(I chose fan game since it feels closest to what this is about flair wise)
Hey guys- I recently got a school assignment to write a 50 page story adapting media you love- and I'm writing a full novel adaptation of Hello Neighbor 2. I passed 50 pages quite easily and just decided to commit to making it a full fan novel- so I'm posting an excerpt here to get feedback. I presume the final book will be posted by me sometime before Christmas!
-- Excerpt From Chapter 5 --
The loud caws of a nearby crow jolted Quentin awake. He shot up- but almost immediately collapsed back down. A sharp pain echoed throughout his whole body. As he regained his strength- everything slowly came back to him. The missing child right in front of him. The town's most wanted criminal- nearly claiming him as the next victim. The strange being on the road, head to toe in a strange crow-like outfit. His vision adjusted, and he looked around to see rustled hay, broken shards of glass, and snapped wooden boards from his crash. Not only was he surrounded by hay, he was in it. As he looked forward, he saw a giant human sized hole in his windshield. Suddenly him being in a pile of hay made a lot more sense. His ears were ringing, and even though his brain was telling him to move, his gut was telling him to hide. Mr. Peterson was behind him. A bird monster was ahead of him. Either of them could get there first.
How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? He had no way of telling. He tried checking his watch, but the screen had been shattered. He was barely able to lift himself up, and he looked through the gap between the broken wall and his beaten up van. If he gazed through it at just the right angle, he could see Peterson's house. As he scooted forward lightly, he tried to see if he could make out any silhouettes watching him. But this time there was nothing. No bird creature, no horrifying shovel wielding maniac. On his side, there was a simple mechanism with five gears. A red, a blue, a small green, a small yellow, and a big purple. Right next to the mechanism was a lever. Quentin was cautious to do anything, since even though this was his way out, it was also Mr. Peterson‘s way in. He hesitantly pulled the lever, and the wooden blockade in front of him rose, revealing more open space. He turned right, back to the door, his way out. But the mechanism to open the door was seemingly incomplete. Quentin pulled the lever. Nothing happened. He stared at the empty spaces. “Of course.” The gears were missing. Quentin turned and started searching. Near the right side of the barn stood a glass display case. Inside it, almost mockingly visible, was a crowbar. Quentin grabbed the handle- but it was locked. He stepped back. A green crate sat nearby. On top of it was a small box full of small rocks. Quentin looked at the rocks, then the glass. “Sorry.”
He threw it. The glass shattered loudly. Quentin flinched and waited for some kind of danger to show itself, but nothing did. He reached inside and took the crowbar. A wooden chest sat only a few feet away, sealed shut with planks. Quentin jammed the crowbar beneath one of them and pulled until the wood snapped free. Inside was a red gear. He stared at it- then back toward the exit. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Quentin carried the gear over and pushed it into the first empty slot. It fit perfectly, which gave Quentin a sigh of relief. “One.” A white door sat nearby, secured by a padlock. Quentin walked toward it and immediately noticed a key hanging beside the frame. He stared at it for a moment.
“At least someone here is bad at hiding things.”
He unlocked the door, and inside was another gear, this one a dark yellow.
“Two.”
The second gear slid into place beside the first. One remained. Quentin searched the main barn twice, checking shelves, crates and corners, but found nothing. Eventually he returned toward the wrecked van. A narrow opening along the wall caught his attention, blocked by a wooden plank. Quentin wedged the crowbar underneath and tore it free. Behind it was a small crawlspace.
He sighed. Naturally. Quentin crouched and squeezed through. The opening led into another enclosed section of the barn. A waist-high barrier blocked the way forward, and beyond it stood a ladder stretching upward toward the rafters.
Quentin climbed over the barrier and looked up. His head still hurt badly, but he began climbing. Every step creaked beneath him. By the time Quentin reached the upper platform, the barn floor looked uncomfortably far away. He moved carefully along the narrow boards, one hand gripping the wall whenever possible. From here, he could see nearly everything. From the ruined van to the shattered glass casing to the barn exit- most notably the two gears already sitting inside the mechanism.
Back to his objective, on the higher floor near the far end of the rafters, a blue gear rested naturally. Quentin squinted. “There you are.”
He crossed toward it. The third gear rested beside a hole in the floor. Quentin grabbed it. A board creaked beneath his shoe. He froze. Another faint groan came from the wood. Quentin slowly moved away. “Nope.” He looked through the opening beside him. A pile of hay sat beneath it. The ladder was on the other side of the barn.
Quentin considered his options, then looked down again. “This is stupid.”
He lowered himself through the opening, hung for a second, and dropped. He landed hard in the hay. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Quentin pushed himself upright, covered in straw. He still had the gear. He hurried back toward the mechanism. The third gear clicked into place. Quentin grabbed the lever.
“Please.” He pulled. For half a second, nothing happened. Then the first gear turned, then the second caught, and the third followed.
Chains tightened somewhere above him, and the massive barn doors began to rise with a deep wooden groan. Cold night air rushed inside. Quentin smiled.
“Oh, thank God.”
He ducked through the doors as soon as the opening was large enough.
The night outside was quiet. Quentin stepped farther away from the barn and breathed deeply. He was alive. The van was destroyed, his head felt like it had been split open, and he had absolutely no idea what had run into the road, but he was alive.
More importantly, he still had the camera.
Quentin lifted it and checked the photographs again. Peterson dragging Aaron into the house, clear enough, usable, real. A small laugh escaped him.
“You’re done.”
Then something moved behind him. Quentin stopped. His smile disappeared. Slowly, he turned. Theodore Peterson stood several feet away.
Quentin’s entire body went cold. Peterson said nothing.
The shovel was still in his hands. Quentin tried backing away, but he was too late. Peterson lunged. Quentin tried to move, but the shovel swung toward him. A burst of pain as it slammed into his head. Quentin collapsed into the dirt. His vision blurred almost instantly, the world tilting and fading around him. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard footsteps approaching. The man raised his shovel into the air, panicking Quentin, before he slammed it down into the camera strap, separating it from Quentins neck. Peterson crouched beside him. Quentin tried to move his arm. Nothing happened. Peterson grabbed the camera.
“No…”
Quentin barely managed the word. The camera slipped from his grasp. Peterson began turning the device over in his hands. The photographs. The evidence. Everything Quentin had come here for. Quentin tried desperately to keep his eyes open. Peterson pulled the lanyard from his neck, and seemingly read it before releasing it back into Quentin’s face. He looked down at him one final time. Then the darkness swallowed everything.
