The Coffin Club – Details, episodes & analysis

First of all there's a reason I'm the one giving this talk and not your mother. We're not mad at you, we're not even disappointed. It's. It's unfortunate this is how it all is, y'know?

Shit I kinda figured one of you might be a chip off my block. Didn't expect *you*, heh. Anyway, uh, here goes.

It's okay to steal stuff, Taylor.

Yeah you didn't really see that coming, huh? There's a part two to that sentence, but. Here. Man to man. Cheers. A small celebration for your accomplishments.

Alright. Serious dad time now. I don't have a problem with you stealing stuff. Neither does your mother, even if she says otherwise. The problem is getting caught and rocking the boat, okay? The way I see it is, we have what we have, and we get all this advertising online and offline talking about what we *could* have. What *others* have and we *don't.* And they try to make us angry about it so we work hard, y'know? "Fuck you, that's mine, I'm gonna work and save and it's gonna be my house, my car, my girlfriend!" They value property over people or try to make people *into* property. Always will. Nothing wrong with not wanting to dance along.

The problem is when you get caught and who you steal from. I've done a *lot* of stealing for you, for me, for all of us. You gotta pick the right people. Grocery stores, for example, have acceptable losses. Jewelry stores don't. Pawn shops? That depends. It's all negotiable and its all risky. A grocery store is safer but certain products aren't safe to steal.

Never thought I'd talking about one of you kids about this. Jesus. I'm not prepared for this. Ugh. My point is. Actions have consequences. The best thing I can do for you, as your father, and as a man who has lived through his consequences, is to teach you how to do it safely. The *second* best thing is to warn you about those consequences. Okay? If you ever have a question, ask me. I don't talk about it much, but I get it. And don't forget I love you.

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Hi again from the monkey house. I hope the POLICE don't redact this one this time.

The kids are doing okay. Rebecca's big now, she's started walking around. Almost ready to start talking. The twins...well the twins are testing my patience, honey. They keep getting in fights with the other kids. It's always some stupid thing, and they don't cause it, but it doesn't help because they're children. Wish I could grab them and shake them and tell them to knock it off. But they're kids and we don't need to both go to jail, haha.

It's one of two things. Either Morgan is arguing with another kid and starts getting in over his head so Nancy runs over and starts throwing fists. Or, Nancy is getting picked on because she's quiet and Morgan comes over and starts saying shit to them until they cry or scatter. I don't know where he's learned those words. Maybe we should've cleaned up our act a bit. He's cutting when he wants to be. And she's rough when she wants to be. God bless them both for watching out for each other but I wish they wouldn't piss people off doing it, haha.

The school thinks splitting them up in class is a good idea. I'm not so sure. They also say sports might help. I'm not putting my daughter into softball, that's not gonna do anything to help her. Probably see how she likes junior field hockey, though. Should help her burn off energy. As for Morgan, I dunno. He keeps taking shit apart because you're not around to hide the tools. I'll see what programs are around for him to get his fun in. They need an outlet that's not their weird little games.

I miss you a lot. I'll send more commissary credits in a week. The POLICE put a limit on how often I can do that, some stupid new regulation. Respond when you can. Love you a bunch, monkey man.

Lou

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The crew talks about the experience of putting together our interpretation of Brindlewood Bay, discusses the different systems we used, and talk about the ups and downs of running mysteries and horror.

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We poisoned ourselves. I was complicit in it but we all had our part to play. Grief, anger, ego, curiosity, four ingredients we all brought into our group. Useful in small amounts. Dangerous when concentrated. Lethal when there's enough for you all to drown in it. I'm sorry for what I've done. Helping you doesn't make up for any of it, my death doesn't roll back the clock. It was never a punishment for me if I was going to instrumentalize it.
I don't have an answer for the four of you. They stole my papers away when I died and even if you had them, I don't know if you have the time you need to delve into them, create another way. I don't have a solution going forward for what this world needs and what it should be like. I always agreed it should never be like this, but I'm a historian, not a philosopher or ethicist or strategist.
What I do have to offer is the last word. They thought they quieted me, and I'm glad you never told them otherwise. That is, of course, assuming you get these messages or theirs. I can feel my control slipping; I hope it goes somewhere useful.
The best way to offset a poison like this isn't just to purge it; that's often too late. The best solution is dilution. Broaden your horizons. Be in the world. Think, question, reason, accept when you're wrong. Grow. You're never too old to grow or change. Take it from the dead woman, hypocritical as this advice may be coming from a scholarly shut-in. Grow, learn, love. Bolster the self and it will endure until your dying breath and beyond.
Good luck. I believe in you. I always believed from the start.
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Janice and Lillian are done talking with you, and Lavinia, she's dead, and they don't tend to tell tales. That just leaves me. To be honest I don't have much more to say. I think I've made it all fairly clear.
We cannot abide the state of things, the cruel engine that powers the world. I am old and ready to join my sister, I have been for longer than I'd like to admit. But we can't leave the others to their own devices. The information is out and god help us all if someone decided to put it into action for their selfish desires.
I have no family, I have few friends, I have no children. My legacy is my work and even then that will be forgotten in time. The other thing I would bequeath on the world is the hand of the Midwives not being able to snatch the others away from the cliff and falling into the ocean.
I would feel worse if it was not for the way the world is right now. And we did try to save the world. But here we are, and the final move to make has never been more clear.

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Over the years we all went mad in our own ways. Halsey went from disbelief to anger to anguish. Forrester remained at her side, ever vigilant, repeating "this too shall pass, this too shall pass". It went from soothing words to rote recitation to a grim, resigned mantra. This too shall pass. Ingham was excited; the masks were off, the base, cruel nature of the world revealed, the game bigger than she ever realized. I slipped deeper into my studies, into alienation from the world, into cold moonlit water and the thing beneath. Things were more stark and sober, especially now that we knew who also were in on our little secret.

They held a meeting. I was more of a consultant than a participant. That's when I knew how bad it all had gotten before they even broached the topic of using it (that would be another meeting, one they didn't think I knew about). This was before the pandemic. We didn't know how things would get and they were already acknowledging the elephant in the room. I made my stance clear to them: that the juice was never worth the squeeze. We buried it deep enough, and all we needed to do was ensure the information was never found by anyone.

They thanked me for my input and kept talking.

Why would they listen to the woman who sequestered herself away from the world, after all. It's not like I was in touch with society anymore; I had my job, my quarters, my research, my neighbor. Too young, too naive. As if they could ever have figured their plans out without me. As if the bargains I made didn't give them the material necessary to put their plans into action when they inevitably did. As if I didn't expect they might take me off the board. As if I never found whispers in the silence, companionship in the dead of night, my own compromises and sacrifices.

As if one of us wouldn't have a conscience, even if it meant dying to do the right thing. More than they ever did.

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Everyone here is either an asshole or a freak. At this point, I'm not going to count myself immune to this judgment. I've got a doctor on my arm and a local middle school math teacher might as well be my walking, talking shadow. Not to mention I'm not dressed for this sort of shit; people are dressed well, so are they, and I've got tan slacks, white shirt, blazer, shoes, like I'm going to circle-jerk with a bunch of middle-aged franchise owners after we talk about our divorces. It's hot in here and I fucking need air.

Leaning against a railing, drink in hand, enjoying the night. I know a thing or two about perverts and fixations. Seen shit that makes folks' hair stand on end while someone involved begged for more as sweet as can be. My problem isn't with the gratification, it's with the simpering, the begging. There's a difference between an absence of shame and being shameless and these people are shameless. I understand why. I don't approve but I understand: because what they're all focused on there isn't real. It doesn't make sense. Yet here it is, irrefutable, outside under the waves, and it's crossing their wires and making them all think with their pricks and pussies.

The priest is fixated on trying to define the nature of evil and if this thing is evil. The couple just want to dress up and screw about it because if you can't have a kid, why not make the year better. The dancer might as well be Jeffrey Dahmer if he was a worthless bottom who needed his zombie slave to rule his life and be his god. The "Satanists", the gossip, the fascist, the anarchist...it's all like going to your first orgy and realizing that the human body is, first and foremost, a physical thing beholden to disgusting laws of biology. The idea of the orgy is an enticing erotic fantasy, the reality is complicated and often off-putting.

If you're at the pervert convention and nobody around looks normal, you might be a pervert too. All worthless fantasists. Even the pervert I love. Even me.

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I will not fall in love with the sea like Captain Nicholas Flagg.

Mother has forbade me from sharing in the same love of the sea as my father. She was right and I was foolish and I will go home and she will chide me and I will say "I am so sorry I did not listen, mother" and she will hug me with tears in her eyes and it will all be wonderful. I will go to the school we have decided on, find a husband, bear him many sons, build a home together. They will ask me of the summer I spent with my father and I will never, ever tell them of what we did. His name will be a distant memory.

As we sit here I can see the gears turning in his head. Father defines himself by his worth. Not his income, not his possessions, but a more esoteric thing, a je ne sais quois that he feels makes himself important. He will have a story to share, one that earns him sympathy, even empathy. But these are not worth. He hides it well but he is my father and I am clever. He has already decided there will be another boat. It does not matter if we survive this. He has made up his mind.

So be it. There is only so much ocean, only so many sailors. There is this island and there is me and him and the sea. Somewhere out there are all of the dead and the wreck of the Isabel. I have made up my own mind. Because I am a girl I know I am not supposed to speak my thoughts aloud. I hold them close to my heart unless a man asks, and he will never ask, because he wishes to protect me, even though I am here because of him.

I have decided that if he returns to this line of work, I may never forgive him. My worth will be of my own measure. And I will never fall in love with the sea like Captain Nicholas Flagg.

https://bullypulpitgames.itch.io/desperation

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They asked if they could come and speak to me, and so I set the table for the four of us. Spent the day cleaning the house, getting everything in order, had food delivered (nothing fancy, just a roast chicken from the place down the road and all sorts of sides). The three of them were so nervous sitting at the table with me, I almost forgot to eat. The tension was palpable; they didn't quite know what to make of me. I scared them. I relished it dearly, just in case this was the end of my little game.

I was the top of their list. An anomaly. A red flag, highest possible danger. Little old me. Can you believe it? I was clever, but I was outnumbered by people who knew what to look for. Someone who can access juvenile medical records, someone tied into the legal system, someone who knew how to connect the dots on the east and west coast. It's not ever day a girl gets given the treatment and respect she deserves. So I came clean. Yes, you've got me. The executioner of Forest Glen, a person of interest in assorted cases along the Pacific coast, someone in the periphery of misfortune and misery as I got what I wanted.

They told me what they thought I wanted and I laughed. Why would I want that? I have my life, my rules, my honor, my game. That repulsed the youngest one, she had to excuse herself. The other two found their voices and made their pitch: if I joined them, I would know more. About the things I still dreamed about, deep within my loveless heart, the mystery of the world that captivated me as a girl. The beautiful thing out in the sea would be mine to understand.

How could I ever pass up such a reward? Once again, I remain unpunished. Once again, my game continues. This time I had other players.

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It took longer than I'd like to admit to decrypt the Witch's notes and even then they weren't the most clarifying. Nance had been an assistant until he was on the wrong side of the ritual, and they had been working for decades with no real rhyme or reason. It wasn't until I brought others in on the secret that I started to get it.

They believed they could get what they wanted through sacrifice and they had high hopes. The notes were riddled with inarticulate racist screeds, paranoid doctrines, petty delusions, manic hopes. They had theories and hypotheses and experiments. More organized than I wanted them to be, to the detriment of everyone around them. It was interesting, inexcusable work; they were testing responses, seeing what could or couldn't be given to them. I don't know what caused the Witch and Nance to come to odds, but once Nance was out of the picture it was clear the goals became more desperate, more sloppy, leading me to him and to his death.

I sat on it for another 15 years. Isn't that funny? To keep it all inside for 34 years of my life. I was 42 when I told someone else and it was a woman I met at a gay bar. I told her less than a year after meeting her. Yet that still just broke a seal. It demystified something forbidden. And it lead to a new purpose: community pillar by day, scholar by night, surrounded by three other women. A piece of my heart, even if she never returned my advances, by my side. A protégé who helped us all realize our potential. An asset embedded in the community, watchful, patient, lethally clever. We all believed in the purpose of containing the knowledge, up until we started to see what holding it back was costing the world.

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