Hello, internet! Inon, here.
I must say that I am quite excited to present my first story. I am a massive Resident Evil fan, but found my interest waning around 5 and 6. 4 was absolutely incredible. But when I saw the trailer for 7, I about jumped on my couch and threw a rave.
I was definitely not disappointed. Resident Evil 7 has got to be the best game I have ever played - it is such a unique, intriguing, and surprisingly deep, terrifying, visceral experience. If you haven't gotten the chance to pick it up, I strongly recommend it. I hope my writing does the game its due justice.
In light of that, I offer up a quick warning before you read. Resident Evil 7 is an extremely mature game, but I have cleaned this narrative a bit. All the same be prepared for some strong language, a bit of blood and gore, and some violence and scary imagery.
All in all, I am very eager to show this off. Please enjoy Honeybell, where we open with Ethan discovering some artefacts of one of the Bakers' victims. I wanted to open with Ethan to show off the juxtaposition between the world he finds himself in, and the world of the victim, whose story will be told in Honeybell.
Cheers, and happy reading! Thanks.
The whining of the old door's hinges scratched across the stale air as it slowly drifted open.
My knuckles tensed around the pistol's trigger. I peered through the doorway into the dark main hall of the house, my heartbeat quickening for a moment before ultimately slowing.
Nothing new since I left. Good.
The room was quiet - all but for the weak chorus of crickets and cicadas outside - and ungodly still. I knew the place almost too well; I knew every squeaky floorboard, the sickly sweet smell of the rotten food on the table, the maddening ticking of the grandfather clock. I knew the room enough to ignore the rotating shadow of the chopping blades of the desk fan against the wall. When you're fighting for your life, you find you get to know a madhouse extremely well all at once.
Nothing to point my pistol at. For now, at least.
My eyes trailed over the static furniture and towards the next item on my agenda: the door on the level above me. Not about an hour before, as Jack stalked me upstairs, I caught a glance of a shotgun sitting in one of the locked rooms, and I was hellbent on getting my hands on it.
But something didn't sit right with me about the situation. There was another shotgun, sitting in painfully plain sight just to my left. It taunted me as I stared it down from where I stood. I had flocked to grab it when I first laid eyes on it, but those twisted psychopaths had rigged it with some sort of trap that locked the door behind you the moment you took the gun from a statue's hands. I tried all that I could to cheat the system and break out with the gun in-hand, but nothing came of it. I couldn't save Mia stuck in that little room, so I had to let it go.
The other shotgun was my best bet. I knew what I had to do to get it, but the Bakers were just as clever as they were insane, forcing me to slog through their horrific, gore-slathered basement to retrieve the special key for the door. And now that I had paid my supply box a visit, I was armed to the teeth and ready to get what I needed to blast my way out of this hellhole.
As gently as I could, I pushed the scorpion-studded door shut behind me, keeping my eyes trained ahead. Once it clicked shut, I froze, listening. Still nothing. Still silent. I prayed to God it would stay that way. I had the deputy's knife and all the handgun bullets I possessed crammed into my pockets. When those ran out, I was next.
With the coast clear, I made my move.
I had only crept my way to the table in the centre of the room before the double doors on my right exploded open. I leapt back with a jolt, stumbling and gasping as Jack thundered his way inside, grinning from ear to ear, a barbed wire-wrapped rake in his fists.
His eyes were alight with a crazed, unhinged fire as he hooted, "Well there you are, Ethan! Was wonderin' where you'd slithered off to!"
"Shit!" I hissed to myself. I didn't wait for him to move, letting off a few shots blindly into him as I broke into a mad sprint for the stairs behind me.
Just like in the garage, he shrugged off the bullets like they were nothing. I still couldn't comprehend it. He had been impaled on a steel girder, engulfed in live fire, and blown his own head clean off. And yet, here this old man was, perfectly intact, as if nothing had happened.
I remembered him mentioning something about a "gift" he had received. I shuddered to think what that "gift" was doing for him. It wasn't natural.
He gave his neck a sickening crack and assumed his grip on his rake before pursuing me. "Oh, come on, now, don't be that way, boy!" he jeered airily. His boots boomed against the stained wood flooring as he drove himself forward. "Why not enjoy a little southern hospitality? After all, we were so dearly kind to offer it to you."
Ignoring him, I tore my way up the stairs, my gaze flickering between the door at the end of the landing and the shadowy figure of Jack crossing the floor, beginning his ascent on the staircase. He called from below, "Now, if you don't cooperate, Ethan, I'm gonna have to squash you like a bug." He then gave an idiotic guffaw. "Hope Marguerite didn't hear that…"
"Get away from me!" I hollered back, whipping around and firing a bullet that rocketed directly into his Adam's apple.
My heart skipped a beat; Jack's footsteps died. I couldn't help but gape for a moment at my shooting when I reached the top of the stairs. Miraculously, the bullet had stopped Jack in his tracks. He cupped the bullet hole while drowning on the blood bubbling out of his throat.
But in spite of my lucky shot, it wasn't enough to strike him down. Not even close. He merely wiped his hand off on his chest, gritted his teeth, and locked gazes with me as the wound sealed itself up. My eyes widened.
He casually spat out a mouthful of blood into the stairs, growling gutturally, "Now you've gone and done it! You're a dead man, you hear me?!"
"Oh, fuck…" I groaned, making another dash across the landing, never daring to sneak a glance over my shoulder. The high-ceilinged room echoed with the pounding of our feet, the rapid sounds rampaging through the air with each step. If the others didn't know where I was, before, then they sure as hell knew now. That was all I needed - more bloodthirsty hicks all itching to slice me open and cook up my entrails.
But if I could just get to that shotgun… Then maybe I'd have a chance. I wasn't going down without a fight.
I had one advantage over Jack, thank God. I was faster. Definitely not stronger, but faster. I made it to the door in a few seconds flat, just about bashing it down when I eased up a little on my breakneck pace to go in, swivel around, and close it behind me.
Before I slammed the door shut, I caught sight of Jack, just reaching the peak of the stairs. He brandished the barb-wrapped rake when he met my eyes, crooning, "Run and hide all you like, Ethan. Either way, I'm gonna find you, and I am gonna enjoy shovin' this up your city-boy ass!"
He then charged forward, giving me a split second to duck into the hall, kick the door in, and haul a nearby table over to barricade it. I threw off the trinkets on top of the table, tilting it on its end and propping it up against the door's handle. I knew it wouldn't hold long - not against Jack - but at least it bought me a bit of extra time to get the shotgun. Then I'd blow that manic grin off of his face. My trigger finger itched to pay him back for all he had put me through.
I didn't hesitate to take off as fast as I could push my legs, hurtling onto the darkened wraparound porch and skidding around a corner towards the family's recreation room. Just as I reached the threshold, a window-rattling thud sounded from outside the barricaded door, raking at my racing heart.
My head jerked over in its direction as Jack yelled through the walls, "Knock, knock, Ethan! You and I ain't through, yet!"
I didn't wait for the table to fail; I didn't have the time to. Darting into the rec room, I immediately banked a left, accidentally knocking into the billiard's table as I headed for the door with the disquieting array of scorpion shells adorning its surface. Shoving the key into the heavy iron lock, I gave it a sharp twist, shoving the door open and diving inside just as my makeshift barricade splintered and shattered. Jack easily shoved it aside; the table hit the outer wall with such force that it knocked a vase off of a nightstand in the small bedroom I found myself in.
In that same moment, I kicked the scorpion door shut - the weighty slamming of the door and the shattering of the vase were thankfully masked by the tremendous crash of the outside door opening.
A heavy pair of boots announced their presence with a great thump that rocked the rickety walls.
"Here's Daddyyyy!" Jack cried, a disturbed excitement accenting his tone.
My body went completely rigid at that point, my heart racing even faster than before. Part of me knew I was currently huddled behind a locked door. All the same, however, there was no guarantee that Jack couldn't bust his way inside. The lock was old and partially rusted for one thing, but I wasn't entirely sure if any lock could hold its own against him and his superhuman strength.
I realised all too late that I had foolishly run myself into a corner. "Shit," I breathed, running a hand through my sticky, sweaty hair.
I did, in a sense, have the upper hand on the situation, if I really stopped to think about it, and that fact calmed my ragged nerves slightly: Jack didn't know where I was. If I was quiet enough, he may not ever find me. He might not even know I had the scorpion key.
And, of course, there was a shotgun within arm's reach of where I stood.
I brought my head around to look at it. It sat propped against the doorframe, almost inviting me to pick it up. A small box of shotgun shells laid beside the grainy finish of its stock on the old vanity.
An involuntary smile spread across my lips at the sight of it, my blood igniting with a hopeful fire. That shotgun was going to change my crazy, fucked up world. And only for the better. Now with a little extra vigour in my cause, I approached the vanity and took up the shotgun in my hands. It filled me a rush of joy to hold it, my palms practically tingling from the firepower emanating from it.
I inspected it closer. Polished well, no rust. The gun was in excellent condition… at least it appeared to be, right up until I checked to see if it was loaded.
My heart dropped into my stomach when the gun outright fell apart in my hands. It almost snapped in half at the chamber, only managing to stay together on a hinge. I froze, choking at the sight of the broken weapon. This was the last thing I was expecting. This gun was supposed to be the godsend I desperately needed. This gun was going to change the tides of my hellish night at the Baker estate.
Well, I was fucked. What was I going to do?!
I didn't get the chance to deliberate on the matter, for Jack's deep footsteps began to echo through the house, slowly, dangerously. They were growing louder. My gaze flew to the window on the far wall, through which I could see the hall outside. If Jack caught sight of me through the window, my cover was blown. He'd barge in and spear me through the throat with that rake, for sure. And without enough firepower, and in such a small room… I definitely was fucked.
I had to hide - and fast.
My body seemed to throw itself into gear, making a quick pivot around an end table by the door until I came to a stop with my back against the soggy, peeling wallpaper. My handgun at the ready, I pressed myself into the wall, sucking in a panicked breath, and holding it.
Through a chair balanced on the table, I managed a peek through its legs to the window. A bead of sweat snaked down the back of my neck as I watched, with bated breath, as Jack slowly prowled across the glass, his teeth borne and his eyes squinted behind his glasses, as he searched for any trace of me. Just like I had thought, he didn't bother looking into this room. He must have figured I didn't have the key to get in. Lucky me.
A small wave of relief washed over me as he disappeared beyond the window.
My back slumped a little, my knees growing suddenly weak. Now out of immediate danger, I sunk to the floor, a deep sigh of ease emptying my lungs. For a moment or two, I simply sat there, closing my eyes and allowing my mind and body to relax as much as I was able.
Jack's footsteps gradually grew fainter as he searched the other rooms. As long as I stayed quiet, he wouldn't be bothering me anytime soon.
After my quick breather, I reopened my eyes and frowned, crestfallen, into the busted shotgun. There was absolutely no way I'd be able to use this thing to defend myself. It was useless. Even if I managed to fire a shot, the kickback alone would rend it completely in half. With my hope now as broken as the gun, I glumly looked around the room, unsure of what to do next.
But while looking around, I began to wonder if maybe there was a repair kit, somewhere. There had to be, if the gun was broken, right? A family like the Bakers - on a plantation, farming, probably hunting at one point in time - was bound to have something like that. Eager to fix the shotgun, I set it down and rose from the floor, pocketing my pistol before sifting through the many drawers and cabinets crammed into the room.
I didn't find anything of too much value. At first. Most of the drawers were either empty or filled with old, ratty clothes, blankets, dead moths and empty picture frames. This had to have been the shrivelled old woman's room I had met at the gruesome dinner table; it had that stereotypical old lady must, and upon opening one of the drawers I was greeted with a mouldy set of dentures that had me recoiling. Definitely Grandma Baker's.
No repair kit, so far, though. In spite of everything, I did find a pack of chem fluid, which would definitely be put to good use, and a box of handgun ammo. I made sure to pick up the shotgun shells, too, vowing I would get myself a shotgun no matter what.
It was only when I went through the nightstand near the filthy bed that something caught my eye.
On the nightstand, by an old lamp, sat a big, black DSLR camera. The kind that professional photographers use. My eyebrows crinkled at the sight of it. It looked out of place amidst the decrepit objects in the room, due to it actually being in decent condition, even with the lens missing and the batteries long dead.
As I turned it over in my hand, I found a small shred of normal human existence on the side: contact info for the owner, blanketed by a thick layer of dust. Wiping it away with my thumb, the letters were difficult to make out in the low light of the bedroom, but I managed to read:
If found, please return to Joseph Bell, 1645 Whiterock Road, Houston, Texas, 77012
My heart sank, my blood growing cold. No doubt this used to belong to another victim of the Bakers, just like the poor people in the morgue. God only knew what the Bakers had done to Joseph. If it was anything like I'd been through, it must have been pure, unapologetic torture. A shiver slithered its way up my spine as my mind began to wander into macabre places.
The camera and its owner piqued my interest, however, taking me from an unsettling, dark corner of my thoughts. I hadn't found much trace of the other victims throughout the house other than notes on scraps of paper, scrawled out in desperation. This camera was a solid chunk of history, in my hand.
Questions began to fly through my mind. How had Joseph ended up here? Texas was a whole state away - what had brought him to Louisiana? How had he fallen into the Baker's hands? I knew my story, but found myself becoming incredibly curious at his. The stress of Jack patrolling the outside halls seemed to melt away as I set the camera down, delving into the drawers for answers.
I didn't have to search long to satisfy my intrigue. In the top drawer of the nightstand, after prying it open - some mold had grown in the wood and blocked it from sliding out - I found a few more memories of Joseph Bell, each object just as mystifying as the last.
The first was an old, wrinkled tuxedo shirt, carelessly stuffed into a wad on the bottom of the drawer next to a large, sealed mason jar containing what looked to be a fist-sized, misshapen black rock. Next to that, a scuffed, threadbare pair of men's dress shoes. One of the shirt's buttons had been torn off. It was shredded at the bottom hem, and its white dye had faded to a nauseous yellow, bearing various stains in several places - they seemed to be dried blood and some sort of pitch-black substance splattered across the front.
The shirt took me back to my wedding; I had worn an almost identical shirt the day I married Mia. Perhaps a bit unsurprisingly, a dull, titanium wedding ring rattled around inside one of the shoes, smeared with some of the same black sludge I kept finding throughout the property.
My stomach began to churn as I continued to sift through the drawer. In the other shoe was a frayed, rolled-up, black-and-white photograph, printed on decent paper. I slipped it out and smoothed it to better look at the two subjects in it. The photograph was spattered with the black substance, but I could nonetheless make out the faces printed on it.
I first noticed the man, offering the camera an almost invisible curl of his lip as a smile. He looked to be about my age, with a kind face, wide cheekbones, dark, styled hair and light, bright eyes. His jawline was rather angular, and the bridge of his nose was slightly crooked.
Tucked close beside him was a lovely young woman, with a full head of long, thick, jet-black hair. She had a soft, rounded nose and tired, pale, sunken eyes, yet her smile was wide and dreamy. I could tell she was in love - probably with the man next to her. Sometimes you could just tell. My mother had said the same thing about me when Mia and I started dating.
Maybe this was a photo of Joseph Bell and his girl? Maybe the both of them had stumbled into the claws of the Bakers? Perhaps on their honeymoon, or something? But of all places, why had their stuff ended up in here? In a locked room, hidden from everyone?
Puzzled, I flipped over the photograph. There wasn't a pair of names, as I had suspected. Just one, written in flowy, black penmanship in the corner.
Honeybell.