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A Weekend at Munson Manor is an interactive Choose Your Own Path Mystery. Each episode, readers vote for the path they would like to take. Together, we will follow the path with the most votes.
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To read the story so far, please start here.

Obviously neither of these guests wish to speak with each other. Maybe you should break the uncomfortable silence. But to whom should you talk first?
- The man
- The woman

You move to the chair facing the woman, clearing your throat gently as you sit. She glares at you, but immediately relaxes her face and sends you a weak smile.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
“Hi. I’m Dr. Poole.” You extend a hand.
She shakes it briefly. “Professor Mills.”
“Ooh. Professor. That sounds interesting. What do you teach?”
She bites her lip. “English. Oh, no, wait. History. That’s right. Medieval history.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to really absorb my character yet.”
You give a small laugh. “That’s okay. That’s part of the fun of this weekend, isn’t it?”
“Have you done a weekend like this before?”
You shake your head. “No. This is my first time. But I love reading cozy mysteries. This sounded like a lot of fun.”
The woman’s smile finally meets her eyes. “I love cozies, too. What’s your favorite?”
Before you can answer, the man approaches with the glass in his hand. When he speaks, you can hear the disdain mixed with the alcohol. “Excuse me, but we are supposed to be in character.”
Puzzled, you turn to him. “We are.”
“No, you’re not.”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Here we go again.”
Ignoring her, he sends you a pointed look. “Cozy mysteries as a genre did not come about until the end of the twentieth century. As our characters are meant to be in the 1940s, we would have no knowledge of such books.”
Smirking to yourself, you turn back to the woman. “Have you read The Time Machine by H. G. Wells? I think that would be so cool. I would go to the future to see what kinds of books people like to read.”
The woman smiles. “I bet they get so frustrated with these new noir books that they try to get back to the golden age of Agatha Christie. I would call books like that cozy mysteries.”
“You know what might be fun to read? Books that have dogs in them.”
“Or maybe recipes!”
With a hurrumph and a scowl, the man returns to beverage table. Professor Mills leans a little closer, lowering her voice. “Thank you. That man can be so insufferable.”
“Do you know him?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. We met upstairs. He calls himself Mr. Rollings. I think that’s his character name because when I tried to introduce myself, he went on this rant about staying in character. Thankfully, that butler guy. What’s his name?”
“Charles?”
She nods. “Yeah, him. He interrupted Rollings and sent us in here.” She gestured to you. “What about you? Are you a doctor in real life?”
“Ugh. Seriously?” The man stomps back to you and the professor. “What part of stay in character is so difficult for you to understand? If you’re going to do this all weekend—”
Professor Mills turns in her seat, but not before you catch the angry glare in her eyes. “Some of us want to know about the people we are living with this weekend. Not the make believe characters.”
“But that defeats the point. Why bother being in character in the first place? If I wanted to tell you my personal life—”
“Like anyone would want to know your personal life.” Letting out a huffy breath, Professor Mills turns around to face you. “So, you’re a doctor?”
You nod. “A physicist at the university.” You look behind her. “What about you, Mr. Rollins. What do you do?”
He frowns. “I’m a detective. Private investigator.”
Professor Mills turns around just enough to see him out of the corner of her ye. “Oh. Are you going to investigate the crime tonight?”
Tossing his hands in exasperation, he nearly spills his drink. “Insufferable.”
The professor looks offended, but you want to laugh. Is she trying to irritate him? Or is she naturally this antagonistic? Since you can cut the tension in the air with a knife, you try for a neutral topic. “What did you think of your rooms?”
Professor Mills brings her arms to her chest with a sound of excitement. “Ooh! Mine is so sweet! It has an adorable little fireplace. And all the pictures on the wall! I’m pretty sure its the local beach and it looks so inviting. That may be my next vacation.”
Mr. Rollings grunts. “My room is full of portraits. It feels like I’m being watched.”
“Maybe you are.”
Thankfully, before another fight can erupt, a couple enters the room. Arms linked, they are obviously here together and, if their bright smiles are any indication, thoroughly enjoying themselves. As they stand in the doorway, you consider your options.
Should you greet the newcomers, leaving the professor and detective to start snapping at each other again? Or should you wave politely and invite them to join your tense little circle?

• Go to the newcomers
• Wave politely
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A Weekend at Munson Manor is an interactive Choose Your Own Path Mystery. Each episode, readers vote for the path they would like to take. Together, we will follow the path with the most votes.
https://preview.redd.it/pjhnhkw93wqa1.jpg?width=157&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=12466197cfac455decf33136c10b2a80788085b0
THE STORY SO FAR
“Welcome to Munson Manor. May I take your coat?”
Nodding, you remove your windbreaker. As you pass it to the butler, you can't help but feel underdressed in your jeans and sweater. The man before you is wearing a three-piece black suit with a matching tie. Unlike you, he looks like he stepped out of the 1940s.
The butler drapes your jacket over his arm and gestures you inside. “Please come in. What is your name?”
Out of habit, you almost respond with your real name. But just in time, you remember the information packet you received when you registered for this weekend. “Dr. Poole.”
The butler nods. “Welcome, Doctor. My name is Charles. If you have any issues this weekend, do not hesitate to let me know. If you please, allow me to show you to your room.”
But Charles isn’t really looking for your permission. He grabs your suitcase, extending the telescopic handle and dragging it into the hall.
As you follow, you can’t help but admire your new surroundings. Late afternoon light shines through the stained glass windows on either side of the main entrance. The wooden floors are in a diagonal parquet style you only recognize because you saw it mentioned on a television show once. To your right is a heavy bench made of a dark wood. The back contains an intricate carving, but in your rush to keep up with the butler, you do not have time to discern the pattern.
Paintings hang on burgundy walls with ornate walnut wainscotting. They look to be oil paintings, but you are no art connoisseur. All you know is that they are a mixture of landscapes and portraits.
Doorways lead to several rooms, but the butler gives you no time to explore. You have just enough time to notice a grandfather clock on each side of the room before realizing the butler is already halfway up the stairs with velvet carpet the color of a fine merlot.
You hurry to catch up, passing another grandfather clock on the landing. How many clocks does one mansion need?
At the top of the stairs, the butler turns right into a hallway with white marble floors and three white doors. The one on your right is ajar. The butler pushes it open and gestures inside.
“Your room, Dr. Poole.”
Compared to the rest of the house, the room is small. A four-poster bed sits to the right and an oversized armchair to the left. Between them is a white door with frosted glass. Black and white photographs—again, a mixture of landscapes and portraits—cover the white walls.
The wall to your right, facing the bed, contains a fireplace so small, you hardly noticed it. The wooden mantle and sides are painted the exact shade of the wall and the heart is so small, you wonder whether you will even be able to have a fire. Since there is no nearby woodpile, you assume not.
On your left is a small wooden desk. The seat of the matching chair is a white fabric with a forest scene embroidered in red thread. The desk is bare except for a blue folder.
The butler wheels your suitcase in front of an armoire behind you in the opposite corner of the room, gesturing to the closed doors. “You best get dressed. Dinner will be served at seven.”
With a nod, he leaves, closing the door behind him. But you’re not ready to get dressed. You want to examine that folder on the desk. This is not a period piece. This folder is very modern. You use them all the time at work.
The label on the front reads Dr. Poole. Curious, you take it to the bed. Inside are two pockets, but the sheet between them is loose. You read that first, but quickly realize it is the same letter you received in your registration email. A summary of the weekend and a reminder to remain in character at all times.
The rest of the pages, you quickly realize, are more information about your character. You quickly learn that Dr. Poole is a physicist researching uses for x-rays beyond medical imaging. You work at a nearby university, but you have reached a stumbling block in your research. A weekend at the manor sounded like the perfect change of scene to clear your head.
Now that you fully understand your character, it is time to get dressed. Moving aside your suitcase, you open the armoire to find several outfits. According to what you have just read, tonight’s supper is a formal affair, so you need to pick one of the fancy outfits.
Which should you put on?

• The floor-length gown
• The double-breasted suit

The taffeta gown is a gorgeous light blue with puffy short sleeves. The flattering brocade neckline is adorned with small flowers in the center. As you remove the dress from the closet, you are surprised at how lightweight it feels. And, you quickly realize, it fits you perfectly. At least now you understand why the registration had asked for all your measurements.
The silver dress shoes have a small heel, just within your comfort level. Frowning, you examine yourself in the mirror on the inside of the armoire door. Not bad. You definitely look like you belong in the 1940s.
Time to see what your host has in store for you this weekend.
You have no problem finding your way to the main hall, where the butler is standing idly. What was his name again?
He bobs his head—somewhere between a nod and a bow—when he sees you. “Dr. Poole. You are all settled in?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Excellent. The others are in their rooms. Would you like to wait in the parlor?” He gestures to a room on your left.
With a shrug, you turn into the room. Gold-framed portraits adorned rose walls with dark-red flowers adorning them. You aren’t positive, but it looks as if the walls may be covered in fabric instead of paper. Either way, they nearly match the drapes, all of which are open. White sheers filter in the last vestiges of daylight, adding to the light from the sconces on every wall and the glowing fireplace to your right.
On the far wall a cherry wood table sits between two windows. Upon it rests an assortment of glass bottles in various shapes and sizes, each filled with a different color liquid. To your right, nestled between two more windows is a hutch of the same wood. A matching chair sits beside it, its embroidered seat containing the same pattern as the walls and drapes. To your left is a large wooden panel you assume is some type of sliding pocket door. On your right, two overstuffed powder-blue couches sit on an ornate Persian rug with two matching armchairs, all facing the fire.
Without realizing it, you find yourself drifting into the room, drawn to the warmth of the fire. Unlike home, there are no electronics. No computer. No television. Not even a phone. Combined with your outfit, you truly feel as if you have stepped back in time.
Hearing voices, you turn to the doorway. You cannot see anyone, but you can definitely hear two men talking. And one of them just uttered your name. Curious, you inch closer to the door, standing against the wall so no one will see you.
“Yes, sir.” You recognize that voice. Isn’t that the butler whose name you keep forgetting? “Dr. Poole has arrived, changed, and is waiting in the parlor. Miss Lewis has yet to arrive. Everyone else is in their rooms.”
“Very well. Let’s—”
A buzzing sound interrupts the second man. Wordlessly, footsteps retreat—one set running, the other walking calmly. A moment later, you hear the front door open and a new exchange, this time between the butler and a woman. You hear him giving her much the same speech you received as he leads her up the stairs.
As you return to the fireplace, you wonder who that second man in the hall was. If he was another guest, shouldn’t he have joined you in the parlor? And how did he know everyone’s name?
Loud voices break your concentration. Two new voices, a man and a woman. You cannot hear the words. Are they arguing or just speaking in raised tones?
The butler’s voice interrupts them. “Mr. Rollins. Professor Mills. Dinner will be served shortly. If you would be so kind, the rest of the guests are gathering in the parlor.”
The man grunts something unintelligible, but the woman speaks. “Thank you, Charles.”
A moment later, the pair enter the room. The middle-aged man is tall, but seems to be having trouble fitting into his gray tweed blazer and green herringbone trousers. His maroon tie has a navy zigzag running from his neck to where it disappears behind his jacket buttons. His scuffed shoes are the same dull brown as his unkempt hair.
The slender woman behind him looks about the same age as the man. Her floor-length rose gown has a gathered bodice with thin shoulder straps and pleats beneath her waistline. Her short black hair curls tightly against her scowling face.
Neither seem to notice you. The woman huffs to the nearest armchair, sitting with her arms and legs crossed and glaring at the floor.
The man, meanwhile, goes straight to the table and examines the liquids. He lifts one, removes the top, and sniffs. With a shrug, he reaches for a rounded drinking glasses and pours three fingers of the amber liquid. After returning the bottle to the table, he steps to the nearby window.
Obviously neither of these guests wish to speak with each other. Maybe you should break the uncomfortable silence. But to whom should you talk first?

• The man
• The woman

Continue the adventure

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You’ve probably heard it before all the vampires in the show were bad people * or *Stefan was a manipulative creep. There are scores of viewers who take away different things from the show. Variety is what makes the viewing experience entertaining! However, critical viewership can sometimes be something of a lost art when we either disapprove of or validate a character’s actions and internal drives.
At the beginning season one, we meet Stefan Salvatore and he’s hero hair¹ deep in an ocean of shame^2. In fact, shame is his most significant character flaw. It is the birthplace of his people pleasing³ , his dishonesty, and his desire to control everything around him. Shame is decidedly the intense feeling that you are unworthy of love and belonging; it is the fear of disconnection. If people know this about me, that I want this, that I feel this way, I will NO LONGER be worthy of love and belonging. It’s why he hides his vampirism, pretends to have his bloodlust under control, withholds information etc. Researcher-Storyteller Brene Brown describes people pleasing as “the bright side of manipulation” because it requires us to be dishonest as a method of retaining connection.
Stefan is absolutely a manipulator in the early stages of the series (in particular) but he is not a sinister person. He is afraid, insecure, and thinks he has everything under control. This DOES NOT mean that he is innocent, but it does mean that a different lens should be applied to his actions.
I urge you to consider your shame and places where you people-please. Think about something that you are afraid to share with others. It can be something “small” like telling a friend that you don’t like what they said to you or that you don’t like when they are late and you need them to be on time in the future. It can be something big like your sexuality, something difficult and traumatic that happened to you and beyond. We all have shame and it has one natural antidote: empathy.