allthekeys

As the first chime of noon sounds sullenly through the house the house-guests will find sleep creeping over them, dragging them down into a dream despite their efforts to remain awake. Though some in the house might lack the ability to dream all find themselves viewing the same, impossible thing.

The front door opens.

Lock enters the house. He turns back towards the door with a frown, as though he is shocked to find himself face to face with it; it seems obvious from his reaction that this is not where he meant to be at all.

Rose waits in the Parlour with her dark lantern, sitting almost primly in one of the chairs as though expecting company at any moment. As the chimes sound, it seems like the moment she's been waiting for has arrived.

Lock steps into the room and she scowls at him, pretty face twisted into an ugly expression. He pauses visibly, seeming almost cautious when he finds her waiting. He makes no attempt to speak to her -- instead, he seems intent on leaving the room, heading for the door that leads to the Kitchen.

She does not speak as she rises, clearly intending to herd him back towards the front door.

The conversation that follows is brief, and in a language the dreamers do not understand. Their words are short and sharp; although Rose appears to have been waiting for Lock to arrive she is far from pleased to see him. He rocks back on his heels as the conversation ends, as though he's preparing to bolt. The girl swings her lantern. It strikes Lock's face and the impact is felt by all dreamers. A flash of searing agony that seems to pierce straight to the bone, the wound feels like it goes much deeper than it has any right to.

The clock makes a discordant sound as its face cracks, the movement grinding to a noisy halt.

The dream falters, fragmenting and falling to pieces -- juddering into discordant blur of voices. When it resumes, the girl is on the floor, the shaft of his weapon protruding from her stomach and blood spreading in a shallow pool around her. She seems quite dead, her chest does not rise or fall, and her lips are stained with crimson.

Lock kneels nearby, gasping for air as he holds his burnt and bloody face. The sweltering heat in the house seems to rise steadily, leaving those caught within the dream conscious of their bodies moving, trying to free themselves from the suddenly uncomfortable weight of sweaty clothes. They do not wake, no matter their discomfort. They can not wake.

The Lantern has fallen on its side between them, door open and interior empty.

Slowly, the halls of the house begin to dim. Lock lifts his head, single eye confused and unsure as he watches the light levels fall. Whatever he sees seems to spur him into a panic as he scrambles forward, tries to force the open lantern closed once more.

Very distinctly, those watching hear someone issue an order, voice curt: "Get out of my head."

The non-sensitive will wake to find themselves in halls full of flame. They will be unable to move, pinned to the walls as though some unseen force has them restrained -- caught unharmed and unable to do anything but watch the flames surround them. Those who were near the sensitive will also watch their friends and companions burn without a sound to indicate that it caused them pain.

The fire does not hurt them, does not even seem warm to the touch. The air they breath is no more dangerous than that of a hot summer day, though the light is painfully bright to their eyes.

Around the guests the flames shriek like living things, screaming through the halls with the music of a thousand voices. For some, it might almost seem as though the fire is singing, though such a thing seems almost impossible. Within the searing brightness those forced to watch can often see shapes that seem almost human, dancing just beyond clarity. The shapes never fully distinguish themselves from the brightness, nor do they seem to respond to their cries.

For the sensitive, the dream does not end, but seems to deepen, overlapping with fragments of Lock's panic.

They are aware of a single exchange, Akito standing near Lock as the boy struggles with the lantern on the floor. His hands seem to be burning, fine cracks form in the skin as though they are made of aged porcelain. Lock's breathing is laboured, panic not fading and face twisted in the agony of his action.

"Don’t touch me."

Akito starts forward, seeming intent on helping his friend, but pauses, seeming to listen. He shifts unhappily, granted the ability to move unlike the rest of the house-guests yet still unable to help.

The flames start at Akito's ankles, almost passive as they swallow him whole, and he fades from view.

Lock’s face contorts with quiet agony, but he does not speak. Instead he places his weight on the lantern's door, the animal like noises escaping his throat some combination of pain and panic.

The Sensitive will find themselves fading, the flames consuming them to the point that the line of individuality fades away. They are at once young and old, male and female. They feel too much, and they feel nothing at all. They are pregnant, and they are untouched by any man or woman, they are innocent and they are used. They are wanted, loved, desired, needed, forgotten, neglected, and abused. They are nameless, they are named, they are human and non-human. They are hurt, damaged, they are solid and unsullied by the ways of the world. They are alone. They are together.

For a moment that seems to last an eternity, they are one.

The flame remains aware of the boy struggling with the lantern, but their awareness spreads, and they are also aware of something else happening as the light penetrates the house.

Don stands in the Rough Kitchen, hands braced against the counter. The bottle and glass of wine he was drinking from has been knocked aside, the glass shattered across the floor and the wine spreading to form a pool on the floor that almost mimics the circle of blood surrounding Rose. The alcohol will give him no comfort now, no respite from what must occur.

They feel the power fraying, withdrawing, moving away from him like the tide pulling away from the shore at dusk. They are aware of him, they are aware that he is not what he seems, but they lack the understanding to determine what he is. As they watch, his body begins to twist, hands bending back and bones cracking as he writhes in pain, struggling to remain standing as bones break and his injuries return.

He screams, but he does not speak. He does not cry out for mercy as the flames weave around him, stealing his life away. It is as though he knows that nothing can save him now, no plea might bring him some reprieve. His face, though dark with agony, holds no confusion, instead his eyes are filled with understanding and regret.

Don's mouth hangs open, screams falling into silence his neck snaps like a dry twig, lolling to the side as he loses the ability to support it again.

His chest ceases to rise and fall.

His face pales, skin mottled and colourless. No blood spurts from open injuries. The power that was keeping him alive ends, and within moments the Art Enthusiast stands within the house once more. Face still wet with tears of pain his hands are twisted and broken, as though some cruel entity had smashed them to bits to prevent him from using them -- his body has been savagely twisted beyond all reason.

He does not display any emotion, instead he seems to be waiting -- standing in perfect stillness despite the desperation of his struggles moments before. What is left is little more than a shadow of the living, vibrant man that those within the house have come to know. The smell of wine fills the room, almost cloying to those watching.

Those within the flame can do nothing for him. Flame cannot weep, cannot express any emotion. Though some within the whole might wish to help him, trapped as they are, they can only watch. Those who might yet be in the room will find themselves unable to move, unable to do anything for the man they might have called friend.

In the Parlour the boy still struggles, and the light fills the halls, not allowing any to pass into the heart of the flame. The tattoos that mark his arm are on fire, flames tracing the dark lines until they are painfully bright. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open as he pants for breath -- though it seems to do nothing to help him. Fine, almost delicate cracks have formed on his face and hands, allowing an internal radiance escape like steam through vents.

The Phantasms appear without warning, though their purpose seems clear. The moment one touches Lock the child goes limp, sagging bonelessly in the arms of the creature. He is lifted almost gently from the floor, the lantern pried from his grasp. The cracks begin to fade, the light that seemed to infuse his body dimming and going dark. After a few moments cradled within the arms of the Phantasm, Lock seems normal, as though he is only sleeping.

The girl Rose is lifted less gently from the ground by one of the others, the lantern passed to it and settled on her stomach -- they seem uncaring of the weapon still within her. It turns to go, leaving with her within its arms. Pausing for a moment, the Phantasms holding Lock studies him before it follows the other.

Two other Phantasms turn from their fellows, heading in different directions. They seem to be searching for someone, not pausing until they find Shion and Nicolas. The guardians of the two infants will find themselves unable to move as their tiny charges are lifted from their grasps and whisked away.

Night falls with alarming suddenness, the light rushing into the Lantern as the Phantasms hold it. Those trapped within the flame will find themselves slowly falling out of the oneness that held them, kneeling on the floor where they had been an age ago. Their clothing has been bleached white, hair and skin lightened by the intensity of the exposure. After the heat of the flame, the house is almost bone numbingly cold.

And they are alone, so very, very alone. Gone is the flame that warmed them, gone is the understanding that cradled them. It may take the Sensitive a few moments to find their feet again, and those that were chosen for the event will find themselves noticing the chill in the air for the first time. For those chosen, the changes will begin slowly, powers cast into chaos as their bodies twist and warp, altered irrevocably by their time in the flame.

For the other sensitive, though the changes do not start, they will find that their powers seem to be beyond their control for the moment. Everything seems a little too wild, a little too hard to leash, and their powers seem too strong for them to manage to contain them. This condition will last until midnight.

The last Phantasm moves into the house, seemingly without purpose. It circles the house, and the house-guests will find themselves unable to move so long as it is in the room. Trying to follow is difficult, but possible. After it has made a complete circuit of the house, it begins to pause in front of guests. On each of the seven chosen for the experiment it fastens one of the hard, plastic bracelets. These bracelets are impossible to remove. After it has tagged each victim, the creature simply vanishes from sight.

No light brightens the halls, and even lighting a candle seems to provide only dim illumination for those within the house. Those lucky enough to posses a Flashlight will find that the light does not go very far, illuminating barely three feet in front of them. The darkness is complete. None of the electric lights work, and for the non-sensitive the heat seems to get worse.

The darkness is broken by the return of a familiar face to the fireplace in the parlour. As the light fades, the intelligent eyes of the Burning Man peer out at the Phantasms and their broken charges. He does not move from the fireplace so long as the Phantasms remain in the parlour, but the moment they leave will attack anyone who lingers. He will stop following at the doorways leading out of the room, but will move to any fresh flame -- making candles an even more risky attempt.

Tonight the Children have returned to play. Specks of colour compared to the paled Ballroom they dash from side to side, giggling madly and playing games that are difficult to identify, but seem to incorporate some form of Tag. All twelve of them, a mix of boys and girls ranging in age, can be found in this room. A thirteenth child, around four years old, sits with them, chasing after them on his shorter legs. Sometimes the children mock him for his inability to keep up, and other times they seem almost frightened of him.

Interrupting their playing by entering will earn cold stares as they freeze in place, watching any house-guest who enters the room. They will not attack, but it is clear that no one else is welcome there.

Though the Clock is silent those who have touched the Sundial in the Greenhouse will find that they can still hear it ticking, softly and steadily. Unlike their first encounter with the sound this causes them no harm, merely hanging in the silence -- perhaps sounding in time with their heartbeat. There seems to be another effect, as those around them will notice that they seem to be glowing dimly in the complete darkness of the night.

In the quiet of the Dawn Room a dark haired girl is sat in a chair, legs drawn up to her chest and eyes roving wildly. A few house-guests may recognise her as the singer from the dawn of Day 011. She seems scared of something, perhaps simply as alarmed as the rest of the house-guests by the sudden onset of the night. By the feet of her chair is a large Doll, perhaps recognisable to some as the instigator of more troublesome events. The girl trembles, face dirt-smeared and pigtails in disarray. Something about her sunken eyes and sickly pallor is not right, though. Guests who venture too close will find she starts to panic, clambering to her feet and grabbing for the doll. Her panic quickly turns to fury, and she will turn on guests with a vengeance that borders on personal. Even if they manage to escape her quick movements and vice-like grip guests are unlikely to get far, stomachs turning with a strange sickness.

The Basement seems alarmingly bright in comparison to the rest of the house, a welcome relief from the deep darkness. Shadows haunt the outside hall, snatching at the ankles of those that pass by, snarling and snapping -- although they will not follow anyone into the Waiting Room. The Nurse has returned to her desk, smiling brightly at anyone who enters the room. The Doctor is in.

In the Study chaos reigns once more. The desk has been completely cleared of papers, bottles of ink tipped over on the floor and drawers ripped against from the desk, as though someone was looking for something. The chair lays on its side, wheel spinning slowly in the air. A woman sits in the middle of the floor, hands drawn into her lap. She rocks back and forth, crooning a broken lullaby. Anyone who enters the will find that the Mother's Ghost is very hostile tonight, and will attack anyone who enters the room. Any child who enters the room will feel themselves uncannily drawn to her, though there seems to be no reason for it. She will not give any outside indication that she will harm them, singing softly as they draw close to her and she pulls them into her arms. She will sing them to sleep as she smothers them against her chest.

Strangely, the sounds there from the day continue on, ignored by the current resident. The soft sound of metal against stone seems louder than ever, and those who might risk a glimpse into the Nursery will find the woman even more manic in her defence of the contents. A lamp has been knocked askew, casting odd shadows in the room. The sound of the baby crying has not halted, little fussy noises that trail into louder wails of distress. No one will be able to enter, but the sound of the baby crying lingers in their minds, chasing them through the house.

The frogs seem anxious, though they remain close to their charges, refusing to leave them for a moment. Any monster that approaches will cause the frogs to swell, almost as though they are attempting to frighten the beasts away. Despite their small size, only a ghost will challenge their protection, even the hellhounds will not approach.

The Spider appears in the air in the middle of the parlour dropping to the ground and landing in a sprawl of sharply angled limbs. The creature seems distressed, hissing and spitting at anyone who gets near to him. He is clearly hostile, though he is almost protective of those he has marked in the past, getting involved in their activities and moving to stop any monsters from harming them. He moves throughout the house, rarely in the same place twice. He will strike out at anyone who gets too near, and is just as quick to infect his prey as always.

The Shadow Man has taken over the Birdcage Room in the third house, sitting cross legged on the ground as though waiting for something. Any who enter the room will meet their death, he is impossible to overcome. He does not speak, nor pause for any reason, he simply rends those who enter limb from limb.

The Foul Boy haunts the Red Hallway once more, eyes landing on anyone who lingers too long. He seems more focused tonight, reacting quickly to any his attention is caught by. Rather than his usual somewhat heavy handed attentions he seems tuned in to the house's overall mood, quick to attack those he sees as competition or to take by force any he takes a shine to. Once he catches someone his grip is difficult to escape, and his can make a guest's very skin crawl in an attempt to get away.

The Lady In White has returned once more to her ethereal ghostly form, drifting throughout the first floors of the Second and Third Houses. She seems impossibly beautiful, luring her victims into her grasp without a single pause. Those who encounter her will find it impossible to resist her charms, stepping forward against the conflicting feeling of danger to embrace her. She looks like one they love, one they long to see, and she is waiting for them. Just for them. The meeting will prove deadly, though fear will never stir in the hearts of her victims. Instead death will come almost peacefully, cradled in the arms of one they desire as she sucks the life from their bodies. Only another person can break the hold she has on her victims, those she captures will find it impossible to turn away from her.

The Open Hallway is completely covered in crows, and the loud chatter of the birds completely covers the low growls of the Hellhounds also occupying the area. In the darkness, it is impossible to see them beyond the sound of wings fluttering in the darkness. As though it has been planned, they seem to chatter louder just as the Hellhounds draw near -- though it is difficult to say if the intent is to warn those who are being hunted or to cover the noises of those hunting. Those who ignore the birds might catch sight of a child lingering in the corner of their eye, never approaching close enough to see properly. As quickly as they spot the child, it vanishes again, using the darkness like a cloak to hide any movement.

The Hellhounds also lurk throughout the house, and they seem to be in a particularly bad mood. Even those who are not injured will find themselves at the mercy of the dogs. They seem likely to attack at the slightest provocation, though they will at least wait for someone to stub their toe. The only people who seem to be safe from their irritation are those who have been taken for the experiments, and those who have been marked. The hellhounds will not bother them, and some may even flop down next to them, acting like normal dogs. They will not touch those who have been experimented on even if they are injured, as though some strange sense of camaraderie has gripped them. A boon, perhaps, to an otherwise dismal event.

Somewhere in the darkness of the Rose Garden someone is sobbing. The sound is low and piteous, filling the area completely. Despite the attempts of those who might explore, they will find no source. Occasionally, a voice can be made out, begging someone to return. The smell of blood and burnt flesh hangs heavy in the normally peaceful garden, mixed liberally with the smells of roses finally bursting into full bloom.

In every bathroom but Ivory a Skinless waits for the house-guests, sitting in the middle of the floor. It rocks back and forth, humming tunelessly into its arms. They seem almost sad, eyes following anyone who enters the bathrooms, pleading for mercy. It is only if the door closes behind the house-guests that they move, leaping for the newly trapped guest to rip skin from their frames.

The Chapel is occupied tonight. The Vampire Hunter stands behind the pulpit, hands resting against the wood as though he might at any moment begin a sermon. He gazes at the empty pews, eyes unseeing and manner calm. He seems to be waiting for his congregation to arrive, and any Normal Humans who sit in the Chapel will find themselves safe from the creatures that haunt the night. Any Sensitive who linger here will find themselves encouraged to leave, unwelcome in this place of sanctuary. They can linger near the edges, enjoying the safety of the room, but they will not be welcome in the pews.

The Broken Woman has returned to her stairwell haunts, though tonight she will not lay a finger on any males that pass her. Any females, especially younger girls, will find that she is absolutely ruthless in dealing with them. Her sobs have quieted for the night, and she shows no mercy to those she manages to catch. The only true way to pass by her safely is to travel in pairs.

In the Velvet and Silk bedrooms, a discerning eye might notice that the dolls seem to be weeping. They make no sounds, and do not sob, but the tears are very clear on their cheeks. Their eyes are as fixed as ever and they do not blink.

In the Wax Bedroom the damaged wax doll seems to have come to life, swaying on his feet in the middle of the room. He reaches for those that pass him, though he does not seem able to see them, seeking someone. His touch is surprisingly hot, though it does not seer, instead blistering the skin beneath his hands. He will not follow them out of the room.

The Blue Kitchen seems to have suffered some misfortune in the moments between noon and night, the entire place is in shambles. Drifting piles of flour have been scattered over the floor, the cabinets stand open. The microwave has been flung nearly across the room, the door is cracked, rendering it unusable. The stew pot has been tipped on its side, steaming contents mixing with the flour on the floor to make a sticky paste. Small hands have left prints on the door, smears of flour and water and other undefinable liquids.

The taps in the Ivory Bathroom seem to have finally lost their ability to contain the water. With a sudden burst, and a creaking of the old metal, water begins to flood out of the pipes and fill the sink and tub. The basins quickly overflow, the deluge spilling over the top and coating the floor in slippery moisture. After a few minutes, however, the flow slows to a stream, then a steady trickle, though it never ceases completely. Seconds later, a hand emerges from the tub where there had been no one before, and the Drowned Woman clutches desperately at the edges. She scrambles out and sits in the middle of the floor for a time, choking and shaking. She rises only when someone approaches -- and then her desperate fervour returns as she tries to claw them into her clutches.

Starting in the Yellow Bedroom and wandering out from there, a familiar little girl has appeared. The Mute Ghost Girl is smiling as ever -- but something is wrong. Her normal silence is broken by quiet singing and soft giggles, words never distinguishable but her delight evident. Perhaps more alarmingly, her perfectly white dress and her clear skin have been quite thoroughly stained in blood. Shy glances have been replaced by cold stares, her smile never quite making it to her eyes. The child wanders from room to room, peering into bedrooms and out windows. Any house-guest who comes close to her will find her attention very suddenly focused on them, and she will reach for them and grab them as if she is searching for comfort from whatever has so changed her. The grip, however, is tearing and her very touch seems to burn through any protection to sear and wear at the skin, as if the sticky red substance on her hands is actually a layer of corrosive acid.

Sitting on the bed of the Dirty Bedroom, almost patiently, the Electric Ghost has reappeared. Sparks of energy course through its charred body, the occasion light of electricity seeming to move across its very skin. It is unrelenting, this night, and will not hesitate to leap for anyone who enters the room. Its blindfold-- and blindness-- seem to bother it little in the tracking of prey. Once the room has been entered, it will make an effort to block escape, its searching touch searching out and seizing the house-guests The smell of cooked flesh and burnt hair is overwhelming in this room.

In all Parlours and Sitting Rooms groups of Chestmouths have gathered. These beasts lumber from side to side in the rooms they have chosen to inhabit, stumbling toward those they detect. Once found, a house-guest runs the risk of having the long arms of the creatures claw at them and force them into their gaping maws to be torn asunder and devoured. Slow to notice or move, however, a well timed escape across the floor may evade their notice. Too much noise, however, and even these will be unable to miss that someone is trying to escape them.

Emerging from the basement in a flood, the Twisted have reappeared quite suddenly. They shamble aimlessly up the stairs at first as the scatter across the house and, inevitably, all three houses. They do not even hesitate to avoid harming one another in their rush to escape the stairwell leading up, trampling each other and anyone or anything else that gets in their way. There is little to connect each of these to one group aside from their like-minded feral nature and vicious determination to tear into anyone they encounter. Still, though, they do not cross the paths of the hellhounds, and will not pass through hallways containing the dog-beasts until the hounds' attention is utterly elsewhere.

At the entrance of the Shelter Bedroom, the Kitten can be seen. It occasionally weaves into the room it guards, but otherwise attacks feet in a playful manner, pouncing before quickly dodging back into the surrounding walls. It seems generally at ease in the situation, though it seems to avoid getting too close to the beds.

Under the Shelter beds, hiding out of sight and nearly out of mind, the Crawling Boy has returned. Occasionally desperate cries or murmurs of hunger and fear can be heard, a pitiable and pathetic sound breaking the silence of the room, though he stays hidden. It is only when a house-guest enters the room, regardless of reasoning, that he emerges. Shooting out with remarkable speed for a child with broken legs and twisted features, he immediately lunges for anyone close enough to grab, tearing into them and biting into skin and flesh.

In all mirrors guests may notice what seem to be some sort of flitting dark shadows in the room behind them. Turning and checking shows nothing else in the room with them, though the shadows can still be seen in their peripheral vision -- and bring with them the unnerving sensation of being watched.

Those guests who simply walk away now will find that the feeling of being watched and not being alone only grows more and more viscerally intense, and that the soft rattle-tap of shaking glass seems to follow them no matter where they go -- anywhere there are surfaces that can reflect light at all, as a matter of fact, whether they can see a proper reflection or not. These objects seem almost drawn to them -- whether that happens to be cutlery, metal household furnishings, or even glass knick-knacks; it doesn't matter in the slightest, and guests may need to stay wary to ensure that they don't end up needing to pull a fork out of their hand, or find some tweezers to remove glass shards.

Those who stay to watch -- or succumb to the air of paranoia that lingers with them and seek out a mirror to look into -- will find the Faceless Mirror Man sidling into the frame, palms pressed against the glass and somehow looking plaintive, expressions or none. It seems as though he's trying desperately to convey some message, as though the guests could make out a voice if only they focused hard enough... Being caught in his "gaze" tonight instils an almost hypnotic compulsion to approach and touch the mirror, at which point they will be dragged into it outright. No amount of willpower is enough to resist him; only another guest is able to hold them back, or break the trance.

Outside in the Greenhouse a Carriage sits in front of the door, though it seems to have melted from the mist itself, rather than arrived. There are no tracks behind it, nor anything cutting the rain softened dirt in front of it. The carriage holds one passenger already, with room for one more to sit beside her. The driver seems intent on something in his lap, one hand occasionally brushing against the blankets, though he makes not a sound to indicate what he might hold. They seem to be waiting for someone, the horse oddly attentive on the dirt path in front of them, as though it is anxious to be off again, though it does not shift within the harness. The passenger sleeps, though she seems close to waking, hands flexing against the side of the carriage. The man is old, eyes lost to the folds of wrinkles, skin dark and weathered. Those who pause to take a close look will observe that he is missing a leg. He does not seem threatening, or even attentive to those who might approach. He, the horse, and his passenger all seem to be waiting for someone who might not appear, and content to wait until morning for the chance. The mist drifts around the carriage, though the driver does not seem at all bothered by the fog.

Those with the ability to tell will find that there are no true Safe Rooms tonight. There will be no safety from the monsters, save for several small Orbs, scattered throughout the houses. These Orbs create a temporary safe room, lasting only one hour before they need to be recharged, taking a full six hours of normal time before they work again. They can cover an entire room, but do not work well in hallways. They are in limited number, and can only be found in the First Two Houses. Use them sparingly.

As the Phantasm turns to leave the Rough Kitchen, it pauses to lift the bag dropped by the ghost from the ground. Once it has finally cleared the room, the Art Enthusiast begins to move at last. He seems restrained, as though something struggles for control of the frame. He is clearly hostile, attempting to break the neck of anyone who remains within reach for very long, but also seems reluctant to allow any of the guests to get that close. He tries to wave them away, to indicate that they should stay back. Those who heed his warnings and continue to follow him might even notice that he seems to be indicating certain areas within the house. Those who explore will quickly discover that he is indicating the location of the Orbs.

The Clock in the parlour seems to be broken, frozen at the hour of Noon. The hands are stopped and do not move forward. The nightfall is complete, deep and true. There will be no midnight, and dawn seems a small eternity away. If it ever comes.

( Threat Down )