Late tonight a bunch of staff are playing a game called role call and if you thought fugitive was wild just w a i t until i tell you how this goes cause role call is absolutely terrifying
We aren’t letting the campers play it so that lets us up the scare factor by 147%
Ok so the game had to be pushed back a few days so we can figure out scheduling so heres the gist of it.
The more people you have for this game, the better. It has to happen at night. The people get into a straight line, and begin to walk in that line all around the area. They cannot turn around and look at each other, and cannot speak; with the exception of the person at the front of the line.
That persons job is to begin the role call. They simply say, “Role Call!” And their name, then each person down the line says their name in turn.
Here’s the kicker: there’s one person not included in the line. The Taker. They have the job of stealing away the person at the end of the line as silently as possible. The game’s sole purpose is to instill a sense of fear and paranoia in whoever is in front, because as more people get taken, there are less and less people to say their names during the Role Call.
The front person decides when they want to start the Role Call. Obviously, the more often it’s said, the less scary it is. But as more and more people disappear, they become Takers and can then do more damage than just the one.
Some Takers can replace the person they stole, making the person directly in front of them either incredibly paranoid or safe. At least until the Role Call. Takers cannot say anything during it, so it usually ends up more terrifying to know that the person behind you is silent. Again, everyone in the line cannot make a sound except responding to the Role Call.
The game is over when the person in front is taken. There is no winning, only waiting. Waiting for your turn to go. Imagine the fear that person in front has, when they softly announce “Role Call” only to find that everyone behind them is gone.
My boss slaughters his egg chickens either every fall or
every other fall depending on how old they are when he gets them, on the logic
that the personal hassle and carbon foot print of getting chickens to lay eggs
in the winter is not worth it. As he was explaining this recently, a newer
co-worker asked how he hid that from his children. And
she’s new, which means she’s never had the delightfully goth experience of
watching my boss’s two charming dimpled daughters who are ALSO deeply unsentimental
farm children respond to you with utterly withering scorn if you ask them
something like, as I once did, “oh, what’s that chicken’s name?” The oldest
daughter, all of four years old at the time, told me in a firm,
Wednesday-Adams-talking-to-a-moron voice, “We’re going to eat them. They’re not
pets.”
My boss, who is gentle and does not respond to people with
scorn when they ask innocent questions, instead told her, “Oh, we’re pretty
open with them about the facts of life.
They know where babies come from and where chickens go.”
Anyway, that phrase haunts me and I wanted to share it with you. It sounds like some 19th century grandma saying.
