Day 024

[allthekeys]

|| Day 024: GENERAL As the house-guests sleep once more they find themselves dreaming of movement. Whoever they are seeing through is in a rush; hurrying along walls and turning corners with a sense of urgency, wiping filthy and greasy hands over his clothes almost in frustration as he goes. When he spots the little boy dragging himself up from his position on the floor the relief is palpable. He kneels by the child, briefly touching his cheek but offering no words. Next, he starts checking -- movements just as hurried as before but necessary to him all the same, looking for anything that could be amiss. It's a swift but thorough search and when he doesn't find anything amiss he hugs the child tight for a second, sighing into his hair. The boy seems used to this treatment and only speaks later, when he's carried in a backpack on the man's back as they're hurrying once again. They gather supplies, swift and sure, anything that could be useful -- and then it's off towards the Lift. "Where is she?" No reply is heard, and the boy settles lazily against his shoulder, gratefully eats at an apple when it's provided for him. His guardian watches, fingers drumming against his face, content to let his charge hungrily occupy himself with the fruit as the mechanical drone of the lift's mechanism drowns out everything else. The boy eats the last of the apple core as they plod through the hall, licking his fingers clean. Large hands press open the door to the Soft Bedroom still with a sense of imperative, although the man halts for a moment when a young woman greets them with a smile. No longer a corpse, she is pretty now despite still being drenched in blood, and he murmurs a "there you are" as he starts forwards again. "Good morning, Mama," she answers before the dream is overtaken by painful whiteness, bleached into non-existence. The dream cascades into the Rose Garden, a familiar enough sight by now, viewed from an unknown watcher. Who is visible, however, is Rose sitting to the side of the bird bath, her head tipped to the side so that her hair falls onto one shoulder. She pouts faintly, and is holding a flower -- a rose, in fact -- in her fingers. She tears the petals off one by one, humming under her breath as she does so. Each is discarded atop a specific, long patch of dirt, the outline of which has been drawn out by a stick. In spite of her desecration of the bloom, however, she looks frankly bored. Eventually she crushes the blossom between both hands, ripping it apart and smiling to herself. "Wouldn't something new be more interesting?" she asked. "Oh, maybe he will play, too." She turns her head up, back toward the viewer-- and making direct eye contact with the dreamer. "Wouldn't that be more fun?" The vision immediately turns black. The chess game is clearly under way as the dreamers enter the next scene. Both sides have had pieces removed from the board. The barkeeper plays the black, and the shadow, strangely, the white. The shadow seems intent on the game, the barkeeper almost casually disinterested in the outcome. "This really doesn't seem like your sort of game, you know." A pawn is cautiously edged forward. The barkeeper chuckles, leaning forward to study the board. "Oh? Why is that?" "Too many visible pieces, I think." The shadow sits back, arms crossing. "The trick isn't the visibility of the pieces, but how you move them. Even if a move is taken in full sight of the other players, they might not notice the full ramifications of the action. Small moves can cause big ripples, distorting the rest of the board." Almost smoothly, he changes the positioning of his rook on the board. "Check." The shadow seems to frown, leaning forward to study the board again. "Is that your game? Small changes?" "What do you think?" The shadow chuckles, moving another piece to remove himself from check before sitting back. "I think that no one living, dead, or never was knows what your intentions are. That makes your dangerous." The barkeeper smiles again. "Well, we're all dangerous. Chaos is what it is, even the most innocent action can result in tragedy, and even the cruellest creature can show kindness. Nothing is so clearly defined. Good, evil, right, wrong, they're all just suggestion, aren't they? Morals better left for philosophers than life. Life makes exceptions to every rule we try to place upon it." He moves another piece. "Checkmate." The noise the shadow makes in response is entirely dismissive, though he doesn't move from his position across the table. "I make the others nervous." "You try to make the others nervous; some of them oblige you by acting so." Dave's smile never shifts, though he leans to begin cleaning up the board. "The truth is that you are a recent entry into a very old game. You don't know the shape of the board, and most of them can only see their pieces. So, congratulations, you are as ignorant as everyone else involved." "Aren't you afraid of what I might do?" "No. Because I know your weakness, and it is quite a terrible one." The barkeeper stands. "I'll see you again, perhaps, it was a good game." "You're irritating to play with." The barkeeper laughs. "Why? Because I don't let you win?" The dream fades to the sound of his laughter. The house-guests wake where they have fallen to stifling heat. The house is unduly warm, and the windows remain stubbornly closed, refusing to open to allow a breeze in. But the house is mostly quiet for the day, only a few scattered things to draw their attention. No fire will light in the fireplace in the Parlor. All of the wood is gone and the stones around it are scorched. It seems as though the events of the night have left their mark for the moment, and the wounds stubbornly refuse to heal. The stones are still superheated and capable of burning anyone who touches them. Sitting above the mantle of the fireplace, as though in offering to the spirit who sometimes dwells there, is a familiar music box. Braided around it is a small crown of roses, but there is nothing to indicate who might have left them behind. The faint sound of music can be heard throughout the house, though nothing ever appears. For those who are from a modern world, it sounds almost like a familiar tune from hot childhood days, promising the lure of safety and the bait of treat to escape from a sweltering, trapping environment. The doors the Wax, Velvet and Silk rooms are locked, the ball gone from the hall. Those who pause to listen will hear nothing from within the rooms. The dinner party in the Dining Room has ended, and all of the corpses have been cleaned away. The knife still sits, point pushed into the soft wood of the table as though waiting for someone to try to take it. Any who dare will feel a strange sense of jealousy start to take them, and for as long as they hold the knife, their tempers will shorten. Every word that others say will become a slight, a dismissal. Something that urges them to strike out, even against those they care for. But they should be strong enough to resist it, surely. They will find themselves unwilling to relinquish the knife once they take it. In the Hallway in House Two, there is a corpse. It is dried out and strangely husk-like for something so newly gone, to which the smell is testament. The beast is recently dead, the blood that sputtered from its mouth in its final moments only just now seeming to congeal. Still, there is strangely not much blood at all, for all the thing seems to have been drained dry and left almost papery to the touch. The Wallcrawler has finally wasted away, after its long night of misery, its claws gouging the floor in its final struggles. Its corpse is left there, for now, though someone has placed a single wilting marigold by its head. Jamie, The Tenth Doctor, and Loki all feel a strange heaviness in their hearts today. In the Rose Garden much of the soil has been disturbed. A large hole dominates the center of the area, and the stone is gone -- though there is nothing in the hole now, but for rose petals, nor any trace of what might have been hidden within. The little Wax Girl remains, tossing the little white flowers from her crown into the pit. In the Courtyard near the crumbling wall, Tyler is curled into a small ball. He is not alone, pressed against his sides are four small Glass Dog puppies, small enough that they should likely still be near they mother. The boy seems to have taken no real harm from the night, though the hospital uniform he started in has been torn to rags and the palms of his hands are a bit bloodied. On the steps in the Gallery Victoria Marks has reappeared. Someone has redressed the child in more practical attire of riding slacks and boots. She seems to just be banishing the dregs of sleep from her frame, rubbing her eyes constantly and yawning. Near the girl, The Art Enthusiast stirs, as if recognizing the sudden presence of the child on the steps next to him. The ghost quakes, his sobs magnifying for a moment as his daughter stirs from sleep. His bones begin to snap back into place until he slowly raises his head from his hands, frightened eyes looking to the little girl. The Corkscrew Stairs are slowly draining, the water pulling away with faint suction. The corpse of the Drowned Woman remains on the steps for a moment before it is dragged under the water, sinking into the darkness and out of sight. By mid-day, however, the drain of water will have stopped, something clogging the floor. It remains impossible to descend. In the Ballroom is a small jar of Fireflies sitting the middle of the floor. The creatures dance around their confines, but do not seem particularly desperate to escape them. The words from Day 021 have re-appeared here as well. They are carved deeper, this time, the letters skewed and violently rough. The message remains the same, though now the very walls seem to splinter around them. You think you're so funny, don't you? In the Servant's Kitchen racks full of flaky meat pies have been left behind, the kitchen freshly scrubbed in the wake of the ghost. The pies smell absolutely enticing to the famished house-guests, and seem easy enough to lift from their trays. The Wax Mother is kneeling on the floor in the Chapel, her back bloodied and her hands hiding her face from view. The congregation has vanished with the arrival of the morning, the room otherwise entirely empty of anything at all. She cries silently, each sob causing fresh blood to flow down her back. Something whispers in the room, though it never makes itself known. Those who think to linger for long to help her will find the words becoming clear. Useless. Disposable. Ineffective. Pathetic. A waste of air and energy. The words settle like poison under their skin, and anyone who lingers for too long might find themselves joining her on the floor, utterly convinced of their own impotence and weakness.