The Game at Carousel: A Horror Movie LitRPG

🔴 REC   SEP 13, 2018 15:47:36    [▮▮▯▯▯ 40%]

“Get that damn camera out of my face!” a voice screamed into my ear.

All I could think about was the sensation of falling and the sudden realization that I had hit the ground.

I was sitting down—but I wasn’t out on the asphalt or down in the dirt. I was in the passenger seat of a truck, like a U-Haul truck, and the front of it had gotten messed up.

It took me a moment to get my bearings and realize we were tilted, but when I did, I heard the voice again.

“I said, get the camera out of my face!” the voice said.

I suddenly realized the person was speaking to me—and that I did indeed have a camera in their face. It was a nice camera, portable, high-tech, and strapped to my left hand.

The truck driver, an NPC named Earl, was next to me, and he was not pleased.

I turned the camera forward so that it wasn’t filming him anymore and looked at my situation. Earl had driven the truck down into the pit where the roller rink had once been, and somehow, I had gone with him.

Earl was not happy with me, but he was even less happy with himself.

“I don’t know what just happened,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“We’re all right,” I said. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

I didn’t know if that was true, but it felt like the thing to say.

I opened my door and crawled out onto the pit's dirt, instinctively filming as I went. Looking back at the way we had come, I could see the clear path where the truck had turned off the road and down into the dirt.

Up ahead of us, the front end of the moving truck had hit a dirt embankment, and that had put a stop to us. I backed away, climbing up out of the pit and filming the surroundings as I went.

I didn’t even notice I was On-Screen until I was almost out and up onto the road.

Earl came after me with his head in his hands, apologies pouring out of his mouth one after another.

“I thought I saw a parking lot,” he said.

I didn’t comment on that but tried to reassure him.

It wasn’t long before an SUV pulled up on the road next to where we had turned off into the pit. Kimberly was driving, and Logan was in the passenger seat. She put it in park, got out, and started asking what was going on.

“Is everyone okay? Is anyone hurt?” she asked.

I patted myself down and then called out, “I’m fine. How about you, Earl?”

He held up a thumbs-up, but I could see the worry on his face as he broke into apologies toward Kimberly.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Madison. I could have sworn I saw a parking lot. I was going to pull in and wait for you all to catch up.”

And then he kept apologizing like a man about to lose his job.

“Earl, it’s alright. Accidents happen,” she said as she got closer to us and started visually checking to make sure we weren’t injured.

Logan was out of the SUV and down into the pit with us soon after Kimberly. He didn’t seem as concerned with our health or well-being.

“We’ve been in possession of those artifacts for all of seven minutes, and we already dropped them in a hole,” he said as he started racing down into the pit toward the moving truck.

He looked back up at me and said, “Stop filming and go grab the manifest.”

I went toward the SUV, taking a few moments to look through it. It was filled with small wooden crates—the kind museum exhibits might be contained in. I found the manifest, which listed different artifacts.

It wasn’t anything fancy, just the kind of stuff you’d expect to see in a jailhouse museum: various paintings related to the history of the place, some personal effects of judges and prisoners known to be connected to the jailhouse—that sort of thing.

The manifest also listed the flight all this cargo had just gotten off of. I looked down the road and saw the airstrip. Putting two and two together, I realized our characters must have just picked all of this up.

On my way back down into the pit with the manifest, I passed Kimberly, who was comforting Earl. Then, I worked with Logan as we sorted through the crates in the back of the moving truck to make sure nothing was broken.

It was only a few minutes after we started that I had the presence of mind to look at the camera.

On the red wallpaper was a trope—not a player trope like the items we had recently come across after the tutorial. It was one of those old-fashioned tropes like we’d seen on the Astralist’s death machine.

The trope was called Found Footage, and its description was simple: Press record to go On-Screen. Press stop to go off.

I thought I’d give it a test. I looked at the panel on the side of the camera, found the button that said “stop,” and…

■ STOP

🔴 REC    SEP 14, 2018 09:23:15    [▮▮▮▮▮ 100%]

We were in one of the jailhouse's offices, which had been completely renovated to look like a modern workspace. One huge section contained a workbench with various crates holding the artifacts we had brought from the airport.

That was Logan's space. He stood in front of me, examining an old pair of shackles—or at least that’s what he was trying to do.

“Can you tell us who you are and what you do?” I asked, holding the camera out toward him. I held it steady using Hustle.

He kept his eyes on the shackles, moving them around with his gloved hands. Reluctantly, he spoke.

“My name is Logan Maize. I am the historian here. I focus on researching and preserving the history of this building and its role in the town’s justice system. My specialty is local history, and I work with records and artifacts to make sure the past is documented accurately. That’s about it.”

“Can you tell us about what you’re working on right now?” I asked.

He stared at me blankly for a moment, then said, “This is a pair of shackles. These were alleged to have been stolen from the body of Calvin Monroe after he was hung in town square over a hundred and fifty years ago. We can't verify that, but I can at least ensure that these are authentic to the era.”

He turned his eyes back to the shackles and continued examining them carefully.

“What do you like most about working here?” I asked.

He placed the shackles back down on his workbench, looked at me very seriously, and said, “I appreciate the professional atmosphere that allows me to focus on the tasks I've been assigned. I don’t like constantly being pestered for videos on social media.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

He turned back to the shackles.

I continued to record him, and he ignored me.

“Just pretend that I’m not here,” I said.

He looked back up at me and started laughing, the whole thing a joke between us.

■ STOP

I had some time to figure out how the camera worked. I could take things around me On-Screen by recording them, but that didn’t change the normal way that On-Screen and Off-Screen worked.

If Carousel had better ideas about what should be On-Screen, my camera would stop recording.

On the other hand, I found that some scenes simply wouldn’t start unless I was recording. This camera wasn’t simply a prop.

It was fun to fool around with, but it was very clear to me that this whole gimmick was designed as an obstacle.

And it would certainly be one.

🔴 REC    SEP 14, 2018 10:12:46    [▮▮▮▮▮ 100%]

"My name is Kimberly Madison. I am the director and acting curator of the Carousel Museum of Crime and Justice, also known as the Carousel Jailhouse Museum. Right now, you're watching as we transform this historical location into an active place of learning.

This is the original jailhouse, courthouse, and police station of the town of Carousel and the county seat of Carousel County. A great deal of history happened within these walls."

She stared at me, waiting for another question.

“Well, not the original jailhouse, police station, or courthouse,” I said.

Kimberly smiled. “No, not the original, but the jailhouse was built on the exact same cornerstone as the original jailhouse at the Carousel settlement founded in 1718 before the original town was wiped out by the Carousel Valley Meteor Strike in 1742. So, in some ways, this is the original jailhouse.”

The history of Carousel was as liquid as a cat lying in a sunny spot.

There was an exhibit about the meteor strike. It had destroyed the whole original town of Carousel.

The town was refounded forty years later.

“Can you talk about the sordid history of crime in Carousel and what someone might be able to learn about it by coming to the museum?” I asked.

Kimberly looked past the camera and at me, her displeasure evident in her eyes.

“Well, the focus of the Museum of Crime and Justice is on the positive history of the courts and police officers who have kept Carousel citizens safe. But we would be remiss not to include artifacts and historical anecdotes related to Carousel’s darker history. After all, many of the most notorious criminals in our history came right through this jailhouse.”

“They used to keep prisoners who were marked for death in the cells beneath us, didn’t they?” I asked.

“Yes. Pretty much every prisoner who was executed in Carousel had to stay at this jailhouse.”

I wasn’t supposed to emphasize the darker history of Carousel, so Kimberly was eyeing me harshly.

“And when was the last time we hung a prisoner in town square?” I asked.

“1978,” Kimberly said begrudgingly. “You had better not be getting all joke footage. I really stuck my neck out to get you this job, Riley. Please don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t. I’m getting good footage, too,” I said.

She stared at me, clearly disbelieving.

■ STOP

The storyline had been uneventful, and the plot cycle had barely ticked forward since we had begun—but I was learning a lot.

The museum was nearly finished, and since this was a time travel storyline, the history of both Carousel (or this version of it) and the jailhouse itself was vital information. Learning from the various exhibits around the jailhouse museum—including those inside the old police station and courthouse, which were all connected—was essential.

This was especially true since we had lost our copy of the book containing accounts of all the tragedies that had befallen Carousel.

It made sense that our characters wouldn’t have it yet, but it certainly got my heart beating fast when we realized it was gone.

I had a feeling we would get an opportunity to get another copy the hard way, just as Anna and Camden had.

I took the camera around, filming various exhibits while the others continued doing their jobs.

Kimberly, Logan, Antoine, and Lila were accounted for. Dina and Bobby were missing—but that was to be expected of them.

🔴 REC    SEP 14, 2018 13:32:08    [▮▮▮▯▯ 60%]

The only part of the museum currently open to the public was the police station section in the center of the building.

Not only were there extensive exhibits—including a weapons exhibit with some familiar artifacts inside—but there was also a station where you could get fingerprinted.

A class of children, probably around 4th or 5th grade, was lined up, getting fingerprinted by Lila, who was an assistant of some kind. An NPC police officer stood with her.

True to her nature, Lila was a background character, and while she hated being On-Screen, she didn’t seem to mind me filming her. Perhaps it was only the invisible cameras she didn’t like.

I filmed from the other side of the room.

“Statistically, one in four of these children is going to be a murderer,” Logan said off to my right, just quietly enough that the camera and I were the only ones that could hear him. “This program is going to help us get out in front of their crime wave.”

I laughed and continued filming as the kids went through the line one at a time, smearing black ink on their fingers and then pressing them onto a piece of paper as instructed.

I had done the same thing when I was a child, and yet, watching it happen here in Carousel, it suddenly seemed much more insidious.

“Lila’s just asking for trouble over there, mixing with the criminal element,” Logan added with a smirk. “They’re going to remember her.”

Lila seemed to hear her name. She looked up and saw me holding the camera. I waved at her, and she reluctantly waved back, managing a smile at the same time.

As we did, a splotch of blood appeared on her poster on the red wallpaper. Logan had just sarcastically marked her for First Blood.

It felt really creepy doing it that way. Obviously, we had come together and decided who was going to die many times, but actively marking a teammate for death felt different.

Still, if things went well, she wouldn’t actually die this time. Only her character would.

■ STOP

🔴 REC    SEP 14, 2018 16:03:54    [▮▮▯▯▯ 40%]

Antoine stood wearing a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt along with a neon orange vest and a hard hat.

He was in charge of the renovation.

I didn’t get a hard hat. They had given one to Kimberly and Logan but not to me. Maybe that was because I would never show up On-Screen since I was the one holding the camera.

Kimberly stood next to Antoine, more or less interviewing him.

“So, what are you working on right now?” she asked.

“We’re preparing the judicial wing of the museum,” Antoine said. “Most of these doors have been sealed off, probably to prevent vagrants or vandals from destroying the woodwork and crown molding.”

I panned up and around, showing off the dusty but beautiful antique wood panels of the original courthouse in Carousel.

I was 95% certain this wasn’t actually there the last time we were here, but since this entire area had been closed off when we were in the jailhouse last, I had no way of knowing.

I put the camera back on Antoine and Kimberly.

“Have you found any artifacts or antiques during the small demolition?”

“In fact, we have,” Antoine said. “We found all manner of documents. And if you’ll look over there,” he added, pointing toward a stack of envelopes on the floor near a sealed-up door, “the courthouse was receiving mail for decades after it was closed. The mail carrier simply slid it in the mail slot and didn’t think anything of it.”

“We’ll make sure that gets into the right hands,” Kimberly said with a laugh.

Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them as one of Antoine’s workers finally managed to break through some of the boards sealing up a door.

“They really didn’t want anyone getting through there, did they?” Logan asked.

“Hold up,” Antoine said to his workers as he moved forward to investigate what they had just uncovered.

“Are those bricks?” Logan asked.

Antoine looked back at us and said, “Yeah, it looks like they bricked it up.” He walked across the room toward some building plans laid out on an old wooden desk. Running his finger across the blueprints, he said, “That should just be an alcove or a small closet, from the looks of it. The kind of place you’d hang art.”

We all looked at each other. Well, they didn’t look directly at me, but they did glance at the camera.

“Why would they seal up an alcove that small?” Kimberly asked.

“One way to find out,” Antoine said. He turned to his workers and said, “Carefully break away the brick.”

And so they did, carefully chiseling out the mortar. When they had a good hold on the bricks, they pulled until the wall fell apart onto a thick drop cloth they had spread out.

Dust filled the air, causing everyone to cough and cover their mouths and noses with their shirts.

We waited for the dust to settle, and as it did, a ray of light helped us peek into the little alcove.

It really was small—the kind of recessed area where a marble bust might be set on top of a column. There wasn’t much room for anything else.

As Antoine shined a flashlight into the dark alcove, we saw only one object.

It was a wooden crate—not one of the museum-grade crates we had hauled the antiques in with, but something that seemed hastily fashioned and sealed with an excessive number of nails.

Antoine and Kimberly looked at each other, confused.

“Logan, what do you make of this?” Kimberly asked. “We need to do this the right way. This could be an important historical artifact.”

Logan moved forward and examined the box.

“This is not the way they would have stored anything they found important back in those days,” he said. “I need to get it to my workbench to remove these nails.”

And so he picked it up, noting that it wasn’t particularly heavy.

We followed him all the way back to the offices, where his workbench was. He had already finished examining the shackles, so there was space for him to set the box down.

I filmed him slowly removing nail after nail until; eventually, he could lift the lid off the crate.

“What the…” he said, peering inside.

“What is it?” Kimberly asked, excited.

Logan looked back at me, then at Kimberly, before reaching into the box and withdrawing an object.

“It’s a videotape,” he said, holding up a black recording tape for a camcorder.

I moved closer, lifting the camera to get a good shot inside the crate.

The box was filled with them.

“I don’t understand,” Logan said. “These are not from the era when the courthouse was sealed up. These are about eight or nine decades off the mark.”

Unable to contain myself, I reached into the crate and grabbed one of the tapes. I read the faded label:

“party time” was the only thing written, all in lowercase letters.

“This makes no sense,” Logan said.

But he wasn’t telling the truth. We all knew what was on those tapes.

And we would soon have to watch them.

■ STOP