The Murder House

Prompt: You invited people to your mansion without telling them they would be part of a killing game, the doors are locked, no way to escape until there is only one, problem is: the mansion is really nice and no one really wants to leave.

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I slam my fist on the desk and gesture angrily toward the array of monitors on the wall.

“Look at them, Elrath, just look at them! Josephine and Greg are reading in the library, Phoebe is still trying to learn how to make a proper souffle, and Leandra is in the hot tub again. And don’t even get me started on the Hill twins, no matter how many times I try to put threats in their path they just don’t seem to care!”

My eyes dance from one monitor to the next, my brow furrowed. So many happy people. It’s a mockery of what I’ve designed.

Elrath clears his throat from where he stands behind me.

“What?” I snap.

“I apologize, my lord,” Elrath says, “but I’m afraid you’ve simply made their stay too pleasant.”

I whip around to glare at him.

“Too pleasant? Too pleasant? I most certainly have not! All of the drawers get stuck when you try to open them, none of the curtains close all the way so you can never quite make the rooms dark enough for proper sleep, the clothes I provided are all slightly incorrectly-tailored –”

“Of course, my lord,” Elrath interrupts smoothly. “But you see, those things aren’t enough to drive a person to murder someone.”

My lips curve into a frown.

“But – but wouldn’t it bother you?” I ask.

Elrath merely raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

“It would bother me, but I don’t believe it would push me over the edge, so to speak.”

I turn back to my monitors, slumping down in my chair. Twenty happy, relaxed people taunt me from the screens. Only one person will be allowed to leave alive, a fact which they were all made well aware of on their first night here. And yet, I still have twenty houseguests reading, bathing, cooking – is Trevor knitting? I sigh. Perhaps Elrath is right – perhaps I’ve made things too comfortable.

“Elrath,” I command, never taking my eyes from the screens, “change out all the sheets and towels for the Walmart brand.”

“Yes, my lord. Anything else?”

I hesitate. Is he suggesting that I should do more than replace 1000-thread-count sheets with – shudder – jersey sheets? Replace thick cotton towels with microfiber? How could life possibly get worse?

“If I may suggest,” Elrath says, “my lord may want to remove the Lush bath materials from the bathrooms and not have gourmet groceries delivered daily from the farmer’s market.”

I draw back in horror.

“And make them live like – like the lower-middle class? Elrath, I want a show, not an immediate bloodbath! Good God, man! If I do that, where does it end? Fixed showerheads? Ikea furniture? Ikea everything?” A shiver rakes its way up my spine. “No, no – just the sheets and the towels for now. I can’t imagine anyone being able to deal with the mental strain.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

I watch as Elrath does just this, commanding the serving staff through each bedroom and each bathroom with a stack of those disgusting linens. A smug smile crosses my face, my heart pounding with glee, as Harriet returns to her bedroom for her usual mid-afternoon nap. When she notices the change, she looks puzzled for a moment, then reaches out and strokes the fabric. I’m filled with confusion as she digs both hands into the sheets, then disgust as she rubs them against her cheek. I can’t believe my eyes when she rushes into the solar and summons Oliver and Westley, shows them those horrid sheets, and they look pleased.

Pleased! With jersey sheets!

What barbarians have I welcomed into my home?

Every day, I try to think of the most horrible thing that could happen to me, and every day I make it happen for my guests. And yet, somehow, they just seem to adapt. No more bath bombs? They switch to showers. No more fresh-ground coffee in the mornings? They seem to do just fine with instant. When I first watched Phoebe gulp down a mug of that dull sludge and then go back for a second, I nearly vomited.

How? How could this possibly have gone so terribly, completely wrong? All I wanted was to create the ultimate murder house, in which everything was off just so to drive its inhabitants crazy enough to brutally murder one another, and yet I seem to have made a moderately-annoying Airbnb instead. No matter how many inconveniences I dole out, nothing fazes them.

By the time a month has passed, and the house is unlivable by my standards, the guests seem no worse for wear, but I feel every moment grating on my nerves. They are the ones being tortured all day every day, and yet it is I who feels the strain! What is this resilience they have built for themselves? Are they secretly plotting against me? How can twenty people live in such conditions? Are they coming for me?

I must stop them. Their happiness, it must be a sign of something sinister – it simply isn’t possible for this many people to be perfectly fine with life like this! IT ISN’T POSSIBLE!

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Elrath steps into the living room where the guests have been assembled and clears his throat.

“I’m sorry to announce that the master of the house is dead by his own hand.”

The guests exchange horrified and pitiful looks. Everyone is silent for a long time, until at last Leandra pipes up.

“So, uh…Can we keep the house?”