Day 044

[allthekeys]

|| Day 044: GENERAL As the clock strikes in the daylight hours, the sound seems to warp and twist—a sensation that settles on the houseguests for the first few hours of the day. There is the unmistakable feeling that something is wrong, though it is impossible to place what. Something is twisted, out of place. Something isn’t right. They should fix it. But they can’t. Rose and Grant look up at the clock anxiously as it chimes. The man reaches for the girl, pulling her close, clearly protective of her. She seems uncertain, but he nods to himself, suddenly and unmistakably sure of something. The temperature has dropped quite suddenly, and a low mist surrounds the houses. Frost edges on the window panes, and the glass nearly burns - it’s that cold. The air itself is not so drastically chilling, uncomfortable but tolerable, but all metal and glass surfaces are painful to touch. A massive murder of crows has gathered outside, an uncountable amount of them visible anywhere outside. They caw and cry loudly, a cacophony of noise that only adds to the distinct sense of wrongness that still plagues the houseguests. It seems as though the crows, too, realize that there is something not to be trusted about the morning, huddled close and chattering amongst themselves nervously. More people than usual fill all the hallways, dozens of houseguests that no one has ever seen before. They ignore all attempts to speak to them, however, only ever talking to each other, and any attempt to touch them proves them to be entirely intangible. It might be that they aren’t even there—except that they stare accusingly at all of the normal houseguests. In all bathrooms there is the sound of leaky taps dripping, though neither sink nor tubs are broken. The sound is persistent and strangely loud, especially given the complete absence of source. Occasionally wet footsteps can be heard sneaking up behind the houseguests, when lingering in or near the bathrooms. There is of course nothing there when they turn to look, though they could swear they hear a woman laughing. In the Doll Bathroom, the intact mirror ripples, like water being continually disturbed by unseen pebbles; anyone who touches the mirror will find the surface elastic, rippling and shifting around their touch - but when they pull their hand away, fine ashen black lines spread like veins across whatever skin came into contact that linger throughout the Day, the entire area numb to sensation. In all parlours and dens, there is a faint crackling noise in the air. It is almost constant, like static just beneath the air—never quite there, until there is a sudden loud pop as a spot in the air explodes into a spark. It’s real enough to burn skin and catch on fabric, but nothing in particular seems to be shorting out except the air itself. The Dollhouses lights turn on with the daybreak, and remain on. [warning for eye trauma] Scattered throughout the houses are the eyes of dolls. These painted bits of porcelain seem to have been tossed about with complete disregard for where they landed, though all seem to have settled facing up. They watch the houseguests from the floor, dozens of tiny eyes gazing up at them with nothing but loathing and judgement. The Dolls themselves have not been left unable to see. In the holes left by the removal of their eyes, organic eyes have been added. These bloody, torn messes were clearly pulled from something living, bits of flesh dangling off of some of them, while others seem crushed beyond much use. All of them twitch in their sockets, rolling toward the guests as if straining to follow them. The dolls themselves are perfectly still, but their human eyes refuse to stop moving even torn from their original hosts. [end warning] The deer corpse remains in the Courtyard, its once strong body having rapidly decayed at some point between twilight and sunrise. Various kinds of fungi are breaking its skin and fighting for space amongst the matted white fur and feathers. Should anybody cut the deer open, they will surely find that its insides are full of thin, tangled roots. Although the fruits in the Orchard looked fresh and ripe during the night, something about them changed at daybreak, and all the apples are a pale, yellow white, almost the colour old bone. They bruise very easily in the same yellowed purple way human skin does if handled even only slightly carelessly. While they still hang heavy on the trees and look inviting to pick, the flesh has a grainy, coarse texture and the taste is ashen at best. In the center of it, a familiar figure has appeared, sitting on one of the benches. Around her are buckets and baskets overflowing with the ripe fruit, some of it bruised and already beginning to turn. Little Miss plucks petals from the rose in her hands, letting them drift to the ground. She hums a song that makes those that hear it uneasy, full of little crackles and pauses, as though part of the melody is missing. She seems entirely uncaring of the discord she causes, merely watching the petals as they fall. Red stains her fingers, sticky and wet, though she seems uninjured by her strange game. The moment someone approaches her she vanishes without a sound, and the Orchard that they find themselves in for a moment is that of the trees in early spring, just beginning to bloom. The bugs fill it, and they are left for a moment with the feeling that their bodies are entirely wrong, limbs rearranged in uncomfortable ways and heads jerked around on their shoulders. The moment fades, and they again stand in the Orchard, surrounded by buckets and baskets of ripe, red fruit. The only thing that seems different is the faint stain of red about their fingertips, and the faintest memory of a song that will not seem to leave their mind. The cage in the centre of the Birdcage Room appears empty at first, but a second look reveals what became of the nights inhabitant. There is a scattering of bones at the bottom of the cage. Most appear human at first glance, but anyone touching them will find them peculiarly warm and far too light. Other bones, however, could hardly have belonged to a person: they are too long for any human limb, and stretched thin. Picking up these bones leaves the carrier with a sense of heaviness shrouding over them, though the bone itself is just as light as any of the others. All of the bones are picked clean of any trace of meat or flesh, and some have tiny scratched marks across them.