Book Five, Chapter 67: The Host

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 decked out in army gear. 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.

He nodded, looking at his list.

“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.

As I watched the tapes, I sorted through the rest of the trunk’s contents and found a handheld camera, a Super 8 or similar, from what I could tell. As a documentarian, was I meant to film everything?

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 have 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.

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“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. Oh, and I must ask that you never film Mr. Kirst. I understand that you are a documentarian, but he is off-limits. Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow to begin.”

I was still holding the camera from the trunk of my car. I supposed the dinner wasn’t on the record. I wasn’t heartbroken.

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 bookcases 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 so they could 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.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep