Bizarity
I was never particularly good at saying goodbye in French. Honestly, my French accent had never been, well, decent. So, when I received a letter from a French studio searching for actors worldwide, I knew I had to go. The letter was formally addressed to me by my full name, Milton Hobbs, and instructed me to be ready for my flight in just ten days. This was my one chance to visit a country bursting with culture and art. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mother, my only parent, about it. I’d been staying in the college dorms, and on my final day of packing, I decided to call her. I planned to say I was headed to France for “fieldwork,” hoping to avoid her wrath if she thought I was dropping out of college for an audition in Paris.
As I paced, a note from the studio slipped from my pocket and landed on the floor. I stared at it, my nerves rising. Just then, an unknown number flashed on my phone. Anxiety spiked as sweat rolled down my cheek. I wiped my face as the phone continued to ring. Looking at the screen, I read the number aloud to myself: 777-893-1666. My skin prickled at the last three digits, “666,” like something from a horror film. Oddly, I thought it might be my mother, but her name didn’t display. I ignored the call, threw the last of my belongings into my suitcase, and left the cozy dorm for the outside world, my first stop: the airport.
After a long flight to Paris, I wandered aimlessly, trying to find a taxi. The evening fell, and I was still stranded at the airport. I sat down on a curb beside the cobblestone road, beneath the lone glow of a streetlamp. Houses lined the far side, shadowed and silent. Listening to music, I attempted to mouth the lyrics in French—hopelessly. I looked down the cobbled road, the bricks a mysterious blend of browns and reds. Colorblind as I was, their hue eluded me, but I liked to think they were maroon. Suddenly, a light flickered from behind me, accompanied by a booming voice: “Tu parles anglais?” I turned to see a taxi driver in a t-shirt with a show’s title, *L’Anirth*, emblazoned across it. Relief washed over me.
“Hey, I’m Michael, here to take you to the mansion,” he said in heavily accented English. Though his accent was thick, I was grateful he spoke English. Smiling, I replied, “Merci!” hoping to ease the tension. It had no effect; he simply opened the trunk without so much as a nod. His taxi was yellow with a white underbelly—a curious sight in the dim night.
After a brief ride, we arrived at a high stone wall with an imposing red gate set into it. I sighed. Something about the color red always made me feel uneasy. Stepping out of the taxi, I was greeted by a chilling breeze that seemed to whisper “morbid.” The wall looked ancient but pristine, like something out of a Gothic novel. The driver, already standing by the gate, waved me over, and together, we entered.
What lay beyond was like a dreamscape. A sprawling mansion sat behind a pond illuminated with vibrant lights, and over the rooftop, I saw the silhouette of a Ferris wheel. The entire mansion gleamed with glass walls, casting reflections in every direction. Inside, the hall was draped with model trains and marionettes, suspended from the ceiling in a surreal dance. It was as if I’d stepped into a twisted, oversized dollhouse.
As I took in the strange surroundings, a small doll bumped against my foot. I picked it up, and a string unraveled from its side, leading to my hand. Suddenly, it squeaked, “Mama!” I dropped it, startled. Looking up, I saw a petite brunette in a white blouse and a frilled black skirt. She had a name tag pinned to her chest reading *Marseille* with “Mlle” in quotes beside it—my character’s love interest, though she looked about fifteen. I asked in hesitant French where I was to stay. Smiling, she offered me a sticker with my name and character on it, then extended her hand. “Follow me. Here’s your name tag,” she said, pressing it to my chest. I took her hand, and she led me through corridors lined with puppets and strange, unsettling decor.
She eventually brought me to a small room with a single bed, already half-occupied with someone’s belongings. I turned to her, asking if the things were hers. With a sly smile, she said, “Of course, we’re sharing the bed.” I stammered out a response, and she giggled, “I’m just kidding. Your room’s next door. Ciao.”
Feeling a mixture of relief and confusion, I exited her room and found my own. As I shut the door, I took a deep breath. There was something surreal, almost nightmarish, about the mansion. My thoughts drifted as sleep finally overtook me.
The next morning, an announcement over the intercom stirred me awake. “All cast, report to the main hall for the next scene,” a voice commanded. My door creaked open, and there stood Marseille, nibbling on a croissant, her hair a peculiar shade of green. Startled, I looked around—how had my bags gotten here? My memory of the previous night was hazy.
“I brought your things in last night,” she explained, seeming amused by my confusion. “Now, come on. We’re going to miss breakfast.” Before I could respond, she grabbed my hand and led me through hallways that looked drastically different from the night before. The once-glass walls were now replaced by solid, patterned ones covered in abstract, shifting designs. I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes following us as we passed.
When we finally stopped, she gazed at me with a quizzical expression. “You saw the Ferris wheel last night, didn’t you?” I nodded, feeling like I was losing touch with reality. She smiled knowingly but didn’t press the topic. Instead, she handed me a small slice of raspberry pie on a silver plate, insisting I eat something. As I ate, I noticed an odd, rubbery texture. When I finally spit it out, I realized with horror—it was an eyeball. The room spun, transforming before my eyes. The walls bled, and shadowy figures in dark suits with feline heads emerged, their expressions blank and eerie. Marseille gasped, clutching my arm.
“Milton, we need to get out of here!” she cried, pulling me through the hallway as I struggled to understand what was happening. We dashed through the twisting corridors until we burst into the main hall, where the cast and crew waited. The director barely glanced at us before he continued giving instructions for an outdoor scene, entirely unfazed.
Later, as I prepared for the scene—a pirate ship set designed to look worn and weathered—the director gave final instructions. The scene involved me and Marseille, along with several others, in a memory-retrieval plot, typical for the series *Anirth*. The make-up crew prepped us, and soon we were on set.
As the cameras rolled, the world around me shifted. The ship’s deck took on an otherworldly glow, and the lines between reality and fiction blurred. I glanced over at Marseille, her eyes now an intense shade of violet. “Help me find it,” she whispered, voice soft and pleading. I stared at her, barely able to process what she was saying. Suddenly, I found myself submerged in water on the deck, clutching a waterlogged book. The scene felt too real. I could hear the director yelling “Cut!” but everything felt muffled, distant.
Exhausted, I stumbled back to the mansion after the shoot. Its once-glass facade now appeared sand-colored and grim, and as I gazed up, I caught sight of a strange figure—a life-sized cat creature with bloodied claws. Panic surged through me. I turned, just as Marseille gripped my arm, her face pale with fear.
“Milton, this place… It’s not right,” she whispered. In that moment, the mansion’s windows shattered, raining glass on the fleeing cast and crew. I spotted Paul, his face bloodied from shards, but he barely registered my shout before disappearing into the chaos. I tried to pull Marseille back, but she ran towards the mansion, ignoring my pleas.
Inside, the puppets had come alive, their limbs moving of their own accord, blocking my path. I fought through them, desperate to reach Marseille, until I found myself in the kitchen, surrounded by rotting fruit and strange, dismembered limbs connected by bloody tendons. Before I could react, the ground seemed to open beneath me, and I fell into darkness.
I awoke to a low humming noise, in a room filled with bright lights. Eight metallic cryogenic pods surrounded me, casting an eerie glow. My legs felt weak, but I struggled to stand, leaning against one of the pods. Through the foggy glass, I could see vague shapes—human, but frozen in time. My head spun as I tried to make sense of it.
Just then, Marseille appeared, looking older and taller than before. “Welcome, Milton,” she said calmly, her face emotionless. “Now, maybe you’ll understand the truth: your mind is powerful and yet undisciplined. Now is the time to wake up. Wake up. Awake.”
Stunned, I stumbled back, clutching the back of my head, confused, lost.