Day 005
Dawn returns as the clock begins to chime, banishing the monsters once more and silencing the raucous sounds of construction that dominated the night. Anyone in the Gardener’s Wing will hear and audible click as the exterior door unlocks. Anyone exiting will find themselves in the Greenhouse.
Anyone standing above, in the Day Room will notice that the door at the end of the Floating Hall has opened, leaving crumbly piles of dry wall behind. This allows any who wish to enter what seems to be another house entirely.
Anyone near the Dollhouse Room will notice something odd, amidst the normal flickers of lights in the normal house, another door opens. The house almost seems to have moved, a hallway connecting it to the already open house. But surely the Dollhouses mean nothing?
In the Blue Kitchen, should anyone be inside, a door appears next to the Dumbwaiter, it's solidly locked for the moment and impossible to get past.
The mist fades slower, burned away by the fog, and with it goes the fear and tension that has dominated the night. As it fades, drifting in clingy eddies around the house, something else appears. Although it seems strange, since the house is still full of a biting chill, there are seven butterflies to be found throughout the house. Touching them or coming near them causes anyone around them to be pulled into a memory. These memories feel real and like a character’s own memory so long as they are in them, and once the memory ends it becomes difficult to shake off entirely. The unwary might even find themselves integrating these memories into their own experiences, unnoticed even if they conflict. These memories and the emotions they experience affect characters as though they are living the events themselves. Even characters who would normally not have emotional reactions will be affected. Note that once experienced, the butterflies will not vanish, but will remain for the rest of the day.
Some of the memories include triggers for bodily harm and have been hidden under cuts. PLEASE READ THE TRIGGERS BEFORE CLICKING IN!
Greenhouse:
It hurt to breathe, in that strange sort of way that she didn’t like that only really happened when she ran a lot or was hurt. But she wasn’t hurt and she hadn’t been running. One of the adults was talking, but she could barely focus on what they were saying with how much it hurt to breathe.
“-Something in the fog, I think. I don’t know. We’re high, too high for it.”
“Are you expecting things to make sense now?”
One of the adults picked her up, holding her close and protecting her and absently playing with her hair. She liked it when they played with her hair, it meant the adults felt safe enough to touch. She tried to say that it hurt to breathe, but she couldn’t make the words form enough to say it. Her head felt dizzy, like she couldn’t think, and she kept seeing spots in front of her eyes. Didn’t it hurt for them to breathe as well?
She thought she saw something, something watching her.
Help, I can’t breathe.
***
In The Wallpapered Parlor:
He was not really nursing anymore, even if he gave the appearance of doing so. She could tell he was fast asleep, one tiny fist tangled in her hair even as he dozed. She would need to find something else for him to sooth himself with eventually, especially when he started teething.
But for the moment, the thought of putting her baby down filled her with dread and uncertainty. He was beautiful and perfect and hers, and if she could offer him a tiny bit of comfort, then she would.
The good lord knew there was little enough of that to find in this horrible place. “We’ll be fine, the three of us. Your daddy and I will make sure you’re safe, sweetie. You won’t ever need to be afraid of the dark.” What would her mother think, to see her here with this baby in her arms? To know what she had given over to make certain they were safe?
But how could she have made another choice?
She hummed, legs curled beneath her. What magic there was left to weave was hers, and she would make certain her son had every chance for life. “Nothing will hurt you while I’m here, nothing and no one.”
***
Surgery Room: Trigger For Restraint And Amputation And Torture
“My name is Jon, I live at 122 North Ashvale St in Lewisville, Maine. I have a little sister named Tammy and my-pleasepleaseplease.”
The only thing he was conscious of was pain, pain and the steady litany of his name and his family and the things he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t forget. He couldn’t let them pry those memories out of him like they had everything else.
“You talk too much.”
He sobbed, broken and afraid, not ready for more pain. “Please. Please stop. Please.”
He’d give anything to have it stop. “My name is Jon. I live at-“ Fingers hooked in the corner of his mouth, prying it open and cutting the words off. Nonononoonono. He gagged on the fingers, tried to bite the rotting flesh as it grabbed his tongue, pulling the muscle taunt and reaching with a pair of-no.
He screamed, cutting off into a gurgle of horror as blood filled his throat, groaned again low in his throat, choking and gagging as he struggled to breathe around the mouthful of blood.
No. No. Not his voice. Please. Anything but his voice. He needed his voice. Please. No.
***
Day Room:
Here she could almost forget that she was trapped, with this strange, unmapped world spread beneath her.
This place had practically been made for her, a clear view for miles around, uninterrupted by the building she occupied. She smiled as she watched the clouds brush against the window, quietly adding details to her map as she watched them go by. Let the others run about and try to solve the mystery; she had found an even greater mystery than the house they occupied.
An alien world, a world untainted by false maps and other cartographers. A world that had been made for her to map. A beautiful world, inhabited though it was by freaks and monsters, where no government could control her maps or dictate what should remain unwritten.
Her world.
“I wish I had a ship to sail your waters, you lovely creature.”
***
Viewing Room:
It was such a strange thing to have time to bathe. To not have one of the boys calling for her, to not have a husband or tasks or, more recently, monsters to distract her from the simple pleasure of bathing herself. She studied herself in the mirror, caught as though she was a teenager again obsessed with her image, fresh with ideals about how the world would work and how her life would be fulfilled with love and romance and knights and stories.
There hadn’t been any knights, had there? Only a boring town and a boring husband and two children she adored and life grinding what remained of the faith and hope out of her soul.
No adventures. No stories. No happy endings.
Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore, two babies had changed the shape of her body and at home…well, there hadn’t been anyone to care, had there? Who cared if she looked nice?
She swept her hair back from her face, studying the line of her throat in the mirror.
What did he see? What did they see? She was one of the oldest people here, one of the adults, she should hold it together, not indulge in…this.
“What does he see that’s worth having?” She was a traitor, she didn’t even wear her wedding band anymore. What sort of reprehensible person was she? She had a life, a home; her focus should be on getting back to that.
“Ricci?”
Her heart jumped, arms crossing reflexively over her chest. “Coming.”
***
Parlor:
It was strange how much it had come to seem like routine. Things had changed so much, things were missing and lost. People had, people were. This entire damned situation was wrong and yet this seemed normal, somehow.
But that was the way things were-- things and people died, changed, and left. He couldn't change that.
It was a small voice, a simple "like this?" that snapped him out of his thoughts. It was best he didn't dwell on them anyway. Instead, he smiled, looking down at the young girl who, standing on the chair, was trying to add more spice to the pot of pasta on the stove top.
He nodded. "Like that. Just a little more. You don't want to add too much, you don't want to make it too hot." A flicker of fear attacked the corners of his mind, but he did his best to keep stone faced. For her.
She was already looking away by then, though. She tapped a little bit into the pot, and he reached over to very carefully turn the heat up so it could begin to boil.
He looked down at her again, placing one hand on her head to ruffle her hair. The previous feeling was overtaken by one much warmer, if one he couldn't quite explain or place. He hesitated for a brief second before he leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of her head. The gesture earned him a delighted smile, and the warmth in his mind grew just a little bit stronger.
***
Gardener's Wing:
He was changing. He could feel it. He couldn’t touch them anymore, couldn’t indulge in the passing comfort of human contact. There was a fire burning in him, dragging him under like the tide, burning away all that he had been. He was afraid the fire would burn them too, if he let it out. Was afraid what he might do. He was tired. He had to protect them; he had to keep going, continue to be strong.
He hated it. Hated the monster he saw in the mirror every day, wondered what he would become.
Wondered how long it would be before he couldn’t pick up his baby girl anymore and not feel like he was tainting her.
He could hear her giggling; hear her mother encouraging the laughter.
He reached up, touching the lines of his face, raking his fingers through his hair and staring at the streaks of gray.
“Fuck you.”
He didn’t even realize he was moving until the mirror shattered, exploding around his fist, blood streaking over the glass and dripping to the floor.
In the other room, his daughter started to cry.
Anyone standing above, in the Day Room will notice that the door at the end of the Floating Hall has opened, leaving crumbly piles of dry wall behind. This allows any who wish to enter what seems to be another house entirely.
Anyone near the Dollhouse Room will notice something odd, amidst the normal flickers of lights in the normal house, another door opens. The house almost seems to have moved, a hallway connecting it to the already open house. But surely the Dollhouses mean nothing?
In the Blue Kitchen, should anyone be inside, a door appears next to the Dumbwaiter, it's solidly locked for the moment and impossible to get past.
The mist fades slower, burned away by the fog, and with it goes the fear and tension that has dominated the night. As it fades, drifting in clingy eddies around the house, something else appears. Although it seems strange, since the house is still full of a biting chill, there are seven butterflies to be found throughout the house. Touching them or coming near them causes anyone around them to be pulled into a memory. These memories feel real and like a character’s own memory so long as they are in them, and once the memory ends it becomes difficult to shake off entirely. The unwary might even find themselves integrating these memories into their own experiences, unnoticed even if they conflict. These memories and the emotions they experience affect characters as though they are living the events themselves. Even characters who would normally not have emotional reactions will be affected. Note that once experienced, the butterflies will not vanish, but will remain for the rest of the day.
Some of the memories include triggers for bodily harm and have been hidden under cuts. PLEASE READ THE TRIGGERS BEFORE CLICKING IN!
Greenhouse:
It hurt to breathe, in that strange sort of way that she didn’t like that only really happened when she ran a lot or was hurt. But she wasn’t hurt and she hadn’t been running. One of the adults was talking, but she could barely focus on what they were saying with how much it hurt to breathe.
“-Something in the fog, I think. I don’t know. We’re high, too high for it.”
“Are you expecting things to make sense now?”
One of the adults picked her up, holding her close and protecting her and absently playing with her hair. She liked it when they played with her hair, it meant the adults felt safe enough to touch. She tried to say that it hurt to breathe, but she couldn’t make the words form enough to say it. Her head felt dizzy, like she couldn’t think, and she kept seeing spots in front of her eyes. Didn’t it hurt for them to breathe as well?
She thought she saw something, something watching her.
Help, I can’t breathe.
***
In The Wallpapered Parlor:
He was not really nursing anymore, even if he gave the appearance of doing so. She could tell he was fast asleep, one tiny fist tangled in her hair even as he dozed. She would need to find something else for him to sooth himself with eventually, especially when he started teething.
But for the moment, the thought of putting her baby down filled her with dread and uncertainty. He was beautiful and perfect and hers, and if she could offer him a tiny bit of comfort, then she would.
The good lord knew there was little enough of that to find in this horrible place. “We’ll be fine, the three of us. Your daddy and I will make sure you’re safe, sweetie. You won’t ever need to be afraid of the dark.” What would her mother think, to see her here with this baby in her arms? To know what she had given over to make certain they were safe?
But how could she have made another choice?
She hummed, legs curled beneath her. What magic there was left to weave was hers, and she would make certain her son had every chance for life. “Nothing will hurt you while I’m here, nothing and no one.”
***
Surgery Room: Trigger For Restraint And Amputation And Torture
“My name is Jon, I live at 122 North Ashvale St in Lewisville, Maine. I have a little sister named Tammy and my-pleasepleaseplease.”
The only thing he was conscious of was pain, pain and the steady litany of his name and his family and the things he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t forget. He couldn’t let them pry those memories out of him like they had everything else.
“You talk too much.”
He sobbed, broken and afraid, not ready for more pain. “Please. Please stop. Please.”
He’d give anything to have it stop. “My name is Jon. I live at-“ Fingers hooked in the corner of his mouth, prying it open and cutting the words off. Nonononoonono. He gagged on the fingers, tried to bite the rotting flesh as it grabbed his tongue, pulling the muscle taunt and reaching with a pair of-no.
He screamed, cutting off into a gurgle of horror as blood filled his throat, groaned again low in his throat, choking and gagging as he struggled to breathe around the mouthful of blood.
No. No. Not his voice. Please. Anything but his voice. He needed his voice. Please. No.
***
Day Room:
Here she could almost forget that she was trapped, with this strange, unmapped world spread beneath her.
This place had practically been made for her, a clear view for miles around, uninterrupted by the building she occupied. She smiled as she watched the clouds brush against the window, quietly adding details to her map as she watched them go by. Let the others run about and try to solve the mystery; she had found an even greater mystery than the house they occupied.
An alien world, a world untainted by false maps and other cartographers. A world that had been made for her to map. A beautiful world, inhabited though it was by freaks and monsters, where no government could control her maps or dictate what should remain unwritten.
Her world.
“I wish I had a ship to sail your waters, you lovely creature.”
***
Viewing Room:
It was such a strange thing to have time to bathe. To not have one of the boys calling for her, to not have a husband or tasks or, more recently, monsters to distract her from the simple pleasure of bathing herself. She studied herself in the mirror, caught as though she was a teenager again obsessed with her image, fresh with ideals about how the world would work and how her life would be fulfilled with love and romance and knights and stories.
There hadn’t been any knights, had there? Only a boring town and a boring husband and two children she adored and life grinding what remained of the faith and hope out of her soul.
No adventures. No stories. No happy endings.
Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore, two babies had changed the shape of her body and at home…well, there hadn’t been anyone to care, had there? Who cared if she looked nice?
She swept her hair back from her face, studying the line of her throat in the mirror.
What did he see? What did they see? She was one of the oldest people here, one of the adults, she should hold it together, not indulge in…this.
“What does he see that’s worth having?” She was a traitor, she didn’t even wear her wedding band anymore. What sort of reprehensible person was she? She had a life, a home; her focus should be on getting back to that.
“Ricci?”
Her heart jumped, arms crossing reflexively over her chest. “Coming.”
***
Parlor:
It was strange how much it had come to seem like routine. Things had changed so much, things were missing and lost. People had, people were. This entire damned situation was wrong and yet this seemed normal, somehow.
But that was the way things were-- things and people died, changed, and left. He couldn't change that.
It was a small voice, a simple "like this?" that snapped him out of his thoughts. It was best he didn't dwell on them anyway. Instead, he smiled, looking down at the young girl who, standing on the chair, was trying to add more spice to the pot of pasta on the stove top.
He nodded. "Like that. Just a little more. You don't want to add too much, you don't want to make it too hot." A flicker of fear attacked the corners of his mind, but he did his best to keep stone faced. For her.
She was already looking away by then, though. She tapped a little bit into the pot, and he reached over to very carefully turn the heat up so it could begin to boil.
He looked down at her again, placing one hand on her head to ruffle her hair. The previous feeling was overtaken by one much warmer, if one he couldn't quite explain or place. He hesitated for a brief second before he leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of her head. The gesture earned him a delighted smile, and the warmth in his mind grew just a little bit stronger.
***
Gardener's Wing:
He was changing. He could feel it. He couldn’t touch them anymore, couldn’t indulge in the passing comfort of human contact. There was a fire burning in him, dragging him under like the tide, burning away all that he had been. He was afraid the fire would burn them too, if he let it out. Was afraid what he might do. He was tired. He had to protect them; he had to keep going, continue to be strong.
He hated it. Hated the monster he saw in the mirror every day, wondered what he would become.
Wondered how long it would be before he couldn’t pick up his baby girl anymore and not feel like he was tainting her.
He could hear her giggling; hear her mother encouraging the laughter.
He reached up, touching the lines of his face, raking his fingers through his hair and staring at the streaks of gray.
“Fuck you.”
He didn’t even realize he was moving until the mirror shattered, exploding around his fist, blood streaking over the glass and dripping to the floor.
In the other room, his daughter started to cry.