Chapter 4: Things In, Things Out

Chapter 4: Things In, Things Out

The appearance of the thirteenth house shattered the fragile pretense that this was just a bizarre film shoot. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of their composure. It was a tangible thing, a violation of the fundamental laws of the world that left them dizzy and unmoored.

“No.” Chloe’s voice was a choked sob, her face bleached of color in the firelight. “No, that’s not possible. We miscounted. We have to have miscounted.” She was pleading with reality itself, begging it to conform to the rules she had always known.

Liam’s hand went instinctively to the heavy tire iron he kept stowed behind the driver's seat of his truck. He didn't take his eyes off the new, purple-hued house, which seemed to soak up the firelight and give nothing back. “We didn’t miscount. First the ghost car with its impossible manual, now this. Kian, we’re leaving. Now. To hell with the money.”

But Kian was staring at the thirteen houses with a look of ecstatic revelation. The fear that gripped the others simply wasn’t registering. To him, this wasn’t a terrifying anomaly; it was a masterful plot twist.

“Leave?” He laughed, a high, brittle sound that scraped against the silence. “Are you mad? This is it! This is the show! The Patron didn’t just give us a location; she gave us a reactive environment! A stage that lives and breathes with the performance! It’s a trick of the light, a projection, an elaborate piece of stage magic!”

“There are no projectors out here!” Liam’s voice was a furious whip-crack. He took a step toward Kian, his big frame radiating menace. “There’s just us, a creepy cul-de-sac that shouldn’t exist, and a new goddamn house that just appeared out of thin air. We are in danger.”

Kian turned on him, his eyes blazing with the feverish conviction of a prophet. “Danger is the ink with which true art is written! You see an obstacle, Liam. I see a story unfolding. We are not leaving. The performance has just begun.”

He snatched the deck of cards from the log where Liam had dropped the first one. An impasse descended, thick and suffocating. Liam was ready to physically drag them out of there, but he couldn't leave his sister, and Chloe wouldn't leave Kian. They were locked in a stalemate of loyalty and terror.

It was Elara who broke it. She looked from Liam’s rigid, protective stance to Kian’s manic, glittering eyes. There was no reasoning with Kian. He was too far gone into his own narrative. And leaving felt just as impossible as staying. The forest that ringed them felt like the edge of the world. Maybe, she thought with a desperate, chilling logic, the only way out was through. If they completed the task, if they read all the cards, maybe the spell would break. Maybe the Patron would reappear and the lights would come up.

“Give me one,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Kian’s manic grin widened. “Yes! The artist understands! See, Liam? She has vision!”

Liam turned to her, his expression a mixture of betrayal and concern. “Ela, don’t.”

“It’s my turn,” she said, holding out a hand that trembled only slightly. She refused to be a passive victim. If this was happening, she would document it. She would face it through her lens.

Kian dramatically presented the deck, and she drew a card from the middle. It felt cold, unnaturally heavy, the strange text stark against the cream-colored cardstock. She took a deep breath, the air tasting of woodsmoke and old rot, and stepped into the circle of firelight, raising the card. She angled her camera on a small tripod, pointing it at her own face. The little red light blinked back at her, a silent witness.

“Rolling,” she said to the empty night. Her voice was steady as she began to read.

“A man lived in a house whose windows were bruises.”

She felt a hitch in her own breath. The imagery was immediate, visceral. She could see it: glass panes mottled with shades of purple and sickly yellow-green, like the aftermath of a terrible blow.

“Every time the sun came up, they turned a deeper shade of purple. The man said, ‘My mind is a revolving door. Things come in, and things go out.’”

Elara glanced up from the card. Across the fire, Kian was leaning forward, his body utterly still, his face a mask of intense concentration. He was hanging on every word. She forced her eyes back to the card.

“His friend asked, ‘What comes in?’”

She took a final, shaky breath and delivered the last line.

“The man replied, ‘The bruises.’”

Another non-joke. Another piece of fractured, dreamlike logic that landed with the weight of a stone in the pit of her stomach. She waited for the world to change again, for the fire to die or for another house to appear. But nothing happened. The shadows remained warped and malevolent. The thirteen houses stood silent. The only thing that changed was Kian.

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “A revolving door,” he whispered, his eyes unfocused, looking at something far beyond the campfire. He slowly got to his feet.

“Kian?” Chloe asked, her voice small.

He didn't seem to hear her. He took a jerky, uncoordinated step, like a marionette testing its strings for the first time. His head was cocked to one side, as if listening to a distant melody.

“Things in…” he murmured, his hands rising, palms open. “…and things out.” His hands flipped over, pushing the air away.

The movement was unnatural, his joints seeming to click and lock in place. He began to pace the edge of the firelight, his steps falling into a strange, shuffling rhythm.

“Kian, what are you doing? You’re scaring me,” Chloe cried, rising to her feet.

“Things in,” he chanted, his voice growing louder, more rhythmic. He spun, a clumsy, graceless pirouette. “Things out.” He pointed a trembling finger at the dark windows of the houses. “The bruises come in.” Then he pointed to his own head. “The mind goes out.”

A shudder of pure horror went through Elara. He wasn’t acting. This wasn't a performance for their benefit, or for the camera. The words from the card had found a crack in his mind and had begun to pour inside, hollowing him out and filling him with their madness. His ambition, his desperation to see meaning and art in this place, had left him wide open. He hadn’t just heard the joke; he had understood it.

“Things in, things out! Things in, things out!” His chant became a frantic, breathless mantra. His body jerked and twitched with each word, his arms flailing. The theatrical scarf he wore with such pride whipped around his neck as he spun, a slash of color in the gloom.

Liam moved, placing himself between the chanting Kian and Chloe. “Kian! Snap out of it!” he yelled.

But Kian was gone. His eyes, wide and reflecting the frantic dance of the fire, were utterly vacant. He was a vessel, a revolving door, and something terrible was walking through it. He was embracing the insanity of Beasts O’ Field Court, welcoming it like a long-lost lover, and his friends could only watch in frozen terror as the man they knew began to disappear before their very eyes.