You Are Fatally Invited

by Ande Pliego

Why do we love the thrill?

We’ve all done things in the dark, after all.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing new under the sun, including what can be said about writing.”

Creating written worlds ex nihilo—from nothing—is the closest we get to the divine.

Perhaps, in writing, we are divine.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shipping her and Curt,

Mila=me

My mom’s still convinced I’m going to be abducted.”

“If it helps, I haven’t met him either.”

Theory 1: SHE is JR

I’d avoided this conversation all week, but now that the guests were here, my narrative needed to line up with everyone’s on the island.

one white, the other a pale blue.

I discreetly shook the blue powder into the little ceramic bowl housing the extra sauce, and slipped out the little jar of soy sauce in my jacket and flooded the bowl with it.

For the second plate, I lifted the top layer of meat with a fork, and sprinkled the white powder underneath, so the ...

entirely too salty.

Ay callate europeo de mierda

Finding my glass down to the dregs, I refilled it, despite the sticky residue the champagne left in my mouth. Or perhaps it was the salt from the sauce—everyone

Ay ese es el white powder then? Salt?

“Sometimes the art of fiction isn’t in how intellectual it is, but how well it makes you actually forget the world around you. Sometimes, binge reading to escape reality can save a person’s life.”

If you all must know, it was actually J.R. himself who suggested I share some of my expertise this week.”

Loco stfu you dont know that man at all

But I needn’t have worried.

“Do you write?” I froze. The response stuck like a slender bone pricking my throat. “Not anymore.” “Can I ask what you used to write?” “Suspense.” I’m actually published.

Couldn’t have him thinking I was anything more than the help.

And another writer knows that nothing about writing is, in fact, silly—or perhaps the whole thing is. That dreaming up people and worlds is perhaps the silliest, most beautiful thing a human can do.

You’d stolen every word I could ever have put on the page, and that hurt most of all.

No one in my life knew that I wrote, until everyone knew that you wrote—or pretended to write.

I know who you are, it said. I know what happened, and I’m so sorry.

Where the hell was Rodrigo?

What had I been thinking, staying up so late?

I stooped to inspect the contents of the nearest glass case: a long baseball bat that had seen better days, the bulbous end swathed in barbed wire. Lucille, the little plaque read.

Noooo it follows me everywhere :(

The exhibit that had so ensnared my interest had a light glowing inside, same as the others. The only difference was that behind the glass, was nothing. And beside the empty case, the little brass plaque winked in the light. Butcher Knife from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, 1960.

Another writer recently said—Cassandra, see my use of quotes, be proud—that you have to find what you want to feel, what you want your readers to feel, and focus on that.” My throat cinched tight, suddenly dry as all the moisture surged to my eyes. Those were my words.

An Excerpt from Every Death You Fake By Val Lamont J. R. Alastor

But I could make sure you never left this island.

My plan had been perfect. In four days, everyone was supposed to believe guilt had driven you to commit suicide. And that was all anyone would ever remember of you.

So why in the world would Alastor tell me that it was all going according to plan?

Writing is a beautiful tool for confession, revealing one’s own darkest self.

I’d rather die than admit it, but this was far more fun.

Fletcher ran his hand over the back of his head and neck—nervous, good. He should be.

Fletcher couldn’t be convinced this was more than the mystery of the evening, and in all the fuss, Violet had disappeared upstairs.

Rodrigo Sandoval 1980–2025

Above us towered an oak tree. And tied to it, like a carved figure on the bow of a ship, was Rodrigo.

Duct-taped to one hand was an antique set of brass scales, and strapped to the other was a knife, its gleaming blade crusted over. And over his eyes, a blindfold of gauze was stained maroon.

One of the guests was dead. Not just dead—murdered. And not the one I wanted.

Only I’d taken a pair of wire cutters to the landline, and a hammer to the wifi modem. It needed to look like sabotage, psychological as much as practical, when the guests eventually caught on to the blackmail and demanded to leave. No help was coming.

“Haven’t you read any of our books, Mila, dear?” Cassandra chastised. “You never tamper with the crime scene.”

Stfu you old bitch

This is actually serious. Híjole.”

“I’m a bestselling murdermongeress, darling. I do my research.” In the peripheral light from my flashlight, Cassandra’s eyebrow went up. “Besides, it’s common sense. It would be extremely difficult for even someone so physically blessed as our Ash here to string Rodrigo up, except by way of leverage. This way, anyone could’ve done it, just about.”

Shes insufferable

If you’re so bloody worried, just ask the help.”

I hate el attitude of each and evedy one of them

“I came here to write with J.R., and I’m not leaving until I know for certain this isn’t just part of some game. Mila, we’d appreciate some privacy. No offense, but it seems like this is between us and our host. You’ll understand, I’m sure.”

I HATE THEM

Fletcher looked past me to him, smiling faintly. An unspoken conversation all too plainly on his face: She’s not one of us.

Cassandra? What did you see?” “I’m—I’m not sure.”

Bro what

“You aren’t serious,” Ashton said, aghast. “You were there.”

AJA WTF and she was so annoying too

Then, she imagined, most people would want to leave, whatever we found, and oh, would you be so kind as to bring me a cup of tea?

I hate her so so so much