allthekeys

As the clock finally moves to the hour of dawn the house guests feel the beginnings of the familiar lethargy grip them, as though their bodies are preparing to sleep. As the clock starts to chime, however, they will find themselves unable to move -- gripped in some sort of sleep paralysis.

They do not sleep, eyes caught open, bodies frozen on the floors.

Though house falls into paralysis, the Companions remain apparently unaffected -- at least until their emotions begin to run high. Each one of them becomes absolutely terrified, full of nervous agitation, wanting to move and hide, but apparently unable to do so. While not frozen themselves (and in fact they fidget and pace) they do not seem willing to part from the side of whomever they are bound to. They fear not just for the safety of their new friends, but perhaps for themselves too.

They will remain fearful even after the guests are able to move again, the stirring of their friends apparently not easing their fear. It is only a few hours into the morning that they finally begin to settle, apparently deciding that whatever danger they feared at dawn as passed.

Those who said 'no' and spent the night stalked by hatred will find that the feeling fades with dawn. They will experience a surge of panic -- and then nothing. Or perhaps not quite: there seems to always be something just around the corner, watching and waiting, but it does not feel so close now, nor does it feel as strongly resentful. It seems that whatever or whoever was following them has decided to bide their time, or else is being forced to leave them alone for a while.

As dawn chimes in the house seems momentarily -- unstable? Vulnerable? In a state of flux, between things. Creatures freeze in the middle of their actions, turn as if they have heard something and begin to move away between the frozen guests -- heading for some unknown location. From the Stalker Bedroom the Tormented girl jumps to her feet, clutching her kitten as she runs between immobilized guests with a strangled sob. Out in the hall, the Foul Boy seems to hesitate a moment before falling into step with some Wall Crawlers to begin a parade. The Sirens and the Perfume Lady turn and sedately abandon their performance to leave the gentleman's lounge. She leans to peer at those closest to her, occasionally dipping to pat a hand or offer some comfort to those who look the most frightened. The Wall Crawlers seem ignorant of the helpless prey beneath them, walking carefully along the walls as though something has summoned them.

The ghosts seem unconcerned as they trail between the house's inhabitants, some brushing against them as they go -- turning and making eye contact for a split second with these familiar to them. They seem to be taking some care with where they step, picking their way carefully between the inert bodies.

A girl with dark pigtails seems to emerge from the Doll Bathroom, frowning in irritation as she does so. She hesitates before following the parade, sickly eyes staring in dull distaste at guests she passes. As she crosses the parlour The Little Girl appears beside her, takes her hand and tries to hold her back. They hold eye contact a moment before the grip slips and they part. She scowls as the pigtailed girl walks away, as if in a hypnotic state, through the Blue Kitchen. The dark haired girl's voice can be heard echoing sadly through the First House

A carrion crow... sat on an oak...
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow!
Watching a tailor... shape his coat...
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow!

Wife, bring me my old bent bow...
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow!
That I may shoot yon carrion crow.
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow!
Fol-de-riddle, lo-de-riddle... hi-di-ho...

She stops in the Blue Kitchen, and it flickers -- its appearance changing for anyone watching just for a few seconds. It's as if the kitchen itself is shifting, changing from its clean homey state to a darker version. The floor is tacky with blood, food overflowing from saucepans and slowly rotting as rats eat it -- a knife standing tip first in the table and glistening red. Just as quickly as the change happens, it reverts. The pigtailed girl tilts her head, then carries on down into the basement. The soft sound of her singing seems to linger long after she is gone.

Around the house, other rooms seem to suffer an identity crisis. The Gallery flickers and suddenly takes on a macabre air, paintings vandalised -- eyes scratched out on statues and smudges of red across the walls. The words 'Why won't you help?' are scrawled across the wall in a dark substance that might be charcoal. The newly added sketch seems to have been completely ripped out its makeshift frame, exposing the still life behind. Above the chaos, the dull creak of rope seems loud in the silent room. Looking up reveals bodies swinging from the rafters with lifeless eyes.

The room reverts, but the sketch stays ripped out -- and the writing stays on the wall.

In the stairwell outside the Broken Woman lets her head roll back enough on her broken neck to see in before she makes a move, feet not touching the ground as her rope trails behind her.

The Wax Bedroom flickers and the floor becomes a messy sea of the melted substance, the walls behind it revealed. Without it the atmosphere is different, pale striped wallpaper peeling, rotting and sagging. The wall behind the bed gains a sunken storage area, filled with what appear to be booklets and writing paper -- a glossy list of phone-numbers like you might get in a reception or hotel room and the words 'LET'S PLAY' emblazoned on the back of it.

The previous occupant doesn't seem to have wanted to play. The walls are mildewy and growing dark patches of mold in sections -- marked with dark smudges in brown and red. Writing across some patches of wall is too faded and dark to be read any longer, but seems to be a confusing mess of numbers and dates -- lists of what might be names. The carpet is soggy with liquid wax and stained in a variety of ways enough to make the strongest stomach retch, empty bottles of alcohol lining a small desk. The closet stands open, the figure there now flesh as the pool of blood spreads out from it -- skin shriveling and insects writhing over its form. It slowly uncurls, mouth open in a silent scream as it makes to crawl its way out of the makeshift hiding space -- one hand outstretched.

Barely a blink and the room reverts itself, although the smell of blood seems to linger. The wax statue is now left in his prone form, mouth open in a scream and one arm still outstretched as he tries to escape.

The Husk Bedroom flickers and rights itself, damage reverting so the room is once more a regal master bedroom. The bed is a large, four-poster affair with plush sheets. The windows are long, letting in bright sunlight from the orchard and framed by expensive draping curtains. A fine wooden table in one corner has a leather-bound book of some sort laid upon it, and the walls are no longer blackened from whatever explosion took place. The room feels almost peaceful now it is clean, aside from the odd feeling of tension. As if the room is waiting for something.

In the centre of the room, though, a lantern appears to be falling in slow motion. As it hits the ground the room flickers and reverts, a blackened shell once more. The lantern, however, stays -- stuck in an eerie cycle of slowly falling to the ground -- vanishing just before it hits and an strange orange glow flickering around the walls. Disconnected voices can be heard echoing from somewhere as the lantern falls, ethereal and strange.

I have to protect them.

NO, LET GO OF IT --

They continue to loop each time the lantern restarts its fall towards the floor.

As the dawn encroaches the house, the Children have become absolutely petulant. The Children laugh, taking advantage of the house-guests inability to move, waving their hands in front of faces, tugging at ears and mouths and poking their fingers into noses. As the chimes end, the house-guests might notice them doing something strange to the mirrors, though it is difficult to see exactly what from their position on the floor. Finally, after the light is fully upon them, they flee rapidly, as if running from the watchful eye of a scolding parent or teacher. Whatever they may have decided was chasing them from their mischief, they have fled, leaving behind the results of their trouble. On the mirrors of the house they have written personal and childish insults addressed to anyone who interacted with the Children.

Still, it seems that whatever caused the children to flee did not do a thorough enough job. Once the house begins to move again, they re-emerge, and begin stalking the house-guests once more. Fortunately, they seem to have ceased their violent game, and have reverted to creeping into doorways and watching the guests as they sleep. They can still occasionally be spotted even by those who are not resting, appearing in the corners of eyes and simply staring. They have gone utterly silent, but are persistent in their following.

The Front Door opens, admitting a cloaked figure, though it closes behind her. Her feet are bare and covered with mud, and she wanders like one lost through the helpless guests. It is impossible to see her face, but her hands are quite bloody and her body is very wet. She leaves a row of pale pink drops around her muddy footprints. She does not seem to see the people on the floor, though she also seems careful not to step on them.

The monsters vanish from the house, the doll spiders return to wherever they came from and the dolls themselves return to their bathroom -- yet the houseguests find themselves still unable to move.

The Little Girl watches them, frowning as though she finds this quite dull. Occasionally nudging people she doesn't like with her feet. This activity seems to lose its charm after a little while, and she goes away as well.

Two men begin to move among the bodies. For the children who were taken before, both are easily recognizable as Dr. Harrison and Dr. Jones. They do not speak as they move, only sighing when they realize that the houseguests are not sleeping.

Any houseguest who does not have a tattoo will find themselves the object of their interest. If their sleeves are capable of being rolled up, or they do not posses any, the mark will be applied to one of their inner arms. If their clothes are more difficult, they may find themselves being manipulated to remove the garment enough to bare their arms. The doctors are efficient, doing no more than they need to do to preform their task. Each new organic houseguest will watch the doctors draw a little bit of blood, carefully labelling the vials and tucking them into pockets.

The doctors move slowly, making certain that no new guest is missed. The houseguests, trapped in this waking nightmare will find themselves unable to even make a sound.

As the last houseguest is marked, the Doctors make their way back through the house. One pauses, picking up the the redheaded child from the Rough Kitchen, taking her with them as they go. The child does not protest being handled, keeping hold of the scarf and wrapping her arms around the doctor’s neck. The unlikely trio vanishes into the basement. As the sound of a door echos through the house, everyone will find themselves once more able to move.

Anyone trying either door in the Study will find that it is solidly locked. Lock can be found curled up in one of the chairs in the Library, carefully wrapped in an Afghan and half asleep. The library has been stripped of the webs and is clean once more.

In the Leather Study the woman Ricci can be found curled in one of the chairs, she's slow to wake and seems a little confused, hands covered in fresh bandages and eyes surrounded by the dark circles only a sleepless night can cause. Nobody who was in the study will see her appear, she’s simply there between one blink and the next.

The storm continues outside, shaking the house from time to time as the thunder shatters the silence. The rain seeps beneath the front door and under windows, as though the fury of the storm threatens to flood the house and all of its residence.

The Ballroom has reverted to a mostly normal state, though the colors seem muted and strange. Nothing visible seems wrong with the room, though any who linger might feel as though they, too, are being drained of color.

It seems that spring has taken hold in the Rose Garden. In spite of the weather (or perhaps because of it), the barest hints of life have begun to appear among the bushes, the smallest threads of flowers. It seems the roses are coming into bloom.

The Lady In White remains in the Sitting Room, she is warm to the touch should anyone dare approach her, and is breathing, though it is somewhat labored. She will wake, should anyone bother her for long, but does not seem conscious of where she is or what is happening.

Anyone who has spoken to Lock or entered the Sitting Room or the Blue Kitchen will find themselves beginning to feel ill. The symptoms start with a high fever, trouble breathing, sore throats, the occasional bloody nose and sores on the back of their hands. As the day progress, others might begin to catch the illness.

Any of the children currently in possession of one of the Frogs will not get sick, no matter how high their initial level of exposure is.

As though in reaction to the sickness currently traveling through the house, soup, crackers and clear soda can be found in All Kitchens.

((ooc: We're doing a limited sign up for permanent character changes, because of an upcoming incident. We will draw for eight names, in two weeks time, to ensure that all changes can be discussed with mods for approval. Changes are not necessarily physical, and you can bring your suggestions to the mods or ask us for suggestions!))