Hunt: Showdown 1896 - The Madness of Montresor

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Do not pity Montresor’s first victim. Rolf’s death was entirely earned. If a man can abandon his hunting partner to die, then whatever befalls him afterward is his own fault. Especially when the person he betrayed lived to take revenge. There were already seven rows of freshly laid brick before Rolf when he opened his eyes. It took him a moment to recognize that he was in the catacombs of Healing-Waters Church. Yes, of course; he’d come down with the fellow from the supply wagon, a masked man in full costume who looked as though he’d come straight from one of the old carnivals of Venice. The man had introduced himself as Montresor and promised Rolf free alcohol in the basement, disarming in his gentle manner of speaking. He swore that the drink would help soften the edges of the Corruption’s horrors, make all of the ugly things look just a little more beautiful. The same masked man stood before Rolf now, scraping wet concrete over the top row of bricks, the new wall about as high as his waist. “You should have paid more attention when I told you about the story of Amontillado,” Montresor said, his voice no longer gentle beneath the mask. “Then you would have known to run. The tale, to me, showed a perfect example of how to enact revenge.” That was when Rolf noticed the other details—the way his aching arms were chained to another wall behind him, making it impossible to run. The way the basement smelled, filled with dust and the putrid humidity of the swamps. The way his mouth tasted sour from all the spirits he’d drunk before passing out. Suddenly he recognized the derringer hanging on Montresor’s belt, unique with its engraved gold inlays. It was the same one his old partner kept. Rolf was going to die here, hidden, in the dark, alone. Tricked by the same man he had left for dead. Abandoned between two walls by an old partner with a new name. The begging started then, tearful pleading that grew increasingly rageful, but it made no difference to Montresor. He knew that he must not only punish, but punish with impunity. He would keep his new mantle going forward. It was only fitting. When he returned to check on Rolf’s secret tomb months later, it was still untouched, the silence thick, the still-open cask of alcohol caked with a layer of dust.