The bus halted before the next stop, and the doors opened, revealing Dracula's Castle. Willa's eyes beamed with familiarity. This was no ordinary world; she had written every word, every description, and every character. The world was built on her imagination, but seeing it in person took her breath.
From the outside alone, it was haunting, the details too vivid, too alive. And yes, the castle was alive.
At first, she had intended for it to be something still, but then it didn't come with surprises, and now she was about to witness the same fate she had cast upon her characters, their terrifying deaths and painful screams.
Willa couldn't bring herself to move, but then the others stepped forward, climbing down the bus one after another, their faces calm, yet the horror could be seen in those tired eyes and chapped lips. The stranger beside her followed the line, silent as always.
With a sigh, she braced herself and followed. Cold air blew in as the last passenger… The last ghost stepped down. The bus doors slammed shut and wiggled away into the fog. Willa's eyes followed it until it disappeared, and only echoes of its brakes could be heard.
The thick white fog parted just enough for them to see the castle, but nothing beyond. Indeed, it followed everything she had written to the core. On the castle gates, above them, Dracula Castle was carved in bold letters that dripped with fresh blood, as if a soul had been murdered into it.
Two guards stood by, handing out numbered tags. Willa knew the drill; it was her world. Slowly, the line inched forward, and soon she reached for hers. The tag burned as it touched her palm, imprinting her identity:
[PLAYER 07]
Willa watched the players walk into the castle, her steps inching forward behind them. This was no place for the weak; it had made her readers tremble. Some had written to her about their nightmares for weeks, and now she was standing at its entrance.
Willa's mind raced. "How is this even possible?" she murmured, but there was no answer. She felt real; the world before her was no dream. The burn from the number tag hurt; it was certainly not her imagination.
But unlike the other players, Willa had a cheat system; she was the author. Every detail had been crafted and written by her. She had drafted every word with precision: the shimmering chandeliers that dangled in the air like a welcoming entrance to a ballroom, whereas it was a place crafted for death.
The dried roses that were unappealing yet carried secrets of their own; the screams under the ballroom floor, which her characters had feared, thinking they came from some wild beast, when it was only a toddler who had answers to the riddles.
Every nightmare was hers. But now, she carried no keyboard. She was no author.
"You wrote this, didn't you?"
Willa's breath hitched. She turned; her eyes caught his, her steps stumbled, and her body fell backward, but her body never reached the floor. A strong pair of arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her forward. "You…" she gasped, relief washing over her.
"You have a habit of sneaking up on others, don't you?" she asked, and he only smiled.
"Habit," he muttered.
She nodded, her hands still resting on his hard chest as she unintentionally gave it a little squeeze. Their eyes locked, and she pushed herself off him, arranging her dress.
"Nature," he corrected.
Willa couldn't tell why she felt at ease with him, but those cold eyes seemed to carry much more than he was letting on.
"What's your name?" she asked.
The handsome stranger's lips curled. "Changing the subject," he muttered.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.
Willa watched him smile faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching as his head tilted to the side. Her gaze followed his, and by the corner, other ghosts stood whispering to one another.
"What are they?"
The handsome stranger's face inched dangerously close, catching Willa off guard. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress, and her pupils danced.
"Writers always end up meeting the skeletons in their cupboards here," he whispered, his breath fanning her like a new fragrance from her favorite vendor. "Let's see how long you hold the truth," he added.
As he stepped away, Willa struggled to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard she feared it would burst through her ribcage.
Just then, the screen at the front lit up:
[Round One Begins.]
[Theme: Betrayal.]
[Objective: Die Beautifully.]
The ballroom lit up, and people emerged in pairs, waltzing to the sound of instruments. The soft giggles of noble ladies filled the air, mingled with the flirtatious compliments of noblemen.
Willa glanced around; the players seemed to have dispersed within the crowd. Slowly, she stepped closer. If everything was as she wrote it, then the ballroom should be filled with ghosts and hidden traps.
Every door had a challenge, and winning was the only way out. But this was no survival game; she had to die, and in the most tragic way possible.
Willa frowned as she mingled with the ghosts, dancing and searching. Doors weren't chosen at random. Every character had a door that presented their greatest fear, regret, and pain.
Willa swayed in the direction of the music, her body balanced to the beats, her legs moving in perfect rhythm. She had never waltzed, but here she danced like a pro.
She spun around; her eyes caught it, the soft sparkle from a door leading out of the ballroom. Without delay, she dashed forward. She wanted nothing more than to get this game over with as soon as possible.
Her trembling hands reached for the doorknob, but then it suddenly vanished.
As she turned, so did the others.
"What's happening?" Willa's breath caught; her eyes trembled. "This... this wasn't in the script," she whispered.
"Who died here?" a voice asked from behind.
Willa jolted; her soul almost ran out of her body. She turned, and her eyes caught the handsome stranger's.
"Stop sneaking up on me like that! It's bad enough I'm already being haunted," she half-yelled.
A wide grin spread across the man's lips. "Elias," he whispered.
It took Willa a few seconds to understand he had just introduced himself. She could only nod as her eyes darted around the ballroom, which was now empty.
In the original script, the ballroom was like a sanctuary, unstained and pure, but now she had second thoughts.
Before she could utter another word, the system chimed.
[Player 07, perform your death.]
"What?!" Willa's voice cracked. "No... no, this isn't part of the script," she half-cried.
"If your characters could play it… so can you," Elias taunted, his voice dripped coldly.
"But it wasn't like this. And stop making me feel bad, okay, it was only fiction, they were not living things… just some random names I picked and wrote about," Willa yelled, her body trembled with every word.
"Is that so?" Elias' eyes beamed. "Yeah!" Willa creamed, but he didn't seem to buy her excuse. "Every character was carefully picked; the naming, habits, gestures, and even skin color and facial features were written down with precision. The world came alive and since then….it stopped being fiction." Willa's lips quivered as the screams of the other players rampaged through the castle.
"I can't die here," She sobbed.
"You wrote it, didn't you?" Elias said softly. "Then play it."
He smirked, and above them, the chandelier trembled. One chain came loose.
Willa's breath caught. Her hands trembled, and her eyes begged for help, but the man before her stepped forward, his hands buried in his pockets, his smile never fading.
Unlike the others who cried, begged, and avoided the inevitable end, he was long used to it. So much so that death was only a word and nothing more. His body and mind had long merged with pain so much that nothing surprised him.
He leaned closer, his voice dripping like a death sentence.
"Remember to die beautifully," he whispered,
and a second chain snapped.