Rusty Fears 6 - The Last One to Speak by James Thomasos

Rusty Fears, our legendary horror writing competition, is back.

As with previous Rusty Fears competitions, seven winners will be chosen to have their stories performed, produced, and published right here on the Magnus Archives feed.

Choose a theme, write your story, and submit your entry before the 14th of December 2025.

To view the list of themes, find the submission form, and for T's and C's, go to rustyquill.com forward slash fears. That's rustyquill.com forward slash fears

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The Last One to Speak by James Tomasis.

The host is snapping their fingers. They are snapping at you.

There you go, number nine. It's about time.

What?

What is that look?

Did you think all of this would end simply because you passed out?

Are you a child?

Close your eyes and it all goes away, hmm? If you can't see me, I can't see you

Unbelievable.

It really is true what they say about you.

The game show host looks like a game show host. There's no other way to describe them.

They look like somebody took every single game show host you've ever seen throughout your whole life, even in passing, and stitched them together to make this...

thing.

Let me remind you, and the others here, that this is a game show.

The most important part of what's left of your life is performance.

Our commercial break is almost over, so put on your best face and smile for the cameras.

There are no cameras around this stage, and there are no people in the audience stands.

Just sheets and sheets of printer paper floating with unnerving stillness, three holes punched through each in a mockery of human countenance.

If only to not see the not crowd for a moment, you venture a glance to your right, your co-stars for today's show.

Number 4 and number 38 are both smiling frantically, eyes darting around for a camera that will not reveal itself. To the left, your co-star number 16 has not moved in a couple of broadcasts now.

Back on air in 3, 2, 1.

And welcome back, viewers and non-viewers, contestants and those yet to be, ladies and gentlemen, and that technical spectrum beyond and in between.

Let us have a round of applause for our lucky contestants. The host's voice flips from haughty contempt to a more stereotypical television announcer's timbre in an instant.

The crowd bursts into monotonous activity and Rather than applause and cheers, the paper cutouts that represent the crowd simply chant the words clap, applause and cheer, their intonation as flat as the papers their face holes are punched into

Now then number four number nine number sixteen and number thirty eight for your next question these questions aren't fair just let us go

number four who stands with their hands stapled to the podium in front of them, interjects desperately And you cannot help but wince. Now,

it will be worse for all of us.

Ah, an interruption from number four, everybody.

Such drama, such timing, so

unsurprising. Isn't that right, folks?

The not audience responds with a rolling wave of the word laughter. And, once it has passed, the host continues.

Now, none of you would think this was unfair if you had just prepared like you were supposed to. Now you have 30 seconds to tell me the incredibly simple answer to the question.

What

is

love?

Number 38 whimpers audibly far off to your right as the sound of a grandfather clock ticks and talks from unseen speakers. They know just as well as you that there is no correct answer.

None that any of you could possibly guess. This

host has had the lot of you on this stage for an uncountable number of days at this point, and in that time not a single contestant had answered a question correctly.

One could not even guess what answers this host had in mind, or if it had a single thing in mind other than hurting all of you.

A blaringly loud air raid siren plays for just a couple of seconds before it suddenly cuts off and the small screens on the front of everyone's podiums light up. It seems your time is up.

Now let's see those answers. Number four.

Love is...

hope.

Hope.

Really?

Do you think you are clever? Milk a little bit of sympathy from the crowd? Was that the hope? Disgusting. Not even a smart play at virtue.
Wrong?

Next is number nine.

Yes, you.

Your answer? Love is.

nothing.

Again, number nine? Only way to win is not to play, is that it?

Well, this won't go your way, and we'll get back to you and your persistent lack of motivation in everything that you do.

Moving on to number 16.

Ah, it seems number 16 has stopped.

Well, that's a shame. We'll remove them during the commercial break.
Now then, number 38. Love is...

That feeling when you... Seriously.

This is unbelievable. You see, this is exactly

why each and every one of you are here.

The host steps down down from their podium and each one of its clicking steps would be cause for retreat were you not stapled to your podium.

They come to a stop right in front of you, as if you are personally responsible for the sum total of their disappointment.

They look you dead in the eyes with whatever it is in their skull that they are trying to pass off as eyes.

The host's voice slithers out of its announcer's facade back into its natural, mocking state as it speaks.

The answer, of course, is that love is a lie.

Obviously.

Oh, glaring now, are we? Please. Since this is apparently so confusing to all of you, repeat after me.

Everyone who has ever told me they love me was lying.

Got it?

No?

Oh, we're being prideful now. Taciturn to the bitter end, are we?

But

you know I am correct. All four.

All three of you knew that, of course. That's why you're all here.

Because you deserve this.

But the most pathetic part of all of this is that all of you think you've ever loved anyone.

You've never loved, and I have proof.

The host whips around and takes three steps from you before stopping.

Oh, but first, I asked for an extremely simple answer to my question. Number 16 stopped, so they are out.
Number four.

Well, not clever at all, but one word is simple.

So you get to stay. Number nine is a spoil sport, but no answer is still a simple answer.
And I'm not done with you yet.

Number 38, on the other hand,

I'm afraid that if you don't understand the rules by now,

you never will.

You will have to join the audience.

You sneak a glance over at number 38, who has blanched and gone as still as the podium they're attached to.

You want to look away as the host approaches number 38.

But you cannot.

Instead, you close your eyes as tight as you can, just to realize that what was once your own private personal darkness, your escape from the horrors that exist beneath the stage lights, has been invaded by the host as well.

Even with your eyes tightly shut, you clearly see the host as it reaches its hand, its wrist, its forearm, all the way up to the elbow down its own throat.

How much of a blessing it would be for you to not hear the crinkling of paper that scrapes up the thing's throat before emerging from its mouth, perfectly dry and impossibly flat.

What a miracle it would be if you could turn your head and block out the muffled screams of number 38 as the paper begins to cling to, then hug, then smother their face.

The sounds of cheers and applause and clap reach your ears cacophonously, but do nothing to block out the sound of number 38's body folding itself in half over

and over

and over and over and over again

until it fits right behind the 8 by 11.5 inch sheet of paper that covered their face.

As number 38 flattens to the width of the sheet of the paper that consumed them, three holes appear slightly ajar, and the host blows on the paper, which floats in the meandering path to join the crowd.

One of many,

many,

many dozens.

The host's face spirals into something resembling an honest, human smile.

But you know it is neither of those things. Its voice jumps right back into its professional showman's tone, and it continues its macabre game.

Now then, on to the final round. Chins up, number four and number nine.
One of you is about to win. It just so happens there is only a single question left.

And it just so happens that it will make my point for me.

For the first time since this nightmare began, the host leaves the stage. For a terrible several seconds there is naught but complete silence.

No hum from the ill-kept sweltering stage lights above, no crinkling of paper from the not audience, not even the faint buzzing in the back of your head from electrical equipment that almost certainly doesn't exist.

Suddenly, the silence is broke by the grating sound of metal being dragged across wood. The host appears back in your line of sight and is casually dragging two metal folding chairs behind them.

Tied to each one of the chairs is what appears to be a person, writhing while completely encased of sheets of 8.5 by 11 inch paper. They are screaming, or perhaps crying, or perhaps laughing.

Muffled beneath so many layers of paper, it is nearly impossible to tell.

The host stands between the two paper-entombed figures and holds a hand out towards each.

Now then, number four, who is this person?

And number nine, who is this person?

I will give you a hint. It is someone you claim to love.

Oh?

What is that look?

Surely if you weren't lying about the love you had for the people in your life, it would be easy to- My husband! He must be my husband! Why are you doing this to us? Number 4 cries out desperately.

I don't understand. What is the point of all of-

Number 4's indignation is cut off by a chuckle from the host and a glob of paper crawling up their throat and out of their mouth.

There is nothing that can be done for them anymore, as you are forced to listen to them fold inside of themselves, again

and again as their loved one goes stiff and folds up themselves.

Both nascent, perforated sheets of paper join the crowd with naught but a rustle of paper.

And now you are nearly alone on the stage.

You, the host, and the person encased in paper that you are supposed to love.

Well,

here we are, number nine.

It's just you now,

the last one standing and the last one to speak.

This has been quite the disappointing broadcast, if I do say so myself.

So I want you to make this finale particularly exciting.

Now don't rush like number four,

but don't take too much time either. I want you to really think this answer through.

The host roughly yanks the struggling person wrapped in paper out of the chair they're tied to with a loud rip, then cradles what appears to be the head of the prisoner next to their own.

Under any other circumstances, the embrace might look almost loving.

The host speaks over muffled cries.

With each statement, the friendly facade of the game show host fades, and what crawls into its voice is something that, more than anything else in the world, hates you.

And you specifically.

I want you to take your time, number nine. Now now, just scowling at me isn't an option anymore.
There is no one left but you.

So I want you to really, truly imagine it. Close your eyes, number nine.

Who is this person?

Who is it you love more than anything?

What's their name? What do they sound like? What do they smell like? What does it feel like to embrace them? What do they want out of life? When they speak, do you listen? Do you really listen?

They claim to love you, you know. And I think they even believe that.

Come now, you claim to love them too. So tell me number nine.
Tell me the name and tell them that you love them.

If you answer correctly, and you really mean it, then you both get to go home.

The host drags them right up to you.

The view of the stage is nothing but the host's grotesque character-ever face, and the paper-encased cries of someone that is starting to sound very, very familiar to you.

Tell me, number nine.

The host chuckles softly, before leaning in and whispering into your left ear.

I'm waiting.

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