HM Mafia, 10:30 PM, MAFIA HIT #2

“Just one more drink.”

The fire in the dining room looked vaguely sinister now, and Ophelia would swear the portrait was grinning darkly at her. Apparently most of the other guests were a little spooked too; Ophelia was not alone in sensing strange things afoot. She was, however, now alone in the dining room. The other guests had finally decided who they wished to throw their lot in with for the night. The heiress and the actress would be expecting her soon…but Ophelia had hung back when the guests dispersed.

Smoke filtered out in a stream from Ophelia’s mouth, and the shapely woman amused herself by imagining shapes in the puffs and clouds as she drank her brandy. Twisted faces and assorted animals floated by, then faded in a haze.

“So, old man, how’s the view from up there? What, cat got your tongue? Don’t feel like talking tonight?” Ophelia smirked up at the portrait. She just bet she knew how the view was, whether the portrait spoke or not; she had situated herself quite nicely underneath the hideous painting. “We have a real mess on our hands. A real damn mess.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure a woman of your…assets…can handle herself quite nicely.”

Ophelia gave a delicate snort and took another sip of brandy. Is it colder in here than it was a minute ago? “Ah, you do want to chat. How lovely.”

The portrait matched her snort. “What I want is a sip of that brandy. You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve tasted…the finer things.”

Yes…it was definitely colder in the dining room than it was a minute ago. Although she was pleasantly flushed from the brandy, Ophelia felt goose bumps on her arms now. As always, though, she kept her composure, looking up at the portrait and taking a slow, careful sip of brandy. She ran her tongue leisurely over her upper lip as she looked into the portrait’s cold, dead eyes.

The brandy, though it was smooth and of a good vintage, stuck in her throat, and Ophelia tried to look dignified as she coughed and sputtered. Her struggles were to no avail. The more she coughed the tighter her throat became, as if clenched by an invisible fist, until she could only flail her arms helplessly, opening and closing her mouth, now desperate for air as blackness overtook her vision. Spots danced before her eyes, then seemed to coalesce into a form, a body, though Ophelia knew, in that moment, that this body was only a shell for the dark spirit within. Miraculously, she found her breath in that instant of recognition, and managed to croak out one last word.


“Yes.” And with that, the spirit began to feed.

Cobert 19 years ago
Clara had heard of what happened to poor Ophelia, but could not bear going to the site itself. She did however, spend some time in her newly picked room eavesdropping on others. She also remembered the ones who had attempted to condemn Ophelia the night before.

"Perhaps the same people who wanted her dead hours ago, were the ones responsible for this death?"
Slipnish 19 years ago
Reverend Bob took no comfort in yet another death. It seemed that the LAWD'S judgement had indeed settled upon this miserable lot of sinners, just as scripture predicted that it would.

Of course the woman was probably nothing more than a high class call girl, and she drank like a damn fish anyway....

It wasn't like the world would miss her.

Still....the prospect was unsettling. People were dropping like flies in a Raid factory.

Reverend Bob had overhead a whisper. Just the tail end of a conversation really, where a couple of the other guests were comtemplating the identity of the killer/killers. They had mentioned him by name. BY NAME!

The horror of it all was still there. That someone was on a murderous rampage was bad enough. That he was confined to this house with the hookers, homosexuals, and heretics was even worse. And ultimately, ultimately there was that damned nosey reporter writing about Elvis....

Quick thoughts of GAWD'S retribution falling on a gossips lips quirked his jowls up into a thoughtful smile.

Hopefully the reporter or the homo would be next. Not only would it eliminate some of the competition, but it might save the Reverend from having to finangle with that newsrag later.

Of course if the homo got it, well, that just removed one more carrier of GAWD'S judgement on the gays off the planet and well into the bowels of hell...
ROzbeans 19 years ago

Maelarya peeled off her shift and threw it on her bed. She had wandered down the same million door hallway and chose a room. She slipped into a pair of jeans and pulled on a tight t-shirt (sans bra of course). Turning, she had her hand on the door when she heard murmuring outside. The other guests were chatting in the hallway.

' skin....cold...slut....bad actress....' Maelarya bristled. Bad actress, indeed.

Letting go of the door knob she thought to herself. The black jacket fellow, Dustin with the fingernail polish issues. Very quiet, very supicious. Then there was the porn star. Maelarya snorted, she had seen his videos. She had 2 words for him. DIGITALLY ENCHANCED.

A chill creeped up her spine and made a place for itself on her shoulders. She hugged herself, trying to warm her now goosebumped arms. Shaking it off she opened her door just as Weiner walked by. He cast a glance at her, a supsicious one. She eyed him back.

'There would be no warming up in this house', she thought to herself, 'not with us all running around watching our backs, trying to keep someone from chewing on it.'
Vulash 19 years ago
Dustin sat by himself in the room with the painting absently twirling a pen in his hand while observing the details of the painting.

None of this makes any sense. Is someone going crazy and killing us so they can win? Is this obviously possessed painting behind it? Both? What kind of game is he playing? He could obviously kill us all if he wanted, but he isn't - he's toying with us. Setting us against each other and killing us one by one. Fucking asshole.

Maybe it was guilt over voicing his opinions to the others about the actor, but she had been acting so shady, maybe it was fear at everything that was going on, maybe it was anger at being unable to do much about all this, or maybe it was just a mix of all 3, but he was terribly frustrated. He imagined himself getting up and ripping the painting over and over with the pen, just yelling and jerking it from the wall to stomp it to bits, but he knew he could never go through with it. He'd probably be dead before he could even reach it if he tried.

All this for what? Money? Adventure? Life sure was fucked up.