Always Sometimes Monsters 03

Chris Lewis Carter I’M ABOUT TO close shop when a kid walks in, no older than eight or nine, lugging a cardboard box with Do Not Open Ever scrawled on the side. He pushes it onto the counter and stares at me with expectation. “Do you buy video games?” I gesture to the hundreds of plastic cases lining the shelves. “Let’s see, this is a used game store. What do you think?” “Okay,” he says, clearly not catching the sarcasm. “These are for sale.” I pry open the flaps, unleashing a stench like the inside of a damp basement. “Ugh, fantastic.” I fan the air until it’s semi-breathable. “Where did you find this stuff?” “My mom found it,” he says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Inside our new house.” I remove a stack of software from the box. “You live in a sewer or something?” “No. Baker Street.” He picks up a strategy guide, flips through a few pages, then puts it back on the rack. “I’m not allowed to play video games. Mom says they’re a bad influence.” games. Mom says they’re a bad influence.” Those words never fail to get me started. “Well, your mom needs to join the twenty-first century. Games are entertainment, not serial- killer training manuals. Besides, they’re no more violent than a typical news broadcast. Statistically speaking--” But the kid isn’t listening anymore. He’s busy watching the demo kiosk replay my last lap of Rocket Racers. So much for educating the next generation. I finish cataloguing his junk. It’s nothing but shareware for ancient computers, old printer drivers, and a dozen of those America Online discs. I should charge him for making me dig through this mess. “Sorry, kid. Even if this stuff didn’t reek, you don’t have anything worth… Hmm?” At the bottom of the box is a jewel case with no insert. The CD inside has the words Mr. Plott’s Bad Game written in black marker. “All right, let’s make a deal.” I pop open the register, and the sound finally catches his attention. “Five bucks for the entire thing.” He scratches his head. “That doesn’t sound like very much.” “A shrewd negotiator, eh?” I grab a ten from the cash drawer. “Since you’re clearly too smart for me, how about double? It’s my final offer.” “Okay, mister. Thanks a lot!” He grabs the money, then runs out of the shop like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. I finish locking up, then throw everything except the strange CD in the outside dumpster. That little gem is coming home with me. Who knows, it might be worth something. See, I’ve been collecting rare video games for over twenty years. Stuff you’ve never even heard of. Erotic NES games like Bubble Bath Babes and Peek-a-Boo Poker that were only available by mail-order. A T-shaped Air Raid tape for the Atari 2600 – one of only twelve in existence. I paid three thousand dollars for one of the last remaining Nintendo World Championship Tournament cartridges. I own hundreds of obscure titles from all over the world. But I’ve never heard of this game. *** Back at my apartment, I spend an hour trolling message boards for any mention of Mr. Plott or his Bad Game, but there’s no information to be found. It’s not a bootlegged indie project, or a poorly-translated Japanese release, or even a hacked Rom. Not a single Google hit either, which means it’s probably just some wannabe programmer’s community college assignment. Completely worthless, but maybe good for a laugh. I put the disc inside my computer and run three different virus scans on the single file: StartThePlott.exe. When they all come back clean, I’m convinced it’s safe enough to install. An icon shaped like a tombstone appears on my desktop. When I double click it, the monitor changes to black screen with the words: What Is Your Name? I type D-A-N-I-E-L, then press enter. The computer speakers blare a MIDI version of Chopin’s Funeral March, and a pixelated two-storey house appears. It’s nothing but gloomy shades of grey, surrounded by a rust-coloured fence with posts bent in all directions. Jagged bolts of lightning flicker in the background. The graphics look like something you’d find in a game from the 80’s, but it’s still oddly unsettling – especially in my cramped bedroom, with the monitor acting as the only source of light. A block of text materializes across the house: You are on a tragic quest To find lost souls who cannot rest They’re trapped inside a bad man’s home He makes them suffer all alone And if he catches you inside It won’t be long until you die So run away with all you’ve got There’s no escaping Mr. Plott. The words fade, and the music drops to an eerie hum. I have to admit, the opening sequence isn’t bad. Pretty creative for a dated- looking horror game. My character appears - a blocky little guy with brown hair and a blue shirt – and I can’t help but grin. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was an 8-bit version of me, but these old sprites leave a lot to the imagination. I’m standing outside the front door of the house, a solid rectangle of white that’s streaked with lines of red pixels. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to interact with, so I tap randomly on my keyboard to figure out the game’s control scheme. When I press the spacebar, a message pops up: There is a note scrawled in blood. It reads: Do Not Open, Ever. Will you Run Away or Go Inside? I select Go Inside, but part of me wonders what the Run Away option would have done. I’ll have to try it on my next play through. The colour palette inside the house is suitably dreary. It’s all brown floors and puke-green walls with black stripes to simulate wallpaper. I move to a nearby door and press spacebar. It’s locked. You can hear crying on the other side. Creepy, but there’s nothing I can do without the key. It has to be around here somewhere. I find a staircase to the second floor, but decide to sweep the ground level before heading up. After a few potted plants and a poorly- animated grandfather clock, I reach a large grey door with a blue square near the middle. It’s locked. There is a keypad near the knob. You will need a password to enter. It prompts me to type something, but I have no idea what it could be. I try the obvious guess, Mr. Plott, but it doesn’t work. Whoever that guy is, his house sucks. I go back and climb the stairs, which lead to a hallway with three doors. The first two are useless, but the third opens with a tinny- sounding creak, sending me into a bedroom. Something is here. You can feel it. Finally, a little action. I spacebar the dresser, the closet, and the nightstand, before finally reaching the bed, where a character sprite about half the size of mine appears. It looks like a small girl, with two red lines that run from her eyes to the hem of her blue dress. Lost Soul #1: My name is Sophie. Mr. Plott used to be a nice man. He would invite us over to play video games. If you want to know more, find my brothers. They’re trapped inside this house, too. Please, save them from Mr. Plott. Look at what he did to me…. A human scream rips through my speakers, and a photograph appears on the monitor. But this isn’t pixelated graphics, it’s a picture of a real child. A girl in a blood-soaked blue dress, handcuffed to a bed that looks exactly like the one in-game. Both of her eyes have been ripped from their sockets and placed on a nearby nightstand. “Jesus Christ!” I push away from the computer with enough force to tip my chair, sending me to the floor in a flailing heap. When I scramble to my feet the image is gone, replaced once again with the red-lined sprite. Lost Soul #1: Here, use this key to unlock the kitchen. I think he’s keeping one of my brothers inside. Please, save us, DANIEL… Using a player’s name is the oldest trick in the book, but seeing it after watching something like that fills me with disgust. What kind of psycho puts photographs of a mutilated kid in their game? If that isn’t illegal, it damn well should be. I prop up my chair and sit back down but I’m not comfortable with playing anymore, so I jab the escape key. Are you sure you want to quit? You’re not finished yet… Yes/No? My finger hovers over the Y, but something stays my hand. If this disc was never meant to be found, there could be even more incriminating shit on here. Something worth bringing to the police. Maybe I should play a little further. Just to be sure. I back out of the quit screen, make my way downstairs to the first locked door, and use the Kitchen Key.

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