allthekeys (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allthekeys) wrote2012-11-27 09:24 am
allthekeys) wrote2012-11-27 09:24 am
Entry tags:
Night 016
There was no sound in the room. Nothing but the quiet, almost mechanical clack of a loom as the weaver worked at it. The tapestry seemed half done, spun silk of wild colors forming the beginning of a picture. A planet, seen from some far distance place, in the midst of sunrise.The line of light and darkness clearly seen, but nothing else. No dots of electric lighting, no cities, only dark masses of scattered land, too small to be familiar landmasses, and the unbroken blue of an ocean.
The strings had cut her fingers to the bone, but she showed no signs of stopping, even as the blood darkened the strands moving beneath her hands. The color offered a strange dimension to the planet forming on the loom, spots of darkness, scattered even on the brighter side.
She worked, and continued to work, mind consumed only with the picture in her head.
There were no other thoughts. There was nothing else, only the loom, only the silk strings biting into her skin. The sharp clack of the loom at work seemed abnormally loud, as though the weaver and those watching through her had somehow moved beyond hearing, beyond seeing anything but the picture.
A word at the brink of dawn, a world covered in blood and blue.
A world…
The dream faded, though the echoing sound remained, biting into the minds of the watches like the threads had bitten into their-her fingers. Lingering, haunting, the pattern burning itself into the backs of their eyes like an afterimage.
As though they have only blinked, they will find themselves opening their eyes again, though the pain has faded and the tapestry is gone. In its place is a lantern, glowing in a room that is otherwise completely dark.
For any High Level Sensitive who has been in the house longer than a Day and Night Cycle the desire to take the Lantern is overwhelming, to reach for it and close their hand around the handle.
If they could only take it, if they could only rescue it from this dark place it has been lost, then everything would be fixed. They could go home, send the rest home, all only if they could take up this lantern. It would be so easy, it is there just outside of their grasps.
A wine bottle and a sketch book sit next to it, the sheath of a sword illuminated by the light.
For the non-sensitive and anyone of a lower level, the light grows brighter, almost painfully so. Searing itself into their minds and souls like the afterimage of a flash in a dark room. There is no comfort for them, no relief in its presence, only pain. For the high level sensitive the longing for the lantern never fades.
A man coughs, breaking the silence. A woman laughs, mad with lust for life. Another sighs, almost disappointed.
The dream fades for any who are not a high level sensitive, leaving them in a darkness that is almost a welcome relief from the soul searing brightness.
The male voice speaks, thoughtful and serious, as unsmiling a creature as ever existed. “It is yours.”
The laughing woman speaks, insanity lingering in every word. “You must take it.”
The other woman seems to gather herself, speaking almost absently. “If you are up to the task.”
The high level sensitive would feel themselves drifting deeper into sleep, resting far better than any had since arriving in the house. For them, the dreams are over, leaving them only with the lingering impression of the planet hanging in the empty sky, and the words.
If they are up to the task.
For the other dreamers, the darkness would end, giving way to a room and a seemingly domestic scene. A baby sleeping as someone watched.
He should love her. He should love every breath she took, every kick and smile and laugh.
He should love her.
She was his daughter, he should love her unconditionally, no matter what happened, no matter what had been done.
He should love her.
He should love his wife, he should love his friends, he should love all of them.
So why did he feel as though someone had carved all of the love out of his heart and replaced it with fear?
Fear of this child, fear for this child, fear of this place they had found themselves in.
Fear that gave way so easily to anger.
None of the rest of them seemed to feel it. His wife laughed and cuddled the baby, their friends cooed and cuddled her, whispering wishes into her tiny ears as though their fairy tales would somehow change this hell they had found themselves in.
How could they all be so blind?
Was this even his child? Or something created by this place to fill the void his child should have existed in? Some monster that would surely become their ruin?
The baby stirred, seeming to realize he watched, unnaturally alert eyes opening to stare up at him.
She didn’t coo, or make any other noises, simply stared at him like a soul older than a child still tucked within her cradle had any right to look.
He stared back, meeting the uncanny gaze, trying to see something that spoke to him of the love he should feel for her.
Something, anything.
Just a speck of innocence.
That was all he wanted.
She yawned, stretching in the cradle, and closed her eyes again.
The door opened behind him, though no one stepped inside.
Dismissed.
The houseguests will find themselves waking from their slumber where they fell the last chime of night still ringing in their ears. Some care seems to have been taken to assure that they have taken no harm from their falls, though they have not been moved.
Their names have returned, as oddly as they vanished. The ink on their arms has reappeared, filling in the empty space. With it returns an odd sense of rightness, as though something deeper than a few treasured letters has been returned to them.
The house around them has chilled, the temperatures plummeting with nightfall. The chill is dangerous, quick to catch the unwary and lull them into slumber before they realize they’ve gotten too cold. There is frost on the windows, and the world outside has been blanketed with the white of the first snowfall.
The snow is still falling.
The Open Hallway is covered in a thin layer of snow, thought the white rose seems to have taken no harm from the drop in temperature. The Rose Garden stands empty once more, the offerings cleared away, leaving only the candle flickering in the wind. For any who left offerings in the night, they will wake to find that someone has left them a candle. So long as the candle burns, no monsters will bother them.
The Lady In White has returned to her ghostly form. She walks very slowly through the Open Hallway though she is often hard to see with the snow granting her a strange ethereal quality. She is incredibly dangerous, and to those who see her she appears as a lost love, walking towards them through the snow. It is as though she has been waiting for them to find her.
Keeping pace with her outside the hall is the Frozen Woman. Her head is bowed, as though caught in a moment of deep reflection, and her hands bare and impossibly pale. As she walks her hand brushes against the bars, almost absently touching, cooling the metal as she walks. This adds a new peril to those who would like to to avoid the Lady In White as her touch has cooled the bars to the point that simply brushing against them burns the skin. Lingering long in the hallway will sap the body heat from the houseguests, leaving them lethargic and slow.
The Hellhounds are out in force, as always, and are quick to attack any who are injured.
As the houseguests start to wake, the child Lock seems to be bracing himself for whatever is coming. As the chimes die away in the halls, the fabric covering his arm and back soak through with fresh blood, the liquid dripping off his fingertips and to the floor. It doesn’t seem to be over, however. He twitches, eyes closing and hands forming into fists by his side, inhaling sharply as though in pain. The tattoo appears on his neck, slowly creeping up his face, curling around his mouth and eyes as though some demented artist is using him as a canvas. As the ink stops moving, the threads surge after it, bulging beneath his skin and escaping the confines of his flesh. The threads slowly stitch his left eye closed, each movement echoed in a tiny wince from the boy. He makes no move to resist, not even lifting his hands to cover the injury, still and quiet as the punishment continues. The movement finally slows, leaving his eye sealed shut and his mouth stitched half closed. Blood covers his face, slowly dripping down his chin, each breathe seeming increasingly labored.
He leans against the wall until the damaged is finished, before slowly limping deeper into the house, seemingly searching for something. His movements are slow, steps shuffling, head bowed towards the floor. Nothing seems inclined to bother him, and he seems even less inclined to bother with anything else. There is an air of despondence around him. It is as though for the moment he has given up.
As the night draws closer around the house, faint howling can be heard through the door. These tiny yips continue throughout the night, and any who linger close to the windows might see one of the Glass Dogs pausing to peer inside. The only member of the species currently trapped within the house seems restless, ears flicking forward as it moves to the full extension of its leash. A few times, it seems as though it might offer a returning cry to the others outside, but after awhile seems to accept that it cannot, crouching and remaining low, as though avoiding notice.
The Feral Deer seem to have taken an interest in the outer windows, and can often be seen just outside, lingering close to the house. It is as though they are waiting for the doors to open.
The stew pots in All the Kitchens remain, occasionally tended by an unseen hand to keep them from taking harm. They will offer nourishment for those who desire it, though some of the kitchens hold no other food than what is offered by their unseen caretakers.
Two visitors have taken up residence in the Study, this night, though they do not seem greatly aware of one another's presence. Sitting at the desk, seemingly enthralled in her work were it not for her companion, is the Mother's Ghost. She appears to be writing, but she hums soft lullabies to herself, a faint smile apparent on her. She does not speak, but she occasionally leans back to look at the other ghost in the room showing him the page. Leaning against the desk near her is the Photographer's Ghost, carefully tooling his camera. He seems to be unconcerned with most of the events in the room, save for the other apparition. He does not vocally respond to anything she shows him, but they appear to have an understanding. He ignores houseguests until they approach them directly, turning his eyes from his work and staring at them evenly in challenge.
In the Gallery, the nightly transformation occurs right on time. Don sits by the stairs to the attic, hugging himself and trying to steel himself against the pain. He urges any who enter to leave, at least until his voice gives out. Inevitably the changes break him nearly beyond recognition and the Art Enthusiast makes to rise. He paces the room, perusing the art, and seems calm until any approach him too closely.
In the Greenhouse the strange Huntsman has returned once more. Added to the piles of freshly caught fish are birds, strangely colored, though resembling wild turkeys. He works as silently as ever, cleaning both birds and fish and tossing the meat into neat piles. On occasion, something comes to take the food away. A small fire has been built In front of him, one of the birds slowly turning on the spit as he works. The smell is intoxicating, and any carnivores in the house might find the meal difficult to refuse. Non-humans will find themselves safe in his presence, though their human counterparts might find themselves added to his pile.
There is something wrong with All The Mirrors in the house. They seem to absorb light and refuse to reflect anything properly, only offering vague shapes of almost people as the houseguests move past. The shadows behind them seem darker than normal, and unnervingly enough, they can often see hands pressed against the wrong side of the glass.
Any who stop to stare at them for long might find themselves encountering the Mirror Man. He is incredibly dangerous, though he does not leave the mirror they have found him in. He will kill anyone who stays for very long, and they will find themselves passive witness to their deaths. It is as though they are watching a movie, bodies numb and unfeeling as their life flees.
The fireplace in the Parlor flares to life, the Burning Man appearing within the flames. Despite his horrific appearance and normal disposition, he makes no move to attack anyone in the room. In fact, those who are sensitive will find themselves feeling that this room, and any with a fireplace within it, is safe. The ghost seems to be there with the intent to protect them. He makes no attempt to explain himself, and does not move from the heat of the flames.
In the Shelter Bedroom the Twins have reappeared, joined by the Ghost Kitten. They seem to be alone at first, sitting quietly on the floor as though waiting, but anyone who steps into the room will find that they have company. The Crawling Boy lurks beneath the beds, ready and willing to pull the unwary under, though for the most part he seems content to linger close to the twins.
The Mute Ghost Girl sits nearby, her lips curled into a strange smile. She rocks on occasion, giggling and stroking her dress with her hands. Where her hands rest, the fabric burns away, as though brushed by acid. Anyone who tries to get too close will find that her attack turns to them, and that her touch is deadly, melting the flesh beneath her hands like candle wax.
Though the other children seem leery of her current countenance, they do not seem willing to leave her, and any who shown signs of wishing to harm the girl will find themselves at war with all the residents of the room.
It seems as though vandals have run amok in the Third House. With crayons have been smeared across expensive surfaces, objects and small furniture tipped over, food stolen away, and grubby fingers dragged across expensive wood, the culprits seem to be intent of marking every room. Thirteen Children can be seen throughout the house, though they do little more than laugh and sneer at those who encounter them, if they are not provoked. They appear when viewed with the naked eye, as usual, as normal youth, if particularly malicious-- but the thirteenth is separate. More aloof and slightly younger, he seems more interested in observing than participating in the destruction of the luxurious building.
In the Satin Room the phone is ringing on the desk. It is a constant noise, refusing to stop unless someone picks it up. On the other end is a badly distorted voice that says only one thing.
"Don't turn around."
If the houseguests listen, they will be able to hang up the phone when the other end goes dead and leave the room unmolested.
If they do not, and turn around before the call is ended, they will come face to face with Rose. She looks worse for wear than the last time the houseguests saw her, hair greasy and hanging around her face in dark tangles, side still bloody, as though the wound is still somehow fresh. Her mouth is sewn shut, eyes blood shot and enraged. In her hand she holds the knife that Lock stabbed her with, blade still red with blood.
She will stab anyone that turns to face her, and in the moment of their shock she is impossible to avoid. She is quite vicious, twisting the knife within them. But she will not strike the killing blow and vanishes once they have started to collapse.
In the Bell Bathroom the latch on the door to the shower refuses to shut, forcing the stall open. The bottom fills rapidly with water as the shower head comes to life and the pipes inside burst with fluid as the toilet, tub, and sink in the main portion of the room do the same, overflowing and spilling stagnant water everywhere. All at once the bell on the side of the tub is knocked over, a loud chime echoing as it hits the floor. At first it appears as though it was just the overflowing water, but bluish fingers soon become apparent on the edge of the porcelain, gripping the sides. The Drowned Woman hauls herself out, sobbing and gasping for air that never comes. She is particularly desperate tonight, dragging any who come too close into the spacious tub alongside her.
In the Model Bedroom the Patchwork Ghost has appeared at the table. She seems to be primping, running a comb through her hair. The movement does little to straighten the mess attached to her scalp, instead pulling wads of hair free from her skin. She smiles brightly at anyone who enters, mismatched eyes uncentered on her ghoulish face, asking only if she is pretty enough for the party yet.
The Electric Ghost has returned to the halls, curled in the the Radio Room chair. The ghost swings slowly back and forth, bare, battered feet dragging on the floor. The arcs of electricity seem to be affecting the radios he sits near, causing the equipment to go wild. Throughout the house, anyone with one of the radios on them will find that they are giving off static, often rising in pitch to the point that it becomes painful. Other electronic devices within the house also seem to be effected, cell phones suddenly ring and smaller electronics turn on.
As the phones start to ring, the impulse to answer them rises, and the voice speaking on the other end sounds like that of someone left behind. Should the houseguests choose to speak to the voices on their phones, they will find the voice responding as they would expect their loved one to speak.
Little Miss has taken over The Library, her rage almost palpable to any who enter. The books fly off the shelves, the doors slam, and the entire environment seems pointedly hostile. At the center of all of this is the girl herself, sitting rather quietly in a chair, holding a book in her hands. She turns the pages almost absently, too quick to really be reading, and seems almost to be waiting for something. Any who enter the library who have earned her ire will find themselves in for a dangerous ride.
The Rats are scattered throughout the area, watching anyone who enters intently. They will not, however, make any move towards the houseguests.
The Wax Family is gone from the Second House. Their chairs stand empty, not even a scrap of fabric remaining behind. With some effort, they can be located again.
The Mother stands just inside the door of the Blind Bedroom, hand resting on the knob. Her normally cheerful face is stark with anguish, though she makes no sound to indicate her distress. She will not move, or react to anything that tries to gain her attention.
The Father stands in the middle of the Costumed Room facing the bed. He is smiling, the expression eerie on his fake face. He does not shift, though his smile seems to grow if anyone sits on the bed.
The Son sits in one of the stalls in the Public Restroom,knees pulled up to his chest. In his closed hand he holds a single marble. He rocks on occasion, shivering as though cold, and anyone who turns away from him for long will hear him weeping quietly.
The Daughter is more difficult to find. She has found her way into the Belltowerand lays curled on her side in the nest of blankets, eyes closed tightly against whatever she fears. One hand is tangled in the blankets, the other near her face, balled around something she is hiding. She will not wake, no matter what is done to try.
It smells as though something has clogged the pipes in the Public Restroom. Though no toilets seem to have maintenance issues, the stench of foul, stagnant water fills the air with a pungent smell of waste-- and something has clearly festered and relished in the scent, as occasionally a scurrying noise can be heard, like something small and with many legs scuttles across the tile. When standing in the room any Sensitive will feel as though something is crawling over their skin, like one hundred tiny legs creeping across them, under their clothes and through their hair. Nothing is ever seen but the feeling that some disgusting creature is there refuses to ebb until they leave the room.
Any Pregnant Women in the house will find that they can feel their baby moving, no matter how far along they are. The movement seems to increase the closer they get to the windows or the mirrors, almost as though the children can sense that something is wrong.
The babies in the house seem equally disquieted by something, crying and fussing until they are held and comforted. The infants will react badly to the windows and mirrors, and seem permanently unhappy unless their guardians remain with them in the safe rooms.
The doll in Velvet Bedroom is awake again, back against the wall of his glass case. He has pulled up some of the fabric that covered the bottom of his case, using it as a makeshift blanket. His head is learned against the glass, eyes half closed as though he is contemplating sleep. He registers movement outside of the case, but makes no real indication that he intends to interact.
In the Silk Bedroom the woman has shifted, arms wrapped around herself in a silent embrace. She seems to be crying, silent tears running down her cheeks. Barely visible on her left hand is a thin line of burned tissue, as though it brushed against something very hot.
The man in Wax Bedroom seems restless. Someone has given him paints, and he moves about the room with an almost manic intention, using the paints to paint on the wall. The damage to his hands is seemingly ignored as he works, fingers painting a picture of the same girl, over and over again. Most are abandoned halfway through the painting, as though the artist has deemed that they are not right. It is difficult to get his attention, and will take some effort to calm him from his fit.
In All Hallways the Wallcrawlers have reappeared, crawling their way onto the ceilings and beginning their nightly patrol. The things seem calmer this night, or more lethargic, as if the very cold permeating the house has slowed them down. They will still attack quite wilfully, but are less inclined to hunt larger groups tonight.
Lurking in the fog of the Greenhouse, Orchard, and Hot Springs, another set of familiar creatures has re-emerged. The Chestmouth Monsters have made their home in the cover of mist, vague shapes lumbering in the shadows and just out of sight until they are almost upon their prey. They seem unhindered and undetermined by the thick fog, hunting by scent alone.
Through the fog in the Greenhouse, the carriage has appeared once more. The old man sits within it, wrinkled hands clutching the reins as though they hold some greater meaning. The horse stands ready, head unbowed. They seem only to be waiting for their passengers. On the seat next to the man sits a basket, and from time to time he reaches to rock it gently, soothing whatever rests within.
Walking very slowly from the Hanging Tree is a man wrapped in a white cloak. In one hand he holds an aged storm lantern, the light flickering and casting shadows at his feet, in the other hand he holds a staff, the wood worn smooth and weathered by constant use. Each step is measured, one foot carefully placed one in front of the other, as though he has balanced himself perfectly and does not wish to disrupt it.
None of the monsters bother him, hunkering down as he passes them by, yielding to his presence almost respectfully. Even the ghosts step aside to let him pass without hesitation, heads bowing in deference. Any High Sensitives will feel drawn to him, as though he holds some sort of deeper answer for them. He walks, perfectly sedate, from one end of the house to the other, stopping at the heavy doors blocking any further exploration into the Basement. He stands there solemnly, as though waiting for someone, and will not move again.
1. Front Door 2. Entry Way 3. Coat Closet 4. Parlor 5. Formal Dining Room 6. Blue Kitchen 7. Doll Bathroom 8. East Hallway 9. Library 10. Study 11. Dawn Room 12. Closed Closet 13. Nursery 14. Dollhouse Room 15. Dollhouse 16. The Crack In The Wall 17. Maid Hallway 18. Clean Bedroom 19. Dirty Bedroom 20. Closet Room 21. Smoke Room 22. Yellow Bedroom 23. Vanity Room 24. Ivory Bathroom 25. Door to Basement 26. Supply Closet 27. Ballroom 28. Oak Hallway 30. Theater 31. Backstage 32. Locked Door 33. Music Room
1. Hallway 2. Princess Bedroom 3. Princess Closet 4. Mirror Bedroom 5. Journey Bedroom 6. Fairy Bedroom 7. Red Bedroom 8. Mask Bedroom 9. Trophy Room 10. Gallery 11. Observatory 12. Sewing Room 13. Glass Bathroom 14. Perfume Bedroom 15. Library 16. Cherry Hallway 17. Thin Bedroom 18. Dark Bedroom 19. Light Bedroom 20. Loft Bedroom 21. Ink Bedroom 22. Mosaic Bedroom 23. Day Room 24. Narrow Hallway 25. Store Room 26. Open Bathroom 27. Blind Bedroom 28. Door To Floating Hallway 29. Corkscrew Stair
1. Main Room 2. Green Room 3. Half Bath 4. Small Kitchen 5. Garden Closet 6. Empty Hall 7. Radio Room 8. Carpenters Room 9. Painter’s Room 10. Shared Bath 11. Glass Blowers Room 12. Tapestry Bedroom 13. Dollmaker's Workshop 14. Pottery Room
1. Straight Hall 2. Public Restroom 3. Glass Half Empty 4. Fake Bedroom 5. Model Bedroom 6. Locked Door 7. Viewing Bedroom 8. Memory Bedroom 9. Photography Bedroom 10. Dark Room 11. Shelter Bedroom
1. Stairwell Room 2. Wallpapered Parlor 3. The Open Door 4. Plain Kitchen 5. Pantry 6. Dining Room 7. Hallway 8. Half Sized Bath 9. The Blank Library 10. ??? Room 11. Open Hall 12. Rose Garden 13. Chapel 14. Priest's Room 15. Priest's Bedroom 16. Hallway 17. Locked Door 18. Rough Kitchen 19. Junior Dormitory 20. Bell Tower 21. Courtyard
1. Wind Tunnel Hallway 2. The Front Door 3. Sitting Room 4. Leather Study 5. Gentlemen's Lounge 6. Diamond Dining Room 7. Professional Kitchen 8. Stable 9. Locked Door 10. Orchard 11. Hanging Tree 12. Hot Springs 13. Locked Door
1. Red Hallway 2. Herbal Bedroom 3. Costumed Room 4. Bell Bathroom 5. Locked Door 6. Playboy Bedroom 7. Statuary Bedroom 8. Candy Store 9. Stalker Room 10. Satin Room 11. Scented Bathroom 12. Birdcage Room 13. Hedonist Room 14. Carved Parlor 15. Silk Room 16. Get Away Cabin 17. Vanity Bathroom 18. Velvet Bedroom 19. Wax Bedroom 20. Husk Bedroom
((ooc: Night 016 continues our extended day/night cycles! It will end on December 14th.))
The strings had cut her fingers to the bone, but she showed no signs of stopping, even as the blood darkened the strands moving beneath her hands. The color offered a strange dimension to the planet forming on the loom, spots of darkness, scattered even on the brighter side.
She worked, and continued to work, mind consumed only with the picture in her head.
There were no other thoughts. There was nothing else, only the loom, only the silk strings biting into her skin. The sharp clack of the loom at work seemed abnormally loud, as though the weaver and those watching through her had somehow moved beyond hearing, beyond seeing anything but the picture.
A word at the brink of dawn, a world covered in blood and blue.
A world…
The dream faded, though the echoing sound remained, biting into the minds of the watches like the threads had bitten into their-her fingers. Lingering, haunting, the pattern burning itself into the backs of their eyes like an afterimage.
As though they have only blinked, they will find themselves opening their eyes again, though the pain has faded and the tapestry is gone. In its place is a lantern, glowing in a room that is otherwise completely dark.
For any High Level Sensitive who has been in the house longer than a Day and Night Cycle the desire to take the Lantern is overwhelming, to reach for it and close their hand around the handle.
If they could only take it, if they could only rescue it from this dark place it has been lost, then everything would be fixed. They could go home, send the rest home, all only if they could take up this lantern. It would be so easy, it is there just outside of their grasps.
A wine bottle and a sketch book sit next to it, the sheath of a sword illuminated by the light.
For the non-sensitive and anyone of a lower level, the light grows brighter, almost painfully so. Searing itself into their minds and souls like the afterimage of a flash in a dark room. There is no comfort for them, no relief in its presence, only pain. For the high level sensitive the longing for the lantern never fades.
A man coughs, breaking the silence. A woman laughs, mad with lust for life. Another sighs, almost disappointed.
The dream fades for any who are not a high level sensitive, leaving them in a darkness that is almost a welcome relief from the soul searing brightness.
The male voice speaks, thoughtful and serious, as unsmiling a creature as ever existed. “It is yours.”
The laughing woman speaks, insanity lingering in every word. “You must take it.”
The other woman seems to gather herself, speaking almost absently. “If you are up to the task.”
The high level sensitive would feel themselves drifting deeper into sleep, resting far better than any had since arriving in the house. For them, the dreams are over, leaving them only with the lingering impression of the planet hanging in the empty sky, and the words.
If they are up to the task.
For the other dreamers, the darkness would end, giving way to a room and a seemingly domestic scene. A baby sleeping as someone watched.
He should love her. He should love every breath she took, every kick and smile and laugh.
He should love her.
She was his daughter, he should love her unconditionally, no matter what happened, no matter what had been done.
He should love her.
He should love his wife, he should love his friends, he should love all of them.
So why did he feel as though someone had carved all of the love out of his heart and replaced it with fear?
Fear of this child, fear for this child, fear of this place they had found themselves in.
Fear that gave way so easily to anger.
None of the rest of them seemed to feel it. His wife laughed and cuddled the baby, their friends cooed and cuddled her, whispering wishes into her tiny ears as though their fairy tales would somehow change this hell they had found themselves in.
How could they all be so blind?
Was this even his child? Or something created by this place to fill the void his child should have existed in? Some monster that would surely become their ruin?
The baby stirred, seeming to realize he watched, unnaturally alert eyes opening to stare up at him.
She didn’t coo, or make any other noises, simply stared at him like a soul older than a child still tucked within her cradle had any right to look.
He stared back, meeting the uncanny gaze, trying to see something that spoke to him of the love he should feel for her.
Something, anything.
Just a speck of innocence.
That was all he wanted.
She yawned, stretching in the cradle, and closed her eyes again.
The door opened behind him, though no one stepped inside.
Dismissed.
The houseguests will find themselves waking from their slumber where they fell the last chime of night still ringing in their ears. Some care seems to have been taken to assure that they have taken no harm from their falls, though they have not been moved.
Their names have returned, as oddly as they vanished. The ink on their arms has reappeared, filling in the empty space. With it returns an odd sense of rightness, as though something deeper than a few treasured letters has been returned to them.
The house around them has chilled, the temperatures plummeting with nightfall. The chill is dangerous, quick to catch the unwary and lull them into slumber before they realize they’ve gotten too cold. There is frost on the windows, and the world outside has been blanketed with the white of the first snowfall.
The snow is still falling.
The Open Hallway is covered in a thin layer of snow, thought the white rose seems to have taken no harm from the drop in temperature. The Rose Garden stands empty once more, the offerings cleared away, leaving only the candle flickering in the wind. For any who left offerings in the night, they will wake to find that someone has left them a candle. So long as the candle burns, no monsters will bother them.
The Lady In White has returned to her ghostly form. She walks very slowly through the Open Hallway though she is often hard to see with the snow granting her a strange ethereal quality. She is incredibly dangerous, and to those who see her she appears as a lost love, walking towards them through the snow. It is as though she has been waiting for them to find her.
Keeping pace with her outside the hall is the Frozen Woman. Her head is bowed, as though caught in a moment of deep reflection, and her hands bare and impossibly pale. As she walks her hand brushes against the bars, almost absently touching, cooling the metal as she walks. This adds a new peril to those who would like to to avoid the Lady In White as her touch has cooled the bars to the point that simply brushing against them burns the skin. Lingering long in the hallway will sap the body heat from the houseguests, leaving them lethargic and slow.
The Hellhounds are out in force, as always, and are quick to attack any who are injured.
As the houseguests start to wake, the child Lock seems to be bracing himself for whatever is coming. As the chimes die away in the halls, the fabric covering his arm and back soak through with fresh blood, the liquid dripping off his fingertips and to the floor. It doesn’t seem to be over, however. He twitches, eyes closing and hands forming into fists by his side, inhaling sharply as though in pain. The tattoo appears on his neck, slowly creeping up his face, curling around his mouth and eyes as though some demented artist is using him as a canvas. As the ink stops moving, the threads surge after it, bulging beneath his skin and escaping the confines of his flesh. The threads slowly stitch his left eye closed, each movement echoed in a tiny wince from the boy. He makes no move to resist, not even lifting his hands to cover the injury, still and quiet as the punishment continues. The movement finally slows, leaving his eye sealed shut and his mouth stitched half closed. Blood covers his face, slowly dripping down his chin, each breathe seeming increasingly labored.
He leans against the wall until the damaged is finished, before slowly limping deeper into the house, seemingly searching for something. His movements are slow, steps shuffling, head bowed towards the floor. Nothing seems inclined to bother him, and he seems even less inclined to bother with anything else. There is an air of despondence around him. It is as though for the moment he has given up.
As the night draws closer around the house, faint howling can be heard through the door. These tiny yips continue throughout the night, and any who linger close to the windows might see one of the Glass Dogs pausing to peer inside. The only member of the species currently trapped within the house seems restless, ears flicking forward as it moves to the full extension of its leash. A few times, it seems as though it might offer a returning cry to the others outside, but after awhile seems to accept that it cannot, crouching and remaining low, as though avoiding notice.
The Feral Deer seem to have taken an interest in the outer windows, and can often be seen just outside, lingering close to the house. It is as though they are waiting for the doors to open.
The stew pots in All the Kitchens remain, occasionally tended by an unseen hand to keep them from taking harm. They will offer nourishment for those who desire it, though some of the kitchens hold no other food than what is offered by their unseen caretakers.
Two visitors have taken up residence in the Study, this night, though they do not seem greatly aware of one another's presence. Sitting at the desk, seemingly enthralled in her work were it not for her companion, is the Mother's Ghost. She appears to be writing, but she hums soft lullabies to herself, a faint smile apparent on her. She does not speak, but she occasionally leans back to look at the other ghost in the room showing him the page. Leaning against the desk near her is the Photographer's Ghost, carefully tooling his camera. He seems to be unconcerned with most of the events in the room, save for the other apparition. He does not vocally respond to anything she shows him, but they appear to have an understanding. He ignores houseguests until they approach them directly, turning his eyes from his work and staring at them evenly in challenge.
In the Gallery, the nightly transformation occurs right on time. Don sits by the stairs to the attic, hugging himself and trying to steel himself against the pain. He urges any who enter to leave, at least until his voice gives out. Inevitably the changes break him nearly beyond recognition and the Art Enthusiast makes to rise. He paces the room, perusing the art, and seems calm until any approach him too closely.
In the Greenhouse the strange Huntsman has returned once more. Added to the piles of freshly caught fish are birds, strangely colored, though resembling wild turkeys. He works as silently as ever, cleaning both birds and fish and tossing the meat into neat piles. On occasion, something comes to take the food away. A small fire has been built In front of him, one of the birds slowly turning on the spit as he works. The smell is intoxicating, and any carnivores in the house might find the meal difficult to refuse. Non-humans will find themselves safe in his presence, though their human counterparts might find themselves added to his pile.
There is something wrong with All The Mirrors in the house. They seem to absorb light and refuse to reflect anything properly, only offering vague shapes of almost people as the houseguests move past. The shadows behind them seem darker than normal, and unnervingly enough, they can often see hands pressed against the wrong side of the glass.
Any who stop to stare at them for long might find themselves encountering the Mirror Man. He is incredibly dangerous, though he does not leave the mirror they have found him in. He will kill anyone who stays for very long, and they will find themselves passive witness to their deaths. It is as though they are watching a movie, bodies numb and unfeeling as their life flees.
The fireplace in the Parlor flares to life, the Burning Man appearing within the flames. Despite his horrific appearance and normal disposition, he makes no move to attack anyone in the room. In fact, those who are sensitive will find themselves feeling that this room, and any with a fireplace within it, is safe. The ghost seems to be there with the intent to protect them. He makes no attempt to explain himself, and does not move from the heat of the flames.
In the Shelter Bedroom the Twins have reappeared, joined by the Ghost Kitten. They seem to be alone at first, sitting quietly on the floor as though waiting, but anyone who steps into the room will find that they have company. The Crawling Boy lurks beneath the beds, ready and willing to pull the unwary under, though for the most part he seems content to linger close to the twins.
The Mute Ghost Girl sits nearby, her lips curled into a strange smile. She rocks on occasion, giggling and stroking her dress with her hands. Where her hands rest, the fabric burns away, as though brushed by acid. Anyone who tries to get too close will find that her attack turns to them, and that her touch is deadly, melting the flesh beneath her hands like candle wax.
Though the other children seem leery of her current countenance, they do not seem willing to leave her, and any who shown signs of wishing to harm the girl will find themselves at war with all the residents of the room.
It seems as though vandals have run amok in the Third House. With crayons have been smeared across expensive surfaces, objects and small furniture tipped over, food stolen away, and grubby fingers dragged across expensive wood, the culprits seem to be intent of marking every room. Thirteen Children can be seen throughout the house, though they do little more than laugh and sneer at those who encounter them, if they are not provoked. They appear when viewed with the naked eye, as usual, as normal youth, if particularly malicious-- but the thirteenth is separate. More aloof and slightly younger, he seems more interested in observing than participating in the destruction of the luxurious building.
In the Satin Room the phone is ringing on the desk. It is a constant noise, refusing to stop unless someone picks it up. On the other end is a badly distorted voice that says only one thing.
"Don't turn around."
If the houseguests listen, they will be able to hang up the phone when the other end goes dead and leave the room unmolested.
If they do not, and turn around before the call is ended, they will come face to face with Rose. She looks worse for wear than the last time the houseguests saw her, hair greasy and hanging around her face in dark tangles, side still bloody, as though the wound is still somehow fresh. Her mouth is sewn shut, eyes blood shot and enraged. In her hand she holds the knife that Lock stabbed her with, blade still red with blood.
She will stab anyone that turns to face her, and in the moment of their shock she is impossible to avoid. She is quite vicious, twisting the knife within them. But she will not strike the killing blow and vanishes once they have started to collapse.
In the Bell Bathroom the latch on the door to the shower refuses to shut, forcing the stall open. The bottom fills rapidly with water as the shower head comes to life and the pipes inside burst with fluid as the toilet, tub, and sink in the main portion of the room do the same, overflowing and spilling stagnant water everywhere. All at once the bell on the side of the tub is knocked over, a loud chime echoing as it hits the floor. At first it appears as though it was just the overflowing water, but bluish fingers soon become apparent on the edge of the porcelain, gripping the sides. The Drowned Woman hauls herself out, sobbing and gasping for air that never comes. She is particularly desperate tonight, dragging any who come too close into the spacious tub alongside her.
In the Model Bedroom the Patchwork Ghost has appeared at the table. She seems to be primping, running a comb through her hair. The movement does little to straighten the mess attached to her scalp, instead pulling wads of hair free from her skin. She smiles brightly at anyone who enters, mismatched eyes uncentered on her ghoulish face, asking only if she is pretty enough for the party yet.
The Electric Ghost has returned to the halls, curled in the the Radio Room chair. The ghost swings slowly back and forth, bare, battered feet dragging on the floor. The arcs of electricity seem to be affecting the radios he sits near, causing the equipment to go wild. Throughout the house, anyone with one of the radios on them will find that they are giving off static, often rising in pitch to the point that it becomes painful. Other electronic devices within the house also seem to be effected, cell phones suddenly ring and smaller electronics turn on.
As the phones start to ring, the impulse to answer them rises, and the voice speaking on the other end sounds like that of someone left behind. Should the houseguests choose to speak to the voices on their phones, they will find the voice responding as they would expect their loved one to speak.
Little Miss has taken over The Library, her rage almost palpable to any who enter. The books fly off the shelves, the doors slam, and the entire environment seems pointedly hostile. At the center of all of this is the girl herself, sitting rather quietly in a chair, holding a book in her hands. She turns the pages almost absently, too quick to really be reading, and seems almost to be waiting for something. Any who enter the library who have earned her ire will find themselves in for a dangerous ride.
The Rats are scattered throughout the area, watching anyone who enters intently. They will not, however, make any move towards the houseguests.
The Wax Family is gone from the Second House. Their chairs stand empty, not even a scrap of fabric remaining behind. With some effort, they can be located again.
The Mother stands just inside the door of the Blind Bedroom, hand resting on the knob. Her normally cheerful face is stark with anguish, though she makes no sound to indicate her distress. She will not move, or react to anything that tries to gain her attention.
The Father stands in the middle of the Costumed Room facing the bed. He is smiling, the expression eerie on his fake face. He does not shift, though his smile seems to grow if anyone sits on the bed.
The Son sits in one of the stalls in the Public Restroom,knees pulled up to his chest. In his closed hand he holds a single marble. He rocks on occasion, shivering as though cold, and anyone who turns away from him for long will hear him weeping quietly.
The Daughter is more difficult to find. She has found her way into the Belltowerand lays curled on her side in the nest of blankets, eyes closed tightly against whatever she fears. One hand is tangled in the blankets, the other near her face, balled around something she is hiding. She will not wake, no matter what is done to try.
It smells as though something has clogged the pipes in the Public Restroom. Though no toilets seem to have maintenance issues, the stench of foul, stagnant water fills the air with a pungent smell of waste-- and something has clearly festered and relished in the scent, as occasionally a scurrying noise can be heard, like something small and with many legs scuttles across the tile. When standing in the room any Sensitive will feel as though something is crawling over their skin, like one hundred tiny legs creeping across them, under their clothes and through their hair. Nothing is ever seen but the feeling that some disgusting creature is there refuses to ebb until they leave the room.
Any Pregnant Women in the house will find that they can feel their baby moving, no matter how far along they are. The movement seems to increase the closer they get to the windows or the mirrors, almost as though the children can sense that something is wrong.
The babies in the house seem equally disquieted by something, crying and fussing until they are held and comforted. The infants will react badly to the windows and mirrors, and seem permanently unhappy unless their guardians remain with them in the safe rooms.
The doll in Velvet Bedroom is awake again, back against the wall of his glass case. He has pulled up some of the fabric that covered the bottom of his case, using it as a makeshift blanket. His head is learned against the glass, eyes half closed as though he is contemplating sleep. He registers movement outside of the case, but makes no real indication that he intends to interact.
In the Silk Bedroom the woman has shifted, arms wrapped around herself in a silent embrace. She seems to be crying, silent tears running down her cheeks. Barely visible on her left hand is a thin line of burned tissue, as though it brushed against something very hot.
The man in Wax Bedroom seems restless. Someone has given him paints, and he moves about the room with an almost manic intention, using the paints to paint on the wall. The damage to his hands is seemingly ignored as he works, fingers painting a picture of the same girl, over and over again. Most are abandoned halfway through the painting, as though the artist has deemed that they are not right. It is difficult to get his attention, and will take some effort to calm him from his fit.
In All Hallways the Wallcrawlers have reappeared, crawling their way onto the ceilings and beginning their nightly patrol. The things seem calmer this night, or more lethargic, as if the very cold permeating the house has slowed them down. They will still attack quite wilfully, but are less inclined to hunt larger groups tonight.
Lurking in the fog of the Greenhouse, Orchard, and Hot Springs, another set of familiar creatures has re-emerged. The Chestmouth Monsters have made their home in the cover of mist, vague shapes lumbering in the shadows and just out of sight until they are almost upon their prey. They seem unhindered and undetermined by the thick fog, hunting by scent alone.
Through the fog in the Greenhouse, the carriage has appeared once more. The old man sits within it, wrinkled hands clutching the reins as though they hold some greater meaning. The horse stands ready, head unbowed. They seem only to be waiting for their passengers. On the seat next to the man sits a basket, and from time to time he reaches to rock it gently, soothing whatever rests within.
Walking very slowly from the Hanging Tree is a man wrapped in a white cloak. In one hand he holds an aged storm lantern, the light flickering and casting shadows at his feet, in the other hand he holds a staff, the wood worn smooth and weathered by constant use. Each step is measured, one foot carefully placed one in front of the other, as though he has balanced himself perfectly and does not wish to disrupt it.
None of the monsters bother him, hunkering down as he passes them by, yielding to his presence almost respectfully. Even the ghosts step aside to let him pass without hesitation, heads bowing in deference. Any High Sensitives will feel drawn to him, as though he holds some sort of deeper answer for them. He walks, perfectly sedate, from one end of the house to the other, stopping at the heavy doors blocking any further exploration into the Basement. He stands there solemnly, as though waiting for someone, and will not move again.
1. Front Door 2. Entry Way 3. Coat Closet 4. Parlor 5. Formal Dining Room 6. Blue Kitchen 7. Doll Bathroom 8. East Hallway 9. Library 10. Study 11. Dawn Room 12. Closed Closet 13. Nursery 14. Dollhouse Room 15. Dollhouse 16. The Crack In The Wall 17. Maid Hallway 18. Clean Bedroom 19. Dirty Bedroom 20. Closet Room 21. Smoke Room 22. Yellow Bedroom 23. Vanity Room 24. Ivory Bathroom 25. Door to Basement 26. Supply Closet 27. Ballroom 28. Oak Hallway 30. Theater 31. Backstage 32. Locked Door 33. Music Room
1. Hallway 2. Princess Bedroom 3. Princess Closet 4. Mirror Bedroom 5. Journey Bedroom 6. Fairy Bedroom 7. Red Bedroom 8. Mask Bedroom 9. Trophy Room 10. Gallery 11. Observatory 12. Sewing Room 13. Glass Bathroom 14. Perfume Bedroom 15. Library 16. Cherry Hallway 17. Thin Bedroom 18. Dark Bedroom 19. Light Bedroom 20. Loft Bedroom 21. Ink Bedroom 22. Mosaic Bedroom 23. Day Room 24. Narrow Hallway 25. Store Room 26. Open Bathroom 27. Blind Bedroom 28. Door To Floating Hallway 29. Corkscrew Stair
1. Main Room 2. Green Room 3. Half Bath 4. Small Kitchen 5. Garden Closet 6. Empty Hall 7. Radio Room 8. Carpenters Room 9. Painter’s Room 10. Shared Bath 11. Glass Blowers Room 12. Tapestry Bedroom 13. Dollmaker's Workshop 14. Pottery Room
1. Straight Hall 2. Public Restroom 3. Glass Half Empty 4. Fake Bedroom 5. Model Bedroom 6. Locked Door 7. Viewing Bedroom 8. Memory Bedroom 9. Photography Bedroom 10. Dark Room 11. Shelter Bedroom
1. Stairwell Room 2. Wallpapered Parlor 3. The Open Door 4. Plain Kitchen 5. Pantry 6. Dining Room 7. Hallway 8. Half Sized Bath 9. The Blank Library 10. ??? Room 11. Open Hall 12. Rose Garden 13. Chapel 14. Priest's Room 15. Priest's Bedroom 16. Hallway 17. Locked Door 18. Rough Kitchen 19. Junior Dormitory 20. Bell Tower 21. Courtyard
1. Wind Tunnel Hallway 2. The Front Door 3. Sitting Room 4. Leather Study 5. Gentlemen's Lounge 6. Diamond Dining Room 7. Professional Kitchen 8. Stable 9. Locked Door 10. Orchard 11. Hanging Tree 12. Hot Springs 13. Locked Door
1. Red Hallway 2. Herbal Bedroom 3. Costumed Room 4. Bell Bathroom 5. Locked Door 6. Playboy Bedroom 7. Statuary Bedroom 8. Candy Store 9. Stalker Room 10. Satin Room 11. Scented Bathroom 12. Birdcage Room 13. Hedonist Room 14. Carved Parlor 15. Silk Room 16. Get Away Cabin 17. Vanity Bathroom 18. Velvet Bedroom 19. Wax Bedroom 20. Husk Bedroom
((ooc: Night 016 continues our extended day/night cycles! It will end on December 14th.))