Isaac awoke before the rest of the group and had toast and coffee while he took a peek at the contest schedule. He chuckled grimly at the morbid silliness of it.

The bulk of the day centered around an “investigation”. There were "clues" hidden around the farm that would give hints as to the nature of the horrors they would soon be facing. He had to hand it to the surgeons. They had certainly put enough details into this whole façade.

It was just past noon when the rest of the group pulled themselves from their beds, but they were young and energetic and bounced back well from their hangovers.

Like children in a haunted house, the group enthusiastically searched the grounds. Isaac trailed them just enough steps away so that he didn’t feel like an official member of the Scooby Gang. He had no interest in the hunt but figured it provided a good opportunity to scout the property for defensible areas and hiding spots.

The pair of barns had some promise; large doors that could be barred, haylofts, and individual animal stalls to hide in. They contained a disappointing selection of tools. Shovels and rakes, but nothing so formidable as an axe or machete.

At one point, as they walked along the fence line, Bianca intentionally slowed until she fell into step alongside Isaac. “Wayne says you’re part of the show crew?” she whispered.

Isaac almost started to lie but then figured that most of them would be dead by the next morning anyway. “Sort of.”

“Are you here to help us or hinder us?”

“Help.”

“So, what should I do if I want to win?”

“When the time comes just do everything I tell you to, regardless of how awful it sounds.”

The look on her face immediately told Isaac that she completely misconstrued the statement. With a condemning look of disgust, she hissed, “asshole,” and walked away, leaving Isaac to add unintentionally creepy to his list of negative emotions about this whole affair.

***

Eventually, they completed their rummaging, and the group assembled in the recreation room where they dumped their findings onto the pool table. They referred to the objects as “clues”, while Isaac just saw a pile of red herrings to keep the contestants occupied on the last day.

There was an old-fashioned baby doll with no eyes. A black and white photo of several children. A music box that didn’t play. An Ouija board with several letters scratched off. A small gargoyle statue with a hole for incense sticks. A jar of seashells. A hammer with red stains on the handle. A leather-bound diary that had been water damaged and was now indecipherable. A clown mask.

Isaac sat with the rest of them, determined to play his role, and sifted through the odds and ends. But he couldn’t bring himself to make any comments or pretend that any piece had actual meaning. The only puzzle to be solved was to realize the puzzle didn’t matter. He knew whoever set this up had just stopped at a flea market and bought all this random crap. In the end, he prided himself for not banging his head on the table in frustration.

The group bandied about theories. The killer had been an abused child who had grown to adulthood and was going to return to the farm for revenge. No, it’s a ghost brought back into the world via the Ouija board. Someone drowned collecting seashells. No, someone was beaten with the hammer. They tried to decipher the journal, writing down words they thought they could make out and then comparing the words to the letters missing from the Ouija. They studied the doll and the gargoyle.

Isaac had to hand it to them. They were dedicated and thoughtful investigators. Even Vince played nice, although he did repeatedly mention that solving the mystery didn’t matter because he would just “beat the shit out of the killer when he showed up” anyway.

Isaac tried not to glance at the cameras too much. He wondered if the surgeons were watching and laughing. That thought, coupled with the eager, good-natured teamwork on display around him, and topped with dirty looks from Bianca, made him sink lower and lower in his chair.

***

At the viewing lodge, preparations swung in full. The other three members of the surgeon cabal had arrived. Tyler Landis and Alexandra Stevens, doctors of reconstructive surgery and clinical psychology, respectively. The last of their order was Andrew Hutchins, who fit in about as well as a bartending taxidermist would in a room full of PhDs.

Although they had all voted for his induction, none of the doctors cared much for Hutchins. He was like a welfare student who got into their prestigious group on a scholarship and they treated him as such. But he had enough skill that they could not have turned him away. Their numbers were few, and better to have him in the fold than for him to be freelancing beyond them. So, it became a cooperative litmus test for each of them to outperform the blue-collar lout.

Hutchins had arrived this year toting a cooler of his own brews and dropped it with a thump next to the champagne fountain. The serving staff waited for him to pop open a beer and slide several more into his suit pockets before they whisked the cooler off to the kitchen, where it would remain out of sight. As usual, he greeted each surgeon by their first name with no official titles, except for Dr. Tate, who he referred to as “Tater-tots”, much to the man’s chagrin.

Dr. Menclewski probably disliked Hutchins more than the rest. The one thing he loved about his field of neuroscience, was that it was a protected knowledge. No rube was going to stumble through the multiple financial, social, and intellectual barriers to master it. The Other World didn’t operate like that. Success could be achieved by a myriad of uncontrollable factors, like willpower and luck. No one embodied that more than Mr. Hutchins. Thus, it agitated him immensely that he actually felt interested in talking to the man, for once.

“Hello, Mr. Hutchins. Good to have you with us.”

“How goes it, Dr. M?”

Dr. Menclewski’s blood curdled just a bit at the abbreviation. “Fine. Fine. So, tell me again about this meeting you had with the Arrangement magician.”

Hutchins, happy to be of help to the group, exhaustingly reported on his meeting with Isaac. At the end, the doctors exchanged rolled eyes before Dr. Tate asked, “So Marshmallow Abyss was his favorite beer. That’s all you learned?”

“What was I supposed to do Taters? Have him do tricks? I had a bar to run.” With that, Hutchins wandered off to peruse the hors d’oeuvres.

***

It was late afternoon when a van pulled up to the contestant lodge and discharged a group of staff in white chef uniforms. They disembarked like scrambling firefighters and rushed to the kitchen where they began preparing probably the fastest feast in culinary history. Isaac laughed glumly. Avoiding a massacre certainly provided an incentive to stay on schedule.

But a sumptuous meal they did prepare. Steaks, lobster tails, soups, salads, and more desserts than he could count. To the group, it was a taste of the life they could expect as burgeoning reality stars. To Isaac, it was over-the-top, just as death row meals were supposed to be.

The moment the last dishes were served the chefs raced back to the van, which sped away with a spray of gravel. Isaac didn’t want to use the phrase “rats fleeing a sinking ship”, because rats don’t make delicious surf and turf, but it seemed apropos.

The magician ate light and drank lighter. The sun was sinking, the contest would soon begin, and he didn’t want to be weighed or dulled down. But he let the group dig in. May as well let them enjoy what could be their last meal.

***

Guests were arriving in earnest now. Limousines lined up in front of the viewing lodge to unload their occupants, who then walked like preening show dogs along the red carpet to the front door. All of the surgeons, minus Hutchins, hovered near the entrance to greet the invitees. They always found a separate task for the bartender that kept him away from the initial throng of arrivals, like an embarrassing drunk uncle.

A burst of activity at the front door signaled the arrival of a VIP and the doctor hurried over to personally greet none other than the Ambassador of the Iron Tower. “Ambassador Murray, so good to have you. It’s been a long time,” he said as he shook the woman’s hand.

“Yes, it has been. Thank you for the invite. There’s nothing I like better than a long car ride out to the middle of nowhere.”

No one made better vague verbal insults than the Ambassador and even if one objected there was nothing to be done about it. “Still, I’m glad you made the trip. I have a feeling tonight’s contest will be memorable.”

“I hope so. Can’t be worse than that time your beasties killed all those junkies.”

As staff took her coat the Ambassador looked at the main screen, where the contestants were still devouring their final feast. “Well, I’ll be...” the Ambassador said. “The Albatross.”

Dr. Menclewski side-eyed her. “What?”

“That man. I know him. His name is Isaac. Last name is literally Unknown.”

Now she had the doctor’s full, interested gaze. “Really?”

“Yes. He put quite a beating on my poor Ms. Feckle.”

“He did? To Ms. Feckle?”

“Cracked her all up like Humpty Dumpty. What’s he doing here?”

“We were shopping around to upgrade the challenge this year. As you so eloquently put it, we had no more to learn from killing...junkies.” Dr. Menclewski ended the last word with a sibilant hiss as if his tongue were too high class for it. “Arrangement took it upon itself to meddle in affairs and force this Isaac on us.”

“Oh my, Arrangement is clued in on your little shenanigans too? This is shaping up to be quite the night.”

Dr. Menclewski motioned for a server to show the Ambassador to her seat. “Right this way. I’ve reserved the best seat in the house for you.”

The Ambassador dismissed the reservation with a wave and then made a beeline for a couch currently occupied by two young men. She found just enough space between them for her boney frame and wiggled her way in before offering up her hand to be kissed.

This new information regarding the magician only deepened Dr. Menclewski’s concern about the evening. There was little time to ponder it, as on the screen his fake producer drove to the hunting lodge and the crowd quieted.

The entertainment was about to begin.

***

The SUV came down the drive fast enough to kick up a comet trail of dust. It skidded to a halt as Isaac and the rest stepped out onto the porch. A thin, well-dressed man climbed out.

“Hey, it’s Mr. Collins,” Bianca said.

“Who’s he?” Isaac inquired.

“He’s the casting agent. He chose all of us for the show. He didn’t pick you?”

Isaac ignored the question. Mr. Collins looked like a stock photo of a tax collector. Not an IRS accountant, but someone who had goons kick open the door to a peasant’s hut so he could take what few coins they had.

“I trust everyone is enjoying themselves? The accommodations have been adequate as promised?” Collins addressed them all and the group, minus Isaac, responded with a variety of enthusiastic agreements. “Excellent to hear. I knew this was going to be a good group.” Again, they all loudly concurred they were a good group. “Tonight is the big night. We start the real game, in which the survivors will receive the aforementioned prizes.” There were clapping and whoops of joy and Vince and Peyton high-fived overtop of Isaac’s head. “The only rule, other than doing what it takes to survive, is that you do not run beyond the lodge property lines. Stay on this side of the camera poles and you’re fine. Venture outside and you’re immediately and permanently disqualified. In the next few moments, our show’s monsters will arrive. All you have to do is survive until the first rays of the rising sun. It’s that simple.”

Angie raised her hand. “How do we know when we’re dead? Do the killers just touch us? Or splatter us with fake blood or something?” The questions made Isaac cringe.

“Trust me,” Mr. Collins replied with a smile that only Isaac recognized as sinister. “You’ll know when you’re dead. Isn’t that right, Isaac?”

The magician didn’t appreciate being singled out. Immediately the others mumbled to each other, wondering what was so special about him. Except for Wayne, who nodded and rubbed his chin, apparently convinced that this proved his theory about Isaac being part of the game.

Isaac fought back the temptation to see if Mr. Collins’s soul was weak enough to allow his telekinesis to snap most of his bones. Alas, it would have been a meaningless waste of strength and would probably just frighten the group.

He wasn’t ready for them to be afraid yet.

***

The arrival of Mr. Collins represented the National Anthem at sporting events, the signal to truly start paying attention. Dr. Menclewski nodded to Dr. Stevens, who quieted the crowd and then delivered her yearly speech in which she thanked all of those in attendance and then pumped up the crowd with a description of the contest ahead.

Dr. Menclewski always had Dr. Stevens do this. She was a natural public speaker and had a tone both charismatic and authoritative. Dr. Tate had once said she had a voice made of poisoned honey. Despite this, he relegated the task to her, not because of her skill, but because he hated public speaking. No, he detested public speaking. Not out of anxiety or embarrassment or any such common fears, but because he simply considered many of the guests to be unworthy of his time. All of the wealth, power, and privilege assembled here made for necessary allies but did not make for many equals.

He paid so little attention to the speech that he didn’t even realize it ended until he heard Dr. Stevens call his name. She smiled and said, “I think it’s time to begin.” He agreed and made the call.

***

As soon as Mr. Collins had driven away Isaac had been chased inside by a very curious group.

“Why did he say that to you, Isaac? What’s going on?” Kendra asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? Isaac’s a plant,” Wayne pointed out.

“What? Really?” Peyton asked.

“Are you an actor?” Bianca asked. “What’s your role?”

Isaac slung his Everbag over his shoulder and tightened the strap while he worked an answer around in his brain. “I was inserted into the cast at the last minute to give you tips on how to survive.”

“What help could you possibly be?” Vince asked with the edgy tone of one who’d had his masculinity questioned.

“Yeah, it’s not like these are real killers. It’s still just a game,” Peyton said.

“Yeah, but there are still rules. Every horror movie has rules, right?”

The group murmured and eventually at least a couple nodded. “So, when the stitches show up just do whatever I tell you.” He groaned when he realized he said the s-word.

“What’s a stitch?” Their voices merged with chorus perfection.

“Uhhhhh...everyone here know who Frankenstein is? Exactly the same thing.” Isaac wasn’t sure what response that information would elicit, but “disappointment” had certainly ranked very low. The group looked absolutely bummed.

“Well, that’s not very creative,” Wayne complained.

“They’ll walk like this?” Peyton asked and held out his arms and walked in place with ramrod straight legs. Isaac frowned at the mimicry and ensuing chuckling from the group.

That’s when the tractor-trailer reversed down the driveway. The distraction came as a relief to Isaac, as he’d rather battle stitches than continue trying to have this conversation.

Curious and unafraid the group moved to the porch. Mr. Collins’ SUV had also returned as an escort and the truck driver exchanged a few words with the fake producer before he began unlatching the trailer doors.

It couldn’t be this simple Isaac thought. Surely, they didn’t just load the stitches up like so much cargo and drive them to the massacre. While practical it certainly lacked a sense of drama. His suspicions were confirmed when the driver opened the doors and sprinted to the SUV like he’d just thrown open a lion cage.

Oh well, may as well just jump right in. He moved to the porch steps and turned to address the group. “Ok, listen up. I’m going to say this once. This is not a contest or television show. This is all real. You were all hired to die.” He pointed at one of the many cameras aimed at them. “The only people watching are a bunch of sadistic perverts who are probably placing wagers on how long we’ll live.”

There was a pause, then some giggling, which picked up enthusiasm and blossomed into full laughter.

“Dude, I knew you were part of the show! I told you!” Wayne pointed at him. “But you are a terrible actor. That was just awful.”

Between laughter fits Kendra ragged on him as well. “I did plays in high school and you wouldn’t have gotten an audition with that.”

“I’ve seen more convincing performances in porn.” This from Vince.

“Why are we all laughing? What’s going on?” asked Angie.

“Seriously, why do you think we’d fall for that?” finished Peyton.

Isaac shrugged and leaned against the railing. “I said I’d say it once and I did.” He tried to warn them, but they just weren’t ready to believe in monsters. His conscience was as clean as he could make it.

Then the first stitch came down the trailer ramp and the laughter puttered out. One by one they marched out of the darkened trailer into the setting sunlight, monsters from the cave, trolls from under the bridge. The group finally looked awestruck and Isaac forcefully said, “Ha. Who’s laughing now? None of you, because...” he looked back at the trailer, “oh shit...”