Rexdale ‘49

“In the Spring of 1949, a year before Rex Heslop bought the 100 acre Wilbert Wardlaw farm on the east side of Islington Avenue (in the area that is eventually to become Rexdale) a serial murderer with a penchant for medieval medical tools, is on the loose, and their eyes have found their way, to you.”

Presenting audio drama in a more intimate format, constructed as a role-playing game where as the player/protagonist, you determine the outcome of the story by the individual choices you make.

All pathways & scenarios will be published in the coming months, but if you wish to share the game with those you know, I encourage you to do so.

To play, register in the form below, after listening to/reading Pathway One, below.

Pathway One

You’re awake, blindfolded.

Sawdust air, a choking bit of familiarity to it, sand on your lips, on your tongue. ‘Hollow. This room is hollow.’ You can tell as your breathing, steady, echoes. You are not panicked – it is not in your nature to fear any scenario of imprisonment – this is not the first time that you’ve been held.

The chloroform feels fresh, still, tinged with honey, stained on the outside of your mouth, something sweet.

This is your formula, particular to you – no one else is practicing medicine here, how did they get into my stores?

Your hands are bound behind the back of a hard wooden chair, legs to the legs, enough to hold but perhaps not enough to keep you held. Don’t struggle – don't give away that you know your binds are loose.

A metronome clicks & you time your breathing to every fourth second for the inhale & then for the exhale (breathe)

You remember Maskelyne’s Technique of blinking to free oneself from a blindfold, but you must not cause attention – if an opportunity arises where you find yourself alone, you’ll make the attempt (& your ears tell you that you are not alone in this room, so not now)

Discern.

Heavy footed. He’s ten feet ahead of me, his breathing is in the opposite direction – his back is turned. I can hear the way his weight shifts when he leans on one foot over the other – he's heavier – taller. Scuffling – he's left-handed. What’s in his hands?

He’s whittling away – something sharp – he's making something sharp, on my whetstone. I know the spark; I know the sound. He’s in my home. This is my cellar.

There is a still moment. You know from the slight shuffling of his steps & the breathing becoming louder, that he’s turned away from the worktable, to face you, but he’s not moving in your direction.

Click. Click. Click.

And then, he opens his mouth, but before he speaks, he lets the moment hang in the air, like he’s breathing in awe.

‘This one...This one...fascinates me’

You have an idea of what it is he is holding in his hands, but you are unfazed. You know your tools better than anyone.

“Not familiar with the name. But I’ve seen what...miracles...you’ve performed with it (‘I’d know a soft smile from anyone in the dark’) Imagine becoming...accustomed...to the nature of our tools, to it becoming second, nature.”

He steps closer to you & as he does, you feel a rush of air by your ankles – the windows painted shut are slightly open now. He would have needed time.

The man continues:

“Do you assign names? We’ve never sat down for a proper conversation/you’ve never really invited me. You do seem like an individual who would appreciate…ownership (I’ve felt that) Imagine leaving this...valuable...to hang out in the open.”

His tone has now shifted a slight deeper – is that menace?

“Remarkable thing to be so small & yet cause so much damage. I used to think about a bullet being such a thing, tiny, perforation, explode, collapse from within a tiny million fragments, flesh shredding into flesh, a supernova of muscle to sinew...But that is how you say pedestrian in comparison to the caterwauling of this.”

(He makes a clicking sound from something in his hand & you know exactly what he’s holding)

“Tell me (he pauses & moves to you, to lean in, & lets you hear his breathing – he's taking his time, he feels like he has time & he whispers into your ear) Did you hear the crack? (he pauses again, grave, almost nodding & saying yeah in a whisper) I did. I hear it now, again. I hear it in my sleep...when I open my eyes, to see...a metronome of cracks in my head, in perfect rhythm, persistent.”

You feel hot air of breath on your neck and hear him straighten & move back to the worktable.

“To be fair...& I want...to be fair...I am a little bit unsure as to whether or not this will quiet the noise. I suppose that’s a little bit unfair to you if I step outside & examine our, situation. But then there’s the crack to remind me...”

(I know this voice)

“Nauseating how quickly we make our decisions with a calculation unprepared for random variables, so unassuming.”

You catch yourself, appreciating his matter-of-fact tone to things. This is a voice you know, but not through conversation – Where have I heard you?

“Tell me, in your profession – have you ever negotiated a tortuous cervix on someone who was/is...wide awake? When you split the skull of a tiny living being, what is the remnant...”

Click.

“I know there are accidents (you can hear him nodding, almost acceptance he is comfortable to linger in) I know. I recognize that. You’re not going to be able to save everyone & that it has to be a hard thing to know there will be times in your life when you will have to deliver not so pleasant of a news to someone. But a man who claims to be moral is the first one I would suspect to not be so And you, have so many ghosts who are whispering, so...”

He holds the moment.

“Empathy’s been a bit of a challenge lately.”

A pause, an exhale.

“I want you to know...this will not end here. Not with you. Struggling against the inevitability will do you no good.”

His tone is almost matter-of-fact now, & you hear the adjustment, like he’s laying out your tools upon the table.

‘A servant will use the tools of his master, to bring him to heel. (he pauses & you can hear him taking a deep breath and you’ve known this leap many a time) “Coincidentally, that is where we will start”

The metronome stops.

“This will hurt.”

…

You are faced with several choices. You can say something to compel him to stop, , like you are begging. You can also say something in an attempt to persuade. You can choose this moment to free yourself from your bonds behind your back, you can use Maskelyne’s technique to blink your way out of your blindfold to see who this is, you can use your foot to tip your chair backwards to land on your back, or you can do nothing.

Choice Made: Maskelyne

Pathway One:

Under the fold, close your eyes, deeply. Steady your breathing, stretch your moment, slow your time. The key to the Maskelyne technique is to literally thin your self – to close so, within, it’s not merely your eyes that blink, but your being. For a moment, you disappear, & you create lifetimes within a moment, within a blink & you remember his words.

“The best magicians are not accused of bending reality, but called liars. You’ve created something so impossible, it can’t be real. So they evaluate your work, posit theory, elaborate. Doubt. And you smile at doubt.

Difficult, isn’t it? To resist, bending.

‘& I would test this curse, if I were you.’

You knew what he was going to say. You recognize familiar behavior in others in relation to you. Keep still. Focus.

A blink is as effortless as a breath but you must, be, still.

Sink. Hum. Fold. De-Scend. Compel your entire being in an instant, to blink.

The world has slowed it’s motion almost to still & you live infinitely in a single second.

This.
Will.
Hurt.

The blindfold falls from your face and to your surprise (?) there’s no one in the cellar with you.

With the flourish of a showman, you flick away your bonds like it were a breath of wind gently freeing you & stand in your dark cellar.

‘The floors will need washing.’

You hear a crash as if it was glass shattering above your head on the main floor. A gunshot immediately follows from the woods outside & below your feet, below the floorboards, an ungodly howl pierces your chest & eyes like it were a wasp sting.

You have four choices:

Investigate the glass shattering above your head on the main floor. Find out why there was a gunshot from the woods outside, investigate the howl below the floorboards, or hold & do nothing.

Notes:

This is a sample pathway of the game. It is the path that one of our users is taking. As they continue to make choices, you’ll see pathways published here in both written & audio form.

If you wish to start the pathway at any point published here, simply fill out the ‘Choose Your Path’ form & note where you’d like to pick up the game & you’ll have your own personal narrative.