A Fool's Game

Mark let off the gas as the victorian era mansion emerged through the parted trees, his nerves were full of static, and he found it hard to focus. He never wanted to return to this place, and honestly he wanted to turn around and go home. Greed, however, was slowly overwhelming his sense of discomfort. Succumbing to the sunken cost of the drive, and the promise of fortune, he drove on. The twenty grand in the bank was nothing more than bait, and despite the oppressive feeling that nothing good would come from this, Mark was ready to swallow the hook.

The front door was in view and with an overnight bag in tow, he took the first step. Before he’d reached the door it swung open, revealing an all too familiar face. An elderly man named Jauffre, who had been the butler of the house for nearly twenty years. He was probably the only one there Mark felt he could really trust. His smile, as genuine as ever, was a warm welcome in a hostile land. With few formalities he took the bags to what would be Mark’s home for the next twenty-four hours.

“Do try to relax sir, it is meant to be a festivity after all,” Jauffre chimed, handing over a small black key, and started down the stairs.

“Wait,” Mark called. “Do you know what is really going on? I doubt even in death Timothy would be so forthcoming.”

“Honest, is a more appropriate word, and no.”

“Well, thank you anyways. I’ll leave you be old friend.”

Jauffre nodded and continued down stairs, slow steps echoing on the hardwood. Mark waited for the last step before heading into his room and taking stock of the small yet modest guest room, noting a letter pinned to the closet. Setting it on the nightstand he had opened, he then peaked into the closet where an elegant suit waited for him, and trying it on, it seemed to be tailored for him specifically. Giving the letter a once over he only found three words etched in a delicate calligraphy, “You, are welcome.” This assured Mark of one thing, whatever this night had in store was going to be anything but normal.

Tossing the seemingly pointless note into the trash, Mark walked into the hall looking to both sides as if there was a monster looming around the corner. As his eyes fell upon the master bedroom, he couldn’t fight the unnerving feeling that someone had just been watching him. He had no desire to throw himself into the wolf’s den, and instead went down stairs to the jubilation in the dining hall.

“Final-fucking-lee! Hell, we’d thought you got lost up there!” Cheered a man with strawberry blonde hair named Seth if the engraved name plate was to be believed, “You must be Mark, that last name tag is for you- and have a drink will ya! The funeral was last week.”

“Sorry,” Mark croaked looking around to the six others. “I don’t really care for this place, and I don’t care for strangers.”

“Well that’s what the name tags are for boyo. Now we’re no longer proper strangers, and no unnecessary how'd ya do’s.”

“Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“Yeah, the right way!”

Seth let out a chuckle, patting Mark on the back as he finally broke a smile for the first time since arrival. Seth's carefree demeanor put Mark at ease, seemingly embodying joy and revelry much like Dionysus. Though others kept their distance, they offered half hearted waves and smiles as their own conversations continued. Mark took this as his cue to don the nameplate.

Like clockwork, as soon as he pinned it to his tie, a dainty bell rang in the room. Followed by trays of food being placed around the table, and bottles of wine being poured. Mark and the other guests quickly took their seats though he was the only one to still scan the room. As such he was the first to notice Jauffre enter the room and place a projector at the end.

"If I may have your attention, the master requested that a video be played before the meal," Jauffre said as he flicked the switch illuminating the wall at the head of the table.

Timothy, looking into the camera took a breath and then started, "I am glad that you all could make it. Though, this festivity won't be as cheery as I promised. There will be a game to play for the fortune… A game to catch my killer, and you're all in luck, as they share the table with you. Catch this slime covered troglodyte and everything I own is yours."

With a wave and a click, all of Mark's previous tension swallowed the room. Everyone looked quizzically at each other, in suspended disbelief.

"What a load of horse shit," Came from a bald middle aged man named John.

"Even if it is," Mia followed, "I'll be in my room where it's safe."

"Maybe that is for everyone's best interests. Go to your rooms and I'll call the police," Jauffre offered.

Nobody questioned it further and if they did, they kept it to themselves. Although Mark didn't trust a word out of Timothy's mouth, the thought of being trapped with a killer that made him uneasy. As he walked up the steps, an idea popped into his head: If this was a game, then there would be the plans in Timothy's study.

Mark shut the door behind him before he looked in the usual hiding spots, and nothing was turning up. He sighed in half hearted defeat before kicking the desk. A soft *thunk* came from the other side, where Mark found a small leather bound black book.

"There we go," Mark laughed, relieved to find what could have only been the plans for the night. He flipped it open and read the first two lines as his mouth dried. "Eric will be stabbed. Eric has bled to death." Mark slammed the book closed, looking frantically around expecting to see a camera, but found none. He took a deep breath and opened the book back up, and found two new lines had appeared. "Mia will fall down the stairs, Mia will break her neck."

Mark dropped the book as a woman's shriek pierced the silence, before being cut short by a loud thumping. He slipped the book into his inner suit pocket and ran to the steps where five others were gathered below. Examining the woman covered in blood with her head and body contorted unnaturally to face Mark. He fell to his knees and vomited profusely onto the ground, until it became little more than dry heaves. Jauffre came behind him patting him on the back, and handed him a towel.

"Clean yourself sir, it doesn't seem to be safe to be alone," Jauffre said trembling.

Mark couldn't argue with him, nor did he have the desire. He wanted to ask about the mysterious book that weighed on him. Something prevented the words from forming, and dampened his will to even pull it out near him. Mark trailed behind, eagerly dreading opening the book once more to see who might be next. With it opened it began to write, "Jauffre will stab you," Then quickly erased itself.

His eyes grew wide in disbelief, but he knew he would only get the one hint and bolted away. Jauffre followed in pursuit, giving up any pretence of the charade. Seth being the only one to notice jumped into action and the book pulsed in Mark's pocket. He knew what was going to happen but dared not to stop as Seth's blood pooled onto the floor. Mark's world was crashing down around him, and he was only sure of one thing; Seth and this book had saved his life.

Mark was sure that Jauffre would quickly beat him in a game of cat and mouse. If he wanted to save anyone including himself, he would have to use the book to its full extent. As he ducked into a nearby room he opened it once more and read over the page now seeing new details on the previous lines. "Jauffre will stab Eric," and "Jauffre will push Mia down the stairs." He looked around the room panting, noticing the corpse of whom he could only assume was Eric.

"He's gone stiff," Mark mumbled to himself, assuming rigor mortis had already set in. This would make the book correct in its order, he wondered how it knew. He examined the book again and noticed more details proportional to his thoughts of the events lining up.

"Are you reading my mind," he asked apprehensively, almost daring it to respond. If it was, it wouldn't share that information willingly, but it wouldn't hesitate to tell him, "John will be shot at point blank, then Matthew will be shot as he tries to flee."

"This cannot be happening," Mark said standing up before hearing the roar of a shotgun ring out. He went for the door wanting to stop Jauffre as another shot followed. He had to stop this, even if it meant there was no going back. He opened the door and snuck into the utility room where an only wood splitting axe lay, and took up his arms. He read the next line in the book, "You couldn't stop Jauffre from strangling Abby in the living room… but you put an end to him before he even noticed you."

Mark walked behind Jauffre, who was atop the poor woman slamming her limp body into the floor. For a moment he winced, he wanted to to talk to him, he wanted to know why. He wouldn't question what had to be done, and he knew he couldn't afford to be seen. Mark raised the axe high above his head and with a final exhale brought it down. The axe found a place in Jauffre's back, knocking the man to the ground. Mark placed a foot on his back wrenching the axe free, then brought the axe back down on Jauffre as laid on the ground.

Mark stood examining the twisted end that laid before him, as the adrenaline drained steadily from his body. His shaking legs could barely manoeuvre around the remains of John by the front door. Mark fell through the opening and his eyes landed on Matthew who had almost made it to his car. With increased effort, Mark forced himself back to his feet and to his own car. He wanted it all to be over, he needed it to be over, but he couldn't be sure. The book wouldn't tell him, but as he flipped through the pages a folded letter fell out addressed to him.

"Congratulations my dearest nephew, I knew you would win all along. Though I do apologize for the deception, I can rest easily now thanks to you. You will get my fortune as promised, and though I never told you this outright, I love you. -Timothy"

Again feeling manipulated by his uncle, Mark tossed the book into his passenger seat, and started the engine. Before he could pull away a thought struck him. There was nothing left here for him but skeletons. Mark pulled the spare canister of gas from his trunk and poured it onto the porch. He then struck a match and set it ablaze. Satisfied that no matter what this would be the end, he got in and drove away. However not fifty miles up the road a new line had begun to form.