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Kill Screen

by Chris Lewis Carter

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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.”

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 brother and sister.

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. It might be my imagination, but the music sounds louder than it did a minute ago. Inside the kitchen, every surface is covered with pixelated blood. It runs down the yellow walls, across the cupboards, and forms huge puddles on the tiled floor.

Something is here. You can feel it.

After a quick search, there’s nothing else to interact with except a refrigerator covered in bloody hand prints. When I press spacebar, another child sprite pops out. This one has something long and grey sticking out of his head.

Lost Soul #2: My name is Andy.

One day, Mr. Plott told us about a special game he'd bought just for us.

We weren't allowed to tell anyone about it, not even Mom.

If you want to know more, find my brother.

He's trapped in the basement, but you'll need a password to get in.

I hear that it has something to do with Mr. Plott's favourite victim.

Please, finish this.

Don't let him end up like me...

Even though I’m half-expecting it, the scream that echoes from the speakers sends a million pinpoints down my neck. But that’s nothing compared to what happens next. Photo after photo of some poor child flashes on-screen. At first he’s bound to a chair facing the kitchen table, crying hysterically at the pair of eyeballs resting on his dinner plate. Then there’s only one eyeball. Then none. The final picture shows him slumped against the refrigerator, mouth caked in gore, and a carving knife buried deep inside his skull.

“Fuck this game!” I press escape without bothering to read the quit message, then hit the

Y

key without a second thought. Nothing happens.

I tap it three more times, but the game still doesn’t end. Instead, the text block now reads:

You can't leave. Mr. Plott will be mad...

“Fuck Mr. Plott, too!” I reach underneath my desk and push the computer’s reset button. The monitor goes blank, and for a moment I’m sitting in total darkness. The only sounds are my heavy breathing and racing heartbeat.

The computer begins to reboot, but it doesn’t make it to the desktop. I’m back in Mr. Plott’s blood-soaked kitchen, next to the boy with the knife in his head. The Funeral March is playing louder than ever.

A message appears in the middle of the screen:

You shouldn't have done that, DANIEL...

“You’ve got to be shitting me…” I’ve never heard of a game that could override the boot process. There must be a virus coded into the programming. Custom-made, undetectable by my scans. I try to eject the CD from the drive but the tray won’t open. This thing has taken over my entire computer.

Please, finish this. That’s what the boy’s text had said. It doesn’t look like I have much of a choice. If it means being free from this nightmare, I’ll have to see it through to the end. I leave the kitchen and head back to the large grey door. It

asks me for the password again, but I still have no idea. Mr. Plott’s favourite victim, was it?

S-O-P-H-I-E. Enter.

Incorrect.

A-N-D-Y. Enter.

Incorrect.

This doesn’t make any sense. Nobody has mentioned the other kid’s name yet, and there aren’t any other characters. Except…

A chill ripples through my body. I know the password. D-A-N-I-E-L. Enter.

The door opens.

I descend a narrow flight of stairs to the basement, where I can almost smell the damp air.

Something is here. You can feel it.

No, this time I can already see it. A third child’s sprite is shackled to the back wall, standing in a pool of blood. I move to him as fast as my character will allow.

Lost Soul #3: My name is Alex.

Mr. Plott kept us here for a long time.

He made us play bad games.

When we didn't want to play anymore, he got really mad.

We live at 342 Baker Street.

Please, take us home. I miss my mom.

“Baker Street,” I whisper. “Where have I heard that before?”

But I don’t have time to think. The music stops mid-note, replaced by a sinister, cackling laugh that sends cold shivers though my entire body.

Mr. Plott is home. You're in trouble now...

A character dressed entirely in black appears at the bottom of the basement stairs. His head is grey and thin, more closely resembling a skull than anything else, and he’s holding a carving knife like the one lodged in Andy’s brain.

Funeral March starts again, except this time it sounds distorted. It’s being played backwards, forming an otherworldly melody that steals the breath from my lungs.

Every part of me is screaming to get away from the computer. Unplug it, smash it to bits – anything to get away from Mr. Plott and his horrible game. But something has me pinned to my chair. I’m not sure whether it’s morbid curiosity, paralysing fear, or both.

I move left to right, searching for some kind of escape route or a weapon to help me fight back, but there’s nothing here. I’m trapped, with Mr. Plott blocking the only escape route.

He moves closer, and I frantically mash the keyboard for answers. An attack button, my inventory, Ctrl-Alt-fucking-Delete. Nothing works. I’m just a caged animal waiting to be slaughtered.

The backwards music rolls to a crescendo as Mr. Plott reaches my position. With one frame of animation, his arm extends and the knife disappears inside my chest. When it appears again, my character collapses to the floor, blinks for a moment, then vanishes.

Mr. Plott turns to face the screen, and now he’s looking at me. At the real me. His mouth opens and closes rapidly. Even though I can’t hear it above the twisted soundtrack, I know what he’s doing.

He’s laughing again, and he keeps laughing as a final message appears above his head:

I See You, DANIEL...

The monitor flickers and I’m kicked back to the desktop, only it’s not how it’s supposed to be.

The wallpaper has changed to a picture of my character, except this version has X’s for eyes and red pixels splattered across the shirt. He’s shackled to the basement wall, standing in a jagged pool of blood next to the words:

Mr. Plott has your IP Address. Be Careful...

“No way…”

I double click on the tombstone icon, but instead of loading the game it just says:

Runtime Error: You Are Dead

“No fucking way!” I click again, and again, and again, but every time it’s the same error message.

I am dead.

I slump back in my chair, too scared to breathe, and try to convince myself that it’s just someone’s idea of a sick joke. A virus designed to mess with your head. Clever programming by some lunatic with too much time on his hands.

But then I think about the pictures of those kids, of the Baker Street address, and Mr. Plott’s silent laughter, and I’m not sure what to believe anymore.

A whirring sound snaps me from my daze. My printer hums to life, glides out a single piece of paper, then goes silent. I pick up the sheet and read it by the monitor’s haunting glow.

Something is here. You can feel it.

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Host Commentary

I heard this story before I ever read it, partly because, as I said at the top, back when PseudoPod first ran this story, we didn’t include the full text on the website. So for the early episodes, before my time as an editor, it was listen or nothing.

And I remember listening and at first thinking, okay, great, retro computer game stuff…

… and then Mr. Plott and his Bad Game appear. And Daniel enters his name, and you know that’s going to turn out to be a bad move, don’t you? And then Sophie, and in just a sentence of description, Chris Lewis Carter shocks and horrifies. I remember feeling unsettled and… and almost wanting to take my headphones out. Haha. Don’t be silly. It’s just a story. It’s just a game.

For this re-run, of course, I had the full text and was finally able to read the story too. I didn’t expect to be unnerved by it, apart from anything else, I know what happens. And yet I still was. The horror in the game, the certain knowledge that it’s not just in the game. Daniel almost leaving, but deciding not to, and then realising he can’t. The Funeral March. The dammed password.

The horrible sense of inevitability. You know what’s going to happen. And you know you’re going to have to stay and watch to the end. You’re going to have to finish this.

And where did Daniel hear the name Baker Street before…?

It’s marvellous writing. Horrible, unsettling and disturbing. A brilliant piece of classic horror. We’re delighted to have had the chance to bring it back to you again, and so was Chris. Happy 20th anniversary to us!