Decoding Challenges
Decoding challenges require a character to decipher an encrypted message. For instance:
- Use words on specific pages and line numbers in a classic novel
- Translate a series of dots and dashes found written on a wall
- Decode a message encrypted using a Caesar cipher with the help of a known shift value.
- Use UV light to scan a photo for a hidden message.
The “Phantom of Bryston” combines urban fantasy and crime noir. A detective tracks down a thief who steals memories and keeps them in jars. Under the jars, the paper liner contains cryptic notes, which provide insight into the thief’s motivation. The detective must decipher these, including a scribble about the thief’s location.
Father Time steals the gifts of Mother Nature. The thief returns the favour by stealing from Father Time. She takes memories to preserve them and challenges the detective to see that not all thieves are villains. Without deciphering the liner notes, the detective is less likely to regard the memory jars as tomes in a library.
The Phantom of Bryston
Bryston, 1999
Metro Library
The city pulses under the night sky, a web of steel and shade where secrets are currency. I’m Detective Nora Shaw, and tonight I was chasing phantoms.
They called the thief “The Raven,” a name spoken with a mix of awe and fear. The Raven doesn’t steal jewels. This thief takes something more precious. Memories.
My leads are thin, but I find myself in an uptown library, where knowledge is preserved on dusty shelves. The Raven’s last heist was here, and I am about to dig through the rubble.
Go ahead, Detective, examine the scene.
It’s my first time here. Must say, it feels like a morgue for books. Imposing rows of forgotten tomes reach up to a ceiling lost in twilight.
The scent of musty paper fills the air as I move through the aisles. The librarian, broom and dustpan in hand, is sweeping up glass from the shattered display case.
Talk with her or examine the case—your call.
Her first. I approach the librarian, her eyes widening with recognition.
“The Raven was here,” she says in a slight tremolo. “He didn’t touch the books, went right for the memory case and took something from a locked drawer.”
I nod toward the case. “You mind if I have a look.”
She hesitates but then nods. “Be my guest, Detective Shaw. Just be careful; it’s all we have left.”
My fingers brush along the wooden frame, feeling for irregularities. A subtle click and a small drawer pops out, revealing a faded photograph. On the back, one word: Cobalt 2B.
The photo shows a young girl holding a raven feather, with a dilapidated building in the backdrop. This could be the lead I need.
Find the building in the photo.
I already know the place. The building, cut off by surrounding developments, is accessed through an alleyway, each turn darker than the last.
Block of Flats
It’s just as decrepit as in the photo but pulsing with life behind open windows. I can feel eyes on me, the city’s unseen keeping their own good counsel.
The concierge, in under-shirt and suspenders, sees me into flat 2B. After all, T-Shirt says, it’s empty.
Not entirely. The cupboards have no dishes but dozens of glass jars, the kind your grandmother used for pickles. The hairs on my arm rise with a sense of something ancient lurking just beyond sight.
The paper liner on the shelves, under the jars, that isn’t a decorative pattern. It’s writing.
Remove the liner under the jars.
They are drawings and cryptic notes. They read like a fantasy story about experiments with memory and magic—trials to capture moments in time, to hold onto pieces of life that would otherwise fade.
The Raven is more than a thief. He is a collector, a keeper of lost memories. Frustration gnaws at me; how many lives has he altered?
Have a closer look at the jars.
One jar contains a ticket stub, another has a matchbook, and a third contains a hair clip.
In the world of The Raven, memories are treasures and, at least according to these liner notes, the past can be altered. The notes ended with a scribble, as if in a hurry. The Bijou, an abandoned relic in the city’s underbelly.
The Bijou
A half-hour later, I pull up to the old theatre, its grand exterior crumbling but still proud. I slip inside. The once-opulent interior is draped in darkness, its glory days long gone.
Search the stage or go backstage.
The stage is a ghost of its former self, but footprints in the dust suggest another presence. They trail to a set of curtains, the curtains to the backstage. My heart pounds; I must be closer.
In one room, costumes. Another is cluttered with props and lighting supplies. The third room has paint and more canning jars.
A trapdoor in the floor beckons. This must be it. As if on cue, the door in the floor rises, and with it, The Raven.
“Why?” I ask, my voice cold steel.
The Raven’s face is obscured by a hood, but she is a she. “To preserve,” she replies. “Father time steals the gifts of our mother—nature. I return the favour.”
The Raven’s eyes meet mine. “These memories are all that’s left of who we were.”
“They aren’t yours to take,” I say, slowly sliding into position.
“Who we were, detective—are you not listening, or do you think all thieves are villains?”
Make your move, Detective, take the thief.
I lunge, but The Raven is quick. We struggle in the dark, before an audience of ghosts. Tripped, I rise but stand alone on stage. The Raven is nowhere, silence everywhere.
The Phantom of Bryston eluded me, but the city feels different. The Raven’s mission is clear now: to capture the fleeting, to hold the ephemeral. As I walk out of the Bijou, the memory jars feel less like stolen treasures and more like tomes in the library.
The supernatural thriller “The Willow Weeps,” like “The Phantom of Bryston,” is an example of decoding. This involves deciphering hidden meanings and uncovering the truth behind the mysterious events surrounding the weeping willow and Evelyn Wainwright’s disappearance. Let’s break down how this challenge unfolds throughout the narrative.
The protagonist finds a locket with initials and a photograph, which serves as the first clue. The owner of the B&B provides background information about Evelyn Wainwright, linking the locket to her disappearance. The protagonist finds a diary with entries filled with fear and desperation, hinting at something sinister.
The protagonist discovers a shed with letters that contain love notes and warnings about the tree, written by someone else. The protagonist learns about Jacob Thorne, who was in love with Evelyn and may have more information. Jacob reveals his connection to Evelyn and the rituals at the old church, providing crucial context.
The protagonist finds ancient texts and ritual tools that explain the sacrifices meant to bind restless spirits. The protagonist discovers symbols and broken shackles, confirming the church’s dark past and Evelyn’s fate.
The protagonist and Jacob use the locket and love letters to call on Evelyn’s spirit and break the curse. The final act of burying the letters at the tree’s crown completes the ritual, releasing all spirits and lifting the curse.
The protagonist must piece together various clues, symbols, and hidden information to uncover the truth about Evelyn Wainwright and the weeping willow. Each step involves interpreting new findings, understanding their significance, and using them to progress further in the investigation.
The Willow Weeps
Village of Blackwood, 1923
The village is unremarkable, yet the locals would have you believe something sinister lingers beneath its quaint facade. They tell tales of a weeping willow at the edge of town, a tree that bleeds at midnight. To them, the willow’s legend is more than a story. It’s a warning.
Blackwood Lodge
I’m a journalist, skeptic, and seeker of forgotten truths. I came here not just for the story but for answers.
I have lodging at a quaint, family-run establishment that caters to travellers and curious visitors drawn by the village’s mysterious legend. The proprietor calls it a bed and breakfast and offers a walking map to the tree.
The Blood Willow
I find the willow easily enough, its twisted branches stretching like skeletal fingers. The ground beneath it seemed stained, the air around it colder than the rest of the forest.
Examine the base of the tree.
The soil is dark, almost too dark. As I dig my fingers into the earth, something metallic scraps against my skin—an old locket caked in dirt and blood.
Inside the locket is a faded photograph of a young woman. Her eyes speak of sorrow and loss. The initials “E.W.” are etched into the metal.
Ask the lodging proprietor about the locket.
Blackwood Lodge
Her eyes widened at the sight of the locket, hands trembling. “Evelyn Wainwright,” she whispers. “I knew her so long ago.”
The proprietor tells of a girl with dreams too big for a small town who vanished under mysterious circumstances.
“She disappeared fifty years ago. Some say her spirit haunts the willow. Not one for legends unless they rent lodgings, I figure Evy took off for a new life in the city.”
Investigate Evelyn’s old home.
Wainwright House
It stands abandoned, its windows dark with dust. The door is broken open. Inside, the house is a tomb of memories: cloth-covered furniture, a broken mirror, forgotten toys—all remnants of a life abruptly halted.
My foot finds an old diary under the sofa. Most entries are unremarkable, but the final pages are filled with fear and desperation. She writes of shadows at her window, figures thumping in the night.
Look around the property.
The backyard is overgrown, but I find a path leading to …
The Shed
Sunlight pushes through the cracks, revealing rusty tools and a dusty pile of letters bound with a ribbon.
The letters are love notes filled with promises and secrets. The last few are different, more urgent, and filled with fear and warnings about the tree. The handwriting is not Evelyn’s. Someone left these for her.
Look for the author of the letters.
Better, I’ll ask the lodging proprietor about the letters. She seems savvy to local lore.
Blackwood Lodge
Her face darkens when I mention the initials on them: J.T. She directs me to the only J.T. left, an old man named Jacob Thorne.
“Jacob was in love with Evelyn and never the same after she vanished. Jacob Thorne is still alive, still lives in a cabin on the other edge of town.”
Thorne’s Cabin
The place is a relic, almost hidden by the encroaching forest. Thorne, a weathered figure with haunted eyes, greets me warily. When I mention Evelyn, his eyes moistened.
Jacob’s confession opens like an old wound. He and Evelyn were deeply in love. The story of her moving to the city makes no sense. But what does is far stranger. Rituals at the old church. People in hooded robes worship the tree.
The Old Church
The church is a monument to forgotten sins, its stones worn by time and guilt. The air inside is thick with a malevolent energy.
Search the altar.
The altar holds secrets beneath its carved surface. A hidden panel reveals ancient texts and ritual tools, including a worn journal describing sacrifices meant to bind restless spirits.
Explore the crypt.
The crypt below the church is dark and cold. My flashlight beam slides over the moss-covered stones, revealing an old altar and symbols similar to those on the locket. Broken shackles lay on the ground, remnants of past horrors.
“Evelyn was taken to break her will,” I say aloud, putting words to realization. “A sacrifice to empower the cursed tree. Her spirit lingers, trapped between worlds.”
Perform a cleansing ritual at the tree.
After hearing what I have found, Jacob, now an ally, returns with me to the willow.
The Blood Willow
The air is thick with tension. Together, we speak to the tree with a mind to Evelyn, drawing upon the hope and love she once knew.
Use the locket to call on Evelyn’s spirit.
I hold the locket up to the tree as Jacob speaks from the heart, recalling words from his love letters. The air shimmers, a figure emerges—Evelyn. She smiles faintly, mouthing “thank you” before fading into the night.
Bury the letters to break the spell.
What other souls wander in the tree’s bardo? We bury the letters at the tree’s crown, Jacob’s voice steady as he speaks of release and forgiveness. The ground trembles and roots withdraw. The taint lifts from the air, leaving a feeling of peace where there had been torment.
The willow stands silent and unbreathing now. The village seemed to exhale. I return to my room, a sense of completion settling in my chest, and gather my suitcase.
The village of Blackwood will heal. The weeping willow, once a symbol of fear, is now a testament to love and sacrifice.
