Choose Your Own Adventure
As your rental car bumps over the uneven dirt road, you can’t help checking your phone for the twelfth time in as many minutes. Still no service. You’re a long way from your tiny apartment in the middle of town, but the letter sitting primly in the passenger seat couldn’t be denied. An inheritance, a number with more zeroes than you’ve ever seen in real life, all from an uncle you’ve never met, courtesy of an impulsive DNA test you sent off a few years back.
The trees finally retreat just enough for you to see your apparent destination. You slam on the brakes before you can stop yourself, eyes wide. That is…not a normal house. It towers nearly as tall as the trees surrounding it, their branches reaching for the windows as if trying–and failing–to gain entry. The door brings to mind a mouth waiting to swallow you whole. You shudder.
But it’s a lot of money. A life-changing amount of money. The kind of money that memes on the internet are made of. All you have to do is spend a month in this creepy ass house, going through your dead uncle’s things with the appraiser. Apparently the uncle you didn’t know about until a week ago was something of a collector and there are dozens of museums chomping at the bit to gain access to the items he kept tucked away from the public. Simple. Strange, but simple.
With a sigh, you shut off the car and climb out. Your suitcase has seen better days, but who has money for something as frivolous as traveling these days? You will, though. You wheel your way over the gravel walkway and up the slightly-tilted steps to the door. It’s even bigger up close, looming well over your perfectly normal height. Do you knock? This is technically your house now, or at least it will be after you fulfill the sorting of your uncle’s things required by the will. But you’ve never been here before, and some rules are too ingrained to break.
So you knock, using the oversized door knocker in the shape of something vaguely demonic.
The door creaks open before you have a chance to drop your hand, the deep shadows of the foyer greeting you. But it’s not empty. A man stands there, so still, you almost mistake him for a statue before the pale light of the fading afternoon reaches his face. You jolt. He’s handsome–really handsome. Square jaw, styled dark hair, a lush mouth. His suit is perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, the deep purple contrasting his pale skin. He smiles when he sees you, the expression warming his face and chasing away your thrill of unease. “Welcome home.”
Home. The thought is laughable. You’re here for a task, and once you see it through, you’ll never step foot in this place again. But it doesn’t hurt to be polite, so you manage a smile in response. “Happy to be here.”
“I’m Bluebeard.” He extends a hand.
“I’m… Well, I suppose you know who I am since you sent the letter explaining my connection to my uncle.” You take his hand. He gives a good handshake, strong without being overwhelming, releasing you before things have a chance to get awkward.
“I’ll show you to your room.” He turns and leaves you to follow him deeper into the house.
As you step fully inside, a wind whips through the space, slamming the door behind you. You startle nearly out of your skin and then laugh awkwardly. “Drafty in these old houses.”
“Something like that.” He pauses long enough to scoop up your suitcase and starts up the stairs. They’re gorgeous in the same way the house is–with a healthy dose of creepy. They’re easily wide enough for three people to walk shoulder to shoulder, and the railing looks almost hand-carved. It must have cost a fortune or be old as dirt–or both.
“Your uncle’s staff is retained through this process, but they leave at sundown. If you need anything after they’re gone, I’ll be happy to provide it.” The words are spoken frankly, without so much as a hint of insinuation.
You rush to keep up, nearly jogging up the stairs behind him, doing your damnedest not to breathe hard and embarrass yourself. “You’re staying overnight?”
“The staff all live in the village a short distance away, but there aren’t any hotels or the like. As you just discovered, it’s a rather long drive from the nearest civilization.”
The hair at the nape of your neck prickles, but just like before, there’s nothing wrong with his words. You give yourself a shake. You’re so used to the horrors of the world that you’re jumping at shadows. He’s here to do a job, same as you are. “Did you know my uncle well?”
“Unfortunately, no. He hired me a few months ago after my predecessor passed in his sleep.” He glances over his shoulder and smiles reassuringly. “No condolences necessary. He was ninety-six. People in my profession don’t tend to go out in a dramatic way. It was all very civilized.”
Nothing about death is civilized, no matter when or how it happens, but you don’t know this man and he’s being very polite.
You follow him off the staircase and onto the second floor, though you can’t help eyeing the darkness where the stairs continue upward to the third floor. There must be an attic in this place, probably a basement, too. “When can we get started going through everything?”
“In the morning. This is your room.” He stops in front of a door in the long hallway filled with identical doors, and opens it to reveal a bedroom out of a fairy tale. All the furniture, from the four-poster bed to the vanity with a stool in front of it, look positively ancient. But it’s clean and it smells nicely of lemon.
You almost ask where he’s sleeping, but that question might come across as an invitation you have no intention of following through on. “Thank you.”
He nudges your suitcase through the door and steps back to allow you to enter. “One other thing.”
You pause in the doorway. “Yes?”
“This is an old house and the electrical wiring can be temperamental. It would be best if you didn’t wander after dark. You might end up getting turned around or, gods forbid, hurting yourself.”
Turned around? The house is large, but it’s hardly a maze. All you’d have to do is find the stairs and you can navigate your way to your room without issue. Granted, the power outages you’ve experienced over the years have been discombobulating in the extreme, and that’s in a space you’ve lived in for years. “I suppose you’ll warn me of ghosts next?”
Instead of smiling, he winces. “I’m not given to flights of fantasy, but this house is strange. As long as you follow the rules, you should be perfectly fine.”
The rules? He’s barely given you any information at all. You glance at him again, waiting for the laugh, for him to tell you this is all a joke, some ridiculous form of hazing the dead man’s last surviving relative. He doesn’t. He just turns and walks away, the shadows seeming to pull him into them as he turns the corner in the hallway. You could have sworn it was only late afternoon when you arrived, but when you turn to look out the window, it’s full dark. Odd, but you’re further north than you’re used to. Maybe night just falls fast in the forest.
There’s a plate of food on the nightstand, a delicious-looking sandwich, chips, and a gently steaming pot of tea, ready to pour. Another door leads into a bathroom with a tub and shower. You have everything you need to see you through until morning.
But the rule is so odd. Don’t wander the house at night? You’re an adult. You don’t need to be confined to your room like a child. Your entire purpose for being in this house is to go through all your late uncle’s things and categorize them appropriately.
Though it has been a long day, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a soak in the tub, eat the prepared meal, and read one of the romance novels you bought for this trip.
You…
You forgot your book. You stand in front of your bed, which now contains every single item from your suitcase…except your book. You knew this to be the truth before you dumped it out, but part of you couldn’t believe it without seeing for yourself. No book.
You turn a slow circle and survey the room. It’s still early, for all that full dark has fallen outside your window. You tend to be a night owl, and the hours stretching between now and when you’ll finally fall asleep feel unforgivably boring. You’ll be climbing the walls within thirty minutes without something to distract you, and there isn’t even a television in this room to keep you occupied.
Bluebeard told you to stay put after dark, but he doesn’t have to know you’re ducking out for a quick run to your car. You map the route in your head–down the long, meandering hallway, descend the staircase, through the foyer and front door. Your car is right there once you leave the house.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your keys, slip them into your pocket to ensure they don’t betray you by jingling, and crack open your bedroom door. You hold your breath, and then feel a bit silly for doing so. You’re a grown ass adult. You’re more than capable of navigating a house in the dark. And Bluebeard is far too polite to do something as creepy as stand guard outside your door to ensure you obey the rules.
Sure enough, no one appears to chastise you. Not as you open your door fully, not as you step into the hallway and pad on bare feet toward the stairs.
You’ve spent plenty of time living alone over the years and so you’re more than familiar with what an empty apartment feels like. This house has a similar sensation, except it’s more pronounced. As if this house isn’t merely slumbering, but has reached its final resting place alongside your mysterious uncle.
You pause again at the stairs, peering down to the first floor as best you can. Despite your intentions to get through this journey as quickly as possible, your gaze tracks to the stairs up. They seem deeper in shadow than the ones down, the darkness thick enough to obscure the landing. You shiver. This place didn’t seem so sinister in the daylight.
It truly only takes a few minutes to hurry down the stairs and out into the night. You pause on the front step and take a deep breath, the scent of pine heavy in the air. The tight spot between your shoulder blades relaxes a little in response to the sound of frogs croaking at each other, and various night insects moving about their existence. “See. Not so bad,” you murmur.
You have a moment to regret not pulling on shoes as you pick your way across the gravel to your car, but a brief discomfort is worth it to move silently in the house. Your book is right where you left it–in a tote bag with various snacks and drinks from the trip here. You grab the whole thing, pause to lock your car, and move quickly back to the house.
Part of you half expects the front door to be locked against your re-entry, but the handle turns easily against your palm. The door doesn’t even creak as you swing it open and slip back into the house. You pause there in the foyer, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. There’s nothing to fear. It’s just an old house in the middle of the woods. Yes, your childhood fairy tales warned you of such things, but the small amount of risk is worth the reward waiting for you on the other side of the temporary trial.
The ascent back to the second floor is just as smooth as your escape. You glance at the steps leading to the third floor. You can’t help it. There’s something so odd about how the light doesn’t penetrate. It pulls at you, even as it repels you.
As you turn toward your room, you register a faint sound. You hadn’t realized exactly how silent this place is until it’s penetrated by a mournful cello. Your head snaps up. That’s definitely coming from the third floor. It must be Bluebeard playing, though you didn’t think he was the musical type based on your brief interaction.
But then a violin joins the cello, and a faint thrum of a drum. That doesn’t make sense. There’s no one else here but you and Bluebeard; you’re sure of it. You stand there in confusion as more and more instruments come together until it sounds almost like there’s a small orchestra. The music changes, too, moving from so devastatingly sad you think your heart might break to something that feels like a hand reaching down to grasp your chin, to tug your attention away from the stairs down and toward the third floor.
You shouldn’t. You’re already breaking the rules, but at least you had a good reason to do so. If Bluebeard catches you, he’ll… What? Give you a stern talking to? You shake your head, trying to focus. This is all so strange. It has been since you received the notice in the mail about your long lost uncle, but that at least you could explain away. This moment feels different.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pivot and walk up the stairs to the third floor. You don’t make a sound, but with each step, your skin prickles as if sensing eyes on you. That’s impossible, though; there are no windows in this part of the stairs and it’s almost too dark to see anything at all.
You reach the third floor landing without a problem. The music is louder here, but only barely. It sounds as if it’s coming from a great distance, perhaps down the hallway stretched out at your feet.
Now is the time to turn back, to retreat to the relative safety of your room. You have your book, after all, and that’s what you broke the rules to accomplish. But the music is in your bones, and curiosity sparks in your chest. You’re certain it’s not a recording, which means there are more people here than Bluebeard. You want to know who they are and why they’re in the house of a dead man, playing such a lively tune.
Your shoulder aches from the weight of your tote bag, but you barely notice it as you move quietly down the third floor hallway. It’s nearly identical to the second floor, but much darker, lacking the windows to allow the moonlight in. There are dozens of doors, each made of dark wood and standing slightly too tall and too wide.
The source of the music quickly becomes clear when you reach the end of the hallway. You thought it stopped with a blank wall, but that was another illusion from shadows. Instead, it’s a great archway.
You hesitate, but you’ve come this far. You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t see this through. With a fortifying breath, you propel yourself forward through the arch and into the shadows. They seem to part around you with each step, revealing a balcony overlooking a ballroom. The space doesn’t make sense with what you saw of the exterior of the house, but it’s possible you got turned around somewhere along the way.
It’s also not empty.
You expected Bluebeard, expected some kind of explanation to the music. You get both, but he’s not alone. The ballroom is filled with people in gowns and tuxedos, moving through a dance that looks like something out of the historical movies you enjoy so much. Every single one of them is wearing a mask–gold and silver and feathers and sequins arranged in vaguely animalistic features–to hide their faces.
All except Bluebeard, who stands next to the small band, looking like a different man entirely. Oh, his features are identical to the man you met earlier today, but that polite gentleman is nowhere in evidence. His entire energy is different, bigger, more dangerous. It sends a thrill of something– fear, attraction, or some combination of both–through you.
The music pulls at you, an invitation you shouldn’t accept. But there’s a staircase leading down to the ballroom, and a small table filled with masks arranged at the bottom, there for the taking.
It’s not too late, though. Bluebeard hasn’t seen you, doesn’t know your trespass. You could slip away through the shadows and return to the room with him none the wiser…
Introduction and Rules