allthekeys

Day break creeps up on the house, the soft light of dawn penetrating the windows. The Wraiths fade like fog, returned to wherever they came from. Gone without a trace, leaving only a faint lingering cold where they had been.

The remaining Zombies fall to the ground -- nothing more than cold, rotting corpses in the light of day. Men, women, and even a few scattered children are left in piles of flesh and fabric throughout the second house. They offer no greater indication of animation than any other half frozen body would, nor any sign of why they might have ever possessed it. An enterprising house-guest might be able to shift through their bodies for useful tools and items.

All monsters and ghosts scattered throughout the houses vanish as the clock starts to chime. The Sirens writhe for a last time in their dance, the singer trailing off in her song as if aware her time has come to an end. In every house, the guests will find themselves yielding to sleep and teasing of the house's dreams.

The blue figure in the ballroom rises, bowing to the musicians and joining its fellows in fading from view.

The beast roaming the First House seems bothered by the sounds of the chimes. Not just bothered, in fact, something more extreme. No matter where they are, guests in all houses can feel the creature's fear. Despite its large size, it begins to back away as the light creeps across the dance floor -- staying away from the encroaching day. It shudders as the last chime sounds, beginning to unravel as the dreamers watch. The foul flesh falls away, shadows writhing as the daylight banishes them to reveal the boy hidden beneath.

Lock falls to the ground as the last of the illusion fades, body shuddering in pain as his injuries start to heal and chest jerking as he gasps for air. He looks rather battered -- left sleeve torn completely off, pants ripped to the point that they are little more than shorts. Gashes and holes cover the rest of his clothing, the remaining fabric barely enough to keep him covered, and clearly not enough to keep him warm. His face, especially, is covered in cuts and scrapes that seem delayed in their healing.

His blood steams in the air as his skin slowly knits itself closed, traces of the darkness clinging to his skin like bruises. Lock's mouth is solidly stitched closed, eyes fluttering as though he is caught between yielding to the desire to sleep and forcing himself to stay awake. He seems too exhausted to rise, arms trembling in the brief reflexive effort he makes to push himself up. The tattoo has receded from his face, though the bare skin of his arm is still dark with the ink.

The red-haired girl is by his side.

"That was a fun game, wasn't it? We should play it again sometime."

The boy groans, a miserable sound muffled by the current state of his mouth.

"I thought so too." Danielle smiles, kneeling to pat the prone child's head. He turns it, trying to avoid her touch, but she ignores the attempt -- or chooses not to care about it. "Poor Lock, you’re running out of time. What will you do when you run out of hours?" The boy makes no response, limp beneath her hand as though the energy to fight has fled his body. "Do you want me to fix your mouth for you, Lock? There isn’t a reason to keep you silent now. You have nothing that might be useful to hear." She smiles brightly, seemingly oblivious to his discontent, but with no response apparent she presses on -- fingers tugging at his hair to gain his attention. "You failed, you know. Even with all the blood you shed. She was born."

Lock's eyes close, body slumping in defeat.

As though they have only blinked the scene shifts, changing into one closer to twilight than dawn. The children are gone, and in their place is an unfamiliar man standing in the Chapel. He is clearly a priest, though he has seen better days. The robes of his office have been torn, several gashes revealing damaged flesh beneath. The area around him is littered with the newly dead, the room stinking of blood. Whoever the dreamers watch as seems unaffected by the death -- in fact, something in them seems to unnerve the priest they stand opposite. His terror is nothing to be concerned over, only a source of amusement.

"Why did she spare me?" The priest asks, hands extended in supplication as he approaches.

The watcher feels like they might be smiling.

"She was never your enemy, Father."

The priest takes a step back, face going gray beneath the blood covering him and eyes wide with panic.

"What are you? What has taken you?"

The dreamers will find themselves moving forward, stalking him like a prey animal.

"I am as I have always been, Father, as I was when you paid my parents three gold coins for the life of their third son. I am only what you have formed."

"Why?"

The man chuckles and the house-guests feel it, as though something loose had rattled free in their chests. The taste of copper overwhelms the stench of burned flesh.

"Why? Do not mistake your life for mercy, Father. There are bodies to be buried, and you must lay them all to rest. Every man, woman, and child. They will hardly bury themselves. Say their final prayers until your throat bleeds beneath the words, dig the graves and cover them over until your hands are useless to hold a knife." He took another step forward, feeling a surge of pleasure when the man cowered against the alter. "I can think of no greater punishment for you, vain prince of fools and liars, than to show you the price of your judgement."

"Please, my child."

The laughter continues, twisted and lacking remorse.

"When you have finished, my beloved father, then you have my permission to die. See to it however you see fit."

The dream shifts, distorting as though viewed from under water. Something struggling for purchase until the ripples give way to a vision, something forcing them to see. Not a dream, but something else.

The three sleeping figures in the ??? Room come into view.

All seems calm, nothing unusual, nothing to draw the notice of the house-guests, nothing to reveal why they might be here at all.

The man in the center tank begins to move, hands pressing against the glass as he tests its strength.

The struggle goes on for several moments, testing smacks turning into punches.

The glass shatters outward, pushing far wider than his strength could have repelled it.

He emerges from the tank coughing and laughing, hand lifting to strip the mask from his face.

The water closes around them, the vision fading.

The distant sound of a baby crying creeps through the house as the house-guests start to wake, quieting with the sound of the last chime.

Those awakening will find that much has changed while they slept, not the least of which being their own attire. It appears that some helpful soul has changed their clothes. Any outwear they might have possessed has been left with them, though it has all been washed and freshly pressed. Anything they may have had in their pockets has been placed in small bags, finely made and apparently capable of holding much more than they should.

The attire differs from guest to guest, though each outfit has been tailored to fit them exactly – material as fine as the bags and cut is perfectly suited to them. The colors are even flattering, as though someone has spent time picking the perfect outfit for them. The only regret may be that it is perhaps a little more formal than they might have wished to wear in the house.

All the females in the house will find themselves in possession of a hooded cloak, the dark, blueish grey fabric woven out of a strange material they do not recognize, though it seems resistant to damage and stain and is incredibly warm. It even seems to cut a little of the chill for the sensitive.

Though their new clothes are a puzzle they must try to find an answer for, it is not the only thing they will face in the daytime. The hunger they have been struggling with has not abated, though any new arrivals will find themselves unmolested by the strange pangs their companions are suffering.

Despite this the doors between the houses once more stand open, allowing easy passage for the displaced house-guests.

The ??? Room in the second house is solidly locked, though anyone caring to look around may find a carved mask discarded on the floor. The mask has been shaped to resemble the face of a man, smooth on the inside as though constantly worn. A discerning ear pressed to the door may catch the sound of voices from within, though no one makes any move to answer the door if someone is daring enough to knock.

The Barkeep remains in the bar and can have requests made of him. He seems cheerful in the light of day, and rather amused to find himself there.

In the Red Hallway the ghost of the Art Enthusiast cries quietly as he is restored for the day once more. Bones snap back into place and life is seemingly returned to him until Don remains once again, exhausted and dizzy. He does not linger for long, however, before beginning to move -- leaning on the wall for some support as he regains his footing. He seems to be looking for someone, but is more than willing to spare the usual friendliness for any who pass.

The Children of the Shelter Bedroom grow increasingly alarmed and startled as the hour of dawn approaches. Their game is paused, each child withdrawing their hands from the flames. Eventually the Girl Twin nods to them all, and seems as if she might reassure them, especially as some of the younger ones grow especially nervous. She gives light and comforting touches to calm them and steady them as the last moments of night pass.

By the time dawn arrives they have all disappeared, leaving only the remnants of their game behind, the smoky scent of fire and brandy in the dish in the centre.

The Wax Daughter has disappeared while the guests dreamt from her hiding place in the Second House-- but she is yet to return to her family. She is found instead hiding in the pantry of the Rough Kitchen, peering out of the slightly open door. She covers her face, her lifeless eyes only slightly visible through her fingers, a blanket tied around her shoulders like a cape. The glint of something metal is just barely seen in her hands, but no amount of prying can remove it.

She does not remain in place for long-- soon she has vacated the room and spends the day following Arthur Kipps at a distance. She is never seen moving, but seems to appear periodically in different rooms, always hidden slightly out of sight, where she can watch. She remains ever silent.

In the Dining Room the scene continues, apparently in stop motion. The little girl's chair remains on the floor, but one more has joined it as another has vacated. The Mother has risen from her seat, seemingly agitated and anxious. She is fearful and stands with her hand outstretched timidly from her chest.

The Son remains tipped in place, flat against the table and apparently unable to move. The word 'in' has been added to his message, still partially hidden beneath where he lays his head, eyes now closed.

The Father seems to be missing altogether.

It is when people enter the room, however, that something seems to shift in the scene-- while generally unresponsive the Mother of the group reacts to those that interacted with the wax girl during the night. She turns her head, almost imperceptibly, and seems to watch them moving through the room. Not a moment will go by where they do not feel as if she is scrutinizing and silently judging them.

In the Ballroom several of the Unnatural Servants seem to be intent on tuning their instruments. They are rather devoted to the task and seem unwilling to accept any interruption.

Lock has placed himself on a table nearby. He has apparently taken the time to shower and change, leaving no evidence that the earlier dream took place at all. He is smiling rather brightly and humming a tune counter to what the servants are trying to practice, much to the obvious annoyance of the strange creatures. Lock seems to be waiting for someone to come looking for him, and appears far more relaxed than many of the house-guests can ever remember seeing him.

The other Unnatural Servants have set themselves to another task. As the day progresses they move through the houses, gathering up the broken bodies of the zombies left behind and cleaning up the mess that night has left in its wake. The servants that are cleaning do not react to anyone who tries to speak to them, focused entirely on scrubbing the house until it shines. It is as though they are preparing for someone to arrive and want the house to appear at its best.

Anyone in possession of a pocket watch or other time piece might notice something strange is happening. The ticking is growing louder by the moment, and the movement is going backwards, and slowly, the pieces lagging like the clock in the parlour. Almost as though it is counting down to something.

The doors to Wax, Velvet and Silk are locked, though anyone who spends much time at the doors might hear despondent weeping from each room.

As the clock in the Parlor reaches the nine o’clock point, the clock rattles to life, chiming the hour through the house as though in warning. The mirrors darken with the sound, shadows pooling around them even in the bright light of day and creating blackened and cold voices, not that there is much chance for investigation.

Anyone who stands near the mirrors will die.