Room 203 of the Legends Inntraveled_modOctober 25 2009, 01:59:30 UTC
The door didn't really look any different. The change here was in feeling, the queasy pit in the stomach of anyone who'd walk past the door. Maybe the shadows were deeper, darker at the door.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends Inntraveled_modOctober 25 2009, 18:03:37 UTC
...what was within was probably something of a disappointment.
The room is more of an apartment than anything. There's a short hallway that leads to the living room, a kitchen tucked in next to where the entryway is, and to the right, another hall that leads to the laundry and the bathroom and the bedroom. A simple little apartment...except that there's so much more to it than that.
The walls are mostly bare except for a few paintings and pictures, but they all hold a strange melancholy tone to them. Around the edges, there's a faint layer of grunge or perhaps...blood? There are scratches in the wall nearest to the kitchen and on the far wall, a clock.
It ticks and ticks and ticks and along with the ticking is a static. Along with the static...soft, amused laughter.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends InnwaitsforwingsOctober 25 2009, 18:08:43 UTC
He peeks in, then takes a step inside, and another. The creepy feeling does not go away. Graham is pretty good at ignoring creepy feelings; he keeps walking, looking very carefully at the walls. (He's pretty good at recognizing bloodstains, too, but for the moment there's not quite enough light to tell.)
The sound of laughter draws him. He approaches the clock.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends InnwaitsforwingsOctober 25 2009, 18:25:57 UTC
He jumps, but only a little.
Then, listening carefully for any other unexpected events, he turns back to look at the chains. They seem dauntingly sturdy. He could probably argue impressively with them if he had a blowtorch; short of that, he doesn't think he's getting out the door.
Which means he'll have to find some other exit. With a shrug, bizarrely cheerful under the circumstances, Graham resumes his interrupted progress towards that clock.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends Inntraveled_modOctober 25 2009, 20:34:12 UTC
It's a chime clock, the wood overdried and the mechanisms clanky. It whirs softly just to function. And yet, in that whirring seems to be something else, just as the echos within a shell sound like the sea.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends InnwaitsforwingsOctober 25 2009, 20:37:50 UTC
Laughing, then crying. What's that about?
Graham studies it for a moment, then lifts a hand and touches his fingertips to the dry wood. Who knows what the gesture is supposed to accomplish. Can you comfort a clock? If it's haunted, maybe.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends InnwaitsforwingsOctober 25 2009, 20:47:18 UTC
He looks from the clock to the source of the ringing and back; then, frowning, he drops his hand and moves to investigate. Quite a collection of mysteries this place seems to have. Well, maybe whoever's calling will have something to say about it all.
Re: Room 203 of the Legends Inntraveled_modOctober 25 2009, 20:56:33 UTC
As he walks, the sound of static can be heard. Each step makes it louder, the angry buzz of wronged electronics almost cacophonous as he makes his way down the hall. The phone is in the bedroom, the door to the left. By the time he'd reach it, the phone would still be ringing but the static would be loud enough to hurt and nothing can quite keep out the noise.
Each step, some other sound erupts. The clock seems to be chiming though it's certainly not time for it to be. Wind howling, things falling, electronics humming. It's enough to drive someone mad.
And maybe the door almost seemed to be breathing.
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But the thing about magic bars, he supposes, is that they aren't always the nice kind of magic. Sometimes, there's other kinds, too.
He stands contemplating the door for a few minutes at least. Mostly, he's wondering whether he should go home and get a sword before opening it.
At last, he decides he won't be needing one. (He's probably going to end up regretting this choice.)
He sets his hand on the handle, turns it, and pushes.
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The room is more of an apartment than anything. There's a short hallway that leads to the living room, a kitchen tucked in next to where the entryway is, and to the right, another hall that leads to the laundry and the bathroom and the bedroom. A simple little apartment...except that there's so much more to it than that.
The walls are mostly bare except for a few paintings and pictures, but they all hold a strange melancholy tone to them. Around the edges, there's a faint layer of grunge or perhaps...blood? There are scratches in the wall nearest to the kitchen and on the far wall, a clock.
It ticks and ticks and ticks and along with the ticking is a static. Along with the static...soft, amused laughter.
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The sound of laughter draws him. He approaches the clock.
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The mousetrap has sprung.
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He jumps, but only a little.
Then, listening carefully for any other unexpected events, he turns back to look at the chains. They seem dauntingly sturdy. He could probably argue impressively with them if he had a blowtorch; short of that, he doesn't think he's getting out the door.
Which means he'll have to find some other exit. With a shrug, bizarrely cheerful under the circumstances, Graham resumes his interrupted progress towards that clock.
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Crying.
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Graham studies it for a moment, then lifts a hand and touches his fingertips to the dry wood. Who knows what the gesture is supposed to accomplish. Can you comfort a clock? If it's haunted, maybe.
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At the samd instant as his fingers touch the clock, the phone rings harsh and shrill in another room, the farthest down the hall nearest the door.
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Each step, some other sound erupts. The clock seems to be chiming though it's certainly not time for it to be. Wind howling, things falling, electronics humming. It's enough to drive someone mad.
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There's no way he'll be able to hear the caller over this din, but he picks up the phone anyway, a little hesitantly.
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For a moment, there's nothing but dial tone, but soon enough there's the click of connection. A little boy's voice asks--
"Mother?"
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"I'm afraid not," he says, very quietly.
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"I can hear you, mother. Mommy. I'm coming, mommy.".
...it might be now that he notices that the phone cord is, in fact, cut.
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His hand tightens on the phone. He starts to say something else-- stops-- listens.
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