The Expansion Pack: Betrayal at the House on the Mountain of Madness 🍻

Disclaimer

Names have been changed to respect privacy—because while I believe in telling the truth, I also believe in not giving free press to people who don’t deserve it. This is a sequel to my Mountains of Madness blog and I reference it a few times so, if you haven’t already, go read that blog first.

The Exploration Phase

I met Luke in high school. We had a few classes together, but we didn’t really talk until he started dating my best friend, Taylor, senior year, After graduation, they jumped straight into adulting—moved into an apartment together like the rest of us weren’t still eating Pizza Rolls and pretending we’d figure life out later.

As I mentioned in my Mountains of Madness blog, my ex-husband and I started dating in October 2012 which was about a year and a half after graduation. Luke was one of his friends, and Taylor was mine, so naturally, we went on some double dates. It worked for a while—until it didn’t.

From what I gathered, Luke started talking to a co-worker named Lori. She liked him, he liked her, and suddenly Taylor was on the outside of a story she helped build. They broke up, Taylor moved out, and after the dust settled, Lori moved in.

That’s when Taylor and I stopped talking. She said it was because I was her “couple friend,” which stung. We’d been friends since freshman year of high school—way before the boys. We went to countless concerts, snuck off to movies, and ditched Publications class for lunch dates at McDonald’s. None of that mattered. She needed space to figure things out, and having gone through a really bad breakup with someone I thought was my forever, I get that now.

I was furious with Luke for a while and refused to talk to him. But life, being the chaotic gremlin it is, threw us back together. In February 2014, my ex-husband and I moved into an apartment building right next to theirs. We started bumping into each other in the parking lot, then talking again, and eventually, the double dates returned but with Lori instead of Taylor.

And these double dates became something else entirely.

The Gathering Phase

At first, it was just casual invitations—the kind that seem harmless until they start forming a pattern.

The first was my so-called “surprise” birthday party (see Why I’m a Snob About My Birthday to understand the quotation marks). My ex-husband invited them. There might’ve been a little contact between our wedding and that party, but nothing to note.

Not long after came their housewarming. It was a quick drop-in—lots of people, loud energy, polite smiles. We stayed just long enough to say our congratulations before slipping out the door.

Then came Luke’s birthday in mid-February. They hosted it in the garage, which was freezing. We didn’t stay long for that one either, mostly because we couldn’t feel our toes.

After that, I hosted my ex-husband’s actual surprise birthday party (no quotation marks this time), which I invited them to. Then Lori and I played Toontown Rewritten together for a spell.

A few months later, we invited them on a trip to Chicago. They were fellow Office fans, so they joined us for The Office pop-up at Replay Lincoln Park. Before that, we stopped at Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg to meet Doug the Pug—someone they hadn’t heard of before that day. They stood in line with us for over an hour, smiling through the absurdity, and that’s when it started to feel like we were genuinely becoming friends.

By New Year’s Eve, it was official. We invited them to Traverse City to ring in the new year with us. We played board games most of the night, laughing and snacking our way past midnight. Looking back, that was probably when it shifted—from casual hangouts to the Saturday ritual that defined the years ahead. We even started doing escape rooms after that—teamwork, inside jokes, and a lot of arguing over who actually solved what.

As my ex-husband’s board game collection grew, so did the ritual. Saturdays became sacred: we’d head over around 3 p.m. and stay far too late. It always followed the same rhythm—food, laughter, and then hours of gameplay at their tall dining table with bar chairs that felt like medieval torture devices. My ex-husband would get pissy if anyone left mid-game, so I’d sit there until my back screamed in Morse code. Eventually, Luke took pity on me and let me use his computer chair.

We played everything—strategy games, deck builders, rulebooks thicker than novels. My ex-husband and Luke would argue about rules for hours while the rest of us sat hostage to their egos. One night, their dog jumped up just as I took a sip of wine. The glass hit my lip, split it open, and blood started pouring. Neither of them noticed. I ran to the bathroom, cleaned up, came back out shaking, and finally yelled, “I’m bleeding!” Only then did my ex look up and ask, “Oh…are you okay?”

One of my least favorite games was Betrayal at House on the Hill. But it was everybody else’s favorite, so it hit the table often. I always ended up the traitor, and the scenarios read like they were written in another language. Wizards of the Coast made it—the same company behind Magic: The Gathering—so my ex understood their language, but I didn’t. He’d get mad when I misunderstood the rules, which got old fast.

Funny how that worked out—he became the real-life traitor later on.

I preferred shorter games like One Night Werewolf, Quacks of Quedlinburg, and Potion Explosion. Eventually, they realized I needed breaks from the table, so we started adding rounds of Jackbox on the mix.

Then came 2020. When COVID hit, we went through best friend withdrawal. My ex-husband and I had bariatric surgery that July, so we were overly cautious—scrubbing groceries, Lysol-ing the air itself during this uncertain time. We did one socially distanced “car date” in my ex-mother-in-law’s driveway, sitting in the backs of our SUVs, backed up to each other but still six feet apart.

We had also connected online during this time. Luke and Lori joined our crew in Sea of Thieves. We named our galleon The Salty Surprise (my ex-husband’s brainchild, of course). It was fun—raiding ships, digging for treasure, yelling at skeletons. I remember being irrationally annoyed when they hit Pirate Legend during a Gold & Glory weekend. My ex-husband and I had been playing since Day One; our climb to Pirate Legend took over a year.

We all had our roles. I was the Captain, steering the ship and keeping everyone (mostly) on task. Luke managed the sails—at least until something shiny caught his attention. Lori handled the lower decks, patching holes and tracking supplies. And my ex-husband? He was the wild card: leaping overboard for glittering loot, detouring to tiny islands for “just one more check,” boarding other crews, or just…fishing. He and Luke got cooking fish down to a science, like it was their love language.

It was nice to feel like a team again. We were finally reunited in-person by September.

The Omen Phase

Every haunted house has warning signs—the flicker of the lights, the chill that doesn’t belong, the picture frame that tilts when no one’s touched it. Ours came disguised as weddings, hurricanes, and our board game nights.

Lori and I only hung out one-on-one once, which is wild considering how many years we all spent tangled together. I always felt a bit closer to Luke—maybe because we’d known each other longer, maybe because we both carried the same kind of exhaustion. He and I were the “responsible ones,” the adults in the room who held everything together while our partners stumbled through their own helplessness.

Lori once joked that Luke and I should’ve gotten married since we were the real grown-ups. I shot back that if we did, she and my ex-husband would starve. We all laughed, but maybe there was a little worry hiding in hers.

Lori also often felt a little left out. Luke, my ex-husband, and I all worked at the DMV, so we’d talk shop, swap customer horror stories, vent about management. She wasn’t part of that world, and though she tried to join in, it was hard to relate when you lived in a completely different one. She’d jump in with, “Oh, you think that customer was difficult?” and tell us about the crazy thing a patient did that night (she was an x-ray tech).

Another reason Lori and I probably never got super close was my history with Taylor, too—there was always that unspoken shadow hanging over us.

Luke eventually proposed to Lori. When he asked my ex-husband to be his best man, no one was surprised. Their friendship was pure Scrubs—that JD-and-Turk “guy love” that made everyone else feel like supporting cast.

I, however, definitely should’ve been the matron of honor. Lori’s chosen one—a childhood friend—was too wrapped up in her own subplot to show up, so I stepped in. She may have planned and hosted the big events—the bridal shower and bachelorette party—but I was the one handling the tedious details. Lori had a wedding planning book that we went through page by page together. I planned their honeymoon, arranged to pick them up in Chicago when they returned, arrived early to set up, and stayed late to tear down. Despite all of that, I was still the last bridesmaid in line. But I smiled for all the photos and danced like no one was watching—because that’s what best friends do.

When they moved to Traverse City, the shift became harder to ignore. They went two weeks ahead of us, and my ex-husband stayed with them during that time since he had already started his job up there. I was still downstate but visited them once during that two weeks. Everything already felt off. The conversations, the glances, even the air. My ex-husband and I were unraveling, and being there just made the seams more visible.

I honestly don’t even remember if they ever came to our place once we settled in; we always went to theirs. They couldn’t leave their dogs—plural now, because apparently one hyperactive Aussie wasn’t enough chaos. It started to feel one-sided. But still, I tried to keep showing up.

Then came New Orleans. My ex and I fought upon arrival, so things were already feeling heavy. We got drunk on hurricanes, the kind of night that blurs edges instead of softening them. For a few fleeting hours, it almost felt like Luke and Lori were real friends. Lori told me my ex-husband loved me, that he talked about me all the time. Luke, somewhere between drunk philosopher and disaster therapist, tried to talk sense into him but couldn’t keep his thoughts straight. I appreciated the effort. The alcohol dulled the ache just long enough to pretend the ship wasn’t already sinking.

They were the first people we told when we found out I was pregnant. I started miscarrying that same night, at their apartment. The next morning, I texted them that we’d told them too soon. All they offered was an apology. If the roles were reversed, I would’ve said how sorry I was, asked if there was anything I could do, sent food or flowers—something. But that’s the friend I am, and I’ve learned not to hold my “friends” to that same standard.

Shortly after they bought their second house, my ex-husband decided he “couldn’t be around me” and started staying with them.

I visited once, when tension with Sutton was climbing again. Luke was doing dishes, Gilmore Girls played softly on the TV, and Lori sat with me on the couch. She said the miscarriage had been just as emotional for him as it was for me. I saw red.

Because no—it wasn’t. He didn’t bleed for weeks. He didn’t watch his body betray him and then be blamed for it. I went through it alone—gutted, guilty, exhausted—and the man who promised to love me ran straight into another woman’s arms. I remember thinking, in the darkest corner of my mind, I hope she miscarries too. I still feel so guilty for that thought. But even if she had, Luke would never have left her to face it alone. He’s a good man. And as far as I know, she never did miscarry. Today, they have a healthy, smiley baby boy.

Shortly after that interrogation, the board flipped.

The Haunt Begins

If you read my Mountains of Madness blog, you already know that my ex-husband and I had a bad misunderstanding and he refused to leave. I was in distress, and had to get away from him. I messaged Luke and Lori first, asking if I could come over. I just needed somewhere that felt safe.

Luke replied that they “didn’t feel comfortable with that.”

That sentence hit like a cold hand on the shoulder. A shiver I couldn’t shake.

My ex-husband reached out to them after that, and they said he could come over so he finally offered to leave. I was relieved to have the space to breathe—but I already knew the Haunt had started. The traitor had gotten to them, and I’d lost the game.

I tried to reach out afterward, but their silence confirmed everything I already knew.

The house was still there, but it wasn’t ours anymore.
I was no longer welcome inside.

Cleanup Phase (Reflection)

I still don’t know why.

Was it the different perspectives? Maybe they saw the broken version of him—the same one that broke me—and met it with sympathy instead of fear. I was in a hypomanic episode, unraveling in real time, and from their vantage point, I must have looked unhinged. Easy to pity. Easier to distance from.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he kept all the board games after the breakup—and, by extension, them. Maybe proximity won. I was leaving town; he wasn’t. Maybe loyalty was just a matter of geography.

Were they ever really my friends, or just his?

I do miss them. I won’t lie and pretend I don’t. But I could never be their friend again—not after that. Some betrayals you can understand without ever forgiving.

When I found out they had a baby, it hurt more than I expected. In another life, that baby boy might’ve grown up alongside my girls. Maybe he would’ve fallen in love with one of them someday, and the circle would’ve closed in some poetic, full-circle kind of way.

Despite everything that happened, I sent a card.
I wrote a long note about how I know they’ll be amazing parents.
I signed it “an old friend.”

It was obviously me.

I don’t know if they ever received it.
And honestly, I don’t know if I want to know if they did.

I decided to share this today, on their wedding anniversary. The veil between past and present feels thin lately, and maybe this is my way of honoring the story before letting it rest. Happy anniversary, old friends.

I’ve shared this song before, but it felt right to bring it back here. No One Knows was written about them—about laughter around a cluttered table, about the plans we made and the silence that followed. It’s grief disguised as nostalgia, a eulogy for the living.

Lyrics written by me, plugged into Soniva, and protected under copyright. Please do not copy, reproduce, or distribute without permission.🎶🖤

Nicki Bratton