|| Day 031: GENERAL
Though they do not remember falling asleep, the house-guests will wake in the room that they started the night in. The chains have not reappeared. They and all that they carry with them are covered in a thick layer of dust, which scatters in the air as they move. It fills their lungs and makes it hard to see.
Their bodies are stiff, as though they haven’t moved in a very long time.
On the up side, the day brings with it the return of their weapons. They will find the wrapped bundles resting at their feet, carefully cleaned and apparently undamaged. There is no sign of why these items were taken, though some will discover that weapons they did not have apparently followed them to the house in the same manner as the letters and packages of the previous day.
The wristbands are gone, with no mark or sign they were there, dust settled over the empty space as everywhere else. Those with powers will find them functioning again.
The fire in the fireplace has gone out, but the room is not uncomfortably cold. As they start to move their stomachs growl, and their mouths feel dry as paper, as though the food and water that they consumed during the night have done them no good. Each will find that there is blood caught under their fingernails, but that their bodies hold no sign of injury.
Claire appears dazed, though a bit more awake than the other house-guests as they start to stir. Her arms are locked around her knees, her eyes staring distantly at the furthest corner of the room. Dust has caught in her hair, making the otherwise vibrant color seem muted and dull. She will move if spoken to and follow directions, but something seems to be missing from her gaze.
The corpse is still once more; her body is limp on the floor. Someone has draped a blanket over her, but it is now covered in dust. Missing from the room are Calem, Don, Kita, and Joseph. A bit of further exploration will reveal that the Lady In White and the other haunts that harried them through the night are also gone.
Curiously, the remnants of one other person are missing as well. The Old Bedroom feels icy cold, and vastly empty. Whatever sinister dread crept into the cracks of the floorboards has remained fast. The photograph has changed once again: while the man's eyes are once more obscured, leaving only his Cheshire smile, the woman is missing altogether. She leaves a white void in the photograph, her lover holding onto empty space.
The hall has returned to nothing more than a hall, and no sign of the mirrors remain behind in the unfinished spaces. The plastic catches and ripples in the breeze, but seems entirely natural in its movement.
The cold has faded, lingering in the air only as a faint chill that will pass away entirely as the morning fades away. Outside, the fog has thinned and the snow is melting. The sun peeks through the grimy windows, offering a promise of a bright day outside.
The doors have opened, as they leave the house, they will find that there is a simple path that circles all the way around the house. It leads to an empty drive, holding nothing but oil stains and a rusted, forgotten tire iron. It branches at the end, one path clearly leading downhill to a decrepit old boathouse, and the other leading to a crumbling stone bridge over a pristine lake. Though the bridge has clearly seen better days, it will support their weight, and at the other end the familiar gazebo and heavy iron gate of the Courtyard await them.
The lake itself is clear from their high perch, the water depthless beneath them. It could easily be shallow the entire way across, but the darker shadows seem to promise that the water is deeper. The warmer air has picked up in a gentle breeze, bringing the smell of flowers and dampness to them. Occasional ripples spread out over the surface of the lake, cresting in small waves to crash against the shores, but there never seems to be a source to them. The water is clear enough that they should be able to see whatever moves within it.
But it seems empty, safe, as so little in the house has ever been.
Those who follow the bridge to the end will find themselves once again in the Fourth House. The gate is rusted as if from disuse, the hinges moaning their complaints as they are forced to move. The bars are heavy, but the structure gives easily enough, allowing the guests access once more into the Courtyard.
Stepping through it yields a momentary strangeness, a leaden feeling in the house-guest's bones, as if they are trudging through something thick and viscous where the open gate stands. There is nothing there and the air is clear.
The yard has been swept clean of snow, though a few puddles linger still. Crows are using these puddles as bathtubs and roll squawking over the stones as the house-guests approach. There is no fear in the feathered creatures, though nobody will be allowed to get very close to them without them flying away.
The doors to the house open easily, allowing the guests to return to familiar and comfortably warm halls. A Grey Maid stands just inside the door, a bandage just visible under the sleeve of her gown. She holds a tray in her arms, full of cigars, small bottles of alcohol, warm towels, hot tea, and freshly baked pastries just waiting to be taken. She offers the tray to everyone who passes, though she says nothing.
The house itself has been cleaned in their absence, the floors buffed to an almost unnatural shine. It smells of cleaner and disinfectant, as if they have come upon it only as it has dried.
The young woman from the previous day, Kita has reappeared in this house after her strange disappearance from the other. If she is at all aware of the fact that she has been moved she does not seem to mind it, carrying an easy and inviting smile that she offers sparingly. Though somewhat aloof, she seems to be taking care of the house, nonchalantly walking from room to room and righting small objects, dusting, or otherwise tidying. It is done with a deliberate air, but one that seems detached, disinterested.
She pointedly ignores All Mirrors, perhaps uncomfortable with them. They never seem entirely right, though the reflections are present and seem to have no obvious irregularities. If someone studies them long enough, however, they may take note of what is just slightly off. Their movement in the mirrors are delayed by a fraction of a second, as if their reflections follow their owners only as an afterthought.
The Bar is alive with activity. Dave moves quickly around the room, serving existing customers and greeting those returning with a ready, easy smile. It seems the only thing that bothers him at all is the darkened jukebox in the corner, but the machine stubbornly remains soundless.
He seems unchanged, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie slightly askew as he works. He will quickly provide the house-guests with anything they ask for, breakfast, drinks, or any little trinket that has lingered in their mind. He will also offer a happy "it's good to see you again" to anyone he recognizes.
Two of the Crows have found their way into the bar area, and have apparently made a game of stealing coasters from the tables, to the amusement of the bartender. The birds seem almost disgruntled that he is not irritated with them.
Curled in the corner of the bar at one of the booths is a group of familiar faces. A tray of pastries and other breakfast items sits between them, and Dave is in constant, seemingly concerned attendance. The Lady In White sits curled on one side. Shion sleeps in her lap, his head resting against her chest. Nicholas sleeps against her side, his fingers tangled with the loose grey cloak she wears. Her arm is heavily bandaged, but she seems more tired that actually hurt, her head tilted back against the booth, arm wrapped tightly around the child in her lap. A cooling cup of tea sits on the table in front of her, and she occasionally stirs enough to reach for it.
The Photographer sits next to her, though he is wearing a pair of thin wire-framed glasses that make him look decidedly less threatening than he normally does. He is steadily consuming cups of black coffee, which Dave is quick to refill every time they empty. Lock is hard to see at first, his body curled into a small ball on the bench of the booth, clearly fast asleep. Occasionally the man next to him drops a hand to his head or the boy curls a fraction closer, but no attempt is made to draw attention to the child.
Perhaps the oddest sight in the other man in the booth; he is easily recognized by those who have met him before. The Doctor looks a bit more harried than he normally does, a heavier coat thrown over his characteristic white coat. He holds a glass filled with clear amber liquid in one hand and has a baby tucked in his other arm, though the child is mostly tucked beneath his outer coat and heavily wrapped in a blanket. The baby appears to be asleep and not at all bothered by her current position. A basket sits on the chair next to him, a shoulder strap designed for easy carrying fastened to the top, though it is for the moment closed, its contents hidden from view.
The other two at the table look faintly sympathetic.
Upstairs in the Slaughterhouse something is hard at work. Bloody hunks of meat have been deposited on all of the metal tables, and as the house-guests watch these pieces are quickly processed into neater piles before they disappear. The movement is constant, blades cutting and separating the meat with obvious skill. It would seem normal, if there were any knives or any creatures standing at the tables. There is nothing, however, to indicate that something stands there. Not even shadows.
Stepping into the place a workman would stand will result in instant death. To anyone watching, the person foolish enough to move there will seem to simply disappear.
The dead will once again return.
The doors leading to the other houses are solidly locked.
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allthekeys) wrote2014-03-08 12:00 am
NPC Requests!
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