The Halloween Writers' Retreat

This is for the 2026 Halloween Contest. Enjoy, and don't forget to comment and to read lots of the entries!

It was a long walk along the track, and I was breathing a little heavily as I reached the chalet, laden as I was. I was fit, but it all added up – the heavy pack, the long, long walk from the train station, this last little ascent. Still, if I were to leave little trace on the landscape according to my creed, I had to make some sacrifices.

Before knocking on the door, I took a moment to rest and to gaze back at the view in admiration. There wasn't another house in sight: the slopes in front of me were covered with what looked like virgin forest, eventually giving way to bare mountain peaks, a tiny bit of snow still clinging to them after the long summer. We were in a slightly more obscure part of the French alps, away from the resorts, and we were well ahead of the ski season. It was the perfect time and place for a retreat.

The place was as described: tall, heavy, deliciously gothic. Blackened stone pillars festooned with ivy, and an aged, lichen-ridden roof, with large front windows commanding a sweeping view over this isolated valley. Intricate decorations, including some delightfully ugly gargoyles that could have been stolen from the Notre Dame. If the inside was any match, we were in for a fun writing weekend.

There was a rope hanging outside the front door, and when I pulled it I could hear a deep, sonorous tone from somewhere inside. It took a while for anybody to answer, but finally a pleasant, smiling, 30-something woman opened the door, puffing slightly. She was dressed far older than she looked, in a fine-quality tweed suit, with a sensible skirt and modest grey stockings. A floral brooch sat on the lapel of her jacket, and she was wearing a cream-coloured silk blouse underneath.

"Sorry about that," she said cheerfully. "Unfortunately the rental didn't come with staff, so it's been a bit frantic".

"Fair enough," I said. I stuck out my hand. "Boris McTavish the Third, at your service."

She laughed out loud. "Straight into character! I like that. Well, you can call me Miss Agatha Marble, your host and amateur sleuth. The others are all here and we'll meet them after I show you your room. Come in. It's an amazing chalet."

"Aren't you too young to be playing that role?" I asked curiously.

"Kind of you to say so, but I've always wanted to channel my inner spinster. Bear with me. I'm sure I'll get sick of the arthritis soon enough."

The room was up two flights of stairs, the stairwells festooned with old paintings and illustrations from books. Fairy tale characters competed for space with Regency fiction and its French equivalents and a myriad of other topics, even including some prints that I recognized as being from early Tolkien editions. The overall effect was cluttered but cute, and fantastically on-topic: I could see why Marble had chosen this as our Halloween writer's retreat venue. I didn't see too many ghosts, corpses or ghouls, but in fairness most guests would prefer more cheerful subjects for their walls.

My bedroom was superb. Well maintained wood panelling covered the walls, the whole surface glistening with fresh wood oil, smelling faintly of pine. The pictures were not as overwhelming as in the main areas: somebody had shown a bit of restraint. On one wall was a brightly coloured painting that I recognised as the Voyage of the Dawn Treader from CS Lewis' Narnia books. On another was a picture of a wintery forest, the silhouette of a running girl in a red cape seen dimly through the trees. And hanging in pride of place above the bed was a misty medieval streetscape at night, full moon shining on the cobbled streets, hints of pedestrians of various shapes and sizes scurrying about their nightly business.

"This is one of my favourite rooms," said Marble. "I wish I'd grabbed it for myself. Mine's got orcs and elves on the walls."

I laughed. "We can swap if you like."

She waved me off. "Perhaps I'll turn into Galadriel overnight. It would probably inspire me to give the murder mysteries a rest, anyway. Don't they say that you have to kill your darlings? I wanted to run this weekend because of writers' block, so I need to be open to new things."

"As long as you don't turn into an orc."

"Are there female orcs? Well, no risk, no reward anyway."

I was unpacking my writing things and sketchbook while we were talking. Marble picked up the sketchbook and started leafing through.

"You have a fine hand," she said. "I always wondered if you really drew those illustrations yourself in your stories."

"Drawing is part of the creative process for me," I said. "I don't claim to be an artist, but I guess the pictures are serviceable enough."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Don't undersell it. It's a rare skill, and getting rarer all the time."

I was embarrassed and covered that by making a show of wanting to meet the others.

"Shall we?" I asked, and she nodded and led me back down the steep stairs.

"You wouldn't want to put one of your murder suspects behind you on these stairs," I joked.

"Are you a murderer, Mr McTavish?"

"Let's assume not. It will make life easier for both of us."

"Particularly for me and my prematurely fragile bones," she said. "Thank you for your consideration, Mr McTavish."

"It's a pleasure, Ms Marble. Although I can't help feeling that you're being over-generous in your praise. Agreeing to not kill the mistress of the house is a fairly low bar when it comes to guest etiquette."

"Still, it gives me a measure of comfort, so let's not quibble on the finer points of the matter," she responded.

Just at the foot of the stairs, she touched my arm to stop me, and whispered conspiratorily into my ear, "Mr McTavish, I should disclose that I do find the quality of the company assembled a little... variable. Please forgive me, and I'll appreciate your restraint."

With that curious warning, we ended the living area, to be greeted by warm light and sound. The rest of the company were seated with pre-dinner drinks, and I gratefully accepted some sparkling wine from our busy host.

There were four others present. One of them, a towering, heavily bearded, bald-headed giant, I knew by reputation, and barely stopped myself from blurting out his real name. Smiling, he rose to his feet and extended his hand.

"Professor Richard Hamilton, at your service," he said with a big, booming voice, and I responded in kind.

Hamilton was clearly used to dominating the room, and he took up the mantle of introducer-in-chief. Strictly speaking, that should have been done by Miss Marble, but she had darted back out to finish the dinner preparations, belying her claimed age.

"Ms Stella Smythe-Jones," he started with, and I found myself bowing to an elegant, early middle-aged woman, who greeted me with a faint smile and an extended hand for me to kiss.

"Mr McTavish," she said pleasantly in what sounded like a more refined version of a New York accent than I was used to hearing, and left it at that.

"Miss Andrea Johansson," Hamilton continued with a leer, "who styles herself as an actress of some kind," and I was greeted with a vision of utter loveliness. Pale, porcelain skin, long red hair cascading to one side of her head, and a full figure encased in dark green gown with a generous helping of cleavage: she was stunning.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" I asked, letting my smile reach my eyes as I took her hand.

"Perhaps," she said languidly, her Irish lilt more musical than Stella's dry tones. "I meet so many admirers."

But I, and only I, saw a brief wink.

"And finally," Hamilton continued, oblivious to our interplay, "Mr Dirk Jones, who is an enigma wrapped inside a mystery."

I gave Jones a firm handshake and he nearly crushed my hand back. He was an efficient Germanic blond, clean-shaven, a muscly type with only the faintest of smiles. It was a little hard to picture him as an author, but what did I know?

We fell into conversation around the room. Jones said very little, speaking English carefully to us, but the others more than made up for him, discussing the chalet, dancing around our real identities and working ourselves into the spirit of the weekend.

"Are we just writing to Halloween themes? What are your ideas about how this will work?" Andrea asked.

"I talked to Marble about this," said Henderson, "I'm not sure if you knew this, but I've been a mentor to her for some years. We're writing about anything. Letting the theme inspire us in any way that we want. Taking our cues from the setting and the stories around us, seeing what comes out. I know I'm not going to be short of ideas. Quite the contrary." He gave a hearty chuckle, oblivious to our eye-rolling. I was already getting an idea why Marble had warned me.

The pictures on the walls were one of the main conversation topics. In this room, we had large, heavy paintings, with none of the light and whimsy of the stairwell and of my bedroom. Instead, a massive naval battle dominated the largest wall, which after some discussion we decided was the Battle of Trafalgar, with Nelson clutching his body on the deck of his flagship just as he was fatally shot. Directly opposite, we had an even less cheerful crucifixion scene, a massive crowd surrounding three crosses and apparently yelling abuse at Christ in the centre. And if that wasn't morbid enough, a smaller painting on another wall showed the chalet itself during a storm, lit up brilliantly by a lightning bolt shattering a tree nearby.

"I think I prefer the fairies in my room to this," said Stella. "Even if they're a bit too cutsy to be borne for longer than a weekend."

"Soldiers in mine," said Jones, in one of his rare contributions.

"Lovers in mine, although generally ill-fated" responded Andrea. "Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah, and miscellaneous others. There's even one that looks like you, Mr McTavish, together with a redhead, although we can't see her face. Hopefully that couple will do rather better."

I opened my mouth for a careful response, but Hamilton cut across me, somewhat rudely in my opinion.

"Some perfectly good couples in my room," he said. "Kings and Queens of England, back through the ages. Can't be much more solid than that."

"Oh, is Anne Boleyn there with her loving Henry?" asked Stella brightly, and I had to cough to hide my laughter, finally giving up and excusing myself to go and help Marble in the kitchen.

...

Dinner was superb. Roast chicken with a huge array of vegetables, succulent gravy, followed up with fresh pecan pie and high-quality ice cream. Marble had pulled out all the stops.

"I didn't mention this before," she said to us, "but the owners left us a lovely note. They said that 'they hope that this mansion stimulates our creativity to new heights and that as a token of their esteem they have left us several rather nice bottles of their favourite tipples.' Rather nice of them, I think."

"Gothic chalet, over-stimulated authors, Halloween and alcohol," I said. "What could possibly go wrong?"

This got a general laugh, and then we all pitched in for the clean-up. The gothic flavour of the mansion had been abandoned in the kitchen, no doubt for the convenience of the owners – the kitchen was modern, highly functional, all gleaming stainless steel and genuine marble, and an industrial-sized dishwasher swallowing all of our plates. We had the work done quickly and then adjourned to the drawing room for after-dinner drinks. I was handed a fine, smoky port from the sideboard. Henderson had the same, while Jones stuck to water. The ladies were offered sherry. For a brief moment I wondered if the men were going to be sent to the smoking room in the best traditions of the genre, but our host had other things on her mind.

"Time for games," she announced, and four of them were paired off at whist, while I was challenged to a game of dominos by Henderson. He was surprisingly nimble-fingered for such a large man, although I still had an edge on him. Perhaps he was distracted, because he certainly had something on his mind.

"Look here, old chap," he muttered to me across the table, "I just want to make something clear. I'm going to make a play at Andrea. I'd appreciate a clear shot so that we don't have to waste time arm-wrestling when the result is beyond doubt."

My gut twisted, but I hid that with a light laugh. "You don't think that Jones has the edge right now? After all, we're here, and he's playing whist with the three ladies."

"So he is, but, just between us, he and Marble have also known each other for a while, and perhaps that is holding him back. At least, he doesn't seem to be looking at the other women."

"But haven't you also known Marble a while?"

"I'm different," he grunted. "He's something of a lackey to her. You didn't answer me about Andrea."

"It sounded more like a statement than a question," I said. "You're going to try and seduce her. Fine, seduce away, and let me know how you went tomorrow. It's not like anybody will be deciding who will get inside her knickers except for her."

"Good man," he said. "Thought you'd see reason."

"You don't need to warn Stella and Marble off Andrea? They're looking pretty frisky, if you ask me. I'm suspecting that Marble's a real hottie underneath that tweed suit, but I don't know her preferences as well as you might."

He gave me a brief stare and turned away, lip twisting.

---

We rejoined the others.

"Who won?" asked Andrea, her ruby-red lips twitching as though she were a hair's breadth from breaking into laughter.

"It was inconclusive," I said, although I had beaten him all three times. "Henderson here plays a great game, and I only managed to thwart him through dogged resistance and blind luck."

She nodded and shot him a look of interest. "Confidence is an attractive quality, in moderation."

"McTavish flatters me," he said. "He'd probably kill me on the chess board."

"We can test that tomorrow," I said.

"I'd be up for that, and why wait?" challenged Stella. I glanced across: she was regarding me carefully, shrewdly, as though she had my measure.

I had written her off early in the evening, but that had changed. It was Stella's poise that had done the heavy lifting. Firstly, her conversational timing was exquisite - little barbs, little compliments, pertinent observations, all perfectly apt, beautifully expressed. She was clearly well-read, and she didn't take long to work out my real pen name and give me some well-judged encouragement and on-point suggestions on my latest. I'm as susceptible to empty praise as any other insecure writer, but constructive criticism really gets my juices flowing. And when I'd finally worked out her real identity after dinner, I had been incredibly flattered that she'd read my work.

She was a little older, yes, but in truth not much older than me, and her taste in clothing was impeccable. A full-length, flowing, dark crimson dress with delicate lacy frills on the sleeves clung to her. She had been wearing a black cardigan earlier but had taken it off because of the warmth of the fire. She had a slight figure with a little broadening at the hips and unexpectedly full breasts. Her hair was cut into a layered bob, expertly dyed black with just a hint of blue fire dancing through it.

I glanced back at Andrea, and she suddenly flashed me a wink. Flushing for a second and mindful of Henderson's warning, I looked away, then finally found Stella's eyes again.

"We can try a game tonight?" I asked.

She nodded in acceptance. "First, let's finish the whist."

Henderson and I watched them wind up their game, which was won easily by Andrea and Stella. Marble and Jones were good company, saying and doing the right things, but they didn't seem to have much energy for the game, and soon conceded the field. They seemed like they knew each other well as Henderson had suggested, but something didn't seem right.

"Well, that's me done for the night," said Marble, yawning and stretching as she got up. "Does anybody need any assistance getting to bed? You don't have to go now – just turn the lights off when you're done."

"I'll check the lock-up," said Jones quietly, and he headed off to ensure that all the outside windows and doors were secure. While we had been inside for the evening, the weather had been changing; the mercury in the antique barometer on the wall of the drawing room had dropped like a stone, and I could feel little shakes and groans rippling through the chalet from the wind outside.

"Well then," said Stella, and she walked over to the sideboard to retrieve a beautiful marble chess set, the pieces obviously hand-carved, tiny little facial details etched onto the kings and queens, flowing manes on the knights. We settled down to play, and the game soon enveloped us.

Henderson and Andrea watched us for a while, but then drifted away. I still had a twinge in my gut about that, but at least there was compensation. Stella was a superb player: decisive, strategic, and subtle. Thrice, she nearly had me trapped in a checkmate, and I barely escaped, fighting a desperate rear-guard action. And then just when I thought I had set her up for a fall, she caught me again, and I had no way out.

"Brilliant," I said, in genuine admiration, as I tipped my king over in surrender. I glanced at the clock: it was midnight.

"You played well," she said simply. "I haven't been that close to being beaten in, oh, forever."

I looked up at her. How had I ever thought her plain? Her attraction was now undeniable, little literatic gravity waves reaching out to pull me towards her. Greatly daring, I reached out to touch her hand.

"Winner's rights," I said quietly. "Your call."

She said nothing. She just rose, turned her back, and walked down the corridor, pausing at the door to beckon her finger at me.

"Don't forget to turn the light off," she said.

I turned to do that, and she had already gone. Which was her room? I went up the first flight of stairs and hesitated before seeing a crimson shoe lying in the passageway, pointing towards a corner. Around the corner was another crimson shoe, and in front of the next door, carelessly draped over the handle, was her dress.

...

"You forgot these," I said, as I slipped in her door. She was in bed already, sheet drawn up to her chin, watching me juggle her shoes and dress with some amusement. On the floor of the room were a pair of black knickers and a matching black bra.

"Just drop it all," she said. "Your clothes too."

I obliged, trying to not be self-conscious as I stripped off my jacket, shirt, trousers and boxer shorts. I knew that I had nothing to be ashamed of for my age, and she was kind enough to give me a low whistle from the sanctuary of her bed.

Smiling, I slipped into the bed next to her, taking a minute to admire her pale body as I raised the sheet.

Many women get more beautiful as they age, in my opinion. And so it was with Stella. With her body revealed, she didn't try to cover herself, didn't try and explain away the little wrinkles and scars, the skin map of her life so far. She just looked calmly back at me, and then she nodded at me to get started.

I took my time. I bent first to kiss her, closed mouth and then open, tongues eventually doing a little dance with each other before she lightly tapped my backside and nodded downwards again. I headed there, but not without nuzzling her breasts, testing the taste of her nipples, and exploring the delicate undersides. She squirmed and laughed - she was ticklish there – and then pushed me downwards once more.

Her mons was lushly covered with dark pubes, fragrant with her excitement, and her cleft was also au natural. I didn't mind a bit: hair bedamned. Her scents soon overpowered me as I nibbled around, exploring with my tongue, exploring her reactions. By the time that she reached her first climax, I was rock hard myself, eager to plunge in. I flipped her over and lewdly spread her further open, her back channel gaping open, her whole body shivering in excitement as she came down from her climax.

I think that she might have let me take advantage of her darker passage, but I'm all about the pussy. Soon I was balls-deep into her from behind, with her hips elevated by a pillow so that I could get a better angle. And soon after that, I was shaking and shuddering as I emptied myself inside her.

And then we kissed some more, and talked, and then we were both ready to go again, and so we did. Dimly, I was aware that the wind was starting to howl outside, and at some stage there was the sound of a crash of some sort as something hit the chalet, but I was far too wrapped up in my embrace with Stella to pay much attention. After I had come for a second time, and so had she, I lay there completely contented for a while, gazing absently at the cute fairy pictures covering the wall. Although some of them looked like fairly adult fairies: I had a little chuckle at one that showed a couple slipping naked into the bushes.

Much later, I headed unsteadily for my own bedroom, completely drained.

...

I rose a little late the next morning. I'd slept deeply, dreamlessly, as far as I knew. As soon as I'd gotten myself together, I headed downstairs to find Stella and Marble in the dining room, talking, looking perturbed.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Did you hear a crash late in the night, above the sound of the wind?" asked Stella. "It sounded like it came from near Henderson's room, if I were to hazard a guess. He's not responding to his door. The weather's filthy outside, but Jones has gone to check out there anyway."

I looked at the window. "Filthy," was an understatement. The rain was sheeting down outside, and some trees in the garden were swaying wildly.

Jones quickly reappeared, looking grim and completely sodden despite his heavy-duty coat. He looked first at Marble and Stella, then at me, hesitating on how to deliver his news. Clearly, it wasn't fit for well-born ladies, but these were no typical ladies.

"Out with it, Jones," I said. "We're all adults here."

His face cleared, absolved of social responsibility for the shock to come.

"He's lying next to the path near his bedroom window," he said. "His skull is crushed. There's broken glass all around. He's too heavy for me to try and move: it would take all five of us."

"Good heavens!" said Stella. "Poor man!! Whatever could have happened?"

Marble's reaction was, by contrast, almost cheerful. "Well, on the bright side, he didn't die in vain, not with us here to solve the mystery. He'll at least get a mention in the book dedication."

"Marble!" said Stella, shocked.

Marble looked surprised, and then nodded as she thought it through.

"I guess that was rather callous," she said. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I just try and breeze through instead of showing real emotion."

"I guess?" I said, rather surprised as well. The more I thought about it though, the more Marble was slotting into place. Many of her books showed the same disregard for the human condition as she had just showed. It was like she had to remind herself that not everybody thought in the same way as her.

I parked my own draft personality diagnosis of Agatha Marble for future contemplation and spoke to the matter at hand. "We shouldn't move him anyway," I said. "Can we find a tarpaulin to put over him until the police get here? Did you take some photos?"

He nodded. "I'll look for a tarpaulin. You can take the photos."

"Photos of what?" said a voice from the stairs. Andrea was on the stairs looking down at us, dressed in a silky black dressing gown, fastened at the waist with a crimson rope that matched her hair. Idly, I wondered if she had anything on underneath, before coming back to the matter at hand.

"It seems that our good colleague Henderson has accidentally fallen through his window overnight," I said. "Or, if we entertain Marble's theory, has selflessly volunteered to stimulate our writing exercises this weekend. Either way, it's something of a mystery."

"Oh no!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean that he's dead? "

We all looked hopefully at Jones, as though the answer would change just because Andrea was asking. But he shook his head and then nodded, as though working out what the appropriate syntactical response was.

"He is dead, yes," he finally managed.

"That's horrible!" she exclaimed, looking genuinely shocked. "But he was in a good mood last night. Surely he could not have taken his own life?"

"Can you imagine anybody being able to push a man that size out of the window? Certainly no one here, despite the muscle available," asked Marble, pointedly looking between my perfectly respectable physique and Jones' more heroic version of a chest. "Surely it's far more likely that he did it himself?"

"And weren't you with him last night, Andrea?" interjected Stella. "Because I refuse to believe that you made that much noise from your bedroom yourself, no matter your finger skills."

Andrea had the good grace to blush. "I can guarantee that he left my room in a good mood," she said, "even if I was somewhat less satisfied than I would usually expect." She looked at me again briefly, and I nodded back to her.

Marble had caught the exchange. "Well, we might have two books' worth from this weekend already," she said slyly. "But let's go and look at his room together, shall we? I have a master key somewhere."

"Shouldn't we call the police?" I said.

"The phone network is down," she said briskly, "which is not at all unusual for this area, in case you're wondering. And there's no walking anywhere in this weather. Police can wait. Come on, let's solve this ourselves."

She still looks altogether too cheerful. She has a master key, I thought to myself as we climbed the stairs. I wonder what she and Jones could have achieved together?

...

We all crowded into Henderson's now quite damp room and took the scene in. Nobody spoke for a full minute as we absorbed it. None of us could quite put our thoughts into words.

"Well, fuck," I finally said, summoning my deepest eloquence.

"What the blazes!" Andrea echoed me.

"Heaven knows," agreed Stella.

"That's dashed peculiar," offered Marble.

We all looked to Jones for his expert reaction, but he just shook his head.

The room was a mess. A bed was on its end, leaning drunkenly against the side wall as though it had been thrown there by an almighty gust of wind. Some shattered picture frames could be seen on the floor around it. On the opposite wall, some pictures were still hanging from their hooks, others had fallen onto the floor. But that wasn't what had our attention.

The far wall was the one with the broken window. But it wasn't just broken. It had... been exploded outwards somehow, wooden frames hanging shattered and askew. As though a giant had hurled through it with great force.

As though... I walked over to the wall with some of the pictures still intact, and I stared at one of them. It was a vivid reproduction of a painting, a knight in full armour on the back of a towering stallion, jousting lance down, charging full pelt at a line of shields being held by a quivering, terrified line of soldiers, knowing that they would be broken into tiny pieces by the force of the charge.

"Yeah," I said, beckoning the others over. "I reckon it was something like that."

...

After taking some photos inside the room and daring to lean out the window to take a shot of Henderson's battered body splayed out below, we reconvened downstairs, still fairly speechless. I hunted in the drawing room cabinet until I found something that seemed appropriate: a powerful Scotch whisky, and then I poured us all double shots. I hadn't eaten breakfast yet and I knew that I would be paying for that later, but it didn't seem important.

"Psychosis?" said Marble finally. "That's all I can think of. Perhaps he was charging at some apparition at the window, although it's still a stretch to explain the velocity that he must have hit with unless he'd completely lost his mind. Andrea, are you sure there was nothing that struck you about his behaviour?"

"What do you want?" answered Andrea sarcastically. "An analysis of his sexual technique? No, he was the same guy that you saw in public. Overconfident, overbearing, convinced of his own magnetism. I didn't puncture his tyres. I faked it so that I could finish myself off later, and we parted on reasonable terms: I just told him that I slept better alone and thanked him for a pleasant evening."

Marble just grunted in response, unhappy with the answer but unable to take it further.

"Do you often fake it?" was all that she had to ask. It was a weak sally, and Andrea didn't deign to reply.

We tossed around a few other theories, and then I roused myself to cook some porridge for those of us who hadn't eaten. I kept it pretty bland to help settle our stomachs, but I found some cinnamon amongst our supplies to sweeten it up just a little.

...

Jones had found a tarpaulin and gave it to me straight after breakfast. "You can put this over him straight after the photographs," he said. He obviously didn't care for going outside again in the pouring rain, but I didn't give a damn. I put my coat on over my hiking clothes, and then I looked at Marble, who had maintained her giddy mood.

"Coming with? You're the amateur detective."

She was wearing the tweed outfit again and looked down at it doubtfully. "I suppose no umbrella will keep the rain off... actually, wait." She scurried up the stairs, and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a short raincoat on, barely reaching down to her thighs. Her legs were bare underneath, but she had hiking boots and long socks to protect against the glass.

We went out the front door. The rain was, if anything, even heavier, and we braced ourselves and walked around the chalet until we found Henderson's body.

Close up, it was a grotesque sight. He was lying face down so that we thankfully couldn't see his face, but every bit of uncovered skin was lacerated from the glass, and there were pools of blood around his body, mixed with puddling water from the rain. His head had landed on the edge of a cobblestone path running around the property. He was a full 10 feet from the window as well: he must have been really moving as he came through it.

I dutifully took photos while Marble bent to make her own observations of the body and direct my attention to particular areas. Henderson had been wearing flannelette pajamas, ripped and torn in places, and Marble asked me to take some photos of the rips with her own fingers in the photo for scale.

When we were finally finished, she helped me lay the tarpaulin respectfully over him. It seemed a little late to be covering him up given how sodden he already was, but it was still the right thing to do.

Job done, we scurried back to the front door and inside, water streaming off our coats. I stripped mine off, ruefully looking at the amount of water that had gotten underneath it onto my regular clothes, and then turned to see Marble still standing there in her raincoat, looking indecisive.

"I didn't think this through," she said, "I thought I was being clever by not getting my outfit wet."

I was a bit slow on the uptake, and while my brain was catching up, she followed up with an unexpected investigative question.

"I need to know, McTavish, the exact nature of your relationship with Andrea. You clearly know each other."

I was tempted to snap back at her that it was none of her business, but I reminded myself that, with an unexpected death, the rules of social engagement had changed.

"We're friends," I said. "Occasional lovers. Not exclusive. We thought it would be fun to do this weekend together, but to give each other freedom of movement."

"I see," she said thoughtfully, as though she was not convinced but deciding to run with my story. She held my gaze as she stripped her wet coat off completely, and then she casually turned to hang it on the coat stand.

I gave a little hissed intake of breath, and then I chuckled despite the macabre circumstances. Marble was only wearing skimpy white knickers underneath her raincoat, and her body definitely wasn't that of an elderly spinster. She had nicely proportioned, young breasts, a perfectly healthy waistline, and an extremely luscious bottom.

"I'll be curious to read how you capture this scene in your account of Henderson's death," I said. "Would you like me to take a photo for the illustrated edition?"

"That won't be necessary," she said. And then she walked to the staircase and slowly ascended it, humming and putting just a little bit of extra wobble in her ascent just for me.

"Just to confirm that the field is also open as far as I'm concerned," she called over her shoulder.

Shaking my head, I decided to not follow her for now, rationalising that this was because I was worn out from the night with Stella rather than any massive red flags that might be waving to my attention. Instead, I went to find Andrea alone in the library, leafing through some of the old books. Naturally, the room was filled with them, from floor to ceiling, in various European languages including English, French, Russian and German.

"Mary Shelley," she said, smiling, when I walked in, holding up a book with a picture of a young woman on the cover. "But it's not Frankenstein. Have you ever heard of Mathilda?"

"I can't say that I have."

"It's about obsessive, incestuous love, written in the early 1800s. I guess it's a universal theme. There's some speculation that it's autobiographical. Possibly Mary's father loved her very much. It's written as a deathbed confession."

"Poor woman," I said. "If it was all from her imagination along with Frankenstein's monster, what a curse she had. If it was all autobiographical, ditto."

"Yes," she said softly. "On the other hand, what a vivid pen she possessed! Our sordid little lives seem to pale by comparison."

"Henderson might beg to disagree. He made love to a beautiful woman and then charged like the Bull God Adad himself out of his bedroom window. How much more vivid can you be?"

"If it doesn't get published, it never happened," she answered. "It seems like Marble will see to that though. I hope that I convinced her that I didn't plant some weird destructive thought in his mind. What do you think of her?"

I noticed the quick redirection from her own role in the night before, but I said nothing. I had a lot to process myself in that regard.

"I thought she was harmless enough until Henderson died. Now I know that she thinks that violent death is a writing opportunity. Um, and she just made a pass at me. So, I guess that she finds death stimulating in lots of ways."

Andrea laughed. "Okay, I guess that's pretty twisted when you put it like that. But people buy her books. They're well written, cleverly plotted, and guess what? They have lots of sex and death. Is it at all surprising that she is what she says on her book cover? You could argue that it's simple consistency of character. Is she so different from any of us, really?"

She paused just long enough to ramp up the tension, and then asked the inevitable, loaded, follow-up.

"Will you sleep with her?"

"Not sure," I hedged. "Anyway, she has Jones, hasn't she? I can't work their relationship out."

"Jones is gay, silly."

"What? How do you know?"

"He hasn't looked at me once," she replied. "But he's looked at you lots. Haven't you noticed?"

"No, I haven't. I'm useless about things like that. Do you want me to encourage him, or blow him off?"

"Do you want to redraft your wording there?" she asked, still smiling.

"Oh, crap. Well... never mind. I don't swing that way, anyway."

"Do you think they've all guessed that we're together?" she asked.

"Marble knows. Stella probably. Jones, I have no idea. And obviously, not Henderson, unless you told him and that was the cause of his spectacular exit."

She looked shocked.

"I didn't even think of that," she said. "Did you think I had done that?"

"No," I said honestly. "But I do think that you have more to tell me, and I'll give you time and space to do that, just like you're not quizzing me about my night with Stella. As per our agreement. Even though your guy died, and my partner for the night is looking quite satisfied."

Andrea laughed again, genuinely amused, and she swatted playfully at me.

"Henderson's performance was just as I told Marble," she said. "There is a bit more to say, but it can wait. Do you want to give me a one-word review of Stella for now?"

"Stellar, obviously."

"I walked into that, didn't I?"

"You did," I answered. "I recommend her. If we're having a debauched weekend of sex and death, sex with Stella is definitely a good option. See what you can arrange."

"Who said I swing that way?"

"All the best redheads are bisexual. At least, when I'm writing the stories they are."

"But this is real life. Albeit with a dead guy and weird pictures and fake names, Boris. And it's a full moon at Halloween. Otherwise, everything is perfectly normal."

"I rest my case. Stella's probably dressed in a negligee, waiting for you in her room, even as we speak."

Andrea laughed and then put the book on the shelf. "Okay, let's have a challenge," she said. "I'll see whether I can score Stella, provided that you tackle Marble."

"A photo as proof?" I said.

"No photos: that's just gauche. Instead, a detailed review, in the fullness of time. Same for you."

"Deal then. Although I don't know how we'll ever get any writing done."

"No time like the present, Boris."

....

We were well behaved for the rest of the morning. I went to my room for some quiet time and decided to get out my notebook and 2B pencil and draw some sketches for a story. I like to draw little scenes in the notebook and imagine the characters talking to each other, slowly building the story around these imagined interactions.

I couldn't get recent events out of my head. I found myself sketching scenes of Henderson charging at the window, first as a mounted knight like in the picture, and then as a bull, and then as a freight train, albeit with a beard. I focused on the point of impact with the glass, material spraying out in all directions. And then I redrew it as an artillery shell piercing the side of a warship, and I started to think.

Henderson's demise had been so outwardly focused... smashing out of our mansion. But what if he had been smashing into something else, like the knight in the picture? I sketched out a few more ideas around that, but they didn't work. I couldn't make sense of it all.

Sighing, I put those sketches aside and started drawing the living. I started with Andrea, of course, lying on a bed, eyes closed in simulated rapture as a large, vaguely amorphous man loomed above her. That was a little hard to process, particularly when I found myself having a physical reaction despite everything. I understood little of the distinctions between the various types of free love, swinging, cuckolding, and suchlike, and I wondered if there was some special category for how one might respond when the other man in the scene suddenly dies violently. Perhaps that didn't bear thinking about.

I rubbed out the ghostly Henderson and then I redrew the man as myself, and in egotistical mind's eye she was no longer pretending to hit her climax. I was on safer ground here. And, laughing at myself a little for the cliche, I started another version of the scene, making it more explicit, but with a woman's head nestled between Andrea's legs. Stella, or perhaps Marble: I kept that vague, although that did nothing to soften the sudden stiffening of my erection. How had this morning gotten so sexualised?

Where did Jones fit in all of this? It seemed that he'd hit an evolutionary dead-end, at least in terms of my writing and our assumptions. I drew a sketch of a man with sad eyes sitting by himself at a desk in a bedroom, a glass of wine next to him, a gun next to that on the desk.

I put that aside as well, suddenly disturbed and ashamed by my imaginings: Jones seemed a perfectly decent guy and I had nothing against him. I didn't even know whether Henderson's or Andrea's speculations about him were correct.

Sighing, I got out my laptop instead and started to write a little story: a farce in which a group of authors in a gothic mansion started slipping anonymous notes under doorways, resulting in hilarious misunderstandings and more than one romantic connection, before the whole plot started to get darker when mysterious dark forces appeared on the scene. This proved to be more productive, and I was soon immersed in my writing, breaking off only when there was a sharp knock on the door. It was Jones.

"I'm made lunch," he said.

"Thanks, Jones," I said, startled.

I opened my mouth to start to ask him more about himself, but I lost my chance. He was looking past me at something on the desk, his mouth in a tight line, and then he turned and left abruptly without saying another word.

I glanced at the desk, puzzled, and then my heart sank. The pile of sketches. The one of Jones was on top.

Shit.

I hurriedly closed my laptop and turned the sketches upside down before heading downstairs.

...

There was no opportunity to talk to Jones privately at lunch. The food was extremely German – a Sauerbraten that he had clearly made before coming, Bratkartoffeln as the potato dish, and fried spinach. It was perfect for the weather, and once again I berated myself for my assumptions.

Once again, we all helped clean up, and then Marble announced her intention to have a siesta.

"I might do the same," said Stella, and then I suddenly felt a small kick from Andrea's direction under the table. She was looking at me meaningfully, and I suddenly remembered our agreement.

Am I in the mood for this? Well, what could possibly happen? And I might find out more about from Marble about what's going on with Jones.

...

Twenty minutes later, I was softly knocking on Marble's door.

"It's unlocked," she called, and I let myself in and turned the lock after me.

"You need to be more careful," I said, "you never know who will take advantage on a weekend like this."

She wasn't in bed, but was sitting at her desk by the window, drawing lines randomly on a piece of paper.

"On the contrary," she said calmly, "there was a ninety percent probability that it was going to be you. I assumed that you'd have to have a discussion with Andrea first. Who is she chasing though? I'm afraid that Jones would prove to be a disappointment."

"So he is gay?"

"He is, although not currently active as far as I know. I've known him for years. I know he can be a bit of a wet blanket, but he's sort of been like a constant presence in my life. He kindly agreed to keep me company this weekend, basically because I was worried about Henderson. But we're not intimate, obviously. Also he does write, but he hasn't been published, so it's not like he can't learn anything from the rest of us."

"And Henderson? I know it's not comfortable for you, and you don't have to talk about it. But if you want to enlighten me about what the hell was between you, feel free."

She was silent for a little while, and I was about to apologise and move on when she answered.

"In real life, he was my Godfather. And before you ask, no, he never took advantage of the relationship to molest me. But he kind of... appropriated me. Took too much credit for my successes. Started to compete for attention with me, and I've been trying to get out of his zone. I nearly died when he signed up for the retreat, as I'd tried to make sure that he didn't see the announcement. That's when I asked Jones to come along."

She paused again. "Anyway, enough about that. And you didn't answer my question."

"Andrea? It's not my news to tell, and I actually don't know what the news is."

"Stella, then," Marble said decisively. "And I think the approach will be welcome. It's a good investment of Andrea's efforts."

"So you treat people as murder victims, suspects, or as shares on a stockmarket?" I asked.

"Don't you?" She looked genuinely surprised.

I started a tart response, but my earlier conversation with Andrea came back to me. Who was I to criticise Marble for being exactly as she presented herself to be in her writing? Did I expect somebody who had normal social interactions rather than spending half her life obsessing about whether she was writing in the first or third person?

"I guess we all do, in some way," I said in the end, and it was both diplomatic and true. She nodded and said nothing in reply, appearing to lose interest in the conversation.

In the brief lull, I looked around the walls to her room. She'd been right about the orcs and the elves: the pictures were very Tolkien-heavy, and once again there was a reliance on the early editions, with nary a Tauriel in sight. But there were some pretty young hobbit lasses, including one that looked eerily like a smaller version of Marble herself, dancing with somebody who looked vaguely like me.

"Interesting, isn't it?" offered Marble. "These pictures are a bit less vivid than the ones in Henderson's room. As though they are a bit more lost in the mists of Middle-Earth. And yet I swear that one has a bit more detail in it than when I looked yesterday."

I got up and looked more closely.

"I can't comment on what it looked like yesterday," I said, "but it's certainly suggestive. Shall we dance?"

I held out my arms and she laughed. She walked into my waltz hold, and we managed a slightly awkward, musicless dance for a minute before she stopped and leant up to kiss me.

At first it felt just a little mechanical: a little cold, as though she was still playing a role. But she quickly warmed to her task, and I found myself responding, tongue twining with hers, hands moving up and down her back. She started moving against me, rubbing her breasts into my chest, and then I felt her clever fingers reach for my crotch. I was more than ready.

I started undressing her: tweed jacket and white blouse, skirt, and then grey stockings, revealing underwear that was surprisingly silky and pure white. I made short work of those, and once again her actual youth shocked me as she was revealed. Under my eager fingers her breasts were perfectly firm, skin smooth, nipples tautly engorged. She shivered from head to toe when I touched her there, and then when I bent to worship them with my tongue, eventually moving up to the hollow of her throat, and then behind her ears. She gasped then, and pressed herself against me again.

"That's not fair," she said, a quiver in her voice. "Somebody's given you a map of my body. Don't lie and tell me that all women are the same: you've had a briefing."

"Who would I have had it from?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you've read one of my books, and picked up what I like from there. I'm pretty sure there's a fair bit of erogenous zone action that you could have read up on."

"Guilty as charged," I said, which seemed the simplest answer. I actually had no idea what I was doing right other than my usual moves, but this didn't seem the time or place for self-effacement.

I had been intending to repeat my tongue heroics of the previous night with Stella, but Marble forestalled me, suddenly taking control to strip me of my shirt and pants. Then she craned her neckup to kiss me again while down below she pushed my briefs off and seized my shaft, running her fingers up and down as though to test for any areas that weren't rigid and throbbing for action. She turned me and pushed me backwards to the bed, where I landed bemused but curious as to what she had in mind. When Marble wanted to take the reins, it seemed best to just go with it.

"No condom needed today," she said, as though that was all the information I required. Whatever: if I was being cautious, I wouldn't have agreed to this crazy weekend. She leapt on top of me in cowgirl position, rubbing her vulva up and down my straining shaft, getting herself more worked up, starting to sigh and moan with her arms rigid and planted down on my chest.

I wasn't used to being so passive in the process, but I was quite enjoying it, and things got even better when she judged that she was well lubricated enough, abruptly reaching down to guide me inside her.

We both sighed as I bottomed out deep inside her. We were a perfect fit for each other: a rare feat in my experience as there is usually some awkwardness in adjusting to a new partner. She started rocking backwards and forwards on me, and I felt her moisture coating my shaft. Delicious little shivers started moving up and down my body, radiating out from my crotch. Marble knew all about what she was doing, and she was clearly a mistress of the craft.

She was, perhaps, a little too self-aware for my liking.

"So, against Stella or Andrea, any early rating thoughts?" she asked as she was grinding away above me.

"I normally avoid in-experience reviews, Marble, but I will say that they both avoid mood-killing talk during the act itself. And I'm not so into comparisons. They're themselves, and you're you."

"Profound, McTavish," she panted. "I don't know what it is," she added, "but ever since I arrived I've been as randy as anything. I don't normally just strip down in the hallway and proposition strange authors, for example."

"It might be something to do with the atmosphere of the chalet," I said. "It could be the sum of the romantic settings. The gothic architecture. The pictures. The books everywhere. There's just a total vibe going on here. And my writing is not that strange, really. At least I don't think so. It sells okay."

"Your writing is brilliant," she responded. "I said that you're strange, not your work. But I guess you can't have one without the other. Oh, my God..."

She interrupted herself as a paroxysm swept through her body. She closed her eyes in pleasure and then slowly lowered herself onto me, slumping down with her breasts pressed tightly against my chest, and then lifting her chin to engage me in a passionate kiss. Her internal muscles were pulsing as the aftereffects of her orgasm kept washing through her, and the effect was delightful. I wrapped my arms around her and stroked her, gentle massaging from her shoulders down to her soft bottom.

After a while, she pulled her mouth from mine and snuggled contentedly, dropping light kisses onto my cheek and earlobe.

"That was intense," she murmured.

"Still is," I responded. I was rock-hard within her. "Was it the discussion of my writing that took you over the edge, do you think?"

"Let's go with that," she said. "By all means, put it in the publisher's blurb. Now, how are we going to take you to Lothlórien?"

I rolled us over and asked her to hold her legs in the air, splayed wildly in a vee while I established a good rhythm.

"Talk to me about the sexual elements of murder mysteries," I said. "I've had enough Tolkien for now."

"Well," she started, "for starters, there's the thrill of opening your body to somebody who might be a killer... oh fuck, that's good," and then she trailed off into little gasps as we hit our groove. For the next 10 minutes, she couldn't manage anything more than little whimpers as I kept slowly increasing the pace, her fluids perfectly lubricating us, her internal walls pulsing again in perfect synchronicity with my thrusts. And when I could feel that we were both at the brink, I mirrored her earlier actions by planting my mouth down on hers, laving her tongue with mine, and shuddering my release deep into her as she once again reached her peak.

We lay together for a few more minutes as we calmed down, and then, in a brilliantly synchronised move, I rolled off her, grabbed a wad of tissues from the bedside table and handed half to her in one movement just before she started to gush our mixed fluids out. I slapped the rest of them to my groin.

"You've done that before," she said, appreciatively.

"I went to a good school. They included discussions of sexual etiquette in the fluid mechanics classes."

"Was it a boys' school?" she asked.

"God no, it was mixed. It was actually the girls who were keenest that we discuss good sex during Physics 101."

"Did you do practicals, or was it just theory?"

"We were under 18, what do you think?" I said, in mock indignation.

"No comment."

She rolled off the bed and made the dash out of her room to the bathroom next door, holding the tissues to her crotch, heedless of who else might be around. By this stage, we were moving beyond formalities, after all.

I stretched out, feeling pretty pleased with myself, and waited patiently until Marble came back from the bathroom before I slipped there myself to clean up. As I was coming back, I realised that I was still hearing the sound of a woman moaning in pleasure, faintly as though through a closed door. Not Marble... I stopped still and listened. The sound was coming from the direction of Stella's room, where I'd been the previous night. And it wasn't one woman, it was two.

I grinned to myself and walked back into Marble's room to share the news. And, I suppose, to eventually retrieve my clothes, assuming that we were done for the afternoon. Which, given the level of Marble's lusts and my unexpectedly robust recuperation power, I wasn't entirely sure about.

Unfortunately, Fate intervened in the worst possible way. Just as I opened my mouth to comment on the faint sound of happy lovemaking and to compliment Marble's own performance just concluded, the sound of a gunshot split the air, coming from just above us.

...

I flung the door open and pounded towards the stairs, Marble just behind me. I reached the landing above and looked wildly around.

"Jones!" panted Marble, and she raced past me to his room, as naked as I was. And yes, I know how wildly inappropriate it was that I noticed her breasts bouncing, but it is what it is.

She threw herself at the door and wrenched it open, stopping dead just inside. I came up just behind her and peered over her shoulder. There was movement behind me, and Andrea and Stella were there. Also naked, incidentally, and it was hard to mask the scent of sex around us despite the circumstances.

At least we all have solid alibis, I thought, and then mentally chastised myself. Could I have been any more improper in this situation?

It was as grim as I had feared. Jones was on the floor in front of us, blood pooling from a massive wound in his head. A gun was lying on the floor near his right hand. He was clearly dead, his eyes staring at the ceiling blankly.

"No!" choked out Marble, and she rushed forward, throwing herself over him, cradling him in her arms. I followed, kneeling down to put my arm around her shoulders, as Andrea and Stella crowded in behind, trying to murmur the right things.

As I turned my head to glance at the other two women, my eyes rested on a picture on the wall. It was a twin to the sketch that I had drawn of Jones: sitting by himself at a desk in a bedroom, a glass of wine next to him, a gun next to that. But this was a proper, colour drawing, finely detailed, capturing Jone's hair and lined, sad face in detail, drawn beautifully and nicely framed. It was impossible that this could have been my sketch. But there it was.

There was no doubt what had happened to Jones, no possibility of murder, of foul play.

And yet, surely I killed him, I thought. Though I don't know how.

...

In a daze, I rose to my feet, wordlessly gesturing Andrea and Stella forward to take my place holding Marble. I walked around the corridor to my room and went to my little pile of sketches. They were all there except for one, of course. The one. What the hell was going on?

As if to make up for my earlier stray thoughts, I went back to Marble's room, got dressed and collected her clothes, and then I decided to go to Stella's room and collected her and Andrea's clothes, strewn all around the floor. I returned to Jone's room and gently helped Andrea and Stella get dressed, then paused to find a cloth to moisten and wipe Jones' blood off Marble's chest. We all helped her with her clothes. And then I walked over to the bed and removed the top cover, returning to drape it reverently over Jones' body.

And somehow, I found that this ritual, this process of normalising our clothing, of showing respect to Jones, of restoring decorum, brought a sudden clarity to my thinking.

"I think..." I said calmly, "I think that I know what's going on. We need to check the walls in each room. All together. None of us can be alone in this chalet."

...

I walked over to the impossible picture on the wall, the one clearly showing Jones contemplating suicide, that I had and hadn't drawn. "Has anybody seen this before?"

They shook their heads.

"I have a vague memory of something else there before," offered Marble. "I would have noticed that picture though, believe me."

"Let's check my room," I suggested. We all trooped over, and I explained to them my doodlings earlier in the morning, the missing picture, and the weird transposition to Jone's wall.

We went to Stella's room next, and wordlessly I pointed to the picture that I had noticed the previous night, with the couple slipping into the bushes. It had changed massively. First, from being a vaguely naughty sketch it was now very finely rendered and explicit, showing the couple full frontally, seemingly right down to the very last pube.

Secondly, whereas I had remembered a heterosexual couple, there were now two women. Stella, exactly as I remembered her gorgeous, mature body, and Andrea, flaming red hair and a perfectly matching shaped bush, flushed face and plump breasts, nipples engorged, mouth partly open, and hand draped casually around Stella's waist.

"What the actual fuck?" said Stella.

Andrea didn't say anything for a bit, just staring, mouth agape, before whispering something into my ear, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Well, I guess I don't need to give a review of Stella now, do I?"

"Andrea's room next," I said to the others. When we got there, she looked around quickly and pointed to a picture that was almost a twin to the one in Stella's room, although this time her hand was giving Stella a cheeky tweak on one of her nipples.

"This was the one that I thought looked a bit like you and me, she said, looking at me. But you've changed into Stella."

Stella just shook her head in disbelief. Marble wasn't saying much at all, perhaps lost in her thoughts of Jones, but we went to her room next.

It was still smelling of our sex, but I didn't care, and it wasn't like I could have hidden anything when Marble pointed out a picture on the wall of us coupling wildly, her on top, breasts swinging freely, head thrown back in passion at the point of her release. From the vaguely suggestive images before, it was now impossibly detailed, sexually explicit right down to showing the point of connection where I was entering through her dark pubes, and depicting an event that had only happened a few minutes before. It was all totally impossible, and yet it was there, photo-realistic. But it somehow managed to convey more than a photo. When I looked at the hyper-detailed rendition of Marble's eyes, it was thought I could feel the vivid surges of emotion through her body... of elation, but also of triumph, and of sorrow to come. My eyes were not visible in the picture, but that was of no importance at all from the perspective of the viewer. I wondered if the others would see it the same way. I felt Andrea tense up beside me, and then relax again as she assimilated the picture.

"I know I said that pictures would be gauche," said Andrea she said to me, heedless of the rest of the room. "But this is art." And she quietly, deliberately, took my hand.

The picture was all about Marble, and Andrea had seen that too.

...

"Shall we talk downstairs?" suggested Marble. She was calm now, moving purposefully. Dimly, I realised that nobody had suggested calling the police this time. We would never be believed.

"So, the parlour scene. Let's hear it, everybody" said Stella, looking at me, another whisky in her hand. We had decided that we were allowed one drink each given the circumstances and then would switch to water.

I looked at Marble, and she nodded back at me.

"I think that we probably agree, but let's hear your version first," she said.

I took a breath. This still seemed crazy, but it was the only possible interpretation I could think of.

"The problem is the way this mansion is interacting with us," I said. "Not just any visitors, us. Six authors, or five if we don't include Jones, creatives, trying to spin new tales, tossing ideas around, stimulating each other. And not just that. It seems like all of us came in with sex on our mind, except again for poor Jones, who came in expecting loneliness. And the key thing is that this place is already set up to provide amplification to flights of imagination, to bring out resonance in the stories that are told here. Gothic architecture, walls covered with the fecund imaginations of some of the greatest writers that we know, a treasure trove of stories in the library just itching to burst out of the page. When we've come in, all our bright ideas and itching to get laid, it's like the system has gone into harmonic overload. I drew a picture of Jones, and not three hours later it's a finished work hanging on the wall and Jones has actually blown his brains out."

I paused to look at Marble. "Sorry, that was a bit insensitive."

She seemed unaffected. "It's okay," she said. "Although it's not, really, of course. I agree, but there's just one thing I don't quite get. What really happened with Henderson? I get the amplification factor, but what was the seed?"

There was a quiet sob from the corner, and Andrea shakily raised her hand.

"What happened was that I lied," she said quietly.

"What?" I said sharply and then moderated my tone. "I mean, thank you for telling us, but what did you lie about?"

"I kind of gilded the lily about the matter of our parting," she said, shamefaced. "I actually told him that he made love like a knight in shining armour, which he liked, but not when I explained that I meant that he was just about charging at things full pelt with no thought about those on the point of his lance. I think that he was genuinely hurt. I'm sorry that I couldn't admit that earlier."

"That fits," said Marble softly, mercifully not pointing out that she had always doubted Andrea's account.

There was a short silence while we all digested this. For my side, I couldn't help wondering whether Andrea's preconceptions of Henderson's prowess had affected his actual performance. Once we were in this loop of thoughts and consequences, it was hard to escape traps of self-reinforcement or collisions of intent. Perhaps it had to be voiced out loud (as she had), or drawn (as I had), but we just didn't know enough.

Looking at Marble's face, I could see that she was having similar thoughts. Our eyes met, and she shook her head to discourage me from saying what was on my mind. Fair enough. She could be wildly inappropriate, but she was also smart.

"Now what?" asked Stella eventually, breaking our reveries.

"First, the two deaths so far have been of people isolated and vulnerable," I said. "We can't leave each other alone. At minimum, we need to pair off tonight if we're still here."

"Shouldn't we leave immediately?" asked Marble.

I looked outside. Unbelievably, the weather was even worse than it had been earlier.

"Since we're full of existential dread and there's clearly some reprogramming of the environment to suit our mood, I wonder if this chalet might find a way to change the weather if we leave tonight," I mused.

"Well, that's cheerful. The evil weather-modifying mansion. The nut-jobs back home will love that one," said Stella.

"Not evil," I suggested. "Just... amplifying. The evil comes from our twisted minds. Worse than usual, because we're authors. I bet these aren't the first incidents here though."

"The death of two colleagues is not an incident," said Andrea. "We should burn this fucker down."

I put my finger to my lips, imploring her with my eyes to be careful. "Maybe," I said. "But that's like trying to nuke a hurricane, if we're going to continue the weather modification analogy. It just adds energy, as well as making things radioactive. Instead, I suggest that we have to help everything be peaceful and calm, and try and stop it reinforcing our worst tendencies. Also, there's just no way that anybody is going to believe what's happened here, and we need to work out a way to avoid arrest."

Andrea thought about that for a second, and then nodded acceptance.

"What we do with Henderson and Jones?" asked Marble. She seemed to have already started recalibrating from the loss of Jones.

"Much as it pains me to say, I don't know that we will be able to treat Henderson and Jones with the respect that they deserve," I responded.

"If we assume Boris is right, maybe we can ask the chalet to take care of that for us," suggested Andrea.

"This is getting wilder by the minute," said Stella. "But okay."

On that grim note, we headed to the kitchen, where we prepared a comfort meal together: a rich bolognaise, slowly simmering with some Australian Shiraz that I had brought, bay leaves and thyme to flavour it up, the rest of the bottle of wine in our glasses as we quietly chatted, trying to tease out the path forward without exciting the defensive mechanism of the chalet. I had brought some freshly made penne with me, and the simple dish was divine: were it not for the circumstances, it would have been a fabulous meal.

We were done and cleaned up by the mid-evening.

"Now what?" asked Stella.

"Building on Andrea's suggestion, I've had an idea about Jones and Henderson," I said. "It's a bit strange, but I don't think it can do any more harm to them."

I explained my reasoning, and to my relief, we all agreed without me needing to argue things out: it seemed important to me that we avoid arguments at this stage.

With great effort, the four of us managed to move Jones' body down the stairs, wrapped up in the bedspread that I'd put over him earlier. Then we all stripped off to be nude in the now cold rain and, straining with the weight, carried him outside, laying him in the garden just near Henderson. With massive effort, we then managed to shift Henderson so that he was lying on his back next to Jones. I tried not to look at their horrible injuries as we arranged them to be as peaceful as possible.

Still in the pouring rain, we each prayed silently over them both, willing them to peaceful rest. And then we covered them and went back inside to dry off and get dressed again.

I went up to my room and brought down my notebook and pencils to the games room, and we each drew a picture with the same, identical scene: a beautiful garden bed outside the chalet, shining sun, and no corpses. We went to our rooms to place those pictures on our walls, and then finally we met for the last step of the evening.

"Stella and Marble, Andrea and me?" I suggested, and again they agreed without demur. It was the obvious set of pairings.

"Road rules," said Stella, "Loving talk only. Nothing negative about anybody, in or out of the room. Warm vibes about this beautiful chalet and tomorrow's fine weather. Keep any other thoughts to yourself. Okay? Let's go for some good survival actualisation, as well as making some more sweet love."

"Okay," we all said loudly, as though the volume of our agreement could make a difference. As thought this wasn't a completely ridiculous situation.

Andrea and I took our time getting ready. I drew a couple more sketches, of us, one sitting in the library together, Andrea lovingly reading a (non-incest) romantic novel to me, and the other locked in a passionate embrace. I put the latter up on my wall, and then I took the library one with me when I headed to my room.

She was waiting for me in a dress that I knew well. This one was an almost virginal cream colour, based on a simple A-line design, reaching down to her ankles with delicate bands of lace at the hems and along the modest bust. She was wearing simple cream pumps, as though we'd just finished an evening's dancing at our wedding reception. The outfit showed off her red hair, green eyes and porcelain skin stunningly.

"It still fits," I said, with what I hoped was a loving smile.

For this, indeed, was what she had worn, dancing at our wedding reception a few years previously. I hoped that Marble would forgive my little lie about the nature of our relationship: I would confess afterwards, perhaps. We'd wanted freedom of action at this retreat, freedom from consequences.

As it had turned out, we'd had the former, but not the latter.

...

We stripped each other slowly. I'd managed to cram my charcoal suit into my backpack, albeit without the waistcoat that I'd worn for our wedding, and I had also included the cream linen shirt that perfectly matched her dress. She murmured her appreciation as she took the jacket off me, and then turned her back to me to unbutton the dress from the neck to the waist, pausing so that she could spin back and relieve me of my shirt, shoes and then pants. Laughing, she suddenly surprised me by whipping my briefs off as well, and then pointed me to sit in a chair.

She took one pump off, then the other, carefully placing them in the wardrobe, as though to re-establish her ownership of the space, and then peeled off her dress and hung it up, fussing to get the lines exactly right, and then hanging my suit next to it. I appreciated what she was doing, redefining the sacred space of our relationship, seeking to erase the wild lines of the previous couplings during this weekend. She was wearing the same white silk lingerie set underneath the dress, including the full suspender belt and stockings that she'd worn on that night, and I felt myself responding despite my exhaustion and the circumstances. After our walk on the wild side, it felt like returning home.

She took the bra off first, tossing it to me to hold, then followed up with her panties. The rest she left on, as I had known that she would. But to me, she was still looking a little subdued. It was understandable, but...

"Andrea?" I said.

"Yes, Boris? God I can't wait until we can use our real names again."

"You're perfect. I just wanted to tell you that."

She shook her head, sadly. "I'm not, as we saw. Actions have consequences, even in a fantasy world."

"And in the real and fantasy worlds, he was a boor. His writing wasn't very good either, and I believe you about the sex. You weren't to know how he would take it to heart. Could you try and forgive yourself a little?"

She looked at me, unblinking, for a full thirty seconds. I could see thoughts chasing each other through her mind. And then she smiled, and then blinked rapidly, eyes moist again.

"I think I can do that," she said. And then she came to me and raised me up from the chair, and threw her arms around me, sobbing loudly.

...

We made love for what seemed like hours. I was tired, but one of the benefits of our earlier couplings was that I had no urge to drive towards a climax, and I think that Andrea appreciated that. We started gently, lying face-to-face on our sides, tracing each other's body gently with our fingers, looking into each other's eyes. When my hands eventually found her centre she was already well warmed, slippery, scented and eager, but she was content for a while to keep raising the pace slowly, fingers still dancing over each other's bodies, chest pressed against chest, lips to lips. It was sweet and it was beautiful, and when she finally straddled me to find her release, I found that I was at that point as well.

After we'd cleaned ourselves up, we cuddled and drifted off to sleep in each other's arms. I just had one wake during the night, finding Andrea kissing me, whispering something in my ear, feathery touches dancing on my chest.

"What?" I said groggily.

"Listen," she said.

I listened. "Nothing."

"Exactly. The storm has gone."

I grunted and went back to sleep.

...

We were woken the next time by sunshine streaming through the windows. Halloween night had passed, and November had dawned. We showered and dressed and headed downstairs. There was no sign of Stella or Marble, and we presumed that they were sleeping.

"I suppose we'd better check if anything's happened outside. And then make some real-world decisions. Today might be hard," I said.

Together we went out the front door and we walked around the chalet to where we'd laid the bodies. And it turned out that Marble and Stella had beaten us after all, and were standing there, arm in arm. Marble saw us, and beckoned us over.

The garden was fresh and clean, the tarpaulin gone.

"Where are they?" I asked, surprised.

Stella laughed at me. "You didn't think it would work, did you? You thought the chalet actualisation was just a fantasy to explain something more sinister."

"Well..." I started, still looking vaguely around for where the bodies might have been moved to, but Stella cut me off.

"Look at the window, Boris."

Andrea and I both looked upwards. I was puzzled for a second, and then I gasped as realisation hit me. The window was whole, the wall perfect. There was no broken glass at our feet either.

"Shall we check their rooms?" suggested Marble. She sounded confidence about what we would find.

We all trooped upstairs again, and first checked Henderson's room. The bed was neatly made, the walls unblemished, and the window was nicely clean. The only change was that, instead of the picture of a knight on horseback, there was a view of a peaceful alpine meadow, a fresh grave dug in the foreground, and flowers placed against a simple white cross.

"I bet that if we climbed around the valley opposite, we could find his grave," said Stella.

Next we checked Jones' room. The floor was clean of blood and luggage, as though he had never been here. Once again, the picture on the wall had been replaced with a picture of a grave. This was a fancier one, in a forest that somehow I knew was probably somewhere in northern Germany. A huge, grey European wolf was lying down beside the grave, contentedly nursing some cubs.

"This is just a theory," said Marble, "but I wonder if these grave scenes are also chosen from the stories that this chalet is filled with. I saw Little Red Riding Hood on the wall in your room, McTavish, and I think this place knows a thing or two about wolves."

We went back to our own rooms and checked the pictures that had been drawn last night. They were more or less the same, except better, more professional, and nicely framed. It seemed that we had added our own stories to the walls after all.

We walked downstairs in a trance and ate our breakfasts, not talking much. It was all so surreal, but it felt like we'd reached a resolution, or at least as much as we could have achieved.

"Next of kin?" asked Andrea thoughtfully.

"I think that, as far as we're concerned, it might be better if they never arrived here," said Marble. "That they booked under false names, which is true, and that we saw no trace of them."

She paused and blinked, as if remembering that she had to say something appropriate, and then added. "Of course, we won't have forgotten them. And I will find a way to remember Jones. I imagine that his property will be divided between his siblings, but I know that he was a doting uncle to his niece and nephew by his younger sister, so I'll focus my efforts there."

We all went upstairs to pack our things.

...

At midday a modern all-terrain vehicle arrived to pick us all up, moving slowly along the bumpy little track. Marble had organised it before the weekend. The driver greeted her with a casual "Salut!"

"For four?" he continued, looking at us, still speaking in French. "Not five?"

"For four, yes" Marble confirmed, also in French. She shook her head sadly, and loaded her luggage with the rest of us.

"Four, not five" I said under my breath, and looked at Andrea and Stella. They had both caught it, and were wide-eyed. Stella shook her head at me in warning. It was probably not the best time to say anything, but while the taxi was loading, I started to question my understanding of events.

Neither Marble nor Jones had had anybody warming their bed on the first night. Jones I discounted as a direct player in Henderson's passing. However, since Marble had known the chalet and had the key to Henderson's room... it was actually more than conceivable that she could have found a way to take advantage of his self-doubt after Andrea had kicked him out. Given the nature of the place, it could have only taken a few well-chosen words, late at night, preying on the mind of a newly vulnerable man, and letting the building do the rest. We would never know the truth of it.

My doodlings in the sketchpad came back to me. Had Henderson's spectacular impact with the wall been aimed not so much at him as a person, but at destroying his hold over Marble? That would explain the excessive violence of the impact, at least.

Jones may have been an unintended casualty from the weekend, but he certainly had known more than the rest of us. Despite her apparently genuine reaction to his death, Marble may not have been entirely displeased to have him gone. "Don't they say that you have to kill your darlings?" she had said when we had met, only two days ago. And in the chalet, she may have found the perfect place to do so.

Or did I have all that wrong? Jones would surely not have been happy to see Henderson lording it over Marble, who he obviously adored despite his orientation. Could he have messed with Henderson's mind, and then taken his life in remorse at the deed?

On another thought, I pulled out my phone, which I had used to take the photos of Henderson in the rain. Somehow, I was not at all surprised to see that the photos were gone, as though they had never existed.

This was doing my head in. If the chalet could influence our minds as well as physical outcomes, then by extension it could have influenced Andrea and me to behave as we had, including my sketches and my rather flattering libido. The possibilities were endless. In fact, the more I thought about the chalet, the more I thought that we had probably made a mistake in the manner of our leaving.

"I wonder..." I said after a while, as we bumped along the road. "I wonder if Andrea was right and we should still sneak back to that chalet one night soon and blow it all to smithereens."

"I can say with absolute conviction that I am never going near that place again in my lifetime," said Stella.

"Nor I," said Andrea.

Marble looked at me, her expression unreadable, but I shivered. She said nothing, and we travelled the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence.

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Thank you for reading! Once again, please don't forget to read and vote for lots of entries if you can. And comment -- authors love comments. My grateful thanks to Nynah and to PennyThompson for their beta-reading comments and suggestions.