allthekeys (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allthekeys) wrote2012-01-27 10:59 pm
allthekeys) wrote2012-01-27 10:59 pm
Day 006
The first chime of the clock falls in the utter silence of the night.
Everyone falls asleep, regardless of ability to do so.
The clock continues to toll its hour, falling on deaf ears.
Everyone sleeps.
As one, the house guests begin to dream. The details of it will be obscured as soon as they wake, but sleeping, they are vivid.
Each and every dreamer joins Lock in the Study as the clock chimes a second time, feeling as though they are him as he rolls, body twisting in agony as the threads that have held him captive through the night begin to withdraw slowly and painfully into his skin. Anyone who fell asleep in the study might even see their own bodies as Lock's eyes search for help.
He does not scream, and so the dreamers are trapped silent with him as he writhes in torment on the floor on the study. The taste of blood fills their mouths and he/they gag, vision blurring with pain.
Terror strikes the dreamers as they realize his lips are being sewn shut... and as they feel the same agony silencing them.
The dream shifts, leaving Lock to endure his pain alone.
The dreamers are running, panicked. But now the view is taller. They are running. Trying to find something--or someone--of vital importance.
Far away, there is the sound of a baby crying--no, screaming in terror, and the sound twists in the dreamer's stomach like a knife. They run, and they are conscious of running, of trying to find the baby and someone--something--else.
They are caught and held, however, restrained against their will as something vital and important is destroyed. None of the people surrounding the dreamer look familiar, but they appear unmoved and unresponsive to any pleas.
As one, they see a girl. Her hair is red, though she is not familiar to anyone in the house. Her face is rotted, twisted and slick with decay. Her neck hangs at an unnatural angle.
Somehow, she still manages to speak.
"Let me in."
The dream dissolves into fragments; those with no powers will find themselves waking with a feeling of soul-deep revulsion, disgust with themselves that they ever considered that an option.
Those who are sensitive will wake simply to the sound of their own name dying in their ears.
Though the details of the dream fade as soon as consciousness returns, the sense that something of great importance has been lost and must be found lingers long after they wake. It makes the guests nervous and jumpy, prone to looking in strange places as though the lost thing must be set just out of sight.
The ghosts fade away as the daylight returns to the halls of the house. The water drains from the basement, leaving a few inches of thick, clinging mud. The water has washed away part of the wall, revealing a small metal grate at the far end of the Dirt Hallway; the erosion has also revealed what seems to be the bottom of a door at the end of the hall. Some industry might be able to uncover it.
Somewhere in the house, an ancient heating system kicks in, flooding the house with warm air and the stench of burning hair. By mid-afternoon, the house will be comfortably warm for anyone who isn't a sensitive. For those with powers, the house still feels icy cold. Though they may find it a touch warmer than it has been since they've arrived.
It's snowing in the Floating Hallway. The snow will pile into drifts by the time everyone wakes from their unplanned sleep.
Any child in the house, that is anyone who is 18 or younger will wake with a blanket tucked around them wherever they happened to fall asleep, and a deep sense of peace and wellbeing; as though a beloved parent had checked in on them while they slept and tucked them in. This sense of well-being will remain with anyone who wraps themselves in these blankets.
Anyone who did not already have a tattoo will wake with the sense that their clothes have at some point been removed and put back on their bodies by someone else. Though a great deal has been done to set their clothes to rights, a few buttons may have been misaligned, or a zipper left undone. Nothing seems to be missing from their person. They will find a tattoo on the inside of their arm, written in a cryptic script that proves impossible to read. All houseguests will find their injuries tended and cups of water and pain medicine left for them as needed.
The more sensitive might remember the vague form of a man leaning over them as he tended them, barely registered as they slept. A few might even find a gift left for them, nothing larger than their palm, as though the doctor caring for them wished to give them some token of his affection.
Every mirror in the house has been written on while the house guests slept, the message has been scrawled in something thick and red, as though a child has escaped with a ready supply of finger paint. The mess is simply "Help me." but the writer remains unseen.
The door to the Doll Bathroom has locked. From what can be heard through the door, it sounds as though someone is showering. It might seem strange that a door without a lock can be locked.
Food and drink have returned to the kitchens, though somewhat more limited now. A dense, hard loaf of brown bread sits on the cutting board. Dried meats and thick orange cheeses and butter dominate the fridge. Water and milk that seems somehow thicker than it should be to those who are from modern eras are all that can be found to drink. A few wizened pieces of fruit, root vegetables and brown eggs round out all that can be found to eat in any of the kitchens. Though the tea trays still hold a wide assortment of sweet treats, they seem somehow less desirable after the trouble caused during the night.
Notes can once again be found scattered throughout the house.
Someone has taken offense to the tapestry in the Day Room, it has been ripped from the wall, baring the shape of a door behind it. Left in its place is a simple note, seemingly the ramblings of a mad man. “Down is 66, up is 33, why would they be different? I’ve counted and counted and counted again.”
A landscape in the Gallery has been replaced with a portrait of a sleeping woman. She’s quite lovely and seems peaceful. The picture has been hung at an odd angle and a discerning eye will spot the edge of a torn piece of paper sticking out from the frame. One number remains at the top, a clearly written “43 Right”. The rest of the note is filled with more rambling. “Backwards? Why would anyone make a safe like that? It makes no sense, is this place prone to madness or has it made an exception just this once?”
Someone had taken equal exception with the Painting in the Trophy Room as well; as they have touched it up to be slightly more ‘realistic’. A note clinging to the back has another number and a rather irritated note. The number is “45 Left” the note reads “He’s a smug old goat, isn’t he? I swear the artist must have spent hours making him look ‘perfect’. Well, now at least he looks more like he probably did in life.”
The Wall Paper Parlor has been redecorated by a clever artist who had taken paints to the rather drab walls and turned them into a lovely mural. It’s quiet breath taking when you step inside, and seems to give the illusion of being outside. The artist has done quiet the job turning this formerly drab, disappointing room into something anyone would be awed to see. A small note has been left on a table, spotted with paint. “Don’t wish for something you could make. I like this better. 15 Rooms down, how many to go?”
Written backwards on the floor of the Mirror Bedroom, so that the words appear on the ceiling, is a painted note, in rather elegant and large writing, that will not smudge or blur no matter what is done to it. The note reads, "I could do wonders with perspective in this room. It's a shame I can't here."
In the Study, there has been no damage or rearranging done, but instead the still-fresh quill pen has been put to use. Over top of the notes on the desk is a beautiful ink drawing, of a home on a hill. It is quaint and beautifully done, save for the presence of something watching from the window. In the corner of the drawing are the words, in thick, heavy, but elegant script, "take the time while you have it."
In the Dining Room of the second house, someone has taken the liberty of adjusting the large wax dolls. Each one now is now adorned with a blindfold, preventing them from 'watching' those who enter. Two of the adults have been turned to face the wall instead of one another, and a young girl figure has been redressed in elegant jewelry and clothes that are much too big for her, like a child playing at being something she is not. A note sits on the table: "How pleasantly fake."
Everyone falls asleep, regardless of ability to do so.
The clock continues to toll its hour, falling on deaf ears.
Everyone sleeps.
As one, the house guests begin to dream. The details of it will be obscured as soon as they wake, but sleeping, they are vivid.
Each and every dreamer joins Lock in the Study as the clock chimes a second time, feeling as though they are him as he rolls, body twisting in agony as the threads that have held him captive through the night begin to withdraw slowly and painfully into his skin. Anyone who fell asleep in the study might even see their own bodies as Lock's eyes search for help.
He does not scream, and so the dreamers are trapped silent with him as he writhes in torment on the floor on the study. The taste of blood fills their mouths and he/they gag, vision blurring with pain.
Terror strikes the dreamers as they realize his lips are being sewn shut... and as they feel the same agony silencing them.
The dream shifts, leaving Lock to endure his pain alone.
The dreamers are running, panicked. But now the view is taller. They are running. Trying to find something--or someone--of vital importance.
Far away, there is the sound of a baby crying--no, screaming in terror, and the sound twists in the dreamer's stomach like a knife. They run, and they are conscious of running, of trying to find the baby and someone--something--else.
They are caught and held, however, restrained against their will as something vital and important is destroyed. None of the people surrounding the dreamer look familiar, but they appear unmoved and unresponsive to any pleas.
As one, they see a girl. Her hair is red, though she is not familiar to anyone in the house. Her face is rotted, twisted and slick with decay. Her neck hangs at an unnatural angle.
Somehow, she still manages to speak.
"Let me in."
The dream dissolves into fragments; those with no powers will find themselves waking with a feeling of soul-deep revulsion, disgust with themselves that they ever considered that an option.
Those who are sensitive will wake simply to the sound of their own name dying in their ears.
Though the details of the dream fade as soon as consciousness returns, the sense that something of great importance has been lost and must be found lingers long after they wake. It makes the guests nervous and jumpy, prone to looking in strange places as though the lost thing must be set just out of sight.
The ghosts fade away as the daylight returns to the halls of the house. The water drains from the basement, leaving a few inches of thick, clinging mud. The water has washed away part of the wall, revealing a small metal grate at the far end of the Dirt Hallway; the erosion has also revealed what seems to be the bottom of a door at the end of the hall. Some industry might be able to uncover it.
Somewhere in the house, an ancient heating system kicks in, flooding the house with warm air and the stench of burning hair. By mid-afternoon, the house will be comfortably warm for anyone who isn't a sensitive. For those with powers, the house still feels icy cold. Though they may find it a touch warmer than it has been since they've arrived.
It's snowing in the Floating Hallway. The snow will pile into drifts by the time everyone wakes from their unplanned sleep.
Any child in the house, that is anyone who is 18 or younger will wake with a blanket tucked around them wherever they happened to fall asleep, and a deep sense of peace and wellbeing; as though a beloved parent had checked in on them while they slept and tucked them in. This sense of well-being will remain with anyone who wraps themselves in these blankets.
Anyone who did not already have a tattoo will wake with the sense that their clothes have at some point been removed and put back on their bodies by someone else. Though a great deal has been done to set their clothes to rights, a few buttons may have been misaligned, or a zipper left undone. Nothing seems to be missing from their person. They will find a tattoo on the inside of their arm, written in a cryptic script that proves impossible to read. All houseguests will find their injuries tended and cups of water and pain medicine left for them as needed.
The more sensitive might remember the vague form of a man leaning over them as he tended them, barely registered as they slept. A few might even find a gift left for them, nothing larger than their palm, as though the doctor caring for them wished to give them some token of his affection.
Every mirror in the house has been written on while the house guests slept, the message has been scrawled in something thick and red, as though a child has escaped with a ready supply of finger paint. The mess is simply "Help me." but the writer remains unseen.
The door to the Doll Bathroom has locked. From what can be heard through the door, it sounds as though someone is showering. It might seem strange that a door without a lock can be locked.
Food and drink have returned to the kitchens, though somewhat more limited now. A dense, hard loaf of brown bread sits on the cutting board. Dried meats and thick orange cheeses and butter dominate the fridge. Water and milk that seems somehow thicker than it should be to those who are from modern eras are all that can be found to drink. A few wizened pieces of fruit, root vegetables and brown eggs round out all that can be found to eat in any of the kitchens. Though the tea trays still hold a wide assortment of sweet treats, they seem somehow less desirable after the trouble caused during the night.
Notes can once again be found scattered throughout the house.
Someone has taken offense to the tapestry in the Day Room, it has been ripped from the wall, baring the shape of a door behind it. Left in its place is a simple note, seemingly the ramblings of a mad man. “Down is 66, up is 33, why would they be different? I’ve counted and counted and counted again.”
A landscape in the Gallery has been replaced with a portrait of a sleeping woman. She’s quite lovely and seems peaceful. The picture has been hung at an odd angle and a discerning eye will spot the edge of a torn piece of paper sticking out from the frame. One number remains at the top, a clearly written “43 Right”. The rest of the note is filled with more rambling. “Backwards? Why would anyone make a safe like that? It makes no sense, is this place prone to madness or has it made an exception just this once?”
Someone had taken equal exception with the Painting in the Trophy Room as well; as they have touched it up to be slightly more ‘realistic’. A note clinging to the back has another number and a rather irritated note. The number is “45 Left” the note reads “He’s a smug old goat, isn’t he? I swear the artist must have spent hours making him look ‘perfect’. Well, now at least he looks more like he probably did in life.”
The Wall Paper Parlor has been redecorated by a clever artist who had taken paints to the rather drab walls and turned them into a lovely mural. It’s quiet breath taking when you step inside, and seems to give the illusion of being outside. The artist has done quiet the job turning this formerly drab, disappointing room into something anyone would be awed to see. A small note has been left on a table, spotted with paint. “Don’t wish for something you could make. I like this better. 15 Rooms down, how many to go?”
Written backwards on the floor of the Mirror Bedroom, so that the words appear on the ceiling, is a painted note, in rather elegant and large writing, that will not smudge or blur no matter what is done to it. The note reads, "I could do wonders with perspective in this room. It's a shame I can't here."
In the Study, there has been no damage or rearranging done, but instead the still-fresh quill pen has been put to use. Over top of the notes on the desk is a beautiful ink drawing, of a home on a hill. It is quaint and beautifully done, save for the presence of something watching from the window. In the corner of the drawing are the words, in thick, heavy, but elegant script, "take the time while you have it."
In the Dining Room of the second house, someone has taken the liberty of adjusting the large wax dolls. Each one now is now adorned with a blindfold, preventing them from 'watching' those who enter. Two of the adults have been turned to face the wall instead of one another, and a young girl figure has been redressed in elegant jewelry and clothes that are much too big for her, like a child playing at being something she is not. A note sits on the table: "How pleasantly fake."
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If someone has their heart set on it, however, the Dining Room will work. Let me know!
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Puss I'd love to throw into a thread with someone, but I have no particular plans with him right now.
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