges of the bookshelves, gilt spines winking like teeth, and little specks of dust.

The library was empty.

Jessica should have been on that reading chair, waiting like a scared dog. But the reading chair was bare. The ropes lay slack on the floor like a bundle of dead snakes.

"She's gone." Sheila bent, touched the rope, dropped it like it burned her fingers. "You think she called the cops?"

Kevin's frown didn't shift. He reviewed in his mind how Jessica had been acting in the past hour. People like that were never as helpless as they looked, right? Were she playing them? I should have known. It creeped him out when Jessica quickly switched her emotions when she was opening the vault, but he was too excited to delve deep into it. I can't believe I didn't see it before, he thought.

"I get the feeling she didn't," he said. And left it at that. How come I'm getting the feeling she knows we were coming all along? The thought echoed in the back of his mind. He just couldn't explain how and why.

Sheila pressed on, not getting it yet. "Why not? I would. Unless she's the one who pushed Ray—" She cut herself off, because how did you square that with the claw marks? The skin shredded like paper. A human couldn't do that. "Unless that thing's really inside the house?" she whispered. "What if it's here, and Lope—"

"Lope's fine. He's got a gun."

"Yeah? But are we safe?"

"Relax. I don't want you freaking out right now."

"Don't treat me like I'm unreasonable. I hate it when you do that."

"Let's just get to the vault, okay? Stop panicking. We're fine, babe."

Sheila didn't believe that for a second, and Kevin knew it. He just didn't want to hear her complain more. He didn't like not being in control of the situation, and the way Sheila was looking at him made him more annoyed the longer the feeling lingered. He tried to ignore it, but couldn't for the life of him. He had no patience for women who kept pestering him with irrelevant questions. He preferred them quiet. Once I'm out of here, I'll consider breaking things up with her. If not only for that ass, he thought.

But she was persistent. "Maybe Jessica's hiding in the panic room with Roy."

Kevin's eyes swept the room, landed on the vault, wide open like a mouth begging to be fed. "Or maybe she went snooping, too. Curious what her master was hiding."

"You think she knew about about the weird animal outside?"

"Why would she?"

"Um, because her employer owns half the mountain? And she lives here?"

"They've only been here for a few of months. I doubt he knows everything around here, unlike us locals." Kevin shrugged and walked toward the vault doors. "For all we know, it could be some wild animal that just wandered into the property. Oregon's weird that way. Half of the Cascade is still untamed."

"Well, it's a really big wolf."

"Don't worry about that now. It's outside."

"Are you sure? What got Ray then?"

"Just stop asking questions and be quiet. You're distracting me."

Sheila folded her arms. She wanted to bite back, but Kevin currently carried a gun, and she didn't want to push it.

The Selection Chamber yawned around them. Kevin stepped in first, shoulders set, Glock loose in his grip. His eyes darted, hungry for the treasure he had been salivating for the past three weeks.

He'd been building this place up in his head all night: the vault of Duke Henry Duncan, the payoff for the shitty cards life had dealt him. The three weeks of planning, all the sweat, the deception, and yes, even blood, now lead to this moment. Gold bars stacked like bricks. Stacks of hundred dollar bills wrapped in plastic, waiting for a man bold enough to take it. He could see himself wheeling it out, piling it in Daryl's truck, peeling off to some nowhere town where he'd never have to work ever again. Somewhere nice and warm like Brazil or Morocco. Hell, why not go further east than that like Thailand?

Instead, he saw an empty chamber.

An empty—

—fucking—

—chamber.

Kevin's face curdled. "You gotta be shitting me."

He paced around the room, every step sharper than the last. "Where's my money?! All I see is some flea market piece of trash!" He gestured wildly to the hourglass. "Where is it?!"

The other six archetype doors were already gone from the chamber. Only the werewolf door remained.

Sheila stepped in after Kevin. Her phone light brushed across the stone floor, the pedestal, the strange hourglass perched on top of it. She found herself walking toward the device before she realized her feet were moving.

The glass seemed to pulse faintly, catching the phone's light. Golden white sand spilled slowly through the narrow neck. She lifted her hand, hovering just over the curve of the glass. Inches away, her fingertips tingled, a prickle racing up her arm, like the object had its own heat—its own heartbeat. She pulled back before her fingers could graze along its surface, heart thudding like she'd almost backed off a ledge and a very long fall.

"Why would Henry have a vault for only an hourglass? Could it be an antique? Maybe worth millions?" Sheila asked Kevin, trying to make sense of it.

"This doesn't make any fucking sense. That should not be the only thing in here. When we were snooping around a week ago, I saw really old paintings, some valuables that looked fucking expensive, and I swear I even saw a stack of cash!"

"I mean, look around, babe. Did you make sure it was cash?"

"Honey, I'm not stupid, alright? Don't look at me like that. I know what I saw."

"Then, where—"

"One of his security guards literally had a push cart neatly stacked with hundred dollar bills wrapped in a cellophane, they wheeled it into the elevator, brought it to the second floor and the library, and then placed it here in the vault. I saw it! I had to climb up the balcony outside to see everything!"

"Okay, okay! There's no need to shout at me, you know? I believe you."

Kevin turned around to face the wolf door. He'd already made his conclusion: if the room here didn't hold the treasure, then the treasure was behind the door. His voice was sharp, frantic. "It's in there. It has to be in there. There must be another code or control panel to open it."

Before Sheila could stop him and say not to touch anything, he shoved the wolf door open.

Kevin grinned. "Holy shit! It's already unlocked!"

He didn't hesitate to run inside.

But instead of seeing the treasures that Ray saw earlier, the illusion spell has shifted to a forest glade, which opened up where no glade should exist, the black forest wrapped tight around it, branches tangled against a swollen moon shining high above. A campfire burned low at the center, flames licking upward but giving off no heat. A few minutes ago, this room almost looked like the film set of the next Indiana Jones movie.

Now, humanoid figures circled the campfire.

Ten of them.

They weren't moving. Wax-like, frozen mid-pose. Some sat on logs, their heads tilted toward the blaze. Some stood with arms crossed, or hands shoved in pockets, gazes locked toward the firelight. A few leaned against each other, caught in casual poses.

Kevin saw himself first. A double standing just beyond the fire, head tilted, expression unreadable, wearing the same jeans, shirt, and jacket on his body right now. Even the scuff on the boot matched to the exact inch.

"Sheila, are you seeing this? That's me, right?"

Sheila's eyes skipped frantically from face to face, her stomach hollowing out as recognition landed, one by one. Vivian. Xavier. Kate. Lope. Ray. Daryl. Nina. Herself. Some Indian guy she didn't recognize.

Her double was seated on a log, knees pulled together, hands folded in her lap like a little girl playing dolls. Next to her, Kate leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her hair cascading over her face half-lit in the fire's glow. It looked like her sister was whispering something to her.

"Kate?" Sheila whispered. "This looks like…us. Um, I don't know who the hell that guy is, but—" she pointed to Suraj, "—but this is us. They're even wearing our clothes."

"What the fuck is this?" Kevin circled his own double, gun hanging loose at his side. His eyes were wide, curious, horrified all at once. "They look so real."

Sheila stepped back. "Kevin, I want to leave now, please? I don't know why Kate's in here, but fuck the money. Let's leave."

Kevin was drawn to his double, and reached out to touch the doppelgänger. But instead of his finger, he gently pressed the barrel of the gun right under his double's jaw. "This is so weird."

"Kevin! Let's go. Please." Sheila was already halfway through the doorframe, calling out to him.

"Yeah, okay! Fine." Kevin moved toward the door and Sheila shut it behind him.

"Something is seriously wrong with this house, Kev."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"Let's find the others and leave now."

"But—"

"—There's nothing here to steal!"

"But, I saw…"

"Kevin! Think about it. Henry hired you to work here, right?"

Kevin paused for a moment, wondering where she was going with it. "Yeah?"

"Why would he be moving a lot of valuable stuff when he knows there's strangers inside his house?"

"No, we're technically employed by him, so—"

But Sheila cut him off. "—still strangers, Kevin. I can't believe I haven't thought of this before, but why would Henry be moving all those money in full display knowing that you guys are around the property? It almost feels like this is all a…"

"…a trap?" Kevin finished.

Sheila nodded. "Someone's fucking with us."

"He's fucking with us."

A beat. "Do you think he knows that we are planning on robbing him all this time?"

"I had my doubts earlier, but it seems pretty clear to me now. He knows. Maybe Jessica and Roy, too. They wouldn't go to this much effort if they didn't."

"This is a problem."

"Yeah. No shit, woman."

Sheila gasped out loud. "Oh my god! Kate's with him."

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

They'd barely taken five steps out of the vault door and across the library when a sound cut through the silence, followed by low, heavy thuds. A groan that was almost human. Kevin froze, hand going back to the gun. His eyes locked with Sheila's to be quiet.

The noises grew clearer. Some shuffling, ragged breathing, a hiss of pain. Sheila's gut twisted. They were not alone. Kevin raised the gun, shoulders taut, and edged toward the archway. Sheila stayed a pace behind, turning off her phone's flashlight.

A figure staggered into view.

It was Daryl they saw first, broad shoulders bent under the weight of Ray's. Nina was across from him, arms hooked awkwardly under the man's legs. Their faces were pale, sweaty, annoyed as they both carried him across the room. Ray groaned, wincing before they heaved him onto the couch near the fireplace.

Kevin lowered his gun. "What are you doing up here?" Kevin snapped. "Thought we agreed you'd stay put downstairs."

Daryl straightened his back. He met Kevin's glare head-on. "We're sitting ducks down there. We figured this room"—he gestured broadly around the library—"was better than waiting around like bait."

"Also, we don't have weapons." Nina walked over to the cold fireplace and grabbed a fire poker. "I think this will do."

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Daryl scoffed. "What are you gonna do with that on a wolf? Poke it to death?"

"Better than not having one. Anyway, we should really start going room-to-room and make sure we lock this place down. Maybe we can find better weapons around here. Rich people have guns, right? In the movies, they always have those hunting rifles."

"I already have a gun." Kevin waved it around.

"A bigger gun, dingus."

Sheila stepped around Kevin. "Guys, there's something really weird going on in this place. We just found a very strange room in the vault, and it has—"

And then the room suddenly shifted. The fireplace, which was cold and dormant ever since they'd entered the room, erupted in flames with a whoosh. Flames licked high and wild, orange tongues casting the room in manic light. The shadows jerked alive, writhing against the walls.

Nina let out a startled cry and pointed upward.

On the mezzanine above, balancing on top of the carved iron railing, was Jessica. Her small figure silhouetted in firelight, her face unreadable. Her eyes dark and endless were locked on them.

And at her throat: the thick coil of a noose.

The rope dangled upward, twitching slightly as if stirred by an invisible breeze. Jessica's head tilted to the side, the smile on her lips razor-thin.

Sheila gasped and backed away to stand behind Nina. Kevin lifted his gun automatically, but his hand shook just slightly as fear grappled him. Ray sat up on the couch staring up at her.

Jessica didn't move. She merely watched the delvers with amusement, as the flames below roared higher, and the smell of smoke, ancient and bitter, filled the room.

Everyone was frozen, watching—or rather, waiting—for Jessica's next move.

Lope moved cautiously along the East Wing.

Every creak of the old floorboards sounded like tearing a notebook paper in a silent classroom. He gripped the Glock with both hands, not because it gave him confidence (nothing in this house could make him feel confident), but because having an empty hand would've made him feel naked. Fragile. Vulnerable.

This was a mistake. A huge mistake.

He should've trusted his gut. From the second Kevin pitched this job, Lope knew it reeked bad. Kevin, with that cocky grin and "nothing can go wrong" swagger. Sheila and Ray backing him up, selling it like a pyramid scheme. And Lope, the eternal follower, the guy who wanted to prove he wasn't just some hired muscle following Kevin like a bloodhound, that he had teeth of his own, said yes. Like any good boy will do, right? Lope? Did you get a good treat? Did you stick your tongue out for good measure? Fucking hell.

Now here he was, stalking alone through a mansion that felt less like a house and more like a mouse trap. He'd seen too many horror movies for secondary characters like him, especially a minority, to die horribly just to pad the runtime and to satiate the audience's hunger for blood. People in town kept telling stories about the asylum and how it was haunted, but he never believed them. Even if it was, he told himself that he'd never get caught inside it until he took the stupid job. Maybe he thought it wouldn't be as scary now that it got renovated into a mansion. And here he was, the dummy in a potential haunted house. He hadn't seen any ghosts yet, so, he reckoned that's good news.

And I am not going to be ghost food, Lope thought. Not tonight. Not ever. Do ghosts even eat?

He cursed under his breath. He should've bolted when he had the chance. Should've done what Vivian and Xavier did. He pictured them slipping away into the night, probably halfway to Point Hope by now. A flash of resentment burned hot in his chest. Why did they get out, and he was stuck in here?

He turned a corner. The hall here stretched long and narrow, walls suffocatingly close. With how big the manor was, he was afraid of getting lost. He couldn't shake the sensation that the house was listening, watching him.

Perhaps that's Roy. Maybe those were from the hidden security cameras that Nina disabled earlier. He wished he'd ask her where those cameras were so that he could avoid them. Too late for that. Maybe Roy had gotten to it and dismantled whatever electronic witchcraft Nina had done to their system.

Roy. Lope's lips curled back as he whispered the name.

That snake bastard. He might be local, bred and born, but he sided with the devil tonight. Knew he was hiding something. If he hadn't escaped, Lope might have offered him a cut of the money to silence him, but Kevin would be against the idea.

Though Roy was viewed as a drunk buffoon across town, he's not the kind of idiot who thought stealing from a filthy rich billionaire was the most brilliant idea. Actually, he was smart to work for him instead. Probably got some good health benefits and life insurance, too, for the trouble. Although the downside was to be worked like a slave. Billionaires didn't become rich just because they paid their employees well. Roy probably knew this house like the back of his hand, knew the secrets buried under its velvet and marble, and the stupid fucking paintings that's been creeping Lope out all night. The moment Lope find him, he'd press the barrel of the gun against the man's skull and demand answers. Answers about the creature outside. Nothing about that was natural, and Roy had worked here long enough to know something was definitely weird. Maybe strange rumors about his new boss? Who else could be inside the house that fucked up Ray?

And then Lope stopped in his tracks.

As he round another corner, half-shrouded in the gloom, something was hunched over by the window overlooking the courtyard. A shape, broad and impossibly tall, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. It didn't move. The sight of it rooted him to the floor.

Jesus Christ. What the hell is that thing?

Lope took one step back and slid behind the nearest corner, pulse jackhammering in his throat. He pressed his back against the wall, the plaster damp against his sweat-soaked shirt. His lungs begged him to take a full breath, but he kept it shallow, afraid that even the whisper of air leaving him might draw that thing closer.

He held the pistol close, but his hands shook despite himself. He adjusted his grip on the gun, checking the weight. A full mag. Good. But before he could step out to shoot, a part of his brain—the sensible part—fortunately pulled him back to the corner, and thought, maybe shooting at it was not a good idea. He was alone. That thing was huge. Had sharp claws. And he could already see how fast it was earlier. He'd be lucky to get a couple of shots in before it was on top of him and he really preferred not to get injured or bleed out tonight.

His brain went frantic, flicking through choices like a gambler down to his last chips. He could make a run for it, back toward the others, hope that thing didn't see him and that he could reach the library before it did. But that was laughable. Again, he'd seen how fast it moved.

Or he could throw himself into one of these doors. Half the rooms in this place were bedrooms. But then he'd be a rat in a shoebox with no exits, waiting for those claws to rake through wood and flesh and burst in to kill him.

Then, he went back to his first initial thought: stand his ground. Lift the Glock, squeeze, and hope all that lead actually did something. But even picturing it—the thing charging at him while he emptied the mag, maybe slowing it down, maybe not—his stomach went hollow. He wasn't suicidal. That's how the goons in horror movies die so quickly. They forget that they had the option to run away.

And I am not ghost food, he thought repeatedly.

And then he saw it. Ten feet down the wall across from him: a square panel of brushed steel, scuffed at the edges, with a hinged lip and a handle. The garbage chute. He stared at it for a beat, almost disbelieving. A bad idea, sure—but wasn't every idea in this house a bad idea?

His pulse steadied a fraction as he worked out the mechanics in his head: open the chute, crawl in, slide down far enough to disappear, and pray it didn't rattle too much to alert the creature in the next hallway. Small, dark, disgusting, but invisible. I like being invisible.

He crept forward, gun angled low; every step careful and deliberate. The carpet muffled his feet, but still, he imagined it screaming beneath him, summoning that hulking beast his way. Finally, he reached the panel, forced his trembling fingers to wrap the handle, and pulled it open. The chute yawned at him, dark and stinking of lingering rot and sanitized industrial bleach.

Lope hesitated just long enough to feel like an idiot for hesitating at all. Then he slipped the gun into his waistband, sucked in his gut, and climbed inside.

Inside the chute, the world went instantly narrow and suffocating. His shoulders scraped metal, his knees braced against the tight walls, and the air was foul. He wriggled down just far enough so that if something opened the panel, he wouldn't be staring eye-to-eye with it.

Lope reached out to grab the inner handle and pulled the panel back into place.

SCREEEEEE—

The hinge screamed. A long, rusty creak that echoed down the shaft and the hallway.

Lope froze.

Then he heard it. Out in the hall, claws tapping over the wood, a snuffling grunt, a low growl that rumbled. The sound came close and closer.

Shit!

He wiggled a couple inches down and pressed himself against the chute walls, every muscle trembling, sweat rolling into his eyes. He tried to quiet his breathing, but in that small metal coffin it felt deafening.

A heavy sniff. Then another. The beast was right outside. He could almost picture it—yellow eyes burning, head cocked, nose twitching for prey. Then the scrape of claw against steel. The chute door rattled.

Lope bit the inside of his cheek.

Don't move.

Don't breathe.

SCREEEE!

A loud shriek of tearing metal, and the panel was wrenched free, flung across the hall like cardboard. Cold air flooded the shaft, and the werewolf's arm, long and corded with muscle and fur, plunged in after him.

Lope screamed, a raw, ugly sound, as claws snagged the collar of his jacket. He thrashed, kicking at the slick metal, trying to force himself down with his palms. His jacket stretched at his throat, choking him, pulling him upward into the deadly gap. He clawed at his own clothes, ripping seams, twisting until—yes—he slipped. The fabric tore loose, and Lope slid downward, scraping his elbows against the wall to stop his fall all the way down to the darkness below.

He caught himself at the lip of the first-floor chute and wedged his toes on the couple of inches of leverage. Above, the beast snarled, the sound vibrating down the shaft, beating against his eardrums. And then, all of a sudden, silence cut through the air, followed by the loud footsteps of the beast running away from the chute opening, and then a door slamming in the hallway further down.

Lope panted, listening. Confused. Why did it stop?

Maybe it realized it couldn't reach him. The chute was too tight to support its bulk and squeeze further in. Maybe it gave up. Can a beast like that give up so easily?

Maybe it decided he wasn't worth the effort. Maybe it caught the scent of Kevin and Sheila, the dumbasses were still back in the library the last time he left them. He could see it now: the monster barreling toward them, ripping through the stacks, their screams rattling the entire house. Could he hear them scream from where he was now?

His mind stuttered on the thought, latching onto it. If it had gone after them, that meant they were dead, but he was still next on the chopping block. So were the others in the sitting room.

I need to get the hell out of here while I have the chance, he thought while the wild animal was distracted.

He slowly slid down the shaft. Until—

Lope's eyes met the chute panel in front of him; the first floor hatch.

His stomach clenched hard.

Wait a minute…

Did it go…

And as if to punctuate the trail of his thought, the metal door screeched open with a violent wrench.

"Ahh—shit!" Lope hissed as he scrambled lower.

The beast's arm, faster this time, lunged inside. Claws snatching inches over his head. Lope yelped as he tucked his shoulders and elbows close to his body, and let go.

The world blurred to a rushing drop.

The werewolf stuck his head inside and gazed down at him with a drooling snarl.

Suddenly, Lope slammed down into the garbage bin below. It wasn't full enough to cushion him. His back hit metal. The bin tipped to the side, spilling him out like a garbage bag; his head slammed hard against the rim, white light exploding in his vision. His last thought before the dark swallowed him was the stink of rot pressing in from every side.

Then darkness.

"Welcome!" Jessica's voice cut through the roar of the fire. Bright, lilting, entirely too cheerful. She raised a hand in mock lady-like etiquette. "I wasn't able to welcome you all properly before, but I don't want to be rude. Let me take this opportunity to say: Welcome to The Last Resort! It is our pleasure to have you with us."

Daryl waved a hand, eyes wide. "Hey! Get down from there, lady! Are you crazy?"

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Gallagher," she said, tilting her head so unnaturally it made Sheila's stomach knot. "I'm very much sane."

Nina leaned toward Sheila's ear. "Something's very wrong with that woman."

Sheila didn't say anything but nodded.

"Let's take this brief moment of respite as your impromptu orientation while you remain in this section of the dungeon," Jessica continued, her tone almost instructional, like a teacher addressing bored students.

"What are you talking about? You mean the manor?" Daryl asked.

Jessica laughed, a high, brittle sound. "Half of the mountain, you silly goose! Since one of you has already opened the doors, unfortunately, I won't be your hunter for tonight." She made an exaggerated frown. "It's sad, really. I was so looking forward to wearing everyone's flesh."

Sheila's mouth went dry. "What do you mean someone's hunting us?"

"For tonight's festivities, my other friends will hunt you across the grounds. Yes, that includes the lake, the manor, the roads, and the woods. And so much more! You've already met one of the hunters earlier." Jessica let the words hang, followed by a slow, predatory curl of her lips.

"Now, there are a few ground rules," she continued, "You can maim, kill, injure, and bleed the hunter—or each other—to survive. Everything around here is free to use, and you can go wherever you wish. All you have to do is find the best weapons and the best group of people to survive with! Although,"—her head tipped, voice dropping conspiratorially—"your best option might be to run and hide. Particularly since you've chosen the wolves. Womp-womp. Just…watch out for the monster lairs. Oh, I don't want to spoil all the fun stuff when you do get there!"

Ray shuddered. "The door in the vault…"

"Yes," she said sweetly, tilting her head. "The door you opened from the Selection Chamber, Mr. Klein, sealed your group's fate. I guess you shouldn't have opened that."

Ray gulped loudly.

Kevin didn't lower his gun. "Who are you?" he demanded. "You're not just some secretary."

She leaned closer, letting the firelight dance across her features. "Consider me a citizen of this domain, Mr. Yates. All of these lands belong to him, a god you mortals cannot comprehend, and tonight, he is going to feed on your filthy souls. But," she paused, smiling wider, "there is an amazing prize if you manage to survive. Perhaps even the treasures that you seek, Mr. Yates? How does ten million dollars sound? For each of you! That's what we gave to the last one. I'm sure all of you know who Tessa Burton is, right? The Final Girl of the North Cedar Lake massacre? That was us."

A silence dropped over the group, heavier than any threat they'd felt tonight. Horror flickered across their faces.

Except Kevin's head perked up. "There's a prize?"

"Oh, yes. A survivor gets a blank check of ten million dollars or the one thing they desire most. But of course," she wagged a finger playfully, "you must work very hard to earn it. I do hope to see one of you at the finish line… if you make it that far. Oh! This is going to be sooo much fun!"

"She's crazy," Sheila said, trying to convince her boyfriend not to go along with this.

But Kevin's mind was already calculating odds. "How do we win?"

"Kev!" Sheila hissed. "Don't listen to her. She's clearly fucking with us."

Kevin ignored her and repeated, "How do we win?"

Jessica made a face like she didn't want to kiss and tell. "There are a few ways to win, but, oh, I don't really want to spoil things, especially when all of you are first-time delvers! Although I'm a sucker for knowing what lies ahead. That's why I read the wikipedia page before I watch a movie! Sorry, my lord! Please forgive me!" She raised her hands in mock surrender, and her laugh scraped the edges of sanity. "But since I thoroughly enjoyed your torture treatment of me earlier, I'll give you a hint, handsome: survive until dawn."

Kevin paused, thinking. "You killed my brother, didn't you? That was you? Or one of your friends?"

"How very astute of you, Mr. Yates! Yes…we butchered him like a suckling pig just like how he did it to those poor, unfortunate, innocent kids. You brother is a fucking murderer and he is burning in Hell."

Something inside Kevin snapped. He lifted the gun, sighted, and let three shots bark out. The library erupted in chaos. Sheila, Nina, and Daryl slammed to the floor, heads ducking, bodies curling instinctively against the sound.

But Jessica didn't flinch. Didn't move. Didn't even blink. The bullets tore holes through her midsection, and she bent a finger to one of them, dragging it across her lips. She licked them slowly, savoring the copper tang. "Yum," she purred. "I do like the taste of blood seasoned with gunpowder."

Kevin's stomach turned, taking a step back. "That's…that's impossible."

"Well," Jessica twirled on the railing like a ballerina, "as much as I love talking to you all, I think it's time to continue the game, shall we? Good luck, delvers! Death is painfully guaranteed."

Before anyone could react, she stepped off the mezzanine railing and jumped.

The noose around her neck snapped taut and lifted her slightly off the railing. The rope swayed, creaking softly, and the sight—the unnatural suspension, the mocking angle of Jessica's head—was more than anyone could take.

A scream burst from Nina's throat, animal-like and almost primal, cutting across the chamber. It was followed instantly by Sheila's, Ray's, Daryl's, and even Kevin's, though his came more out of shock than fear.

Jessica's dead-grin widened, unflinching, teeth flashing in the firelight. And for a moment, the flames themselves seemed to bend toward her, licking higher, casting the room into frantic, chaotic shadows.

They burst from the library and into the hallway, screaming. Daryl grunted under Ray's weight, sweat streaking his face, muscles trembling from the effort. Every footfall on the old wooden floors sent echoes bouncing off the walls, carrying the sound farther, closer, like the manor itself was closing in on them.

They reached the main stairs. But as they looked over the bannister—

A familiar shadow bloomed in the foyer below.

A massive outline of a wolf, hunched and twisted, paws drumming against the marble with deliberate menace. The light from the hallway flickered against its fur, casting a long, jagged silhouette across the floor, growing, stretching, filling the space with its promise of violence. Moments ago, Were-Garth almost had Lope in his grasp before the man escaped.

And now, he could hear more easy prey from upstairs.

"Crap! Er, definitely not that way!" Kevin yelled, pivoting hard as his heart slammed against his ribs.

Sheila stumbled after him, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Wait, Kev! Where are we going?"

"We meet up with Lope. He went to the East Wing. Then we find a way out."

The sound of claws scraping on stone grew closer. The beast reached the foot of the stairs and climbing up. Were-Garth didn't run after them just yet. He was letting their fear simmer over the top. His mere presence alone was enough to make them lose their minds.

The delvers ran into the East Wing. The hallway stretched impossibly long, lined with portraits that watched them with dull eyes. Kevin didn't slow but sprinted ahead with Sheila close on his heels. Behind them, Nina and Daryl half-dragged, half-carried an injured Ray. The manor's hallways were made to feel like a maze, easy to get lost, and it was already taking its effects on the delvers.

They made it halfway when Kevin's boot came down on something that clicked loudly in the middle of the hallway. A muted pressure underfoot, like stepping on the hidden nerve of the house. He looked down—but it was too late. A brass pedestal the size of a quarter coin had sunk flush into the floorboards.

The floor shuddered beneath them. Somewhere inside the walls, several interlinked machinery stirred to life—gears catching, iron scraping. One click, then another, then another, multiplying down the length of the corridor like a domino chain.

Nina froze. "Um, what was that?"

"I think I stepped on something," Kevin said.

The wallpaper trembled. The sconces rattled on their brackets. Then the hallway itself seemed to convulse. The walls lurched, then began to glide inward with a low, grinding moan. Paint split. Hairline cracks snaked upward. A rain of dust sifted from the ceiling and came down on top of them.

Kevin's face went pale. "Shit. Run! MOVE! It's gonna crush us!" he shouted, bolting forward again.

The corridor narrowed by the second. Portraits swung forward on their nails as if the figures inside wanted out, their painted eyes pressing closer, eager, yearning. Daryl's arms burned, his grip on Ray slipping as his weight slowed him down. Nina's shoulder was wedged under Ray's other side, her legs trembling, breath coming in ragged sobs. The walls were closing faster now, each groaning inch chewing up space, throwing their shadows into twisted shapes.

Ahead, Kevin and Sheila burst into an intersection of the hall where the walls were not moving. The safe zone. They stumbled across the threshold, gasping for air, faces wild with sweat and relief.

Kevin turned around. "Come on! Hurry, goddamn it!"

But Daryl and Nina were lagging. Ray's weight was too much. The narrowing hall pressed against their shoulders, shoving them, forcing them to stumble. Then—

CRASH!

One of the decorative end tables, a gaudy thing with clawed feet and a furnished top, toppled forward as the wall shoved it over in their way. It smashed in front of them, breaking into jagged pieces. Nina tripped when she stepped on a rolling vase on the floor, screamed, and went sprawling forward. Daryl went down with her, Ray sliding from their grasp.

"No, no, no!" Daryl clawed at the ground, scrambling over shards of glass from a nearby mirror, his palms bleeding. Nina got up first, tears streaking her face, and bolted ahead without thinking. Daryl, cursing and shaking, staggered after her.

Ray lay behind on his stomach, half-pushed to the floor, blood streaking from a cut across his forehead. He reached a hand out weakly to their fleeing forms. "Hey! Wait! Wait—"

The walls groaned louder, the sound deafening now as the path got smaller and smaller, wood splitting like snapping bones. Ray tried to pull himself up, One leg still useless, his bulk working against him. Panic flooded his skull; a blind white terror. As the walls pushed inward, all the wall lamps exploded into shards as the electric wires were severed, plunging the hallway in dim darkness.

Seven feet wide.

Nina crossed into the safe zone, shrieking. Daryl hurled himself forward, barely clearing the threshold as the walls slammed another foot closer.

Six feet.

Kevin and Sheila screamed Ray's name, voices muffled by the grinding roar. "Ray! Get up!"

Miraculously, Ray staggered up to his one knee, dragging his body upward now that the walls are close enough to use for leverage.

Five feet.

Ray pushed himself forward, teeth clenched, eyes bulging with terror. The walls kissed his shoulders. He only needed to take five more steps to get to the safe zone.

Four feet.

He reached out an arm toward Sheila's outstretched hand—

Then the walls clamped down on his body.

The first crunch was sickening: spine pressing in from a wall lamp wedged on his back, snapping like kindling. Ray howled, high and shrill. A lightning bolt of agony ripped through his chest, blinding him. His vision tunneled, dark edges crawling in, but still—he reached.

And then, he felt it. Warmth. A different kind of pressure. Sheila's hand gripping his, her nails biting into his arm, her shriek of relief tearing through the chaos. She had him. She was going to pull him out.

Blood sprayed from his mouth in hot bursts. His eyes went wide, glassy with shock, but the walls didn't stop. He pressed one arm against the wall in front of him, hoping that maybe he could stop its advance. It didn't work. His arm snapped and bent back awkwardly against the pressure. They kept grinding closer, inexorable, crushing him inch by inch. His body spasmed grotesquely—hips jerking, legs kicking—until bone shards from his ribcage punctured through his lungs and his screams were reduced to a gurgling wheeze.

But Sheila was still holding his hand. She wouldn't let go. Nina and Daryl ran up and grabbed the rest of his arm, trying to pull him out of the narrowing hallway.

For half a heartbeat, Ray believed it. Believed he might actually live through this.

That maybe—

AAAHHH!

Ray's shoulder twisted as they tore from their sockets. His arm stretched unnaturally, tendons snapping like rubber bands. For one hellish second he thought his body might tear in half—then came the ripping.

The wet, fibrous POP of sinew and meat parting ways as the walls slammed shut.

Sheila, Daryl, and Nina staggered backward into the safe zone, screaming. Sheila still clutched Ray's severed arm to her chest like a grotesque prize. Blood sprayed from the stump, painting her face and clothes as blood dripped down her shirt. She and Nina shrieked and shrieked, their screams echoing throughout the manor.

Realizing what Sheila had in her hands, she threw the arm off to the side, hitting Daryl straight in the face, and the arm rolled in front of Kevin's feet. Kevin kicked the arm off to the side and made a disgusted expression.

The walls did not part open again. They stayed pressed tight, sealing Ray's body into the wood, leaving only a thin trickle of blood leaking down the seam.

[ You have gained 1 essence: Ray Klein ]

[You have gained 150 crystals]

At the Selection Chamber, where the delvers' wax-like copies stood, Ray Klein's pulped and battered form laid next to the soft light of the campfire.