Jar of Cranberry

<span class="vertical-display">[[<img src="cranberry.png" height="400" alt="A Jar of Cranberry Sauce">->cranberry1]]<img src="or.png" alt="or" height="70">[[<img src="crime.png" height="400" alt="The Crime in Room 13">->crime1]]</span>

Mandy means well, you know. You just wish she wouldn't treat you like a country bumpkin. You're perfectly capable of buying yourself some food in the city. You don't understand why the ordeal needs to be a whole song and dance—you've been to the city before, and bringing food with you will be more of a liability. It'll be yet another thing you have to carry into the city, and you've got enough on your mind as it is. Besides, while her home cooking *is* delicious, you'd like to see what's available out in the city. You can't help but be a bit charmed, however. [[It is a reminder that she cares.|cranberry2]]

Jeremiah Smith crept slowly along the hall, carefully placing each foot one in front of the other. Heel toe, heel toe. His heart beat horribly, loudly in his chest, and for a brief moment he entertained that it might alert his prey. His predator? He didn't know anymore. After uncountable, interminable moments he found himself at the door. That cursed, terrible door. He knew he needed to continue but every instinct told him to turn back, that what lay beyond that door could only be the Devil himself. [[It was then he heard the faint, rasping breathing behind him.|crime2]]

Despite your fervent objections, she's started making the sandwich already. It's a strategy, you recognize, to make you feel guilty about not taking it. "That sandwich will be just as good for you as it will for me," you remind her, and she gives you a glower of disappointment—that playful one, the one that suggests she's having as much fun with this quarrel as you are. "I'm perfectly capable of making one for myself later, thank you," Mandy responds, dismissively. "Besides, we both know what happened the *last* time you went into the city." You wave off her objection. "That was a one time thing. Couldn't possibly happen again," you gruffly respond. She gives you an accommodating smile. *Uh oh*, you think, *she knows she has the winning move.* "Here," she continues. "Let me sweeten the deal." [[She reaches into the cupboard, pulling out a jar of cranberry sauce.|cranberry3]]

You swear internally, your face blank. You really do love that cranberry sauce. It may be too late to win the battle, but you may yet win the war. You nod graciously, adopting a beatific smile. "You win," you reply. "I'll take the food." "I knew you'd see reason," Mandy responds. "You may be a bit stubborn, but you aren't a fool." You suppress a chuckle. You'll take the food, but that doesn't mean you need to eat it. You will find a use for that jar of cranberry sauce. [[It'd be a crime to waste.|cranberry4]]

As you leave, the smile on your face as you wave goodbye is genuine. For all your bluster, you do enjoy your battles, and she knows it. It'll be a few hours until you get into the city, time enough to get situated in the hotel and get a nice hot meal. Something that'll pairs nicely with cranberry sauce, if luck is on your side. One of your workhorses draws the buggy along. You'd opposed getting the buggy at first, since you could just ride the horse or walk, but it'd gotten so inexpensive and Mandy had a silver tongue. She was right, of course. You do lament bringing Old Blue out here though. The city is no place for a horse. Your father still tells stories of the horse plague of '72, and last time you were there you saw a horse slip and fall on the slick cobblestone. Still, it's only a day, you think, he'll be fine. [[Your thoughts make the journey into the city feel swift.|cranberry5]]

Did you hear breathing too? You pause, frozen, hoping that whatever creature was already in the room with you wouldn't see your unmoving form. You hold your breath and hear nothing. Just your imagination? Perhaps. The penny dreadfuls tickling your mind as you devoured them—on the fourth one already today. You stop, think. Would it hurt? [[Of course not.|crime3]]

It's been months since you last went into the city, but you and Blue still know the way. You arrive at the hotel, tying Blue to the hitching post. You give him a few pats and tell him that you'll be back. The clerk gives you the key to your room and the bellhop leads you to it: a small room off of a hall to the side. You note the interior door to the adjacent room, which you ensure is locked. You never can be too careful. Not in the city. Your chores settled for now, you set out to win the war. Your destination? The cafe across the street. You know she can't see you—and she won't find out, it'd break her heart—but you have a smile on your face as you march across the road. [[You step in, seeing all the promising fare.|cranberry6]]

You stop short, and the man behind you gives a grunt of dissatisfaction before moving around you. Never before has a chalkboard felt so much like an adversary. 40¢? For a chicken pie? That's highway robbery! Your stare turns into a glower, and your pocketbook wars with your common sense. You sigh. You may be stubborn, but you're not a fool. [[You retreat to your room.|cranberry7]]

You've suffered, and for that, there is one salve. The cranberry sauce. Only moderately convinced that your wife had gone to the cafe earlier to convince them to increase the prices, you return to your room, where you take a look at the totality of your food stores. [[An apple|cranberry-apple1]], [[two sandwiches|cranberry-sandwich1]], and finally [[the cranberry sauce|cranberry cranberry]].

With an amount of restraint worthy of sainthood, you begin with the apple. As you eat it, you gaze lovingly at the jar of cranberry sauce. Would it be too much to smear some cranberry sauce on the apple? You sigh. You know it would, but a man can dream. [[The sandwiches|cranberry-sandwich2]] stand there, perfect vessels for cranberry sauce. (set: $eatenApple to true)

It's been a long day. You haven't lost a skirmish this badly since the last time you went into the city, but if there's one silver lining, it's that Mandy won't know about this one. If there's another, it's the cranberry sauce. You devour the first sandwich, butter and ham, abating your hunger, leaving you the opportunity to savor the fullness of the cranberry sauce on an appropriate vessel. [[You reach for the jar of cranberry sauce.|cranberry-open1]] (set: $eatenApple to false)

It's tempting, of course. The thought of throwing all decency out of the window and just eating the sauce by itself. The problem is simply that it would taste better on a sandwich, and the sandwich would taste better with it. No, you'll either need to start with [[the apple|cranberry-apple1]] or the [[sandwiches|cranberry-sandwich1]].

Your hunger abated, you turn your gaze to the sandwiches. A ham and butter sandwich, slightly soggy, and a turkey sandwich, untainted by moisture. The choice is easy. [[You reach for the jar of cranberry.|cranberry-open1]]

You casually twist the lid open. Or rather, you try to. The lid does not give way. You scowl at it, but it gives you no quarter. It's time to take drastic measures. * [[Using your shirt to gain purchase on the slippery lid, you attempt to wrench it open.|cranberry-open2a]] * [[Bracing your arm against your knee, you apply as much torque as possible.|cranberry-open2b]] (set: $cranberryOpenA to false) (set: $cranberryOpenB to false)

These jar lids are famously slippery, and your hands have gotten slick from anticipation. You wrap your hand in the shirt, looking to gain leverage. It works, to an extent. Your hand is no longer slipping, but the lid just isn't giving. You try the old strategy, one you learned from your father—cursing until the damn thing gives way. It's a cavalcade of swears as you make attempt after attempt, but sometimes the old ways fail. This is one of those times. The jar remains stalwart. (if: not $cranberryOpenB) [[[Bracing your arm against your knee, you apply as much torque as possible.|cranberry-open2b]]] \ (else:) [[[Using your knife as a lever, you try to pry off the lid.|cranberry-open3]]] (set: $cranberryOpenA to true)

Bracing your knee against the footboard of the bed, you prepare yourself. You hunch over the offending jar, your elbow jammed against your knee for leverage. You sigh loudly, giving a stomp or two for good luck. You twist. Or at least, you try. Your hands have grown slippery from the exertion, and no amount of drying them on your shirt is having an impact. Finally you decide to go for broke and give it all you have. Just as you feel it start to give way, your elbow pushes past your knee, slamming into the footboard. The bang of the collision is matched by your howl, and you rub your elbow heartily to numb the pain. It's not over. (if: not $cranberryOpenA) [[[Using your shirt to gain purchase on the slippery lid, you attempt to wrench it open.|cranberry-open2a]]] \ (else:) [[[Using your knife as a lever, you try to pry off the lid.|cranberry-open3]]] (set: $cranberryOpenB to true)

It's time to take drastic action. This jar will not yield to the might of man alone. It's time to introduce some steel. You thrust your knife into the lid, sharp end away from you, as you twist with all your might with the other. It's unwieldy, as only being held against your leg prevents the jar from slipping away. [[The lid pops off.|cranberry-open4]]

Or perhaps, more accurately, the lid remains in the same place. The remainder, however, spirals across the room, flinging cranberry sauce everywhere, and bangs against the door to the other room where it lands. To your credit, you don't swear *too* loudly. Even from where you're sitting, it's obvious from the upended jar that there's not enough remaining to even wet your sandwich. Setting aside your turkey sandwich in disgust, you (if: $eatenApple)[sadly eat your apple.](else:)[sadly chew on your ham and butter sandwich.] You laugh bitterly, perhaps a bit manically. In the battle of whether you'd eat the cranberry sauce, you suppose you've won a victory, but is it ever the pyrrhic one. You're not a hotheaded man, but it's rare that a day beats you up like this one has. If there's solace to be taken in this moment, it's that nothing else can possibly go wrong. [[You ponder what comes next.|cranberry-finale1]]

While it is, perhaps, not late, neither is it early. It's nearing the heart of winter, and the sun is already setting. Sometimes you just need to let days end, and this is one of those days. After sitting in disgruntled silence for too many moments, [[you start taking off your boots.|cranberry-finale2]]

Boot in hand, you hear an urgent knock at the door. For half a second, you consider pretending the room is unoccupied. That thought is quickly tossed aside as a commanding voice shouts, "Open up in the name of the law." You've heard this scam before: criminals playing at police to catch you off guard before mugging you. Your knife flew somewhere in the room, and you don't have time to check. The only thing you have is your boot, and you hold it as your last vestige of protection as you approach the door. [[Cautiously, you open it.|cranberry-finale3]]

After you pull on the handle, the door is thrust open before you. The two police officers slam you up against the wall. Alongside them are the clerk and bellhop and a sweaty young man with wild eyes that you don't recognize. "You are under arrest for assault and battery." the officer says with considerable hostility. The three remaining men search the room, clearly looking for someone. The officers let you off the wall, but you know they're keeping at least one eye on you. It's been a long day, and you're sick of the city. You've done nothing wrong, and you won't stand for being harassed. You demand an explanation. [["This man heard commotion coming from your room, and saw blood leaking under the door," the officer explains.|cranberry-finale4]]

The police officer is, perhaps understandably, disturbed by the expression on your face. Blood? How would he have seen... You glance at the adjoining door, sauce spattered against it. You look at your cranberry sauce-stained hands. You look at that empty jar next to the door, and see the sauce pooling under it. You look at that sad, dry turkey sandwich. * [[You laugh bitterly.|cranberry-finale5a]] * [[You grab a glob of sauce from the floor and smear it across your accuser's lips.|cranberry-finale5b]]

You laugh bitterly. You can't help it, and it won't stop. The clerk, your accuser, and the bellhop stare at you in alarm. Counting on the other officer to restrain you, the first one investigates the room. He eyes the deep red of the sauce pooling under the door and bends down. He sniffs once. Twice. He gingerly, ever so gingerly, reaches down his fingers and touches the sticky fluid. He brings it close to his nose, sniffs again, and then licks it. He lets out a guffaw, alarming the rest of the occupants. Unlike you, however, he manages to belt out two words between chortles: "cranberry sauce." The other officer takes a second look at your sauce-stained hands, feeling your sticky fingers. He glares at your accuser, coming to the same realization as his companion. It takes a second or two longer for the hotel employees, but they catch on and stare at your neighbor. He takes a beat, not recognizing the true nature of the situation. His eyes light up as he finally reaches the same conclusion. He runs. After the interlopers leave, you sit down on the bed, looking at the spatters of cranberry sauce on the walls, the pool under the door, and remnants on your clothes. You look at the empty jar of cranberry sauce. That damn jar. [[THE END|end]]

The man recoils in fear and disgust as you thrust your hand towards him, but you hit your mark. He prepares to wretch, but his eyes light up in a sort of confused realization. "Is that... cranberry sauce?" He utters. The officers, preparing to restrain you, turn to stare at him. The bellhop, tossing the bed, turns to stare at him. The clerk, frantically looking in the closet, turns to stare at him. You grin madly, wildly. He runs. After the interlopers leave, you sit down on the bed, looking at the spatters of cranberry sauce on the walls, the pool under the door, and remnants on your clothes. You look at the empty jar of cranberry sauce. That damn jar. [[THE END|end]]

*A Jar of Cranberry Sauce*, or *The Crime in Room 13* is based off of the film from 1910 of the same name. There is little information about this film, with the primary information being a summary in the trade journal, *Moving Picture World*, in 1910, after which I modeled the story. Adaptation to Twine by Kevin Hutchins. Thanks for playing! [[Replay?|Intro]]

You're on a trip for business down in the city, and you'd been advised that you should bring... protection along with you. What you feel in your briefcase calms your heart: cold steel. You lift it out, admiring the revolver in front of you. *If Jeremiah had one of these,* you think, *why, he wouldn't need to fear anything*. With a sigh of relief, you place it gingerly on the table beside you. [[Your anxiety allayed, you return to *The Crime in Room 13*.|crime4]]

It was then he heard the faint, rasping breathing behind him. In some ways, it was a relief to know that death awaited him. The cold certainty alleviating the anxiety of one's fate being unknown. Yet, he could not find within himself the capacity for movement. One moment passed. Two. Three. The breathing faded. Was it, after all that, merely an illusion? Or were the devils that lay within that accursed room toying with him like a cat does a mouse? Gathering his courage upon him once more, he approached the door. The culmination of his entire journey up to now—the hunt in the ossuary, the delving in those accursed catacombs, and who could forget where it all began, that frightful chase in the rue morgue. [[And he knocked.|crime5]]

The sound of a door slamming draws you, once more, out of your story. *Calm yourself,* you think, *it's only another tenant in the hotel*. You glance at the door—not the exit to your room, but the door to the adjacent one, which they must have entered. You've checked it twice, three times before. *Would it hurt to check it again?* You ponder. No. It must be locked. From that direction, you hear the lock click. Not yours, unlocking, as you'd feared, but the locking of their door. *What*, you wonder, *might they have to hide, locking their door?* You glance at the revolver for comfort, nothing more. [[You return to the story.|crime6]]

And he knocked. It was a queer sort, dealing with devils. There were certain traditions that had to be followed, else you invite justified retribution, according to their wretched decree. At the force of his rapping, the door creaked open, ever so slightly. Had it not been latched? No, he was certain. Wasn't he? He waited an eternity in that moment, looking through that crack in the door. Looking for a movement that he knew, somehow, would come. Nothing. [[He eased the door open, slowly.|crime7]]

A series of guttural curses intoned in quick succession distracts you. What are they doing in that adjacent room? You hesitate, searching for another explanation to the strange noises that you're hearing, but your imagination fails you. A dull thudding continues. Could it be? Or is it in your mind? You look at the pile of penny dreadfuls in front of you. You smile, realizing your foolishness, but it does little to slow your beating heart. [[Jeremiah opens the door.|crime8]]

He eased the door open, slowly. The shock of the tableau before him was so immense that he found himself utterly without his faculties and deprived of any mechanism for taking action for several moments. A cold and clammy perspiration broke out, moistening his brow as he struggled to gather himself. Within the room was no living soul, devil or not. Indeed, the devil that was within this room must have found itself great mirth in playing this malign game with him. For in this room, lay dozens of corpses, chopped up into a sort of grotesque macabre. These bodies, who Jeremiah Smith could certainly tell matched those of the disappeared, were desiccated, as if they'd lain there for years. [[Behind him, the door swung shut.|crime9]]

There is a loud thud as something *heavy* collides against the door between your rooms. You're alarmed, for a moment, before you hear it hit the ground. This has gone beyond conjecture. Surely your neighbor is abusing someone in the next room. Your hand reaches, ever so slowly, for the revolver. * [[Pretend that nothing is amiss, and return to your pamphlet.|crime-investigate1a]] * [[Creep up to the door and listen in.|crime-investigate1b]]

*It's nothing*, you assure yourself. *I've just been reading too many of these penny dreadfuls. No,* you correct yourself, *the issue is that I haven't finished it.* *I've allowed my mind to get enraptured into the setting of the fiction, and it will only be relieved by finishing this week's story.* Having convinced yourself, you look back down at the dreadful story. Yet, every few words, your eyes can't help flickering to the door. That door where, perhaps, the body of the man's helpless victim lies. [[That's when your eyes catch the dark red fluid seeping beneath the floor.|crime-investigate2]]

Falling into an echo of Smith, you creep towards the door connecting your room to your neighbor's. Slowly—ever so slowly—to avoid arousing your fellow tenant's wrath. You press your ear against the door, wishing you had a cup to lean your ear against, like in the stories. Silence. Is it too late? Has the person thrown against the door lost consciousness? Wait. You hear something. Something faint. Is it chewing? As the obvious conclusion springs to your mind, you feel yourself start to wretch. [[That's when your eyes catch the dark red fluid seeping beneath the floor.|crime-investigate2]]

That's when your eyes catch the dark red fluid seeping beneath the floor. You grow faint. There's no questioning what you're seeing; no chance of misunderstanding. You glance, pitifully, back at the revolver on your table, but find that you don't have the courage to grab it. No, you only have two options: * [[The first, to surrender your conscience and allow the crime to be perpetrated without impediment.|crime-finale-1a]] * [[The second, to risk your very life to attempt to bring this man to justice, perhaps finding yourself his next victim.|crime-finale-1b]]

It's not your problem, you remind yourself. With that amount of blood lost, they're surely already dead. You pointedly ignore the sickeningly dark red blood, it slowly, ever so slowly, creeping into your room. The penny dreadfuls are shoved into your briefcase. The revolver, its presence a—not comforting, but stabilizing—influence on your unstable constitution. You slip it under your pillow, loaded, for easy use. Sleep does not come easy. You wake constantly, the nightmares reminding your mind of the need to keep vigil. Eventually, morning arrives. You flee, looking anywhere other than the flies feeding on the congealing sap as you pack your belongings. Every day for a month, you check the papers, seeking out news of the murder of some poor soul in that hotel. Every day, you're left wanting. Is the city so crime-riddled that a single murder would not be reported? Was your vile neighbor so ingenious that he managed to hide evidence of the murder wholesale? Or was it simply the penny dreadfuls playing cruel tricks on your terrified mind? You'll never know. [[THE END|end]]

It's time like these, you remind yourself, that a man proves his worth to the world. His courage in standing up against a monster, even if that monster may end him for daring to stop it. You creep, ever so softly, to the door to the hall, knowing deep in your mind that to open it is to remove the last barrier that you have control over between you and your twisted neighbor. You sigh a deep, mournful sigh, as you ease open the door. It creaks! Oh, how it creaks, but there's no going back now. Either your neighbor heard it, or he did not. [[You sneak into the hallway.|crime-finale-2b]]

Sensing the salvation of both yourself and your conscience nearby, you move quickly, but still quietly, oh so quietly, down the hall. Your safety lies with the clerk, who, you hope, has not packed up for the night. *If not*, you remind yourself, *you can fetch some police officers yourself.* The thought calms you. Nothing outside the hotel could match that of the room adjacent to your own. What was your room number again? Twelve? Why, could it be? Could the room number of your vile neighbor be thirteen as well? You arrive, the clerk still at his station, and—what luck!—the bellhop is there as well. Surely the monster would stand no chance against the three of you. The clerk notes your nervous tics and your pallid complexion. [[You explain what has happened.|crime-finale-3b]]

He himself blanches as you describe the blood that spread out beneath the door and sends the bellhop out to fetch the police. Minutes pass as the two of you look down at the yawning hallway, not willing to take your eyes off of it. But salvation arrives at last! Two police officers, armed with revolvers themselves, arrive with the bellhop. With great gusto, you lead the four of them down the hallway to your neighbor's den. Fourteen, not thirteen, is the number on his door, a great relief. With a confirmation that the door is that of the creature, the officers bang on the door, demanding that he open it. After a few seconds, he complies. [[The scene of horror is more real than anything in your penny dreadfuls.|crime-finale-4b]]

First you notice the man himself, covered in viscera. In one hand he holds a boot, poised to strike. Both hands are stained in blood, the deep red proof of his guilt. You pull your eyes from him to the room itself, spattered in gore. On the door adjacent to yours, you see a smear of blood. Was this where that poor sap's head was slammed into the door, ending his life? What you don't see, however, is a body. You contemplate, for a second, whether he's already eaten it, but your rational mind knows that he surely has not had time for such a feat. The police officers, their minds more focused on the practical, slam the man against the wall, informing him of his arrest. The clerk and bellhop begin their search as you gaze into the deranged eyes of the night's tormentor. The police inform him that you'd seen the blood spilling under the door—you wish they wouldn't have pointed you out, but you'd accepted your fate when you chose this course of action. [[The man eyes you wickedly.|crime-finale-5b]]

He reaches his hand down into the viscera, surrendering all pretense of appearing innocent. He scoops it up, and your eyes widen. Before you can flee, he smears some across your lips, eager to get you to share in the night's cannibalism. Despite your best efforts, some makes its way into your mouth. You prepare to wretch, your body revolting at the vile intrusion. The first thing you taste is the sweetness, matching the sickening scent of the smell. Then, more than a hint of sourness. And, is that... bitterness? You taste none of the iron that you expect, and a stray thought pops into your mind. [["Is that... cranberry sauce?" You stutter, perplexed.|crime-finale-6b]]

With those four words, the police officers turn to you. The clerk and bellhop, searching for any trace of the body, face you in short order. Near the door joining your two rooms, your eyes alight on a mostly-empty jar of sauce—you can't tell from the distance, but you'd put money on it being cranberry. As the events of the night begin to recontextualize themselves, you notice the looks of irritation on the four other souls in the room. You sense, perhaps, that for your excited imagination they might give you a thrashing that you won't forget. No good deed goes unpunished, it occurs to you, as you flee from the room and run into the night. [[THE END|end]]