The Game at Carousel: A Horror Movie LitRPG - Tales of Carousel: The Guest House

It was time. Brent’s time to shine.

For thirty seconds, he was going to step in and be the hero.

It wouldn’t look like it.

His new trope set him up to save the day in the most gruesome way. It was a self-sacrifice trope, one of the most powerful kinds of tropes in the game.

Curiosity Killed the Neighbor– A Wallflower trope designed to attract all attention from the enemy and the camera and give his allies the perfect chance to escape, regroup, or go on the offensive.

All he had to do was walk out of his comfortable hideout, ask, “What the hell is all this ruckus?” and then those little goblin creatures would leave Adeline alone and come attack him. They would kill him instantly, usually in a painful way.

He wouldn’t even be a named character in this storyline. His allies would get a boost in Hustle. They would be set up for an easy win. He would be in ribbons. Dead.

Adeline stood in the street at the end of the cul-de-sac attempting to kick the little demons off her.

Now was the time.

Just one quick act of bravery and she would be safe. Brent would be dead.

But why should he?

Adeline hadn’t died once. Not a single time. She was a Final Girl in every way. Wasn’t it her turn? Why should he have to die again?

He didn’t want to. He stood behind a bush near the street. He could help her so easily. His death would be quick. They’d yank his head off or cut him in half, something sudden and terrifying for the audience. He knew the drill.

He just couldn’t do it.

They didn’t need her alive to win anyway. He watched through the bush as she was attacked. He was sorry. Kind of.

He backed away. He wasn’t going to die this time. He refused.

~-~

“Hey, Silas,” Miles, the team’s Comedian, said as he pressed down the button to obtain his rewards. “I’d like a tall brunette who will laugh at my jokes and hold me in her arms all night long.”

Silas the Mechanical Showman waved his flashlight and out of his dispenser shot a series of tickets, as well as a few coins.

“Sorry, I don’t take requests,” Silas said in his showman voice. “You’re thinking of my cousin, the jukebox.”

Miles threw back his head and gave a throaty laugh.

Then, he turned toward his teammates and said, “Hey, guys, did you hear what Silas just said? Silas just said his cousin’s a—”

He stopped short as he realized that his team was preoccupied by a rather loud discussion between William and Brent.

William was a blue-blooded college man with well-defined musculature who held himself like a young senator.

“I knew you’ve been holding out on us,” William said firmly. “Now, I can prove it. You could have saved Adeline. Everything was set up just like Arthur and I planned, but you didn’t go through with it.”

“Bullshit,” Brent said. He stood defiantly against the larger man and refused to give an inch. “I can’t be everywhere every minute of the day. I didn’t know she was in danger.”

“You said something similar last time,” William said trying and failing to keep an even temper. “But last time, I didn’t have my War Games trope. This time, I saw you right next to Adeline. You could have saved her from those things. Not like we needed the trope to know that you have been avoiding your job. You think we haven’t noticed how you’re lagging behind in levels. It’s because you’re not doing anything in storylines, and Carousel knows it.”

Arthur held his arm out, “William, this is pointless. He knows what he’s doing. We’re not going to get him to stop by yelling at him. Let’s just go back to base and tell Curtis.”

In the background, Adeline silently wept.

Brent stammered something indecipherable and then said. “This is so fucking stupid. Why does she automatically get to live? I’ve died plenty. Why should I have to sacrifice myself? You ask me, it was good for her. Finally getting the raw side of the deal.”

William’s eyes grew wide. “It’s your job! We were relying on you! Arthur makes the plans because he’s the Scholar. Adeline plays her role as Final Girl. Miles dicks around because he’s the Comedian. Jenny is our Eye Candy. And I make sure everything runs smoothly because I’m the Soldier.”

“Soldier?” Brent said. “You were in the ROTC. You ran around campus playing dress-up. You are not a soldier.”

“When I found her,” William said, trying to hold back his rage. “She was eaten to hell. I’m sorry, Adeline, I have to tell him. They took her face. Her teeth. Her fingers, eyes. They did everything but kill her because they couldn’t kill her. Do you know why?”

Brent didn’t answer. He grew enraged with every word William said.

“Because she is the Last One Alive,” William continued. “She can’t die until the rest of us do. If you had used your sacrifice trope, your death would have been almost instant. You were an extra. Hers took hours, you son of a bitch. That’s my sister you did this to. I’m never doing a run with you again.”

William walked by Brent toward Silas the Showman.

“So, it’s true?” Arthur asked Brent. “You’ve just been, what, goofing off this whole time? Did you get yourself written off last year at the parade? Is that why you were nowhere to be found when we needed you? I knew it.”

Brent didn’t answer.

Arthur took that as a yes and followed behind William. Jenny gently guided Adeline over toward Silas.

“I shouldn’t have to die. It’s not fair,” Brent said so quietly that no one could hear him.

Once they had all gotten their tickets and were heading back to base, Brent ran up to Silas, slapped his button, and waited for Silas to dispense his rewards.

It was true. Brent had been leveling much slower than the rest of his team. It wasn’t that he didn’t care or didn’t want to help. He just couldn’t bring himself to die on purpose. He had died enough since arriving. Now that he had collected some Wallflower tropes that could keep him alive, he intended to stay that way.

“Those guys are assholes,” he said to Silas. “Fuck ‘em.”

Silas took a little longer than usual to give up Brent’s winnings. Brent didn’t get much. He never did. Almost no money. No stat tickets. It had been a month or more since he got one of those.

He did get one thing, though. Something he had never dreamed of acquiring.

“Writ of Habitation?” he read aloud as he looked down at the folded piece of paper Silas had given him. “Nobody’s gotten one of these in ages!”

That place is a fortress, he thought as he read the description. And I won’t have to do any storylines while I’m there.

He didn’t get a chance to read the whole Writ because he had to catch up with his team. His former team, perhaps. If William wasn’t willing to do runs with him, he was likely on his own.

~-~

The Geist Estate was once the grandest property in all of Carousel proper. Bartholemew Geist had built the mansion that rested within its gates. His son Carlyle had built upon it and expanded it to its current size. His granddaughter Cherise had built the Sanitorium on the far side of the property to care for the mentally infirm as a charitable effort. It had once been beautiful.

By the time Brent had come to live there, it had all gone downhill. The Sanitorium had closed down after some bad press, or so the lore told. The mansion itself had half-burned to the ground. The west wing was ash. The main house was rotted, and the labyrinthine dungeons had been flooded by rain. The east wing, though. That was dry and habitable.

They squeezed nearly a hundred people into it at times, the smallest wing. The population fluctuated as some players would go find their own Bases from time to time. They all came back eventually.

Or they died.

Brent bunked in a room with twenty-two other men. It had a working fireplace and bathroom. That was a plus.

Brent lay in his bunk listening as rumors of his cowardice spread around the estate. People didn’t go easy on cowards. Even the Hysterics would give him the cold shoulder, and being cowards was their whole thing.

This place was unbearable.

He had nearly drifted to sleep when someone approached his bunk. It was Curtis. The bossman.

Brent threw on his best semblance of remorse and turned to face the man.

“I don’t need to tell you that what you did was wrong, do I?” Curtis asked.

Brent shook his head.

“A quick death is easy to get over, all things considered,” Curtis continued. “A long, drawn-out one can leave scars that take years to fade. Adeline’s in pretty bad shape. Even with my Psychiatrist tropes.”

“I’m sorry,” Brent lied. “I was just scared.”

Curtis didn’t seem to buy it.

“You’re being assigned a new team. We don’t know who yet, but whoever it is will want some concessions.”

“Concessions?” Brent asked.

“To make sure that you can’t just wander off instead of helping,” he said. “We put a lot of trust in Wallflowers and Outsiders to not just run away. They’ve got the tropes for it. Never thought I’d actually find someone who would be willing to do it, though. It takes trust to succeed here in Carousel.”

Brent was silent for a moment. He lay in his bed and contemplated his next words.

“Is that what this is?” he asked, moving his arm around the crowded room. “Success? If this is succeeding, I can’t imagine failing.”

As if to emphasize his point, a ghastly howl sounded from somewhere down in the flooded dungeons.

“Ghouls are riled up from the storm. We’ve got it handled,” Curtis said. “You may not like our lodgings here, but you have no idea how much worse it can get.”

“Maybe,” Brent said.

“Alright,” Curtis said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Maybe we can get something worked out?”

Brent lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. He grabbed the Writ he had just won from his pocket.

The Writ was valid for one tenant only. It sounded like it would be a good break from all of this. Dead things wading through flood waters below. Ash-covered wraiths floating from place to place, victims of the fire long ago. Haunted paintings. Escaped mental patients of yesteryear. This place was a nightmare.

Sure, the players were careful and there hadn’t been casualties yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He couldn’t stay here any longer. He tucked the Writ back in his pocket. He had made up his mind. He was moving. Maybe once he was gone, they might care how they had treated him.

The Writ guaranteed his safety as he traveled to claim the property. Even then, the journey from the Geist Estate to his new Base was terrifying. He had gotten Amelia to help him map out the safest route. She really liked planning things out. It was in her meticulous nature.

By the time she was done, he had a detailed and thorough plan of passage so even if the Writ’s protection failed, he would have options of where to lay low and how to get back.

As he packed his bags, he waited for one of his former teammates to come and ask where he was going. They could see him packing, prepping, and getting ready to head out.

None of them stopped him or asked questions. Adeline watched him but didn’t say anything as he left.

It turned out that all of Amelia’s planning was for naught, as the Writ’s protection got the job done just fine.

~-~

The Guest House was in the newer, nicer part of town. The house in question was on a small acreage abutting the golf course. Quite the upgrade.

Brent smirked as he approached the home at 616 Nowlinger. He was nervous about knocking on the door. In Carousel, that was a nonstarter. You just didn’t do it. You risked awakening a serial killer or something.

Luckily, as Brent approached, his new landlord and landlady were out front toiling in the garden. They noticed him as he walked up.

“Are you our new tenant?” the woman, Martha Montresor called to him as he arrived.

She was a kind-looking, bubbly woman with a short stature and rosy-red cheeks. She reminded him of Mrs. Clause.

Her husband, Rev. Ned Montresor was not quite Santa Clause. He was lean, stern, and fit for his age as if he were a veteran.

They were low-level NPCs. Their home was nice, and the weather was perfect.

“I sure am,” Brent said.

“Wonderful,” Martha said cheerfully. “My husband will show you around. I have to go check on lunch.”

Brent smiled.

He had heard stories of when Curtis and the others had arrived at the Geist Estate after receiving the Writ of Habitation for the Mansion. They “inherited” it from a distant relative. That was the story at least. The story here was different. Brent was a tenant. Simple. Straightforward.

No Omens.

No drowned dead things howling in the basement.

No teammates to pressure him.

~-~

Rev. Montresor showed him around the property. He was told not to go into the main house. He was warned that sometimes golf balls get hit in the yard. In fact, he would learn that firsthand.

Mr. Montresor showed him around the Guest House with little enthusiasm.

The place had everything. A bed, television, fully stocked kitchen, and bathroom. Everything he needed to just relax.

“You guys have a dog?” he asked, pointing to the doggy flap on the front door.

Reverend Montresor looked at where he was pointing.

“Nope,” he said.

The tour continued.

As he was being shown through the living room, a loud thud sounded behind him. He jumped. “Motherfucker!” he screamed in shock.

He turned to see the window on the opposite wall. It was unaffected. He could see a golf ball rolling away in the yard. The Writ had said the windows were shatterproof. Now he knew why.

“Now, we don’t tolerate language like that here, son,” Rev. Montresor said sternly.

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll try to remember,” Brent said.

The Reverend didn’t respond. He just gave Brent a stern look and left.

Brent double and triple-checked that there were no Omens to be found around the Guest House. Sure enough, there were none. He didn’t have any proper scouting tropes, so he had to walk around, looking at every object and waiting to see if the needle on the plot cycle moved up to Omen. It never did.

He was safe.

He was free.

Mrs. Montresor dropped off some cookies an hour or so later. They were delicious.

He jumped back onto his new bed and, before he knew it, he was asleep. It had been a long time since he had slept that well.

~-~

He was awoken in the morning by a knock on his door. He looked at the alarm clock. It was 5:30 a.m.

He didn’t want to get up. The knocking continued.

Eventually, he gave in.

He dragged himself to the front door. As he went to open it, he realized, to his horror, that he couldn’t.

He struggled to try to turn the handle. It wouldn’t budge.

“Hello?” he asked in shock.

“Down here, dear,” Mrs. Montresor said gently.

The doggy door opened a bit.

Brent was hesitant to take anything from them.

“Take it, son,” the Reverend said on the other side.

“Why is the door locked?” Brent demanded.

“This will explain everything,” the Reverend said.

He looked down as someone on the other side slipped a large book through the doggy door. It was red in color and ornately designed.

He caught a glimpse of the hand that was holding it. Something flashed on the red wallpaper.

A sudden realization dawned on him.

He moved to the window beside the door and opened the curtain.

Twelve people were standing outside including the Montresors.

They were all labeled “Adherent,” on the red wallpaper. Enemies. They had ten levels on him. They must have had a trope to hide their true nature until now.

“This isn’t possible,” he screamed. “There weren’t supposed to be any Omens.”

He was certain he hadn’t seen any Omens, let alone triggered them. Here he was, though, trapped.

He ran around the house. There were no exits. The windows, as advertised, were shatterproof. He had imagined it a perfect fortress. Unfortunately, the qualities that make a perfect fortress also make a perfect prison. Someone had come in the night and cleared out his food. The television was gone. How had he slept so hard he couldn’t hear it?

The cookies.

He ran back to the door.

“I’d really like to go now,” he screamed.

“We have to cleanse you, dear,” Mrs. Montresor said sweetly. “You’ll thank us later.”

“Shit,” he said aloud after pacing back and forth for some time. “Fuck!”

“That kind of language is not appropriate,” the Reverend said with a terrifying ferocity.

The stalemate lasted all day.

“If you want food,” Mrs. Montresor said, “You just have to show us your earnest desire for repentance. Read from the book. The Great Spirit will guide you.”

Brent bent down and picked up the red book. It was like a bible from a nightmare world. The passages were insane, unlike anything he had ever read before.

“Just let me go,” he begged.

But they didn’t. Not that night. Not any night after.

Days passed. Then weeks, months.

Brent sat by the door.

When he heard someone show up outside, he would recite from the book for his daily bread.

“Yea, in the shadow of night’s deepest despair, when brimstone doth rain like molten tears and fires of judgment burn hotter than the very pits of Hell….” He paused. He wanted to protest, to yell angrily, but that would just make them punish him. “Let thy heart be rent asunder in repentance, that thy soul may find refuge in the righteous embrace of the Great Spirit. For in the unyielding grasp of yearning and sacrifice, redemption shall bloom like a lone, rose in the midst of an eternal, desolate grave.”

The figure on the other side of the door didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, they asked, “Why did you pause?”

They didn’t wait for an answer. They walked away, taking his food with them.

Brent wept.

~-~

“What is that?” Miles asked.

William held the object up so that the others could examine it. “It’s Brent’s driver’s license. He must have left it on accident.”

“Whoa,” Jenny said. “That takes me back. What’s it been? Two years?”

“Nearly three,” William answered.

“Do you think he’s still out there?” Adeline asked. “I mean… he never got postered. Do you think he found a way out?”

The others didn’t seem very optimistic about that.

“Amelia and Curtis say that sometimes people just disappear,” Arthur said.

“What happens to them?” Adeline asked.

“How should I know?” Arthur asked. “Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s at peace…. Did you guys hear about the new Base?”

“Not yet,” William said. “I hear it’s pretty nice.”

“I grabbed the Writ from Curtis,” Arthus said, pulling the paper out of his pocket. “Check it out.”

“You see that,” Arthur said. “Guarantee Against Encumbrances and Hostility. You know what that means?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“No howling ghouls,” he said. “No haunted paintings. No fiery ghosts waking us up in the night every winter.”

“Huh,” William said. “Didn’t even know you could get these things where they guaranteed there would be no enemy lairs on the property. Always thought you had to scout the place out yourself. Make sure you won’t get attacked.”

“Might do that anyway,” Arthur said. “Can you imagine trying to live in a place without checking for enemies first?”