Day 019

[allthekeys]

|| DAY 019: GENERAL The chill hung heavy in the air, early spring, the morning light barely penetrating the scene. The fog hung heavy in the air, muffling the scene in secrecy and darkness. "What shall we decide, my fellows?" The words were faintly musical, almost amused, distorted by the dream. "Shall we lead them to ruin, shall we lead them from strife? Shall we dream a dream of destruction until distraction destroys the dreaming? What shall we decide? They have striven so long and hard, to cut them off so cleanly...Ah, no. I think it will not be done." Another voice cut through the scene. "Shall you continue to meddle as you have, or shall you assume the role you have been granted and be content?" "Meddle? Should I? I think, perhaps, that meddling is such a harsh term for what I have done. Their own actions have changed the script, haven't they? Should I give them a little boost, that is well within our rules. Companionship creates connections, after all, and compassion crafts concern. Cracks cave concrete convictions, creating careless consequences. We shall see what they do. I trust you shall not put a stop to this?" "We shall not, not yet. Your game has begun something we cannot undo. What shall it become?" "Well, now I hardly know. It shall be enthralling to discover." "See that you do not overstep the rules." "I should not dream of discounting the rules we have set. The field shall change only by their actions." The voices fade and the sound shifts to something new. The dreamers are welcomed to this new vision by a soft female voice, a young woman singing under her breath. It is not a tune that any recognize, but it is a pleasing one and it sounds as though the singer has practised it diligently. Her voice carries with it a loving care, though there is no sound of any audience to receive its worship. Her eyes open, and the sleepers are greeted by the sight of a young lady staring into a full body mirror, a soft pink background shown in the reflective surface. She smiles softly, primping her hair and checking herself for imperfections of her skin. There is not a hair or line out of place, and she takes care to make sure everything is arranged neatly from the careful way she has pinned her hair up to the casual elegance of her clothes. After a moment she picks up a romance novel from the floor and kneels in front of the mirror, smiling to herself as she skims through, looking at underlined passages. The reader is utterly lost in it for a moment before she looks up again and notices herself in the mirror. There is a beat of hesitation before she puts down the book and stares more intently at herself, forehead creasing with concentration. She examines her arms and legs with care, dragging her fingers over the lines of her skin, then unties the sash over her long tee in order to look at her stomach. She presses her fingers against the skin there before she carefully lifts a black marker and begins to draw a dotted line. The lines transform from thick dark marker to something softer, images blurring together before a new scene comes into focus. His fingers moved across the page, creating the same image over and over again. Barely a few lines, the shape of a face, the curl of a hair, and the picture would be ripped from the book and cast away. Wasn't right, wasn't perfect. It needed to be perfect. His fingers ached, burning from constant contact with the page, blistered and raw from the charcoal he held. But still he crafted the image, the lines, the shape. Not right. Never right. He could remember her vividly, see her so clearly. But he couldn't put the image on paper. Not right. Had to make it right. Needed it beyond anything. Had to. Needed to. Wanted nothing more in the world. Needed her. Needed the picture. The image. Started again, wrong again, cast aside. He was running out of paper, he would need to find more. He had to get it right. The dreamers awaken where they fell asleep, little changed. Their missing clothes have been returned, neatly folded by them. It is clean, all stains removed and all holes mended. Some considerate tailor seems to have even thought far enough ahead to adjust clothing for gains and losses. The dance is in the ending stages as the dreamers begin to awake, the musicians stop playing, the dancers all bow. The Shadow Man offers Rose a deep bow, offering her his arm. They lead the parade of the shattered dancers through the house, vanishing between one step and another as though they never were. Any houseguests who stayed with the dancers will die at the end of the procession and wake in the attic. The doors to the Ballroom are solidly locked, allowing no one to enter. The Experiment victims have been returned to the house, left in the Basement Tunnels to make their ways back to the house. For any artists in the house, the compulsion to sketch the girl from the dream will soon become overwhelming, though once they have completed a simple portrait of her it seems to fade. It is a simple sketch, a young girl in her early teens with doe eyes and an easy, almost contagious smile. In her one hand she holds a sunhat, the other lifted to wave at the artist. She is not anyone any of them might have seen before, and though the artist in the dream never completed the sketch, each will find themselves duplicating every detail without any collaboration. For anyone in the house who has ever been possessed or is currently acting as a host or vessel, the morning brings with it a new oddity. They will find themselves losing time, waking halfway through an action they do not remember starting. They might be making themselves a sandwich, reading a book, or even bathing. Whatever the action is, it is done in a way that seems contrary to their own impulses. A knife held in the wrong hand, a book in a language they do not know but have clearly been reading, or a fruity soap they’d never use spread across their skin. Some may even find that their preparations seem to have involved thought to another person, a table set for two, a set of clothes laid out in a size not their own, or even the faintest suggestion of another presence around them. They may also wake to find themselves working towards altering their appearance to suit someone else’s tastes, a change of close, a haircut, perhaps even hair dye. The lost time varies, it can be anything from a few minutes to a few hours. For those who may have been with the victims of this strange new distraction, they victim will seem to pause, lips quirking into a smile that is wholly unlike them and then will simply vanish. They will be found some time later in the middle of an action, though the room was empty only a moment again. They will find that no amount of questioning will reveal where their lost companion has been. The doors of the house all simultaneously unlock, the clicking sound of latches switching out of place joining together to become magnified and noticeable. All rooms are now open, save for a few exceptions. The doors to the Blind Bedroom and the Open Bathroom are both still solidly locked, without a hint that they might budge. Whatever has managed to jam these doors remains fast, and there seems to be no way around it. Any who look through the one-way mirror into the bathroom will see that the boy from the night still occupies it, water falling from the shower head and onto him, lightly steaming the window. His skin is covered in a red rash, visible under the edges of his clothes, innumerable red dots marking his skin. He scratches and claws at them to try and ease the evident itch, but it has caused the skin only to blister, cracking and bleeding under the force of his nails. He twitches from pain, and his mouth hangs slightly open and askew. He periodically does manage to fall asleep, twitching fitfully in his rest, but he never seems to relax long enough to let the sores heal. Just outside the bathroom the two hellhound puppies can be found, and seem rather unconcerned that they have been apparently separated from the pack. They play in the Narrow Hallway on the other side of the mirror and occasionally paw at the window and bark, calling for the boy's attention. He seems to hear them, and occasionally the insistent yapping brings a hesitant smile to his face. The girl in the bedroom remains as well, though she has moved more noticeably than the boy. She stares into the mirrors now, pacing between them and stopping at each to examine her reflection, unwittingly staring at any who pause in the hall. She attempts to cover up bruises and marks on her face, using make up to cover dark bags under her eyes and splits on her skin. Bandages have been wrapped around her throat, slightly off-white as if they have been stained with something. Her exhaustion permeates every pore, even while she tries desperately to cover marks on her face and the telltale dots along her inner arms. The ??? Room remains locked as well, soft murmurs heard on the other side of the door. In the Hook Hallway, it seems one figure from the night was left behind. Now clearly visible in the tank, the corpse of the Drowned Woman floats, still and lifeless, in the stagnant waters. Her body seems somewhat bloated, her skin beginning to slough off, and her blonde hair is tangled with small scraps of seaweed. Her flesh is pocked and covered in small bite marks, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide and staring out into the hall. They still glisten, almost with life, and give her the appearance of watching those who pass by. The chairs by the tank have been pulled out somewhat from the corner, offering a closer look to any who choose to use them. In the Soft Bedroom all of the Dolls pause. A young girl's voice wails in protest before all of the dolls disappear, Doll-Spiders included. Each are returned to the Doll Bathroom as if they had never left. The Wax Father has finally left the bar, after the long night, though it seems it has not totally left him. He carries an unmarked and nearly empty bottle in one hand, leaning against the door-frame of the Chamber of Purification. The door has been thrown open and all objects previously blocking its opening have been shoved aside. It is possible to get past him to enter or exit the room, though it is a tight fit. Any who remain inside will feel as though he is staring at them, watching them go about their business. He wears a smile, but his eyes are anything but kind. Any travelling through the Fourth House via the Lift today will find an unexpected passenger in the Wax Daughter, who apparently fled while all were dreaming. She stands in front of the buttons, staring up at the door and with her finger poised over the fifth button which, if pressed, still does not yield any result or floor change, only a jerk in motion. It is possible to reach around her to select a floor, but any attempts to grab or move her is met with a shriek. The Son has returned to the Second House though he remains in the Straight Hall. He sits on the floor, halfway down the hall, examining the knife in his lap closely. The day is welcomed by a crash in the Plain Kitchen, just before the door unlocks and allows passage once more. The Wax Mother sits on the counter of the kitchen, head lowered to stare fixedly at her lap and looking at no one. The crying sound from the adjacent dining room can now be heard from time to time in the kitchen as well. Near the door are the shattered pieces of a ceramic plate. Stepping off the Lift as it reaches the first floor is a rather familiar face, though she seems somewhat concerned with the fate of her fellow passenger, speaking softly to the girl before fully disembarking. Ricci has appeared in the house once more, making her cautious way through the new space, a book resting lightly in her arms. She offers an easy smile for anyone who encounters her, and is willing enough to converse if anyone attempts to speak to her, but there is the very definite air that she is searching for something - or perhaps, someone. The door to the Opium Den stands open, though the room beyond the door couldn’t be more different if it was trying. Any who fell asleep within the room will find themselves staring up at stars. The Planetarium has made its way back into the house, the East Door allowing entry for the moment. A sound too shrill for music winds its way through the room, though it somehow defies the notion that it should be painful. The Barkeeper is gone from his station, though any who wish to tempt fate are welcome to try their hand at serving themselves. The Jukebox is silent, giving the room a strangely forlorn air. The patrons from the night have vanished from the area, leaving empty boots and dirty glasses as the only testament that they had ever been there at all. In the Stables another dog has appeared. This one is darker than the last, and several times larger than any normal canine should be, resembling a massive hellhound, in its non-rotted state. The beast, however, seems largely unconcerned with the people inhabiting the house, if not mildly friendly. He holds his head high and prowls through the first floor of the third house, as if he is hunting something in particular, though his lope is calm and measured. The Red Hallway is unnaturally warm this morning, heat prickling at the backs of the guests' necks and causing uncomfortable sweat. Each door in this hall, except that of the Carved Parlour, remain steadfastly locked, and it is from these that the heat seems to originate, with the wood strangely hot to the touch. Throughout the halls voices can be heard: tentative whispers, quiet laughter, soft moans, shrill shrieks, and the occasional sob choked with pain. The ghost in the Husk Bedroom continues to sob as dawn comes over the house, his weeping not ceasing for many long moments. Eventually though it rises into sharp cries of pain as his body resettles itself into a living form. The Art Enthusiast's living form has returned to the day, once again, though he makes no move to leave the room for a long time, sitting quietly on the bed with his eyes closed. In the Carved Parlor, though not at all obvious for someone just walking by, Lock has settled himself. The Broken Girl from the night is laying on his lap, though he seems to have done a little to patch up her injuries and a blanket conceals how dirty she is. Her face is still obscured by bruise-like shadows, but she seems to be resting fitfully in his care. Despite how filthy her hair is, Lock is gently petting her, whispering softly to the girl as she slumbers. The stories that rush out of his lips are varied and often nonsensical, breaking up as he relates parts of events rather than a single narrative thread. There are times he simply sits in silence, one hand resting on her head, letting her find what peace she can in his presence. He seems unusually subdued, but not particularly bothered by his current employment as a pillow.