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As the last chime fades from the crisp air, soft whispering begins throughout the house. It remains indistinct and sourceless, though troubling to the houseguests as the day winds to a close. Despite being quiet and out of reach, the voices somehow sound familiar.
The house is quiet, the fires remain cheerful, and the trees are stripped of the last of their fruit.
Outside, the wind gathers strength, cold air finding gaps under windows and doors. The temperature is dropping.
((ooc: And it's that time again, folks! There are event sign ups: we will draw for seven names in one week's time. There is a general trigger warning for the event, same as usual.))
The house is quiet, the fires remain cheerful, and the trees are stripped of the last of their fruit.
Outside, the wind gathers strength, cold air finding gaps under windows and doors. The temperature is dropping.
((ooc: And it's that time again, folks! There are event sign ups: we will draw for seven names in one week's time. There is a general trigger warning for the event, same as usual.))
Day returns with the chiming of the clock, sunlight poking its way into the house and banishing the depths of the night. Those who have encountered the Sundial will find that the day does not abate any of the noises they have been hearing, nor does it banish how relaxing they are. For the rest of the houseguests, though, the clock is as silent as it ever was -- only audible if they stand close.
The Red Bedroom goes out as dawn arrives on the house, the Burning Man standing for a moment in the center of the room -- flesh mending in ragged patches over his body. What little remains of his clothes hangs in scorched tatters around his slowly healing frame. Despite the seeming reprise from his grisly fate his eyes remain anguished, staring deep into the soul of any who happen to seem him in the strange half light of dawn. By the time the clock has finished chiming the man has vanished from the room, though to where it is difficult to tell.
The humming fades from the house as day arrives, leaving the guests feeling a little emptier now that the music has stopped. This emptiness seems to spread to any attempt at music making, the notes falling flat on those who attempt them -- though there seems to be absolutely nothing wrong with their hearing.
As each houseguest rises for the day they will find that a box has been left near their place of rest. The box has no label, though each seems intended for the guest who rises to find it. Each box holds a coat, a set of gloves, a scarf, a pair of winter boots, and a pair of heavy socks. No one will see who left the box, and there seems to be no clue with which to work it out, but each set will be perfect fit for the person who receives the package.
In any outside area a light frost has settled on the ground, though it will melt away by mid morning. It seems that fall has begun to arrive on the house.
In the Rose Garden, all of the roses save one have started to wither. The pure white bloom remains untouched by the frost in seeming defiance of the shift of the season. Anyone who attempts to pick it will find that it is covered in thorns, shredding their hands and defying any blade that is employed in the attempt to cut it away from its bush.
Someone has left a small bouquet of poppy flowers on the stone, as well as a small flask of liquid and two cakes wrapped in a handkerchief. The small offering remains in its place throughout the day, as though whatever might dwell there is loathe to disturb it.
In the Orchard the apples hang heavy and ripe on the branches. Someone seems to have been picking them, and baskets sit around the trees half full of the ripened fruit. The harvest crew is not in evidence, though throughout the day the trees will be slowly stripped of fruit.
The apples seem to be being taken to the other house by the same invisible agent that has been plucking them from their trees. Throughout the day, baskets of apples appear in the Plain Kitchen and there always seems to be a pie baking in the oven, filling the kitchen with the smell of baking pastry.
Several pies have been set out to cool and, should anyone dare to take one, they are quite tasty. The pastry is light and flaky, and the filling is spicy without being too sweet.
The Tea Trays have returned, set with a number of fall treats and tasty cakes. The tea has been set out once more, as well as small tureens of hot apple cider to banish the chill of the morning.
In the Day Room the Little Girl has appeared, sitting almost gravely next to her tea set. She will not speak to anyone who approaches her, save for the one who she is waiting for. In Jamie’s pocket, the white flower has started to bloom.
In the Greenhouse the fog seems to have lifted slightly, though a chill has settled over the entire area. Within the twisting paths and trees the sound of construction can be faintly heard. The carriage has vanished once more, leaving no mark behind on the path.
In the Stable the horses have vanished once more, though the sounds of their movements remain.
In Every Parlor and any room with a Fireplace a fire has been lit. The flames crackle cheerfully, though they seem almost alive, twisting into strange shapes and casting odd shadows on those who stop to warm themselves on it. The flames seem harmless and will warm anyone who stops beside them, including sensitives, from the unnatural chill the house has trapped them within.
No reflections have returned to the Mirrors, they remain dark and shadowed. They are cold to the touch, and seem almost liquid beneath the hand of the unwary. Those who stop in any of the Bathrooms or the Mirror Bedroom will feel as though something is watching them.
The Dolls line the shelves of the Doll Bathroom fully once more, although any who have attacked or harmed any doll, figurine, statue or toy of the house may feel they are being watched. Every so often they may spot a Doll out of the corner of their eyes, somehow in a room with them when surely it was not before. How did they not notice it? Or perhaps their mind is playing tricks on them? Is it just them, or does the same doll seem to appear later in another room? Perhaps it is simply that all the dolls look the same.
Perhaps not.
The plush toy destroyed by Vincent the previous day appears to have righted at some point and now sits on a shelf in the Doll Bathroom. The stitching to fix it is extensive, and as a result its appearance is somewhat warped -- button eyes askew and fixed smile a little unnerving. Around one of its arms is a small, black band matching the other dolls.
The Wax Man remains standing in the Husk Bedroom, swaying on his feet. The wind has blown the charcoal drawing at his feet into chaotic blotches, but he still seems to be waiting for something. He remains unresponsive to any attempts to speak with him, though will still react as though in pain to those who carry items from the Scavenger hunt
In the Velvet Bedroom the man settles to the floor of his cell, knees drawn to his chest and eyes closed as though in sleep. He seems as though he’s smiling, body tucked into the furthest corner. Whatever has transpired during the night, it seems to have given him some peace.
The prisoner in the Silk Bedroom remains oddly content, a smile more visible now. She remains still, aside from her slow and steady breathing.
The humming in the Closed Closet trails away to silence as dawn arrives, nothing stirring within the confines.
The flower on the desk in the Study is dripping a thin, clear liquid. The smell is rather alarmingly sweet, almost cloying, but there seems to be no source for the steady flow of liquid.
The mobile in the Nursery is still spinning slowly, the faintest strains of music audible to anyone who steps close. The crib is warm, despite the early morning chill. The rocking chair occasionally moves, as though someone sits within it, though there is no violence to the action.
In the Attic a woman stumbles into view, seemingly from nowhere. She turns back towards the wall, scowling at the wood, and seeming for a moment like she might kick the wood in a fit of pique. She doesn’t, dusting herself off and straightening to her full height before turning to make her way down the stairs. Ricci has returned to the house.
With the arrival of morning, a shuddering pain seems to overcome Don where he lies on a couch in the Gallery. He clings tighter to the wine bottle in which he has found solace, but it seems to offer little reprieve from the apparent discomfort as he is racked by nerves. It passes-- still very much alive, he seems more interested in his drink and the art around him than whatever it was that came over him.
The Frogs settle as day arrives on the house, though they seem to shrink in the sudden cold. They are happy to be held. Every child under the age of ten will wake to find one of these stuffed creatures haunting their steps, happy to tuck themselves into bags or hoods of their tiny human charges. They are quite impossible to lose or destroy, no matter what is attempted.
The Red Bedroom goes out as dawn arrives on the house, the Burning Man standing for a moment in the center of the room -- flesh mending in ragged patches over his body. What little remains of his clothes hangs in scorched tatters around his slowly healing frame. Despite the seeming reprise from his grisly fate his eyes remain anguished, staring deep into the soul of any who happen to seem him in the strange half light of dawn. By the time the clock has finished chiming the man has vanished from the room, though to where it is difficult to tell.
The humming fades from the house as day arrives, leaving the guests feeling a little emptier now that the music has stopped. This emptiness seems to spread to any attempt at music making, the notes falling flat on those who attempt them -- though there seems to be absolutely nothing wrong with their hearing.
As each houseguest rises for the day they will find that a box has been left near their place of rest. The box has no label, though each seems intended for the guest who rises to find it. Each box holds a coat, a set of gloves, a scarf, a pair of winter boots, and a pair of heavy socks. No one will see who left the box, and there seems to be no clue with which to work it out, but each set will be perfect fit for the person who receives the package.
In any outside area a light frost has settled on the ground, though it will melt away by mid morning. It seems that fall has begun to arrive on the house.
In the Rose Garden, all of the roses save one have started to wither. The pure white bloom remains untouched by the frost in seeming defiance of the shift of the season. Anyone who attempts to pick it will find that it is covered in thorns, shredding their hands and defying any blade that is employed in the attempt to cut it away from its bush.
Someone has left a small bouquet of poppy flowers on the stone, as well as a small flask of liquid and two cakes wrapped in a handkerchief. The small offering remains in its place throughout the day, as though whatever might dwell there is loathe to disturb it.
In the Orchard the apples hang heavy and ripe on the branches. Someone seems to have been picking them, and baskets sit around the trees half full of the ripened fruit. The harvest crew is not in evidence, though throughout the day the trees will be slowly stripped of fruit.
The apples seem to be being taken to the other house by the same invisible agent that has been plucking them from their trees. Throughout the day, baskets of apples appear in the Plain Kitchen and there always seems to be a pie baking in the oven, filling the kitchen with the smell of baking pastry.
Several pies have been set out to cool and, should anyone dare to take one, they are quite tasty. The pastry is light and flaky, and the filling is spicy without being too sweet.
The Tea Trays have returned, set with a number of fall treats and tasty cakes. The tea has been set out once more, as well as small tureens of hot apple cider to banish the chill of the morning.
In the Day Room the Little Girl has appeared, sitting almost gravely next to her tea set. She will not speak to anyone who approaches her, save for the one who she is waiting for. In Jamie’s pocket, the white flower has started to bloom.
In the Greenhouse the fog seems to have lifted slightly, though a chill has settled over the entire area. Within the twisting paths and trees the sound of construction can be faintly heard. The carriage has vanished once more, leaving no mark behind on the path.
In the Stable the horses have vanished once more, though the sounds of their movements remain.
In Every Parlor and any room with a Fireplace a fire has been lit. The flames crackle cheerfully, though they seem almost alive, twisting into strange shapes and casting odd shadows on those who stop to warm themselves on it. The flames seem harmless and will warm anyone who stops beside them, including sensitives, from the unnatural chill the house has trapped them within.
No reflections have returned to the Mirrors, they remain dark and shadowed. They are cold to the touch, and seem almost liquid beneath the hand of the unwary. Those who stop in any of the Bathrooms or the Mirror Bedroom will feel as though something is watching them.
The Dolls line the shelves of the Doll Bathroom fully once more, although any who have attacked or harmed any doll, figurine, statue or toy of the house may feel they are being watched. Every so often they may spot a Doll out of the corner of their eyes, somehow in a room with them when surely it was not before. How did they not notice it? Or perhaps their mind is playing tricks on them? Is it just them, or does the same doll seem to appear later in another room? Perhaps it is simply that all the dolls look the same.
Perhaps not.
The plush toy destroyed by Vincent the previous day appears to have righted at some point and now sits on a shelf in the Doll Bathroom. The stitching to fix it is extensive, and as a result its appearance is somewhat warped -- button eyes askew and fixed smile a little unnerving. Around one of its arms is a small, black band matching the other dolls.
The Wax Man remains standing in the Husk Bedroom, swaying on his feet. The wind has blown the charcoal drawing at his feet into chaotic blotches, but he still seems to be waiting for something. He remains unresponsive to any attempts to speak with him, though will still react as though in pain to those who carry items from the Scavenger hunt
In the Velvet Bedroom the man settles to the floor of his cell, knees drawn to his chest and eyes closed as though in sleep. He seems as though he’s smiling, body tucked into the furthest corner. Whatever has transpired during the night, it seems to have given him some peace.
The prisoner in the Silk Bedroom remains oddly content, a smile more visible now. She remains still, aside from her slow and steady breathing.
The humming in the Closed Closet trails away to silence as dawn arrives, nothing stirring within the confines.
The flower on the desk in the Study is dripping a thin, clear liquid. The smell is rather alarmingly sweet, almost cloying, but there seems to be no source for the steady flow of liquid.
The mobile in the Nursery is still spinning slowly, the faintest strains of music audible to anyone who steps close. The crib is warm, despite the early morning chill. The rocking chair occasionally moves, as though someone sits within it, though there is no violence to the action.
In the Attic a woman stumbles into view, seemingly from nowhere. She turns back towards the wall, scowling at the wood, and seeming for a moment like she might kick the wood in a fit of pique. She doesn’t, dusting herself off and straightening to her full height before turning to make her way down the stairs. Ricci has returned to the house.
With the arrival of morning, a shuddering pain seems to overcome Don where he lies on a couch in the Gallery. He clings tighter to the wine bottle in which he has found solace, but it seems to offer little reprieve from the apparent discomfort as he is racked by nerves. It passes-- still very much alive, he seems more interested in his drink and the art around him than whatever it was that came over him.
The Frogs settle as day arrives on the house, though they seem to shrink in the sudden cold. They are happy to be held. Every child under the age of ten will wake to find one of these stuffed creatures haunting their steps, happy to tuck themselves into bags or hoods of their tiny human charges. They are quite impossible to lose or destroy, no matter what is attempted.
