Prologue: The Rules of the Harbor

Fog rolled across the Harbor of Hope like it had somewhere better to be. At the end of the pier, Mugi had built a fire without being asked, arranged four chairs around it without a word, and sat down without explaining any of it.

“Has he said anything tonight?” Joe whispered.

“He said ‘hm,’” Venom whispered back. “I think it was a sentence.”

LiXx arrived last, carrying a crate under one arm like a newborn. She set it down, selected a bottle with the care of a surgeon, and lifted her glass.

“Welcome to the Night of Terrible Tales. Each of you tells one ghost story about Winterbane. The best one wins the last bottle in this crate. The worst one pays the tax.”

“What’s the tax?” asked Joe.

“I haven’t decided. I’ll know it when I hear it.”

“I’m in,” said Venom, who was holding a clipboard labeled VENOM (BERNARD) (VINNY) (VERNON), apparently as a precaution.

Mugi looked at the fire. The fire seemed to look back.

“I’ll go first,” said Joe, standing and clearing his throat dramatically.

Joe’s Tale: The Skipped Tutorial

“Long ago, a survivor arrived in Winterbane and was offered a tutorial. A glowing hand appeared, pointing at a button. ‘Tap here,’ it said. And the survivor said, ‘I got this,’ and skipped it.”

“Rookie mistake,” said LiXx.

“Because the hand did not leave. It couldn’t. Unfinished business. Now it follows him everywhere. When he cooks, it appears: Tap here. When he sleeps, it hovers over his bed: Tap here. One night he tried to upgrade a building, and the hand reached out of the screen, grabbed him by the collar, and said…” Joe lowered his voice. “Not that one.”

Venom gasped. Mugi’s eyebrow moved a quarter inch.

“This is just the game,” said LiXx.

“NO. The hand is real. I’ve seen it.” Joe pointed into the fog. “Sometimes it points at the Intel Lighthouse, standing there all tall and glowing, throbbing with light—”

“Joe,” said LiXx. “This is a ghost story, not a Tuesday.”

Joe sat down, wounded. Mugi passed him a marshmallow. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for him all year.

Venom’s Tale: The Man With Too Many Names

Venom stood, adjusted his clipboard, and began in a hushed, serious voice.

“There was once a survivor who answered to everything. Vinny. Vernon. Bernard. Sometimes just ‘hey, you.’ He never corrected anyone. He just turned around, smiled, and said, ‘Yes?’”

“Relatable,” said LiXx.

“Then one night, in the deepest cold, a voice called out from the fog. It called him by his real name.” Venom paused. “And he didn’t turn around.”

“Why not?” Joe whispered.

“Because he had forgotten what it was.”

The fire cracked. Even LiXx stopped mid-sip.

“The voice kept calling, again and again, angrier each time. And the survivor sat in his igloo with his hands over his ears, hoping the ghost would give up and call him Vernon instead.”

“Did it?”

“No. It’s still out there, looking for him. And on quiet nights, if you hear your name in the fog…”

“Don’t turn around,” Joe breathed.

“Do turn around,” Venom corrected. “It’s probably just Carly. She’ll call you Vinny anyway.”

“What was his real name?” asked LiXx.

Venom stared into the fire for a long moment. “…I forgot.”

Mugi made a sound that might have been a laugh.

LiXx’s Tale: The Sommelier of the Castle

LiXx stood and held her glass up to the firelight like it was evidence.

“Beneath the Castle, past the dungeon, past the storage room nobody admits to using, there is a cellar. And in that cellar lives a sommelier who died of disappointment.”

“Why disappointment?” asked Venom.

“Because nobody appreciated his palate. Now he judges every survivor who passes through. He appears from the dark, sniffs the air, and delivers a tasting note on your entire life.”

She dropped into a ghostly rasp.

“‘I detect… notes of poor decisions. A bouquet of unread messages. And a lingering finish of Joe.’”

“Why Joe?” Joe protested.

“The ghost is very accurate,” said LiXx. “Then he asks, ‘Would you like to see the reserve list?’ You must never say yes. The reserve list is every mistake you’ve ever made. It is extensive. And it comes in bottles.”

“What do you do?” whispered Venom.

“You say, ‘I’ll take the house red,’ and you walk away very slowly.”

Everyone nodded gravely. Joe typed it into his phone: house red.

Mugi’s Tale: The Fifth Chair

All eyes turned to Mugi. He had not spoken once in an hour.

He rose slowly, stepped closer to the fire, and looked at each of them in turn. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unhurried.

“There was a fire. Four people sat around it.”

The silence stretched until Joe’s chair began creaking from the tension.

“And one of them was not there.”

Venom clutched his clipboard. LiXx’s glass stopped halfway to her lips.

“Count,” said Mugi.

“One, two, three, four,” said Joe. “That’s all of us.”

“Count again.”

Joe counted again. His voice climbed an octave. “One… two… three… four… five?”

Because at the edge of the firelight, where only a moment ago there had been an empty chair, there was now a figure. Tall. Silent. Wrapped in fog. Holding something that glowed.

Everyone screamed. Joe threw his marshmallow. Venom said “I’m Groot,” which was not helpful. LiXx stood and, with admirable composure, raised her glass and shouted, “I’M NOT PAYING THE TAX.”

The figure stepped into the light.

“Uh,” it said, holding out a tray. “Four milk teas? Somebody ordered ‘extra boba, hold the boba.’”

Silence.

“That was me,” said LiXx. “I may have added a little something to mine.”

The delivery person looked at the four terrified adults, the abandoned wine, and the smoldering marshmallow, and said, “Do you want the receipt?”

“Keep the change,” said Mugi, and smiled for the first time all night.

It was the scariest thing that happened.

Epilogue: The Verdict

“Who wins the last bottle?” asked Venom, still clutching his chest.

LiXx looked at Mugi, who sipped his milk tea with the calm of a man who had planned all of it.

“Mugi,” she said. “Obviously. He ruined us with one chair. Joe, fetch the crate.”

Joe lifted the lid and froze.

Empty bottles. Every one of them. The corks stood in a neat little row on top, like tiny tombstones. Taped to the inside of the lid was a note in elegant handwriting: Tax collected. — L.

Slowly, all three men turned to look at LiXx. She was sipping from a glass that, somehow, was still full.

“There was never a last bottle,” said Venom.

“There were never any bottles,” said Joe. “She drank the prize before we even sat down!”

“I said the winner gets the last bottle,” said LiXx. “I never said it would be full.”

“You said there’d be a tax!”

“And you paid it. In stories. In dignity. In a very concerning amount of marshmallow.” She raised her glass to the fog. “Don’t look at me like that. I share nothing, and I regret nothing.”

The four friends looked at each other and laughed into the night.