Welcome, friend, to Edgar Allan Poe's murder mystery invite-only casual dinner party/gala for friends potluck.
Sorry we're late.
When will someone be murdered?
Look here, before this night goes on I have something to say.
*gasps*
Fine, then the murder mystery is underway.
I don't think he's breathing.
What, really? No, I mean--this isn't part of the game!
This is an actual murder!
Haunt these halls no more!
A murder mystery game that turns into a real murder!
I'm getting out of here!
Louisa May Alcott, a spinster through and through, has now reached the pinnacle of transcendentalism.
May she be at one with the earth, and may she find her peace.
Well someone had that ready to go.
I'm just really good at eulogies.
Edgar, I'm frightened. We must alert the police!
Yes, I agree.
Good thing stripes are in, because you are going to jail, son!
I'm not going to jail. None of us are going to jail!
Okay, one of you is probably going to jail.
Wait a second.
*knife clicks open*
What's that?
Everyone: Ew! Ugh.
Hm. Moist.
Well, great. You solved it.
Look.
Is that a--
A bell.
Or--A Bell. Annabel!
What?! That's not mine!
I'd probably say that if it were mine too.
I think we can all agree that the most innocent person here is the beautiful and innocent Annabel Lee,
and she's also the most beautiful. Now can we start taking this seriously?
I don't know.
Seems like that whole "innocent" thing might be an act.
*whispers* Love that dress.
How could you?!
Thank you.
I came here with a gentleman I care very much about who is now dead and you accuse me?
When would Miss Alcott have taken my hanky?
Okay then. Procure your handkerchief posthaste.
I--I don't--have one on me.
Aha! Open and shut case.
Mmm--guys, Annabel would never accessorize in that color with her complexion.
Thank you.
It's true.
I think.
I don't know.
Well, who was feeding her drinks? She was having horrible coughing fits.
Eh--we celebrate with beverage, but we drink same vodka.
Let's get her into the dining room and we'll figure this out.
Ugh, with the soup?
Poe, I concur with the spirit. That is super gross.
We'll have to find some other place to move the bodies.
I-I may be going out on a limb here, but, uh, perhaps you have a vault space in your cellar that you would be amenable to storing dead bodies in?
Naturally.
Aha!
Come on, everybody does.
Mine's in my attic.
HG: Uh, we--we can keep Miss Alcott and Mr. Dantes down there until help arrives.
Great. Let's fetch him.
Wilde: That wasn't here before, right?
There's a note.
What does it say?
Good evening, authors. What a lovely party this has been.
I hope you left room for the next course, when you all get your just desserts.
Tell no one, seek no help, do not under any circumstances leave this abode, or the only thing you will be authoring henceforth is your own death.
Well, we know who did it. HG Wells, you stand accused.
This notice of intent is as hacky as anything you've ever spewed forth.
Perhaps notifying the local constables is not in our best interests.
What? You actually believe that?
If we left right now, you think we would all be struck down dead?
We are dealing with a madman.
Or woman.
Just saying.
Gentlemen, please. Help me with this body.
*ominous music*
Oh dear.
*speaks in Russian*
Heh. I was half expecting to find some dead bodies already down here.
That's absurd.
At this temperature?
I'm with Miss Shelley. I think this is preposterous and it's a fate worse than death to be held here with all of you a moment longer.
Miss Shelley, right before the lights went out, you rose to say something quite urgent.
Fine.
You all may know that I initially published my seminal work, Frankenstein, anonymously.
What you may not know is why.
Years ago, my husband and I retreated to Lake Geneva with Lord Byron and his mistress.
Your beau, Eddie Dantes was also in attendance, as he was a friend of the great poet.
Byron entreatied us to come up with a ghost story, and this is, of course, where I birthed my monster.
...who in turn birthed another monster.
But perhaps there was yet another monster.
You see, Eddie may have made a rogue suggestion, nothing more than a turn of phrase here or there but he insisted on taking more credit than he was due.
I had to publish anonymously at first and ever since, he swore that he would discredit all that I have accomplished.
OK so, hella motive.
I swear I had nothing to do with his death, I didn't even know he was coming.
And I've never even met Louisa May Alcott.
You understand this is quite suspicious.
Or it's pure coincidence.
You also got a coincidence hidden in your britches?
Sweetie, if I had ever met that hunk of meat, he wouldn't have been Cinderella's plus one tonight.
It would have been the ravishing Charlotte Bronte and her handsome lover, Eduardo Dantes.
We would be the talk of the town.
I'm sorry, what did you say?
Hm?
You said, "Eduardo."
Well yes. That was his name, wasn't it?
I don't believe we ever said his full name.
OK. So?
Well if I heard the name "Eddie," I wouldn't assume his full name was "Eduardo." That's quite unique. I would assume it was "Edgar."
No, you would assume it was "Edward."
No.
"Edward" is most common long name for "Eddie."
No, there are many common long names for Eddie. "Edwin."
Ed-br... Ed-brm...
Edberv?
Edg- Edgrm. That's French.
Ed- Eddle...
Ed Eddle.
The point is, you were familiar with our deceased guest.
Oh, fine. I find this coincidence strange and confusing, possibly incriminating, which is the only reason I resisted initially, but I have nothing to hide.
Eddie was a banker who was foreclosing on our family home.
OK, hold up. We are officially entering mystery mode and Agatha Christie is still late. We've gotta take notes.
Who here is the best writer?
OK, um... you, Goggles.
So, did he foreclose?
That wasn't going to happen. My siblings and I are all so very talented that we would surely have come up with the money to make amends and put an end to this nonsense.
Who do you think we are? The Austens?
*Laughter*
Yes, he wasn't so bad. I met him through my publisher.
Though I was worried that he was going to reveal my true identity tonight as a woman...izer.
A womanizer.
A what?
You know, like a real ladykiller?
So a murderer?
No no, it's - it's a saying. You know, like a real Don Juan.
A cad about town?
Hey, it's a real shame about those dead people, huh?
OK, who here didn't know Eddie?
Lenscrafters, what's the consensus?
Where did you get those pictures?
According to my copious notes, probably cause in this double homicide abounds.
Who here hated Eddie with the most fervor? Who among us wanted this good man to be out of this world for good?
Who here had the most to gain from his untimely demise?
Between men and women, there is no friendship.
There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.
But you -
Oscar, come on. I knew I shouldn't have invited you.
Eliminating the only obstacle to your unrequited love.
Story for the ages.
Actually, I've transposed motive, location, and temperament into numerical form, and mapped out a formula to produce a value of probable guilt.
And it seems that the most likely culprit is...
Miss Shelley.
Numbers cannot see into my heart.
I am innocent and I demand that this issue be looked into by professionals.
I'm with Mary.
I will not be terrorized by some poorly written warning.
We are adults and we should alert the authorities.
I beg of you, I wish to get to the bottom of this as well.
I'm not going that way. As we've seen, that way lies certain death.
Fine. I am certain we can find our way out of here.
No, I think it unwise to leave.
IT'S ALIVE!!!
...is something I would say if she was alive.
She is not.
Wells' contraption.
Oh. Oh no, no no no. I didn't, I didn't do this. I left that right over there!
This is problematic.
Sweetheart, you came to this fool's house for a night of quiet entertainment.
And he has endangered you.
But I shall get to the bottom of this.
Friends! Something's afoot.
I suggest we scour the house for clues.
I suggest...
... we split up.