The flames that had sparked panic among the remaining houseguests had long since died down. The thick veil of smoke that had enveloped the upper reaches of the mansion was buffeted onward by a gentle breeze. All was calm . . .
The remaining group of friends had not remained ignorant of the consistent disappearances. A lone guest would leave the congregation, but would never return. Surely, they all agreed aloud, that this wasn’t a coincidence. The group as a whole had been flustered by the spontaneous fire, and none of them wanted to leave the group, for each and every one of them feared the mansion, its brooding interior striking paranoia and anxiety into everyone’s minds. Even so, they knew that they would have to get to the bottom of this, and so the group selected Kloud and BridgesAndBalloons to go round up the others.
Bridges had shown no apprehension to traversing the mansion with Kloud, for he felt there wasn’t a need to. They slowly exited the dining hall, plunging into the darkness of the ornately decorated manor.
“It is so creepy in here,”
said Bridges in a hushed whisper as they continued onward. Both he and Kloud held flashlights aloft, slowly moving them back and forth in monotonous unison.
“I can’t believe I slept through most of the action! It must have been quite some party if so many people left wasted to go to bed.”
Bridges continued his attempts to keep small talk going, more so to distract himself from the walls that seemed to be closing in around him, herding him and Kloud onward into its bowels from whence they would not return.
At the same time, Bridges could not help but notice silently that something was not right with Kloud. His hair was an unkempt, haphazard mess, and his clothes were in no better fashion. The colors of his attire seemed to be warped and wet, as if he had just returned from wringing them out in a sink. Dark pools collected under his eyes, and in the meager light encroaching them, Bridges shuddered at the gaunt appearance Kloud’s face undertook.
They turned a corner and ascended several flights of stairs. Bridges allowed Kloud to lead the way, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts. He noticed Kloud slowing his pace, then stop completely next to one of the many doors lining the hallways.
Kloud said softly, his voice deathly calm. Bridges watched him tap on the door with his flash light. Once, twice, three times Kloud tapped, before slowly reaching down to turn the doorknob. It opened silently, and light from within the room temporarily blinded them both. Kloud motioned for them to enter, and Bridges followed quickly after, all but flinging himself out of the retched darkness.
“He’s not here? Where could he have gone to?”
Bridges stepped pass Kloud, further into the room. Clothes had been strewn across the floor, some smudged with dark red liquid that Bridges assumed to be wine. The closet doors had been flung wide open, its contents thrown about the room as if someone had just ransacked the space. Polaroid photos littered the bed top, and Bridges took several steps closer to look at them.
And recoiled almost instantly after scrutinizing the first one.
“Oh my! . . . Kloud, look at these! It’s horrible.”
Kloud stepped closer, but only slightly as if intentionally trying to keep his distance from Bridges. Kloud’s hands were balled into tight fists, his knuckles chalky white. Bridges’ comrade would not look him in the eye, and said nothing in response.
Turning back to the photos, Bridges began to discern who each and every person was by process of elimination. The photographs were ghastly, each death seeming unique, yet just as terrifyingly grotesque as the last.
“Who could do such things,”
Bridges whispered, eyes wide in shock,
“What unspeakable evil and madness hides within this house?”
Bridges was speaking more to himself than to Kloud, but still Kloud answered.
He asked coldly, Bridges turning slowly towards him in response to Kloud’s tone.
“They deserved their ends, each and every one of them . . . Except one.
Bridges had only but enough time to inhale before Kloud was inches from him, the heat from his body sending shivers up Bridges chilled flesh. Bridges tried to step backwards, but was prevented by the bed from going any further.
“I don’t understand, Kloud. YOU did this?!?
The fear in Bridges voice betrayed his composed countenance, and he noticed that Kloud’s gaze had drifted upward.
Their eyes met, and once again Bridges recoiled. Those eyes. The eyes of evil incarnate--bore into his soul, searching hungrily, feeding off the fear.
“SSK didn’t deserve this--”
“None of them deserved what you did! You sick excuse for a--”
“And yet you killed him. You stole from me my one joy that this house has provided, the one release from my agony. You snatched it from my grasp, and ran with it, masquerading as a murderous mastermind.”
Bridges made an attempt to interject his comments again, but Kloud punched him across the face with such force that it sent him sprawling across the bed. Kloud drew from his pocket his weapon of choice:
and drew closer, flashlight still in his other hand.
“How convenient for you to have been missing the majority of the time from the party. I would have spotted you earlier, and persuaded you to return. Neither of us had made a lasting appearance, which is why I know that it is you that killed SSK. Chenhsi would not reveal to me who it was, so I came here and found a bag of your things in here. You have evaded me until now, but your time is up.”
Bridges made a move to jump up, but Kloud brought the end of the flashlight down upon his face, bashing it for more than a minute straight. Blood oozed everywhere, and many of Bridges teeth had been knocked out. His face swelled, and his hands shot up to nurse the wounds. Kloud had heard several cracks, and inferred that he had managed to do more damage to Bridges than just breaking his nose. Bridges eyes dilated and began to swirl, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He whimpered and writhed on the bed, and Kloud stood enjoying his pain for several moments more.
Kloud then drew forth a tough, long substance, and began to wrap Bridges’ arms and feet to the four corners of the bed. The rope Kloud decided to use just happened to be a certain person’s small intestines, and they held just as well as any other fiber would. Once assuring that Bridges was not going anywhere any time soon, Kloud began his work.
Bringing the potato peeler down on Bridges’ forearm, he slid it slowly across the top layer of flesh, his eyes flashing as both blood and a strip of skin followed his trajectory. He slid the potato peeler down to Bridges’ wrist, then tugged the strip of flesh off and laid it meticulously beside him. All the while, Bridges had erupted into a fury of shrieks and hollers, but SSK’s room was on the completely opposite end of the mansion and three stories above the room in which Pacman and Raider sat obliviously.
Kloud brought the peeler down right next to the barren area of blood covered arm, and repeated the exact same process.
This process continued for nearly two hours, Bridges’ screams gradually deteriorating after a substantial loss of blood.
In those two hours, Kloud had managed to peel every inch of skin off of Bridges, from the base of his neck to his ankles and wrists, Bridges had been stripped of skin:
Blood smothered the bed comforter, soaking through the mattress so that it took on a spongy consistency. Kloud noticed that Bridges chest, in some unthinkable way, continued to rise in fall. Faintly, yes, but it Bridges still breathed. With a growl, Kloud began to scrape away at Bridges’ chest with the potato peeler, blood gushing from the blade and also continuing to flow from his mouth. Bridge’s eyes had gone blank, and all that could escape his lips were hushed yelps. Kloud carved away at Bridges’ chest, until he reached the lungs underneath. He continued to watch them quiver back and forth, struggling to fill with air before pumping the oxygen out to the depleted blood supply.
The rhythm of Bridges’ laboring lungs enthralled Kloud, but eventually he lost interest, and stabbed both with his potato peeler, listening to them bust like balloons, then watching them deflate. Without breath, Bridges’ body seized up, almost instantly going into a state of rigor mortis. The blood flowing from his mouth ceased, and Kloud literally watched Bridges’ heart heave its last pumps.
And, as Bridges died, one opportunity for a vote in the Final round died as well
He had killed SSK’s killer,
BridgesAndBallons, flayed alive before being deflated