The Game at Carousel: A Horror Movie LitRPG

Book Five, Chapter 93: The Introduction of Chaos

Ever since we had unearthed Clara Withers, there had been this lingering question: what were we going to do with her?

The answer couldn’t be to leave her underground and ignore her. There were just too many possibilities.

We could have tried to set things up so that, when we removed the necklace from her desiccated body, the werewolf curse itself would fail. But I had no faith in that plan.

We could have tried to lead the pack leader to Clara in hopes that she would suddenly lose the will to fight when she found the corpse. Unfortunately, I had never been able to confirm the exact relationship between those two parties. Just guesses. I suspected their relationship changed with the story.

I mean, I wasn’t an idiot—I knew this was a tragic romance situation. But there were all sorts of things that could happen in a tragic romance. We knew going in, thanks to Cassie and her prediction, that there were two women—two lovers—fighting.

Was that fight still happening? I had no idea.

In the end, we were going to have to play it by ear.

I had it all pictured: I could take the necklace off the body, magically reviving Clara and putting an end to the violence all at once. As the two of them finally embraced each other after so many years—assuming that was the thing they were inclined to do—Kimberly would pop the pack leader in the head with a silver bullet.

Yes, it would be tragic.

But at the end of the day, our goal wasn’t just to put a stop to the violence. We had to kill the pack leader or otherwise save ourselves from the werewolf curse, and it wasn’t clear how we were going to do that.

But suddenly, as I lay bleeding out in the dirt with werewolves running toward me, I realized—and I thought that Andrew also realized—that this werewolf curse wasn’t just a metaphor for a disease or some hand-wavy magic.

There was something physically in the air, even if we couldn’t sense it easily.

Werewolves didn’t just obey the pack leader—they were controlled. We watched in amazement as some wolves—I’d go so far as to say half of them—simply gave up the moment rolling silver seemed to disconnect them from the pack.

It was a remarkable thing to see.

I started thinking about what we knew about werewolf hierarchies. These were things we had largely taken for granted because they seemed so basic. These werewolf packs were not based on physical dominance. The literature didn’t even use the words alpha or beta to describe these relationships, and none of the other players understood how funny that was.

No, it seemed to be the other way around—the werewolves became more powerful depending on where they were in the hierarchy rather than the reverse. New wolves were so completely submissive that the humans within them basically had no control.

With the revelation that this was all some sort of quasi-mind control, I realized there was an extra option—something we could do with Clara Withers that I had not considered before. If it was true that the werewolves seemed to obey the oldest wolf with the greatest connection to the magical curse, what if we were to find one even older? What if we could introduce a little chaos?

I didn’t like to be playing things on the fly like that, but in the blue glow of the advanced rolling silver concoction, I had seen something; I had seen the magical force that made those wolves tick.

We all had.

I couldn’t ignore it.

My body was losing vitality, so I decided to activate my Raised By Television trope in hopes that it might give me just enough Grit and Hustle to get down into the underground crypt.

And it had. That trope had seemed so unwieldy when I first received it, but now it fit like an old pair of jeans.

With a few extra points of Grit, I could barely even feel my body shutting down. But since I was still alive, those wolves—or at least many of them—were still after me.

I ran as fast as I could, suddenly regretting that I had given my silver trope knife to Kimberly in anticipation of my imminent demise.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

I just needed to run as fast as I could to the Manor. It was only a football field or two away. I could run that. I just had to put one foot in front of the other, crunching the leaves underneath as I made a beeline for the Manor.

The issue was that Carousel likes to create a variety among its mobs when creating monsters. You’ll have enemies that have the same tropes but different arrangements of stats.

We didn’t need the Atlas to know that. It was obvious if you ever had a bunch of monsters running after you.

Some of these wolves had their physical stats placed into Grit; others had it placed into Mettle. But unfortunately, about a third of them had most of their stats in Hustle, and I could not outrun them. I quickly realized this as I looked over my shoulder and saw a dozen wolves gaining on me.

Luckily, Carousel had given me plenty of time to think ahead.

We had placed a bunch of advanced rolling silver grenades along the path to the Manor, and as I ran by them, all I had to do was kick them over for them to activate.

Those wolves were scared to death of whatever the process of purifying silver was doing to them. They would give the grenades a wide berth, effectively nullifying their Hustle advantage.

I managed to get to the Manor doors with a ten-yard advantage and quickly headed down the stairs into the basement, where I found two werewolves quietly whimpering in their cages. They had become mere scenery by that point in my mind. They were only there to remind us of why we had come—because we needed to rescue allies.

I ran deeper into the tunnels.

This time, I didn’t run around in circles trying to make the path look longer than it was. I could feel myself growing cold.

Even with a few points of extra Grit, I didn’t have long. And although I was not technically Hobbled from the gunshot wound I had received, I was holding my gut, unable to get a full sprint.

Through the tunnels to the little hole that would lead to the crypt, it didn’t take long for the wolves to catch up.

As I rounded a corner and found a straightaway that would lead me to the crypt, a wolf came right behind me. It could easily have grabbed me—except for the fact that it suddenly lacked coordination.

It kept going instead of banking and crashed into the wall. Two more wolves did the same, crashing into each other.

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It was the silver in the walls.

I knew we should have tested what effect that had on the wolves—it had kept Logan and Avery sickly. Perhaps we should have had the final battle down here. But I didn’t have time for regrets.

As the wolves seemed to have become incredibly clumsy underground, I could hear them sniffing rapidly, as if their senses were suddenly dulled so greatly that they could barely make out where they were going. Unfortunately, the underground wasn’t really that complicated, and I needed a light to see where I was going, so they could surely find me.

The hole leading to Clara’s grave was too small for the wolves, so it would buy me some time.

As soon as I jumped through the hole into the crypt, I turned on one of the lanterns we had left down there. I also set my flashlight up so that I could get a good view of the mausoleum. Then, I took out the little handheld camera Carousel had given me—because my character was a documentarian.

I was probably doing a terrible job filming myself, and I wasn’t even sure if this outdated camera could pick up visuals from the meager lighting sources I had. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. The camera was just a prop.

I just had to find the right words and say them with conviction.

I turned the camera at myself as best as possible and began my rant.

"How long have we sought to understand the hierarchical structures of a werewolf pack?" I asked, tired, panicked. "They defy anything else seen in nature. But again, they are not natural—they are supernatural. It has occurred to me that werewolves need a dominant leader, but that leader is not chosen based on physical prowess, as it seems their physical prowess is arbitrarily assigned—and without relation to the original body of the host."

I paused, my thoughts racing. "No, I believe there is some measurable magical connection between these wolves."

I was interrupted as the wolves started digging into the hole to get into the crypt. The sound of their claws against the stone sent a chill down my spine, but I pressed on with my speech.

"It appears to me," I continued, "that there is one solution to disrupt these wolves' devotion to the she-wolf, to this pack leader that would have them kill me and the others. I need to introduce another wolf, one with a stronger connection to this ancient curse. Something to disrupt their absolute obedience, if only for a moment. It was clear to me that the rolling silver process was curing them of some sort of manipulation or supernatural suggestion that the pack leader had over them. I believe that introducing another werewolf—an older werewolf—might be exactly what we need."

I entered the mausoleum and shined my flashlight down into the coffin of Clara Withers, onto her corpse.

I breathed a sigh of relief that she was still there; I was half expecting it to be empty again. Luckily, I was On-Screen, and Carousel didn’t feel like playing any pranks on me this time.

"This may be too much to suggest," I said, "but if the werewolf curse is indeed a curse and is inherently magical—and if it is true that the only way to kill a werewolf is to pierce its heart or organs with a silver object like a bullet or knife, undoubtedly disrupting this magical power—then I have to ask: how is it possible that Clara Withers, reportedly the most notable werewolf of her time, is dead?"

I paused for dramatic effect, letting my voice falter with emotion as I heard the werewolves breaking into the crypt. I filmed down into the coffin. I pointed the camera at the necklace.

"I can feel its malignant presence," I said, my voice shaking. "I can feel it continuously fighting something, continuously draining. Why would it need to do that unless there was something within this coffin to fight? I confess that these matters are beyond my understanding."

I didn’t have to pretend to be nervous—I could almost puke at that moment. I was on the edge of passing out. Heck, I was on the edge of dying. But I didn’t stop.

"I don’t have much time left," I said, "but if I can disrupt these wolves long enough for my associates to survive, then I must."

I reached down into the coffin, grasped the silver necklace, and tugged.

In movies, necklaces come off by tugging. You don’t have to lift them over your head or undo the clasp—somehow, they just rip right off without breaking permanently. This silver necklace was no different.

At first, it felt normal, like a piece of jewelry. But then I suppressed a smile as I realized that not only was it a piece of jewelry—it was costume jewelry. It was plastic. It was another prop.

The real one—if it existed—was still out there.

But I, among many other things, was an actor. The power of a psychic—or the grandson of a psychic—is determined by how hard they sell it. Anyone who had seen Thirteen Ghosts (dumbly stylized as THIR13EN GHOSTS) would know that.

I acted like pulling that necklace off her corpse was the hardest thing I’d ever done, as if it weighed ten thousand pounds, as if it had needles sticking out of every edge. In truth, it was just a small plastic vial filled with some silver liquid. But I pretended it was the sum of all evil.

I didn’t have to work hard to pretend to be in pain.

Eventually, I got the necklace off. I fell back against the wall, sliding down to the ground, and hoped I was right.

There was silence.

Nothing happened.

Not at first.

And Carousel, as I was getting used to, had its own tempo.

Something started to move in the coffin. I couldn’t see it from my position on the ground—my strength had left me—but I looked up, intent on seeing whatever it was.

The werewolves had gotten to the mausoleum and were about to enter, ready to tear me to pieces. But right before they did, they stopped. They seemed to see something in front of them, something rising out of the coffin. Something that scared even the wolves.

A body rose up. No—it sat up.

Desiccated, dry, and dead, yet shaking as if possessed. I could see her blonde hair, her empty eye sockets. I could see the gaunt look on her dried face. Then those thin, bony limbs started to get thicker, and her arms began to grow longer.

Silver light washed over the mausoleum, lighting everything. Wind blew from nowhere, making it hard to breathe it was so powerful.

My flashlight flickered, and every time it did, the corpse of Clara Withers became bigger and hairier. What started as a scratchy gasp became a growl, then a roar, as the dead rose and transformed into the largest werewolf I had seen outside of the pack leader.

By the time it had finished, the creature before me—once dead—was alive again.

I had to look at it, stare straight into its eyes, and not flinch. I could not let the audience think I regretted my decision. I had to show them my conviction, my psychic intuition—even through all my doubts.

It was all down to Kimberly now. She was the one who might be able to take this lupine resurrection and turn it into a victory.

I had to trust her. She had trusted me.

I fully expected the resurrected wolf to attack me. But it didn’t.

It just stared back at me until it heard a whimper outside the mausoleum. The wolves began to howl, bark, and cower. They were running. They were fighting each other.

I had wanted to inject a little chaos. As the wolf jumped from the coffin it had sat in for nearly two hundred years and out the exit of the mausoleum, I hoped that I had done a good thing. That the others would figure out what to do.

It gave me one last look before leaving.

And while the wolf didn’t kill me, it didn’t need to.

I was Raised By Television, and I died by it, too, bleeding out in a crypt.

In the blink of an eye, I was sitting in the theater again.

It had been a long time since I had gone there. This time, something strange was happening. To my left and right, I could see people leaving the rows of seats as if they had been sitting in this very theater until the moment I showed up and were now being ushered out.

I could hear them behind me, whispering. I could hear the sound of their clothes swaying and rubbing against each other. I could hear their steps.

I could feel them staring at the back of my head as I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the movie screen at the front of the room.

After a few moments, the room fell silent. No more whispers. No more footsteps.

I was helpless now.

All I could do was watch and hope that Kimberly and Andrew might be able to finish what we had started.

On the screen, I saw Kimberly standing in the clearing.

Most of the wolves had fled. There were fifty or so left—maybe up to seventy. It was hard to tell.

The smaller wolves were freaking out, no doubt due to the introduction of a new potential pack leader—one older and more connected to the curse than the one before.

Kimberly and Andrew stood next to the one remaining mercenary. They had just activated the next phase of the fight.

The one we called Christmas Lights.

We had no shortage of glass containers, silver nitrate, or copper bits, and plenty of nimble fingers to assemble our plans. Now, as the fight started to close in and the pack leader got closer to Kimberly, she began to transform back into a human.

Bottles hanging from the trees all around started to glow. They had been rigged so that, with a pull of a string, they would flip and swing down from the branches. The branches, combined with the wind, agitated the contents—creating a perfect battlefield where werewolves would be at their weakest.

The trees all around glowed with that brilliant Windex blue.

Kimberly was making her last stand.

Our last stand, perhaps.

The pack leader—who turned out to indeed be Sarah, from Kimberly's photos—stared at her with… respect.

She wore a smile—and nothing else. It looked like we were going to lose that PG-13 rating. If we ever had it.

I sat and did nothing else because I could do nothing else and watched my fate unfold.