#the locked room murder of mr.diavolo

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback -- comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. -- I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part One

He was a fine young man, that Mr. Diavolo. Perhaps a little too eccentric, maybe a bit too jolly, and most definitely very, very loud -- but he was a good man. The kind of man that you would have taken to see your mother, if the opportunity had ever come to present himself. The kind of man you would have invited to dinner, a bottle of the good wine and crumbly, stinky cheeses on the table. The kind of man that you may have eventually come to befriend, given his rather irritating habit of forcing social graces onto you.

Most importantly, he was the man that your father had introduced to you at one of his many business dinners. Your father had presented him to you with a flourish, citing his very successful ventures overseas, and you had done your best to disregard the fiery mop of hair and golden eyes. His skin suggested he was from a southern part of the Orient, but the construction of his visage had indicated something else entirely. Strong jaw, sharp nose, and defined features. He was one of mixed blood, you had come to decide. One like you.

She’s just entered university, your father had said, beaming. Some of my uncles were rather against it, really, but I believed it was only fitting. She’s a bright little one -- est-ce pas vrai, Georgine?

Yes, Papa.

Mr. Diavolo had only smiled warmly in a manner that was not at all like the other businessmen, his expression genuine, and you had found yourself smiling back. Blushing under the attention of this man, in spite of yourself. Mr. Diavolo had agreed in turn, clapping your father quite soundly on the back. In spite of the man’s strangeness, there was something undeniably, overwhelmingly intoxicating about him. Perhaps it was that exotic contrast of his golden pupils to his dark skin, so much like yours. Perhaps it was his locks, each strand blazing like hellfire. Perhaps it was that winning, impeccable grin, the chandeliers giving his teeth the appearance of sharpened points. Whichever the case may have been, you had found the intensity of your attraction to the man damning.

Then he had taken your hand in his, pressing it to his too-warm mouth, and you had understood.

And so here you are, dancing in the flickering ashes of your memories.

You stand in the middle of your late father’s study, clutching a yellowed, nearly crumbled slip of paper. It has been untouched, of course, since the day of your father’s death. Since the day of the fire that had swallowed up your future and ripped away your mother’s happiness. The costs of repairing the damage after the fire, much like the funeral, had seemed so little to you at the time -- but the medical costs have taken their toll.

It had been a miracle, they said, that you had survived such a traumatic event. Nothing short of a miracle. Truly, however, the fact of the matter had made your survival seem like anything but. The third degree burns have not been kind to your body, nor have they shown mercy on your finances. The amputation of your leg has left you walking with a cane for the rest of your life. You shouldn’t be able to feel pain anymore,  they had said, given that the nerve endings in your burned flesh are no more. Given that the mangled portion of your leg no longer exists. They had cut it off mere hours after freeing you from the rubble.

Yet even now you feel the blaze.

You have wondered, time and time again, if there was anything you could have done to change that night. If there was anything you could have done to save your father. If you had not allowed that damned demon to seduce your father into the ways of the soul trade, would he still be alive? If you had occupied that monster’s time just a moment longer, could you have prevented the fire? If you taken a knife off the charcuterie and pierced his heart, would you have preserved your mother’s happiness?

The door creaks open behind you. You turn.

“Madame Thibodeaux would not be pleased to find you here,” Bette says, giving me a disapproving look. Despite being a maid, her position as our only maid seems to have given her more confidence in her position. Which is just as well. After the fire, Bette is the only one stayed. “She’ll be home any minute now.”

“Je ne pense pas qu’elle --”

“Tu sais que c’est un mensonge.”

You sigh after a moment, relenting. There is one more glance at the faded letter from your father, your fingers gripping the worn paper -- and then you are forcing yourself to place it back into his drawer. Closing it slowly, so as to avoid damaging the wood. Bette looks at you expectantly, and you follow her unspoken wishes.

The door closes quietly behind you.

It is nearly time for breakfast. You trail behind Bette as she marches down the hall, your cane tapping lightly against the wood. The halls have been unchanged for as long as you can remember, but you cannot help but regard the family portraits with wonder each time you pass them. With the wonderful invention of photography -- and perhaps even advances in moving pictures, one day -- you cannot even begin to imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for your ancestors to pose for hours on end. Each one is as fair as the other, the portraits swirling into a mixture of blond and fair locks. Aside from you and your mother, whom your father had met in the Orient, there is no one else in your ancestry who shares your same complexion. A mark of your late father’s more radical views. Had he lived, a woman of mixed-blood would have inherited his trading empire.

Bette pulls out the chair for you. You settle yourself into it after Bette takes your cane, setting it aside, and then she places a plate of garlicky, toasted rice and fried eggs before you. You begin to cut into the eggs, the yellow yolk spilling out onto the rice. There is the sound of dishes being washed. It is only after a moment that Bette places something before you, the bright scarlet catching your attention.

You take the envelope in your hands, turning it this way and that. “I don’t think I was expecting any letters.”

“Madame Adams came personally from the office to deliver it. I believe she said it was -- ah, what was it -- an issue of utmost importance?” Bette gestures vaguely with her hands, still preoccupied with washing the dishes. “Quelquechose comme ça, je pense.”

You stare at the blood-red envelope for a moment, unsure of what to do with it -- and then your curiosity gets the better of you. You tear open the wax seal, removing the letter from the envelope, and unfold it to begin reading the letter. Your eyes land on the strangely familiar, scrawling script, each pen stroke as fine and clear as the last. 

My dearest Georgine, it reads. You have hereby been invited to an extensive vacation at the private residence of … 

Your breath catches in your throat.

[Read the letter.]

[Throw it away.]

Next part here.

[indiavolowetrust]

First part of The Locked Room Murder of Mr. Diavolo is out!

See Portrait of a Young Man: Part One.

All comments, votes, feedback, etc. pertaining to the choices is due June 24th, 2020 at 6 p.m.!

[indiavolowetrust]

The newest part of THE LOCKED ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO is now out!

Read it here.

Or start from the beginning.

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Four

[Of course! Rudeness would be out of place, and it is free of charge.]

It is a moment before you decide, your eyes flickering between her impenetrable gaze and her rather odd appearance -- and then you are reaching your own hand towards hers, hesitant. Perhaps a little too hesitant. The crimson-clad woman snaps up your hand with her own in the blink of an eye, catching you off guard, and you very nearly startle off your seat. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice. The woman flashes you a quick, toothy smile before bringing your palm towards her face, somehow inspecting the skin through the smoked glass. Given the thickness of the spectacles -- you cannot even catch the shape or color of her eyes as she bends over -- it is a wonder that she can see through them at all.

“Marvelous decision, my child!” she says in a sing-song tone. For the first time, you notice that she is wearing gloves. They match the ostentatious crimson of her gown. “Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

“Thank you, but is there any particular --”

A chilling sensation on the surface of your skin forces you to pause mid-sentence. It is as if an icicle has struck it. As if the skin there has suddenly felt the unpleasant sensation of frostbite. Your eyes flicker instinctively to what your body tells you is a wounded area, searching the woman’s hands for some hidden needle or whatnot -- but your search proves unfruitful. The hand that holds yours is gloved completely. The finger that traces it is not.

The woman hums. “Quite the bright little one, weren’t you?” she remarks, an icy finger trailing the inner flesh of your palm. You do your best not to shiver. “Astounding in all sorts of academic fields and everything you put -- oh! Perhaps that is not so, anymore. But that doesn’t matter much now, does it? Surely there are better ways for you to succeed in life.”

You clench your teeth at the sensation, which only seems to worsen by the moment. “Is there anything interesting in my near future, then? Anything I should be wary of?”

“Oh, come now, I’m a fortune teller, not a seer!” The woman laughs. It is brisk and shrill. “Reading palms only gives you a hint of the future, not the entirety of its tale. And wouldn’t it be so much less fun if you knew everything that was to happen?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, there’s nothing I can do about that negative attitude.” Her finger releases your flesh for a moment, granting it temporary relief, but in less than a moment it meets the surface of your palm again. It traces icy trails elsewhere, now following some line that must pass between your forefinger and thumb. “You’ve had a very great many things that have happened to you in life,” she continues. “Not all of them are good, but not all of them are bad, either. Suppose it’s just the way you look at it. Tell me, child, what was it you decided to travel for again? A family friend? Some business?”

“I’m currently on the way to --” she presses into the flesh, and you hiss, “-- the northern mountains for some business.”

“Business?” Her smoked spectacles slip down her nose. You catch the golden, slitted eyes beneath, nearly gasping at the sight. Her grip is tight on your hand. “Or is it revenge?”

You hold her gaze for a long moment. Her golden eyes -- they are wrong, wrong, wrong -- bore into yours. Her lips part once more to reveal an impressive set of needle-like teeth, each intermeshing with the other perfectly, and she smiles quite broadly at you. Her forked tongue slips out from between her teeth, tasting the air. Tasting you.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known all along. Beneath the lavender water, the smoked glass, the gloves -- this woman is a devil.

Her grip releases just slightly on your own hand, the muscles relaxing, and you take the opportunity to snatch your hand back. You cradle it in the other, attempting to massage feeling back into it. The crimson-clad devil before you only laughs in delight, apparently amused at the fear that has surely made itself apparent on your features. A moment, and the she-devil slips the glove back onto her hand. She reaches for the glass and taps the rim with her long claws, her grin only growing wider and wider.

“You look so lovely when you’re frightened, you know,” says the devil. “And that fear, that anger -- how wonderfully tempting you are. I’ve half a mind to devour you at this moment!”

You glare at her. “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, of course you aren’t. They never are until the last moment.” The she-devil waves her hand in dismissal. “But you should know that it’s a sin to lie.”

“Those are lofty words, coming from you.”

The devil only hums in response. Another moment, and then she begins to stand, tucking away the spectacles of smoked glass into some breast pocket. Evidently there is little need to disguise herself at the moment. You watch as she makes her way towards the door of the cabin.

She turns to give you one last smile. “Consider it a lesson!” she sings. “A very important one, if you know what you’re getting into. The fire will consume you before the brimstone, my child. Remember that.”

And then she is gone. There is only the scent of sulfur in the air, the mask of lavender water and perfume quickly disappearing from the cramped space.

The same man who had served you lunch arrives not long after, prepared to take away your dishes. You look hastily in the direction of where the she-devil had left her wine glass after you hand him your own dishes, fully expecting to need to reach over the table. By the time you look, however, it is gone.

* * *

The rest of the trip passes rather uneventfully. It is a lengthy, boring journey by train that is seceded by an equally boring journey by automobile. It appears that Mr. Diavolo only hires the most tightlipped drivers.

You find yourself mulling over the she-devil during the course of the journey, your memories flickering to and fro. The smell of sulfur, just hidden by lavender water. The golden, slitted eyes, hidden skillfully by the smoked glass. The forked tongue. The needle-teeth. You were so sure that she had left her wine glass, that she had gripped your skin hard enough to bruise -- and yet there had been no trace of her. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.

A feat that may very well be possible for a devil, for all you know. Perhaps you are not going mad. Perhaps you had not imagined her at all, and the she-devil had simply decided to play a nasty trick on you.

It is a very long journey in the automobile.

The driver rouses you after some time -- you are not exactly how long it has been, considering how night appears to have long fallen -- and you scramble out of the car as quickly as you can, nearly falling over your cane. The driver merely grunts when you ask him a question, hauling your suitcase from the back of the automobile. There is a rather harsh glance at your complexion. You fix him with a both determined and vexed stare when he finally places your bag by your feet, not bothering to take it up the stairs for you. He sighs.

“Be back in about six days,” the driver says gruffly. “Provided that the weather’s good and all, o’ course. You’re one of the first ones here, so don’t expect some grand greeting when you walk in.”

The door of the automobile slams shut with an air of finality before you can even ask anything else, and then the automobile goes tottering down the mountain road.

Before you is the private estate of Mr. Diavolo, its form looming before you like some great beast. Its tall spires are jagged teeth, its windows the eyes through which its occupants watch you from within. The eccentric, twisting shape can be attributed to no one else but a demon, for surely the architects of Hell must have odd tastes, and its stained glass shines with an almost unnaturally saturated hue. And then there is the great, crimson door before you, its knocker a polished bronze lion.

Unfortunately, there are several stairs before you. Given that the driver was nowhere near hospitable enough to carry them for you, you’ll have to manage them with both your cane and suitcase in hand. You begin to --

The great doors fly open. You nearly fall face first into the stone, but you turn just quickly enough to avoid smashing your chin completely against it. Still, your body meets the ground rather painfully.

“Look, another one’s here!” calls out a voice from the doorway. You squint to see the silhouette of a slender, rather short figure, its arm waving frantically. “Come quick, come quick!”

“It is nearly midnight, Asmodeus,” grumbles another. This one seems to originate from just out of sight, and it is only moments before I hear the sound of footsteps. “Surely this can wait until --”

“Absolutely not,” argues the first voice. “And look, this one’s a darling!”

“That darling is on the ground.”

“Oh. Oh my.”

It takes another second for your vision to clear. When it does you see two men: one a petite, nearly androgynous beauty, the other a regal and dark-haired. The petite one strides up to you with several quick bounds and sticks his hand out to you, offering you an amiable smile. You stare at him for a moment -- taking in the perfectly coiffed hair, the hint of foundation, the strange air of nobility about him -- and then you place your hand in his proffered one. He pulls you back to standing with ease.

“Are you alright?” asks the petite man. “You seem to have taken a nasty spill there.”

“I suppose I am now, Sir …” you trail off, not quite sure what to call him.

The petite man regards you with some confusion for a moment, waiting for you to finish, and then catches your meaning. “Oh, there’s no need to call me that,” says the man, breaking into that disarming smile once more. “I’m not a blueblood like that one over here. My friends call me Asmo.”

What a strange name, you think. Who in their right mind would name their child that?

“Oh,” you manage. “Well, thank you for --”

The dark-haired one finally stands within a respectable distance, stepping forward. He sighs. “Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be flirting?”

The petite man cocks a brow. “Flirting? Who said I was flirting?”

“I did.” The dark-haired man scowls at Asmo, his irritation having fully surfaced. A lack of sleep, perhaps, given the hour. He ignores you. “Now, could we please just get her through the door?”

“Oh, you’re only jealous that I was the one to --”

“No, I’m simply --”

“-- since you simply couldn’t be bothered to --”

You’ll be damned if you let these two fools bicker before you the entire night. Whatever regality or nobility that you had thought surrounded these two men has long gone, lost in the wind of their fickle argument.

“Georgine!” you say a bit too loudly, demanding the attention of the two before you. They regard you at the same time, Asmo’s hand poised in half of a gesture. “My name is Georgine,” you say with your most arresting tone, attempting to halt whatever argument may continue. “I appreciate the sentiment, but don’t you think it’s time we headed in?”

Asmo hand withers slightly. The dark-haired man simply stares. Your gaze flickers between the both of them. You realize the awkwardness of the situation.

Finally, the dark-haired man decides to clear his throat. “Right,” he says. He turns towards Asmo. “Since you’re the only gentleman around here, I don’t suppose you’d have any misgivings about helping her to her room?”

And so he does. It is only after a moment or so that Asmo realizes your lack of a limb, his eyes casting once towards where your leg should be, and fetches your cane for you. The dark-haired one looks at you -- not quite avoiding the missing appendage, yet not quite staring openly either -- and then walks back inside. Asmo takes your hand gladly in his and follows suit. You step past the threshold.

The nostalgia is almost overwhelming.

Aside from the occasional figure or statue, the appearance of the entrance hall may as well have been ripped from the fabric of your memories. It is the very image of decadence: a massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting its light upon the brocade walls and a pair of open staircases. The walls boast an impressive collection of baroque paintings, each made with a different technique, and a rather sizable rug -- imported from the Orient, perhaps -- lies before you. The weight of your childhood comes crashing down onto you all at once, so shocking is the image. Your father had brought you here a fair amount of times during the golden years of his business empire to discuss matters of the soul trade.

Your eyes trace the carved banister. Asmo talks at length on one topic or another, bantering with the dark-haired man, but the sound is a distant, far off clamor. The world is muddled with the buzz of your thoughts, your conscience smothered by your memories. Your father had held you by the hand at the base of the stairs there. Some official or businessman had offered you a boiled sweet in exchange for running off and playing somewhere else. You had nearly crashed into the gilded statue in that corner. There used to be a chip in that archway here. Each reminiscence nearly devours you.

Then you catch the image of a sharp, dark pair of shoes. Your heart stops.

As does Asmo. It takes him only a moment to glance at the figure at the top of the railing. He waves. The dark-haired one offers a simple greeting.

“Georgine!” Mr. Diavolo stands at the balcony, all golden eyes and hellfire locks. He grins, his sharp, white teeth gleaming even in the dim light. “How wonderful of you to come! How was the journey?”

[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]

[Refuse to speak to him. How dare he speak to you in such a manner! This devil is no friend of yours.]

[Say something cutting in response. This demon deserves not your politeness.]

[indiavolowetrust]

Next installment of THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO is now up!

Read Portrait of a Young Man: Part Three here. Or start from the beginning.

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

BAD END

[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]

Despite your trepidation regarding the circumstances, you decide to call out into the darkness. A guest would surely answer if you did so, would they not? Of course they would. And so despite your growing trepidation, you speak into the shadows.

“Hello?” Your voice is small in the expansive library. “Is anyone there?”

As if responding to your question, another sound makes itself known in the blackness before you. You breathe a sigh of relief. It appears someone is here, after all! You call out once more, an echo accompanying your words, and once more there is that sound. Closer this time, as if whomever the guest may be intends greet you.

Something begins to take shape in the shadows. You offer whomever it may be an amiable smile, stepping forward with your cane. The silhouette continues to thump its way towards you.

“My name is Georgine,” you say, introducing yourself. “I just arrived yesterday, so I’m afraid I --”

You pause mid-sentence, staring at what stands before you. Eyes wide, heart beginning to hammer in your chest. Your intuition -- no, your common sense -- screams at you to run. To escape. To get away from this -- this thing that has stepped out from the shadows.

It is most certainly not a guest.

His body is burnt beyond recognition. So much so that you know you should be completely unable to identify him by sight alone. Hollow eyes, charred bones, and that horrible stench of burned flesh. You can mistake it for no other: the memory of being trapped in the fire and losing your leg has long been branded into your memory. Your leg threatens to collapse beneath you; your hands nearly release your cane, so violent is their shuddering. Tears begin to prick your eyes, your simple breakfast starts to make its way up from your belly, and your mouth has gone dry.

All this, and yet you cannot force yourself to move. He -- no, this is not him, it cannot possibly be him -- smiles at you with affection.

“GEORGINE,” he sings. “GEORGINE, GEORGINE, GEORGINE, MY DEAREST GIRL -- HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE NOW! DO YOU REMEMBER ME, MY SWEET?”

You grit your teeth, in spite of yourself. Draw out some bravery from deep within you. You’ll be damned before you show fear.

You fix your gaze on the creature. “You aren’t real.”

The creature throws its head back and laughs. It is a shrill, deafening sound. “JUST AS STUBBORN, I SEE!” it bellows. The act forces its teeth to rip through its charred flesh. “OH, HOW I’VE MISSED YOU!”

There is the gnashing of teeth. The ripping of flesh that is very much your own. The sensation is there before your eyes can even perceive it, the creature having pounced upon you, and your cane is thrown somewhere else into the darkness. 

You scream. No one will hear you.

 * * *

You have died. Try again?

[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]

[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]

[indiavolowetrust]

Next installment of THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO is on my blog!

Read Portrait of a Young Man: Part Four here.