You Are Cordially Invited

TL:DR following this symbol “-0-”

As though frightened, your car stalls out just inside the gate. Unwilling to step out into the building storm, you try the key again, pumping the gas. As with every time before it stutters to life, but did it take just a little longer than before? A couple extra tries?

High on the hill, outlined in lightning that strikes so close it almost seems like the thunder arrives first, the house looms over you. Lights burn in every window, its high, peaked roofs disappearing into the constant rain. You crawl up the long drive, unwilling at last to go any faster.

The invitation claws at your mind, one from an old friend you had not thought about in years, inviting you to their family estate.

They had always been an enigmatic person, when you knew them. And despite their lack of admitting to it, you could easily believe that they had hidden family money. But there was a something in that invitation, a something that hooked you in.

Well, a something aside from the promise of a formal party. It has been ages since you last had the occasion of dressing to impress, so the appeal of a party where you would otherwise be out of place is strong. But seeing the house, high on that hill, your heart drops into your shoes. Nothing could have prepared you for quite so much wealth on display.

Looking for all the world like a mansion from a horror film, it glowers down at you. The many lighted windows imagined as the infinite eyes of some terrible monster.

You had seen a movie about that once, hadn’t you? A house possessed by a ghost that tries to eat trick-or-treaters. But that had only been a movie. And yet there Vocalswood Manor stands, waiting to claw you in and swallow you whole.

To drive such silly notions from your mind, you give the car more gas. It is absurd to fear a house, especially one that is so clearly lived in. Despite its evident age and grandeur, there is surely nothing to fear about such a place.

Parking next to a long row of cars close to the covered carriageway, you grab your umbrella out of the passenger seat. No need to get your best clothes rained on, even for the seconds it will take for you to run from the car to the door.

A vicious barking startles you as you close the door. Standing stock still, you look left and right, trying to find the source. If you know where the dogs are coming from, then you will know which way to run. But the barking does not grow any closer, nor louder.

Before you, visible through the driving rain, the grand double doors open, warm light spilling onto the dry pavement beneath the carriageway. A tall man in a dark suit stands there, hands clasped behind his back. He speaks, but you cannot hear it over the constant rain. Upon realizing that you cannot hear him, one white-gloved hand emerges, and waves you onward.

Striding towards him, heels of shoes clicking on wet pavement, you approach. You attempt to appear calm, collected, in control. However, you cannot judge your success from his expression. Youthful, clean shaven, and you suspect involving concealer to achieve the flawless skin, his face betrays nothing.

“Welcome,” he says, bowing slightly to you before holding out his hand for your umbrella.

“Sorry,” you say, more out of confusion than anything else. You do not remember ever interacting with a butler before and aren’t unsure of the procedure. “See, I received this invitation, and-”

“Yes,” he pronounces your name flawlessly. “You are expected. May I say that you seem to have arrived just in the nick? I understand that the storm is only going to grow worse. Please, come in. The other guests are already in the library.”

Following his instructions, you hand over the umbrella and tail him into the house. Just beyond the door is a grand hallway, complete with open steps leading down to a basement, flanked on either side by grand staircases going up.

Hot on the butler’s heels, you follow him to the library, thanking him as he bows you through the door. Inside, people sit or stand in small, awkward groups. Each one is formally dressed and turns to regard you with bored interest as the maid asks what you would like to drink.

At least, you think she’s a maid. The uniform, if it can be so called, borders on the stereotypical, complete with distractingly swooping neckline, and a short, frilly skirt.

Trying your best to be polite, to not stare, you briefly question the ethics of her employment. Did she choose to dress like that? Are you supposed to tip her? What are the rules? Accepting your beverage, you take a calming sip. There is nothing to be concerned about, no reason for discomfort.

Simply introduce yourself to some people, try and join in their conversations if you can. And, of course, try to find your estranged friend. It will be easier if you can attach yourself to someone you already know.

Idly, you drift through the room, briefly joining with first one small group, then another. Quickly you come to realize that although some guests appear confident in knowing the proprietor, others seem just as lost and confused as you. Despite the house allegedly belonging to your friend, none present know their name, nor yet had any of them lived in the place where you two had met.

Just as you take a seat on one of the over-stuffed leather sofas, a strike on a gong echoes through the house. Conversation stops and heads turn towards the door. The maid stoppers her bottles, covers the tea pot, and says in a thick French accent, “that is the summons to dinner. The host is looking forward to meeting you all.”

Nervous mutters.

You did not expect that. Given that the house ostensibly belongs to a person you knew once upon a time, the assumption had been that everyone else present was better acquainted with them. But now it strikes you that none seems to know what the purpose of the evening is. A few seem to know each other, but even then only glancingly.

The door to the library opens and you are invited to follow the butler into the dining room.

After taking your seats, the maid carries in soup and the meal begins.

Uncomfortable minutes pass as guests taste the soup. Small coughs of confusion follow the first spoonful of several. One woman with a feathered headpiece declares that it is one of her favourite recipes and wonders where the mysterious owner of the house found the ingredients.

“Now introducing the Right Honourable Max Vocalsborne,” the butler’s words shatter the uncomfortable near-silence at the table. All eyes turn towards him as with great ceremony he bows an unfamiliar person into the room.

“Welcome, all,” Max’s voice does not quite match their face. Incongruous with their appearance, it booms across the room, silencing the few scattered questions passed between those guests who knew one another before arriving at the house.

“I have invited you here for a simple reason, though I am afraid that I must apologize for doing so under false pretenses. Please forgive me, but I find it rude to discuss business over dinner. If you would all be so patient as to wait until we adjourn to the lounge, then I shall explain the reason behind this evening. As a teaser, however, you are to understand that I have information critical to the cessation of some particular annoyance in each of your lives.”

Dinner is an uncomfortable affair. The soup is not one that you have ever tasted, its spice blend reminds you vaguely of Cantonese cooking. The texture of the meat stands out to you, however. Unlike anything you’ve ever encountered.

Each of the four courses is presented by the maid at a signal from the host. Most guests steadfastly refuse to acknowledge what her outfit presents to them as she bends to place the next dish. But only most, a few of both sexes take the opportunity of being served to notice her femininity. Though you cannot tell by their faces if they are intrigued, disgusted, or confused at such a display.

At the conclusion of the meal, precisely at the moment that all the plates are cleared, the butler returns and invites you all into the lounge. He mentions that there you will be offered an after-dinner drink, some fruit or desert, and of course, the answers to all your questions.

No sooner than all guests accept a beverage, light a cigarette if they choose to smoke, and take a seat, Max Vocalsborn begins. “The reason for calling you all here tonight is-” but they are cut short by a clap of thunder and the lights going out.

“Not to worry,” the calm voice of the butler speaks out of the darkness. “Likely a fuse tripped by the storm. Wait patiently for a moment.” A door opens, then closes, and the room is silent.

In the next flash of lightning, you see the confused face of Max Vocalsborne for a brief moment. Moments later, a shot rings out, the muzzle flash illuminating suddenly frightened faces. Following the shot, the sound of something metal striking a hard surface. A high, mildly feminine scream is followed by a loud groan and a sound like something heavy hitting the floor. Then the room is silent again.

Lights blind you.

Bringing up a hand to cover your eyes, you try to blink away stars from such a sudden illumination. When your vision clears, you see every guest standing around the body of Max Vocalsborne. Bile rises in your throat at the sight, a man is dead before your eyes.

The door opens, drawing an other scream from one of the guests, and the butler says cheerily. “Just as I suspected, a blown fuse. It has been corrected. Now please…” turning to you he then asks very seriously, “what happened?”

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TL:DR begins now.

To whom it may concern,

Good evening, dear guest.

I am ever so glad that you have taken up the invitation to join us tonight. Alas that The Right Honourable Max Vocalsborne has come to such an unfortunate end. Or have they? Why don’t you tell me?

After the unqualified success of my Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Challenge, I have been absolutely champing at the bit to run another. To that end, I hope you will forgive my forwardness in bringing you here to Vocalswood Manor tonight

To be honest, I am surprised that my employer seems to have met such a sudden and unexpected end.

Although I am not sure what decade we are in, I can say with certainty that all communications have been disabled by the storm. Therefore, we can expect no rapid response from emergency services, though I assure you that they will arrive promptly when called for. We are also unable to leave until the storm has passed, given that the river has overspread its banks and washed out the road. So, we must make do with those present.

My challenge to you is best defined by a simple question: who dunnit? If, of course, Max Vocalsbrone is truly dead.

This challenge is inspired by the movie and board game Clue (one of the best comedy movies ever made!).

Having introduced the story in the second person, I would now like to invite you to take over narration and tell me who dunnit, where, and how. Poison? Shooting? A candle stick in the lounge, perhaps? Or does Max still live? And if so, what lead to that outcome?

Please do not think that I am in any way limiting your creativity. Max might not yet be dead; they might instead be killed in another room after some tomfoolery. Or perhaps they live through to the end.

The floor is yours. Tell me the story in either the first or third person inspired by the story outlined above. I award no bonus points for investigative realism, but references to either the board game or the film will make me smile. Not that they will increase one’s odds of presenting the truth of the case, I will just respect you more.

In keeping with the tradition from the Clue movie, there are three possible endings (winners) to this challenge. Tell me in 3,500 words or fewer (minimum 600 because of Vocal restrictions) who killed Max Vocalsborne, where, with what, and why. Or, if they survive, do be so kind as to explain that circumstance as well.

The POV character could be yourself, or completely fictional. The other guests might be other Vocal creators, friends from the real world, or wholly imagined creations of your own.

I place no restrictions on the story you wish to tell. Horror, gritty noire-style fiction, comedy, tragic romance, anything is on the table. Scare me, make me laugh, make me cry, make me rage against the unjust end to a life of charity and humanitarianism, or fill me with glee at the death of an evildoer. I wait with bated breath to know how it all ends.

No ending is off limits! The butler (myself) might have done it, or one of the guests. Though I have been cast as an evil time travelling wizard at least once in the past.

In fact, the only restriction is that something must have happened. A death or a trick, you decide!

The gender of Max has been kept neutral to allow for the greatest freedom of choice for our guests. They could be a he, she, or remain a they according to your discretion. So too with the second person narration, I have laboured to ensure that as many people as possible could be represented by the as yet unnamed protagonist.

Plausible explanations of the event will be accepted from this day until 23:59 Eastern Daylight Time on Canada’s National Day of Truth and Reconciliation 30th of September 2024. (look it up)

Rewards from the Vocalsborne estate (or given in gratitude by Max should they have survived) will be given to the three most plausible explanations (winners) of $10, $5, and $2 respectively.

Now I shall leave you to determine who dunnit, how, and where.

Best of luck, and I do so hope you all survive what comes next.

Sincerely,

Alexander McEvoy Esquire.

Butler of Vocalswood Manor.

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Submissions:

"Max Vocalsborne's Unfortunate End", by Sarah Parker

"Oops" by Donna Fox (HKB)

"The Gammy Arm of the Law" by Paul Stewart