Surviving in an RPG Maker Horror Game — Chapter 8: The Brontë Family Sisters

Chapter 8: The Brontë Family Sisters

I froze in place.

I was so scared‌ my tongue went‍ dry.

‘A‌ ghost?’

If‌‍ it were a ghost, that would⁠ be better. I could chalk it‍ up to the‌ fragments of this⁠ strange situation.

But⁠ if it was⁠ a person, that⁠ was a whole‍⁠ other story.

No‌⁠⁠ normal person would be wandering alone⁠⁠ through a school‍ in the middle‌ of the night.⁠‌⁠ It might be‍‌ someone who knew⁠‌⁠ the secret of‌‍ this mysterious school.‍

“Who’s there?”

I ran out into‍ the hallway.

But⁠ there was no‍‌ one.

‘…Vanished?’⁠‍

As I looked around,‌ something glinted on⁠‍ the floor.

[You⁠ have obtained ink.]⁠⁠‍

It⁠‌‌ was ink.

It⁠‍ was lying right‍‌ in the middle‌ of the hallway.‌

I picked it up⁠‌ absentmindedly and looked‌ toward the stairs‍‍ I’d just come‍ up.

‘Was‌ this already here?’‌

I recalled when I first entered the‌⁠⁠ fourth floor.

There‌ had been nothing⁠‌‌ in the hallway. But now, the‌‍‍ ink was here,⁠‍‍ as if it were screaming to‍‍ be picked up.‍

There‌⁠ was no way⁠ I could’ve missed‌ it before.

‘Then‌⁠ that means…’

Someone‍ had placed it⁠‌ there. While I was in the‍‌ art room.

[Ink]‍

【Red‍ ink. Used to‌ write in diaries.‍‍‌ Its surface is⁠ still warm.】

I checked the detailed‌‍‍ description of the‍‌ item. Just as‌⁠ I expected, the message was slightly‌ different from the‌ ink I’d found‌ before.

That‌ confirmed it.

The girl who had⁠‍ been watching me‌ from the window⁠ wasn’t a ghost—she⁠ was a real⁠‍ person.

‘I⁠ have to find‍ that girl.’

I ran through the fourth-floor hallway. She had to be⁠‍ nearby.

I headed to the⁠ classroom closest to⁠⁠ the art room.⁠

—Clack.

It‌⁠ was locked. I checked other classrooms‌⁠⁠ too, but the‌ result was the‌ same.

—Clack.

—Clack, clack.

All⁠‌ of them were‍‌ locked except the‍ art room.

With‍ no other option,‌ I returned.

‘Maybe‌‌‌ I have to‌‍‌ solve this first…?’‍‌

If‍ this were an⁠‌‍ RPG Maker game, the school would‌ be the base‍‍ map.

And‍⁠ by the linear nature of these‍ games, you couldn’t‍‍ explore freely.

Basically,⁠⁠‍ you unlocked the⁠⁠ next room by⁠‍⁠ completing the previous‍‌ one.

Just‍ like I had⁠ done: classroom → main hall → teachers’ lounge → art room.

If⁠ I wanted to⁠⁠ check another classroom, I had to find the clue in this one‌ first.

‘But‌⁠ is there really⁠‍⁠ a clue here?’⁠

I wasn’t sure, but‍‌‍ I had no‌‍ other choice.

Even‌ if it was‍‍⁠ pointless, I had‌‌⁠ to try.

I was betting everything‌ on a tiny‍‌ chance.

Just⁠ as I was⁠‍ about to step‍‍ into the doorway‍ of death—

‘Wait‌‌‌ a second.’

A spark lit up in my mind. I’d overlooked the⁠‌‍ most important thing‍⁠‌ until now.

‘How⁠⁠‌ did I not⁠‍ realize this before?’⁠⁠

A chill ran down‍‌ my spine. I quickly opened the‍‌⁠ inventory and took‍‍ something out.

…

[Your‍⁠ progress has been⁠ saved.]

‘I⁠‍ forgot to save.’

That‍ was close.

Saving‌ isn’t an option—it’s a necessity.

Now‌‌ I had nothing‍⁠ to fear. Had it saved properly?⁠ I checked the diary.

Everything‌ was in order.‍‍ I regained my⁠ cool composure.

Even if it was a bit silly,‌‍‌ I couldn’t help⁠⁠ it.

I wanted to live.‌‌

I continued the search‌‍ in the art⁠ room.

It was full of‍ paintings. Maybe, if‍‍⁠ I was lucky,⁠‌ I’d find a key.

I checked everything thoroughly, in case I’d‍‌ missed something.

I went to the‍⁠⁠ back of the classroom, which I hadn’t checked properly‌ before because I’d‍ been looking at‌‌ the paintings.

Near‌⁠ the edge, I found a hatch.‌ There was a warning sign.

[Supply‌ Room]

[Unauthorized⁠ access prohibited]

Just⁠‌‍ looking at it,⁠‌ it was clear‌ something was hidden.

I ignored the warning‌‌‌ and turned the‌ handle.

—Clack.‌

As‍⁠‌ expected, it was locked.

So‍ now I knew⁠‍ what I had‌‍ to do here.⁠⁠‍

I had to find‍ the key to‌⁠‌ the supply room.‍‍⁠ By this point,⁠‍ I understood how this school worked.‌⁠‍

‘Let’s‌‌‍ find it quickly.’

There‌ was no time.⁠‌⁠ I had to‍⁠⁠ catch that mysterious‍⁠ girl before she‌‍ got away.

I started searching the‍ art room. As I inspected the‌ paintings on the‌ wall, something struck me as odd.‍

The‍‌ window I had‍‌ previously mistaken for a portrait of‍‍ a student had‍ vanished in the‌‍ blink of an‍‍‌ eye.

‘Huh?’⁠‌

I searched the spot‌ from memory. I had just seen⁠ it, so it⁠‍‍ wasn’t hard to⁠ remember.

‘It⁠ was right here.’⁠‍

Some⁠‍ of the most‍ famous paintings in⁠ the world were⁠ on display.

If⁠‍ memory served me‍⁠ right,

between‍⁠ the “Mona Lisa”‌⁠‍ and “Guernica.”

No‍‍‌ doubt, the window‍‌‍ had been there.⁠⁠

But‌ now in its⁠ place—

[Branwell‌‌ Brontë – The‍⁠ Brontë Family Sisters]⁠‌

A completely new painting‍‌ had appeared.

‘Shit!’⁠⁠

This⁠ time, it really‌‌ was a ghost.‍ I jumped back‌ in fright.

I grabbed a nearby‌‌⁠ chair as a weapon and got‌ into a defensive‍ stance. If something‍ jumped out, I’d‍‍ smack it in the head.

With⁠⁠ resolve, I braced‌‌ for the attack.

But‌‍ the painting remained still.

No ghost emerged. Gradually,‍⁠ I lowered the‍ chair.

I approached to examine‌‌ the painting.

‘It’s⁠⁠ a real painting.’‍

It⁠ wasn’t a ghost⁠‍ or a hallucination.‌‌ It was framed⁠ in an old⁠‍ frame, like an‍ actual artwork.

I carefully removed it⁠⁠ from the wall.‍

And finally, the window‍ that had been‌ behind it was⁠ revealed.

Where⁠ had this come⁠‌ from…?

With‌‌ trembling hands, I looked at the‍ painting.

It was a portrait⁠‌ of four women‌ gathered together.

The⁠‍ painting quality wasn’t‌‌ very good.

The‌ proportions were off,‍⁠ and the brushwork‌‍‌ was clumsy.

But‍ that same roughness⁠ gave it a mysterious air. The technique, oddly enough,‌‍⁠ seemed refined.

I wondered what kind‍‌⁠ of painting it‌ was and checked⁠⁠ the title.

[Branwell‍⁠ Brontë – The⁠⁠ Brontë Family Sisters]‌‌⁠

It⁠ was my first‌⁠ time hearing of this painter.

And‌ the first time I’d seen that⁠ painting.

‘Brontë,‍ huh…’

Seeing‌ the painter’s name,‍‍⁠ it seemed obvious he had painted⁠ his own family.

Apparently,‌⁠ this Brontë guy‍⁠ had a lot‍⁠‌ of sisters. Four,‍ no less. I grew up as⁠ an only child—no⁠ brothers or sisters—so⁠‍ I had no‌ idea what that‌ would be like.‌‍

I think it was‍‌ back in middle‌ school… I used‍ to think it’d‍ be nice to‍ have an older‍⁠ sister, but that⁠ illusion shattered after⁠ visiting a friend’s‍‌ house. That’s when⁠‍ I decided being‍ alone was better.‍⁠

I found a paper⁠⁠ stuck behind the⁠ frame.

‘An‌ item?’

I tried to take⁠‍‌ it out, but⁠‍⁠ it was stuck‌‌ so tightly it⁠‍ wouldn’t budge. And⁠ it didn’t glow‌ like other items.⁠‌ It seemed to be just an‍ unimportant sheet of‍ paper glued to‍‌ the back of‌⁠ the frame.

I simply flipped the‌ frame over to⁠‌‍ read it.

I had just started‍‌‌ reading, and I already felt like‍‍ yawning. But just‍ in case it⁠⁠ was a clue, I forced myself‍‌ to keep going.‍

[The‍⁠ Brontë Family Sisters]‍‌‌

[The‌‌ People Depicted in‌ This Painting Are⁠ All Women of‌⁠ the Brontë Family‌⁠⁠ and Writers.]
The works of⁠‌ the Brontë sisters⁠‌ remain relevant in‍ the history of⁠‍ English literature, known‍‍ for their unique‌‌ narrative worlds and⁠‌ dark undertones. Among their most representative‍‌‍ works are Jane⁠ Eyre and Wuthering Heights.

Incidentally,‌ it is said⁠ the Brontë sisters‍‍‌ lived in a rather unfortunate family‍‌ environment.

And‌ as proof of⁠⁠ this, they all‍‌ died young.

Bronte⁠‍ himself, who painted‍⁠‌ their portrait, also⁠ died at the‌‍ age of 31.‍‍

Because‍‍ of this, some⁠ refer to this‌‍ painting as a cursed work. Perhaps⁠⁠ that’s why it‍ has a sinister‌ nickname: The Haunted⁠‍ Painting.

The⁠‍ reason? The subjects‌‌‍ themselves. While the⁠‌ painting depicts four⁠‍‍ women, in reality,‌⁠ there were only three Brontë sisters.‍

One‌ was added. Many⁠ have debated this,‍‍ but to this‌ day, nothing has‍⁠‌ been clarified.

The⁠ most accepted theory⁠⁠ is that the⁠ artist simply made‌ a mistake by‍‍ adding an extra‍⁠ person, but even‍⁠‍ that is suspicious.‍‌

How could someone miscount‍ their own siblings?‍

Many⁠ rejected that theory,‍‍ but they too‌ couldn’t offer a clear answer. So⁠⁠ it was left‌‌ in obscurity.

It‌‌‍ was concluded to‌‌ be a mere‍ mistake by the⁠ artist.

And⁠ this urban legend was buried, never‌‍ surfacing again—an eternal⁠‌ mystery.

Who was she really?‌⁠⁠

Why‍⁠ did she sneak⁠ into the portrait‌‍‌ and pretend to be a Brontë?‍⁠‍

Some‍ say the woman‍‍ in the painting was—]

The⁠‍ rest of the‍ text was torn.⁠‌ It was lost⁠ just when it‌⁠ was getting interesting.‌

‘It‍‍‌ had to end⁠‌ right here?’

Right‌ at the most⁠ exciting part. It⁠‍‍ felt like those‍‍ TV programs that summarize movies and‍‍ cut off before⁠ the ending. I wanted to run out and pay‍ for the full⁠‍ version.

With‍⁠ resignation, I turned‍‌‍ the frame back around. There they⁠⁠‌ were, The Brontë⁠ Family Sisters.

‘There⁠‍‍ really are four.’‌

I counted the figures in the painting,‌‌ and indeed, there‍‍‍ were four women.‍‌ I was stunned.‍‍

Who would’ve imagined such‍⁠ a rough painting‍⁠ had such a backstory? I was starting to get⁠ why people visited⁠‌ museums.

‘But‌‌ now…’

Was‍ I supposed to⁠ find the ghost in the painting?‍

I groped the frame, unsure of what‌⁠‍ to do. Judging⁠‍‌ by the past‌ puzzles, it was⁠ clear this painting⁠⁠ was a clue.‌‌

As‍‌ I pondered what‌‌ kind of puzzle‌ it might be,‍ suddenly a red‍‌ liquid began to‌ flow from the‍ painting. I quickly⁠ lowered the picture.⁠‍ The mysterious liquid‍ soaked the entire‌ frame.

At⁠‍‍ the same time,⁠‌ a strong metallic⁠ smell filled the room.

‘Ugh.’‍⁠‌

I instinctively covered my‌ nose. The liquid⁠‍ seeped through the‍ frame and left‌ a message on‍⁠ the glass surface.⁠‌

[One‌ of them is‌⁠ a liar. Find‍‌‍ her and kill‍ her.]

‘A‌⁠ liar? Is it‍ referring to the‍ ghost?’

Drip.⁠‌

Then‍‌ the painting grotesquely transformed. The change‌ was so horrifying‍ I nearly fainted.⁠

All‍‌ the figures now‌ had trembling, terrified, or tearful expressions.‍⁠ And the already⁠⁠ clumsy art style‌‌ made it even⁠ more disturbing.

‘Hah…‍ hah… They’re telling‌ me to find‌ the ghost and…’‍‌⁠

With‌ cold sweat running‍⁠ down my back,⁠‌ I opened the⁠⁠ item’s description.

New,‍ lengthy messages appeared:⁠‍

[Charlotte:‍ Emily is truly‍‍‍ my sister.]

[Emily: Anne is a Brontë family woman.]‍⁠

[Elizabeth:⁠‌ One of Anne‍ or Charlotte is‍‍⁠ lying.]

[Anne:⁠⁠ What Charlotte and‌‌ Emily say is⁠ true.]

…Was‍‍ this it?

Among⁠‌ these sisters, who⁠ supposedly only speak‌⁠‌ the truth, a liar—the ghost—is hiding.⁠

And‌ I had to‌‌‍ find her… and‌⁠ kill her.

Flash!‍

The‌⁠ painting began to⁠‍‍ turn red. Apparently,⁠ this was a countdown.

‘You’re‌ not even giving⁠‍‌ me a second‌ to think…?’

Panic‌⁠ surged within me.‍‌

Before‍ the entire frame‌ was dyed red,‍‍ I had to‍ find the ghost.‌⁠

‘Eh,‍⁠⁠ then… if what⁠‍ Charlotte says is⁠ a lie, Emily isn’t her sister…’

It‌ felt like my‍‌⁠ brain was going⁠‌ to explode.

Trying‍‌‌ to solve this⁠‍ under a timer⁠‍ only made my thoughts slower.

‘So⁠‍ is Charlotte the ghost? But that‌ contradicts what Anne‍⁠ said…’

My⁠⁠ mind was in‍ chaos. I had‍‍‍ no idea who‌ the ghost was.‍

‘Emily⁠‍ and Anne validate‍‍⁠ each other, so‍ it can’t be‍‌ them. Then who’s‌ left?’

Time‌ flew. The painting‍⁠‌ was now completely red, unrecognizable.

And‍‍⁠ finally, a message‌‍ appeared.

[The⁠ liar has survived!]‍‍

The‍ text turned red,‍‌‍ and I could⁠‍ no longer interact⁠⁠ with it.

Time’s‌ up. The Brontë‍ sisters were now‍ covered in scarlet‍⁠ red.

Soon‌‌ after, a wave‌‌‍ of vertigo hit‍⁠‍ me.

‘What’s⁠ happening to me?’⁠

I felt all strength‌ drain from my‍⁠ body.

Even‌ staying conscious was⁠‍⁠ a monumental task.‍ I clung to‌⁠‌ reason with all‌⁠ I had.

“Urgh…!”⁠

A sudden nausea rocked me, and I vomited.

Though⁠ I hadn’t eaten⁠‌ anything, I expelled⁠‍‌ everything inside me.‍⁠‍

I struggled to breathe.‍ My head spun,‍ and my body‌ wouldn’t respond.

All⁠⁠ I could do⁠‍ was lie on‍ the floor, gasping⁠ weakly.

‘Is‌ it because I didn’t solve the puzzle?’

I looked toward the⁠ frame in the‌ corner. The Brontë‌ Family Sisters were‍⁠⁠ gone.

Only‌ the red-stained painting remained.

‘The‌‍ painting?’

It⁠ was completely red.‍‌⁠ A deep red,‍ like blood.

And‌‍‌ looking at it,‍⁠ something hypnotically drew⁠ me toward the‌ frame. It felt‌ as if not‌‍ just my mind,⁠‌⁠ but even my⁠ soul was being⁠⁠ pulled in.

‘Am⁠ I supposed to‍ go inside the painting?’

I looked again at‍‍ the picture on‌⁠ the floor. In‍ that sea of‍ red, someone was⁠ grinning from ear⁠‍ to ear, welcoming‌ me.

I had to jump‌‍ in right away.⁠⁠ No time to‍ hesitate.

I had to go‍ now. I had‍⁠⁠ to jump in‍‍ now.

Right⁠⁠ now right now‍ right now right‌ now right now‌‍ right now right⁠‍ now right now⁠ right now—

Splash!⁠

With⁠ the sound of‌ water swallowing me,‍‍ I was absorbed‍⁠ into the frame.‍‌ A warm sensation,‌‍⁠ like diving into⁠‌ the depths of‍ the sea, enveloped⁠‍ my whole body.‍

And⁠‍‌ slowly, consciousness faded.‍

[Branwell‌ Brontë – Death⁠ Confirmed]

[You⁠ have died.]

[Restarting from last checkpoint.]‌⁠