Transcript of Michael S. Gentry's "Anchorhead", by David A. Wheeler {I wish I'd made a transcript while trying to solve Anchorhead, because there's a lot of interesting text in the game... but I didn't. So instead I started over, started a transcript, and used the walkthrough by Aeron Pax along with a lot of extra "examinations" and "look"s to get a sense of the place. This way, you can at least enjoy some of the text of Anchorhead. Note: In a few places the commands seem "miraculous" because they don't really search around to find out what to do, as you would in a real game. If you want to experience the game, you should just go play it.} A N C H O R H E A D [Press 'R' to restore; any other key to begin] [ The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. -- H.P. Lovecraft] November, 1997. You take a deep breath of salty air as the first raindrops begin to spatter the pavement, and the swollen, slate-colored clouds that blanket the sky mutter ominous portents amongst themselves over the little coastal town of Anchorhead. Squinting up into the glowering storm, you wonder how everything managed to happen so fast. The strange phone call over a month ago, from a lawyer claiming to represent the estate of some distant branch of Michael's family, was bewildering enough in itself... but then the sudden whirlwind of planning and decisions, legal details and travel arrangements, the packing up and shipping away of your entire home, your entire life... Now suddenly here you are, after driving for the past two days straight, over a thousand miles away from the familiar warmth of Texas, getting ready to move into the ancestral mansion of a clan of relatives so far removed that not even Michael has ever heard of them. And you've only been married since June and none of this was any of your idea in the first place, and already it's starting to rain. These days, you often find yourself feeling confused and uprooted. You shake yourself and force the melancholy thoughts from your head, trying to focus on the errand at hand. You're to meet with the real estate agent and pick up the keys to your new house while Michael runs across town to take care of some paperwork at the university. He'll be back to pick you up in a few minutes, and then the two of you can begin the long, precarious process of settling in. A sullen belch emanates from the clouds, and the rain starts coming down harder -- fat, cold drops smacking loudly against the cobblestones. Shouldn't it be snowing in New England at this time of year? With a sigh, you open your umbrella. Welcome to Anchorhead... [ * THE FIRST DAY * I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. -- H.P. Lovecraft] ANCHORHEAD An interactive gothic by Michael S. Gentry (Type HELP or ABOUT for some useful information.) Release 5 / Serial number 990206 / Inform v6.15 Library 6/7 Outside the Real Estate Office A grim little cul-de-sac, tucked away in a corner of the claustrophobic tangle of narrow, twisting avenues that largely constitute the older portion of Anchorhead. Like most of the streets in this city, it is ancient, shadowy, and leads essentially nowhere. The lane ends here at the real estate agent's office, which lies to the east, and winds its way back toward the center of town to the west. A narrow, garbage-choked alley opens to the southeast. >transcript Start of a transcript of ANCHORHEAD An interactive gothic by Michael S. Gentry (Type HELP or ABOUT for some useful information.) Release 5 / Serial number 990206 / Inform v6.15 Library 6/7 Standard interpreter 1.1 (4F) / Library serial number 970918 >look Outside the Real Estate Office A grim little cul-de-sac, tucked away in a corner of the claustrophobic tangle of narrow, twisting avenues that largely constitute the older portion of Anchorhead. Like most of the streets in this city, it is ancient, shadowy, and leads essentially nowhere. The lane ends here at the real estate agent's office, which lies to the east, and winds its way back toward the center of town to the west. A narrow, garbage-choked alley opens to the southeast. >e (opening the real estate office door first) It seems to be locked. >x door The door has a glass front with the name of the real estate company -- Benson & Brackhurst -- stenciled across it. The blinds are drawn, the lights are off inside, and no one appears to be home. Odd, since the agent knew you were coming today. In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind. >x glass The door has a glass front with the name of the real estate company -- Benson & Brackhurst -- stenciled across it. The blinds are drawn, the lights are off inside, and no one appears to be home. Odd, since the agent knew you were coming today. >unlock door (with the sky) (first taking the sky) How optimistic of you. >w Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. >n You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors. Local Pub A dank, drafty old drinking hole lit by flickering, oil-burning lanterns. Smoke collects in greasy pools among the rafters, and shadows crowd thick around. The bar runs the length of the room to your right, while to the south a low doorway opens onto the street. Mill workers and fishermen occupy a few of the tables, drinking beer or puffing grimly at long-stemmed pipes. Each is wrapped in his solitude, soaking up the general miasma of dreary fatalism. The lantern sitting on the table nearest you sputters fitfully, throwing distorted shadows across the wall. >get lantern No one here looks as though they'd mind if you borrowed one of these lamps. Casually, you purloin the nearest one. >x lantern It's an old-fashioned hurricane lamp, with a tall glass chimney to protect it from the wind. The cotton wick burns fitfully in its reservoir of cheap oil. >x self You look good, considering. A bit rattled by recent events, perhaps, but well- poised and collected, all the same. >inventory You are wearing your wedding ring, your trenchcoat and your clothes; in addition, you have in your hands a lantern (providing light) and your umbrella. The pockets of your trenchcoat are empty. >put lantern in coat It wouldn't be very wise to put the lantern in your pocket while it's still burning. >turn off lantern That's not something you can switch. >unlight lantern That's not a verb I recognise. >x table It's just an ordinary-looking table. >x bar A dark and dour expanse of wood, pitted and scarred and stained with the rings from over a hundred years' worth of slopping beer mugs. >x workers The patrons of this place are taciturn and grim. No one speaks. No one looks anyone in the eye. No one, in fact, even looks up from his beer. A heavy aura of resignation -- and, it almost seems, dread -- hangs palpably over the whole crowd. >s As you make your way to the door, your foot strikes something under one of the tables. >look under table Some forgetful soul has left a flask underneath one of the tables, pushed into a shadowy corner. >get flask You pick up the flask. The label is faded and mostly peeled away, but what little you can make out seems to indicate that this is not a particularly distinguished brand of spirits. The words "bootleg" and "rotgut" come to mind, probably because they are the only words legible on what's left of the label. >put flask in coat You slip the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat. >s The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella. Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. A sudden gust of rain puts the lantern out. >w Junction To the north, a gap in the crowded press of gloomy buildings opens onto a country lane, heading out over a grassy heath. The main street continues to the east, while to the northwest, over the top of a steep rise, you can just make out the vaulted rooftops of the university. >nw University Court Isolated and serene within its high, ivy-covered walls, Miskaton University represents this benighted town's single, if somewhat dubious, claim to cultural achievement. Founded some time in the early 1800s, the school's reputation and enrollment have diminished somewhat as Anchorhead drifts further and further into the abyss of provincial backwaterism. Still, it is generally recognized for its collection of folklore and esoteric mythology (one of the oldest and most extensive on the east coast). The Board of Deans was also kind enough to offer Michael a full professorship upon hearing of his recently discovered heritage and his plans to move into the estate. Ivory tower, perhaps, but at least they take care of their own. There are numerous buildings surrounding this cobbled court, but the only one you are interested in is the library to the west, where Michael told you he'd be until he came back to the real estate agent's office to pick you up. Which, incidentally, he has not yet done. >w You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors. Library Shadows roost thickly in the vaulted ceiling, and small, green-shaded desk lamps cast pools of warm radiance here and there around the library's dim interior. You pause a moment to let the hushed peacefulness of this place soak in -- a welcome relief from the unsettling events of the day. An exit lies east, and a small alcove to the north houses the circulation counter. Peering through the shadows, you spot your husband sitting at one of the reading desks, absorbed in some sort of weighty tome and clearly oblivious to the time. >x lamps The lamps have curved, brass stands and frosted green shades; the kind of thing you'd expect to see on an accountant's desk in the 1930s. The reading lamp is currently switched on. >x husband Tall and a bit on the skinny side, in an endearingly awkward sort of way; a serious, thoughtful face topped with an unruly tangle of brown hair; deep brown eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses -- yep, that's the man you married, all right. At the moment, Michael is largely absorbed in his reading, and is paying little attention to you. >x michael Tall and a bit on the skinny side, in an endearingly awkward sort of way; a serious, thoughtful face topped with an unruly tangle of brown hair; deep brown eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses -- yep, that's the man you married, all right. At the moment, Michael is largely absorbed in his reading, and is paying little attention to you. >x book Michael looks up, startled, then realizes it's you and smiles. "Hi, hon," he says, closing the book and stretching. Then he glances at his watch. "Good grief, what happened to the time? I'm so sorry -- I just lost track." He smiles sheepishly. "Well?" he asks. "Did you get the keys?" >ask michael about keys "The real estate agent is supposed to be holding them at her office," he says. >ask michael about agent He frowns as you tell him about the real estate agent's disappearance. "That is rather odd," he says. "I wonder where she could be?" >save Ok. >ask michael about help You can't think of anything to say about that for the moment. >examine book Michael jerks the book away from you. "Excuse me," he says, a bit more sharply than you had expected, "I'll be done with it in a minute." >examine book It's obvious Michael is trying to hide something from you, and while you very much want to know what in the world it is, it would be best not to make a scene about it here. >ask michael about keys "The real estate agent is supposed to be holding them at her office," he says. >n Circulation Desk A high counter divides the public portion of the library from the reserved stacks -- all the more esoteric and mysterious volumes from the university's collection. If anything, the area behind the counter is even more shadowy than the side you're on. The main reading area lies south. Hanging on the wall next to the counter is a small, printed sign. Beneath the sign sits a heavy, dog-eared register, and sitting next to the register is a bell. >read sign "All restricted books must be signed for on the register, and may not be removed from this building. Please have your faculty ID ready when you make your request." >read register It's basically a log, recording what book was checked out, who checked it out, and when. There must be hundreds of names here. >ring bell Ding. A moment later, the gaunt and fishy-eyed librarian emerges silently from the shadows behind the counter. >x librarian Her slack, pallid skin looks as if it has seen little more than the inside of a cave for most of her life. She stares at you silently with disturbingly large and watery eyes. >ask librarian for help The librarian purses her thin, fishy lips at you. Apparently, she only lends out library books. >s Without a word, the librarian fades back into the shadows. Library Shadows roost thickly in the vaulted ceiling, and small, green-shaded desk lamps cast pools of warm radiance here and there around the library's dim interior. You pause a moment to let the hushed peacefulness of this place soak in -- a welcome relief from the unsettling events of the day. An exit lies east, and a small alcove to the north houses the circulation counter. Peering through the shadows, you spot your husband sitting at one of the reading desks, absorbed in some sort of weighty tome and clearly oblivious to the time. >e The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella. University Court Isolated and serene within its high, ivy-covered walls, Miskaton University represents this benighted town's single, if somewhat dubious, claim to cultural achievement. Founded some time in the early 1800s, the school's reputation and enrollment have diminished somewhat as Anchorhead drifts further and further into the abyss of provincial backwaterism. Still, it is generally recognized for its collection of folklore and esoteric mythology (one of the oldest and most extensive on the east coast). The Board of Deans was also kind enough to offer Michael a full professorship upon hearing of his recently discovered heritage and his plans to move into the estate. Ivory tower, perhaps, but at least they take care of their own. There are numerous buildings surrounding this cobbled court, but the only one you are interested in is the library to the west, where Michael told you he'd be until he came back to the real estate agent's office to pick you up. Which, incidentally, he has not yet done. >se Junction To the north, a gap in the crowded press of gloomy buildings opens onto a country lane, heading out over a grassy heath. The main street continues to the east, while to the northwest, over the top of a steep rise, you can just make out the vaulted rooftops of the university. >e Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. >e Outside the Real Estate Office A grim little cul-de-sac, tucked away in a corner of the claustrophobic tangle of narrow, twisting avenues that largely constitute the older portion of Anchorhead. Like most of the streets in this city, it is ancient, shadowy, and leads essentially nowhere. The lane ends here at the real estate agent's office, which lies to the east, and winds its way back toward the center of town to the west. A narrow, garbage-choked alley opens to the southeast. >se Alley This narrow aperture between two buildings is nearly blocked with piles of rotting cardboard boxes and overstuffed garbage cans. Ugly, half-crumbling brick walls to either side totter oppressively over you. The alley ends here at a tall, wooden fence. High up on the wall of the northern building there is a narrow, transom-style window. >x window It's about eighteen inches wide and a foot tall, with hinges along the top that allow it to swing out. It's currently closed. >open window The window is too high. >x fence One of the boards seems to be loose down at the bottom; you could probably just squeeze through. >go under fence (closing the umbrella first) Dropping to your hands and knees, you wriggle underneath the loose board and scramble down a muddy slope. Narrow Beach This narrow strip of beach is tucked away between two outcroppings in the predominantly rocky shoreline, accessible only from a steep, muddy slope to the west. The sand is filthy and strewn with rocks, seaweed, litter and other bits of storm-tossed detritus. Near the bottom of the slope, a sewage outflow pipe juts out over the beach, about three feet above the ground. A thin stream of acrid-smelling sewer water trickles out over the lip of the pipe, forming a puddle in the sand. You are getting wet. >up You pick your way up the slope, push the loose board aside and slip back in through the gap. Alley This narrow aperture between two buildings is nearly blocked with piles of rotting cardboard boxes and overstuffed garbage cans. Ugly, half-crumbling brick walls to either side totter oppressively over you. The alley ends here at a tall, wooden fence. High up on the wall of the northern building there is a narrow, transom-style window. You are getting wet. >open umbrella You open the umbrella. >move cans under window Grunting and holding your breath, you manhandle one of the filthy cans under the window. >stand on can You clamber onto the wobbling garbage can, precariously balanced. You can just reach the lower edge of the window from here. >open window You open the transom window. In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind. >enter window (closing the umbrella first) It's a tight squeeze, but you just manage to wriggle through, dropping quietly to the floor inside. File Room Peering through the murk, you can make out the blocky outlines of filing cabinets lining the walls and a doorway to the west. A window high up on the south wall lets in a very faint illumination. >x cabinets There must be hundreds of files here, too many to browse through. You'll have to look up something specific if you want to find anything. >w Office Pallid gray light trickles in through the drawn blinds. The office is deserted, papers still scattered across the top of the desk. The front door lies west, and the file room lies east. Sitting on the corner of the paper-strewn desk are a telephone and an answering machine. Someone seems to have left a cup of coffee sitting out, half-finished and cold. >x answering machine A simple answering machine, with a small display indicating messages received, a button labeled "PLAY", and a button labeled "DELETE". >push play For a while there is nothing but a quiet hiss, followed by intermittent skirls of strange-sounding static. It sounds like one of those annoying glitches where the caller hangs up but the machine keeps recording anyway. Then, barely audible through the static, you detect what sounds like a human voice whispering a single word: "Verlac." The machine beeps. A brief shudder ripples up your back. You remember now, "Verlac" is the name of this branch of Michael's family. >e File Room Peering through the murk, you can make out the blocky outlines of filing cabinets lining the walls and a doorway to the west. A window high up on the south wall lets in a very faint illumination. >look up verlac (in the filing cabinets) Strange; the file on the Verlac property has been cleaned out. Title, deed, all the papers, all of it gone. There is, however, a set of keys tucked down in the hanging folder. You quickly pocket them. Your score has just gone up by two points. >w Office Pallid gray light trickles in through the drawn blinds. The office is deserted, papers still scattered across the top of the desk. The front door lies west, and the file room lies east. Sitting on the corner of the paper-strewn desk are a telephone and an answering machine. Someone seems to have left a cup of coffee sitting out, half-finished and cold. >x cup In the styrofoam cup is some cold, murky coffee. >x telephone It's just an ordinary-looking telephone. >unlock door You unlock the office door. >w (opening the real estate office door first) The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella. Outside the Real Estate Office A grim little cul-de-sac, tucked away in a corner of the claustrophobic tangle of narrow, twisting avenues that largely constitute the older portion of Anchorhead. Like most of the streets in this city, it is ancient, shadowy, and leads essentially nowhere. The lane ends here at the real estate agent's office, which lies to the east, and winds its way back toward the center of town to the west. A narrow, garbage-choked alley opens to the southeast. The office door is open. >w Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. >nw Twisting Lane The lane narrows here to little more than a badly cobbled sidewalk as it wends its way up through a series of tortuous bends and switchbacks. In some places, the street is so steep that steps have been cut into it, worn down over the years and slick with moss. Your progress is blocked at the top of the street by a blank brick wall. >w You take a few tentative steps back down the lane, but it seems to lead only to a short switchback, bringing you right back to the brick wall. You're not entirely sure now, which direction leads back to the narrow street. Very faintly, from somewhere over the rooftops, you hear the faint, quavering strains of a violin. >s You take a few tentative steps back down the lane, but it seems to lead only to a short switchback, bringing you right back to the brick wall. You're not entirely sure now, which direction leads back to the narrow street. >se You take a few tentative steps back down the lane, but it seems to lead only to a short switchback, bringing you right back to the brick wall. You're not entirely sure now, which direction leads back to the narrow street. >sw Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. >w Junction To the north, a gap in the crowded press of gloomy buildings opens onto a country lane, heading out over a grassy heath. The main street continues to the east, while to the northwest, over the top of a steep rise, you can just make out the vaulted rooftops of the university. >nw University Court Isolated and serene within its high, ivy-covered walls, Miskaton University represents this benighted town's single, if somewhat dubious, claim to cultural achievement. Founded some time in the early 1800s, the school's reputation and enrollment have diminished somewhat as Anchorhead drifts further and further into the abyss of provincial backwaterism. Still, it is generally recognized for its collection of folklore and esoteric mythology (one of the oldest and most extensive on the east coast). The Board of Deans was also kind enough to offer Michael a full professorship upon hearing of his recently discovered heritage and his plans to move into the estate. Ivory tower, perhaps, but at least they take care of their own. There are numerous buildings surrounding this cobbled court, but the only one you are interested in is the library to the west, where Michael told you he'd be until he came back to the real estate agent's office to pick you up. Which, incidentally, he has not yet done. >w You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors. Library Shadows roost thickly in the vaulted ceiling, and small, green-shaded desk lamps cast pools of warm radiance here and there around the library's dim interior. You pause a moment to let the hushed peacefulness of this place soak in -- a welcome relief from the unsettling events of the day. An exit lies east, and a small alcove to the north houses the circulation counter. Peering through the shadows, you spot your husband sitting at one of the reading desks, absorbed in some sort of weighty tome and clearly oblivious to the time. >read book Michael looks up, startled, then realizes it's you and smiles. "Hi, hon," he says, closing the book and stretching. Then he glances at his watch. "Good grief, what happened to the time? I'm so sorry -- I just lost track." He smiles sheepishly. "Well?" he asks. "Did you get the keys?" >say yes Whom do you want to say that to? >michael Michael nods distractedly. He doesn't seem to be listening to you. Michael turns to a new page in the book and begins reading intently. >tell michael about keys "The real estate agent is supposed to be holding them at her office," he says. >show keys to michael "Great!" says Michael. "You hang on to that. Just a second, I'll put this back." He takes the book up to the circulation desk and hands it to the librarian. "Okay then," he says, returning, "let's go." Michael suddenly smacks his forehead. "Oh, crap, I forgot to tell you. The car broke down." He spreads his hands. "I don't know what happened to it; one second I'm parking outside, the next second it dies and I can't get it started again. I called a tow truck, but the nearest garage is up in Arkham. They picked it up but won't be able to look at it until next week at the earliest. Anyway, it looks like we'll have to walk back to the house." He offers you a lame smile. "You can hold the umbrella." Your score has just gone up by two points. >save Ok. >e The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella. University Court Isolated and serene within its high, ivy-covered walls, Miskaton University represents this benighted town's single, if somewhat dubious, claim to cultural achievement. Founded some time in the early 1800s, the school's reputation and enrollment have diminished somewhat as Anchorhead drifts further and further into the abyss of provincial backwaterism. Still, it is generally recognized for its collection of folklore and esoteric mythology (one of the oldest and most extensive on the east coast). The Board of Deans was also kind enough to offer Michael a full professorship upon hearing of his recently discovered heritage and his plans to move into the estate. Ivory tower, perhaps, but at least they take care of their own. There are numerous buildings surrounding this cobbled court, but the only one you are interested in is the library to the west. Michael strolls along after you. >se Junction To the north, a gap in the crowded press of gloomy buildings opens onto a country lane, heading out over a grassy heath. The main street continues to the east, while to the northwest, over the top of a steep rise, you can just make out the vaulted rooftops of the university. Michael hurries to catch up. >e Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. Michael follows you. Overhead, the swollen clouds flicker ominously with a greenish haze of sheet lightning. >ask michael about direction You can't think of anything to say about that for the moment. >ask michael about directions You can't think of anything to say about that for the moment. >ask michael where You can't see any such thing. >ask michael about where You can't think of anything to say about that for the moment. >s Whateley Bridge A hoary monument of crumbling, moss-eaten flagstones, Whateley Bridge is possibly older than any other structure in the entire city. Ponderously it spans the dark, torpid waters of the Miskaton River, connecting the north and south halves of the city and occasionally raining bits of gravel and mortar from its underside into the water. It looks just wide enough for two cars to pass each other between the flanking stone parapets, but you wouldn't volunteer to try it. Michael follows you. >n Narrow Street As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole. Michael follows you. >s Whateley Bridge A hoary monument of crumbling, moss-eaten flagstones, Whateley Bridge is possibly older than any other structure in the entire city. Ponderously it spans the dark, torpid waters of the Miskaton River, connecting the north and south halves of the city and occasionally raining bits of gravel and mortar from its underside into the water. It looks just wide enough for two cars to pass each other between the flanking stone parapets, but you wouldn't volunteer to try it. Michael follows you. >s Town Square A wide expanse of uneven pavestones lies open to the sky, bordered on all sides by the leaning, steep-roofed architecture that looms over everything in this city. The municipal courthouse stands at the south end of the square, next to the mouth of a dark, narrow alley to the southwest. Avenues to the west and east lead back into the cramped and ingrown streets, while to the north lies Whateley Bridge. In the center of the square, rising from a circular lawn of unhealthy-looking grass and weeds, stands a strange, stone obelisk. It seems to be a monument of some sort, although you can see no plaque or marker anywhere near it. Michael hurries to catch up. >w Dark Corner The rooftops above you lean so close together as to nearly block out the sky altogether, making this a particularly dark and unpleasant section of the city. The street leads away to the east, and a shadowy driveway leads through a high brick wall to the south. Michael hurries to catch up. >s Asylum Courtyard The grim, white-washed edifice of Danvers Asylum bounds this tiny, shadowed courtyard to the south, its narrow, barred windows staring blankly down at you like ranks of shriveled, empty eye sockets. You can escape through a narrow gateway in the high, brick wall to the north. Michael hurries to catch up. >s The asylum is closed for the day. >open door If you want to go inside, do so; you're not the doorman here. >s The asylum is closed for the day. >s The asylum is closed for the day. Michael stops to point out some deteriorated bit of colonial architecture. "Everything is so old here," he says, genuinely delighted. "Isn't it neat?" >n Dark Corner The rooftops above you lean so close together as to nearly block out the sky altogether, making this a particularly dark and unpleasant section of the city. The street leads away to the east, and a shadowy driveway leads through a high brick wall to the south. Michael strolls along after you. A sudden fit of coughing from Michael makes you worry. You need to find the house soon, or your husband will catch cold. Overhead, the swollen clouds flicker ominously with a greenish haze of sheet lightning. >e Town Square A wide expanse of uneven pavestones lies open to the sky, bordered on all sides by the leaning, steep-roofed architecture that looms over everything in this city. The municipal courthouse stands at the south end of the square, next to the mouth of a dark, narrow alley to the southwest. Avenues to the west and east lead back into the cramped and ingrown streets, while to the north lies Whateley Bridge. In the center of the square, rising from a circular lawn of unhealthy-looking grass and weeds, stands a strange, stone obelisk. It seems to be a monument of some sort, although you can see no plaque or marker anywhere near it. Michael follows you. A sudden gust of wind blows a cold spray of rain into your face. >e Riverwalk A low, irregular brick wall to the north divides this street from the steep, mud-slick banks of the sinuous Miskaton, while a rusty iron gate provides access to a precarious flight of stone steps leading down the bank to the water's edge. The street bends south here, turning into a misty avenue between the trees. The town square lies west, a vacant lot lies east. Michael hurries to catch up. >s Chilly Avenue Perhaps it is merely the effect of some unwholesome vapour rising from the murky waters of the nearby Miskaton, but the temperature along this street seems perceptibly cooler than normal, even for a New England autumn. Two dirt roads lead south and southwest, into the dense woods at the edge of town. A clammy mist hangs thickly in the air, seeping through your clothes and making you shiver. Michael follows you. >sw As you walk through, the mists part before your husband almost deferentially, quickly dissolving away into nothing. The ground begins to rise sharply as the road climbs up into the hills south of town. Scenic View The treeline falls away on the north side of this northwest-northeast bend in the road, giving way to a panoramic view of the Miskaton River Valley and the grubby little town of Anchorhead nestled within it. From here you can see the paper mill almost directly to the north; the solitary lighthouse and surrounding ocean to the northeast; and the dilapidated stone church below you to the east. Winding through it all is the oily black ribbon of the Miskaton, and almost directly in the center lies the little clearing of Town Square. You can just make out the shape of the obelisk from here. Michael hurries to catch up. >nw Outside the House The lane runs up from the southeast and ends at a wide clearing surrounded by gnarled and ancient trees. A wide, curving driveway runs up to the front door of your house, which lies north. The fabled Verlac family mansion looms before you in the gloom, its dark creaking presence dominating the clearing and, somehow, even though it is not visible through the trees, the entire valley. The foreboding shadow of the Verlacs seems to enshroud all of Anchorhead from here. A typewritten notice has been attached to the front door. Michael hurries to catch up. "Well," says Michael, "this must be the place. We finally made it, honey. We're home!" >read notice It's a letter from the Arkham Regional Utilities Company, explaining that, due to wiring difficulties, the electricity will not be installed until next week. No phone service, either. "Well, that's wonderful news," remarks Michael dryly, reading over your shoulder. >unlock door You unlock the front door. >open door You open the front door. >enter door You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors. Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. The front door stands open to the south. Carelessly stacked in a towering heap in the middle of the room are all your luggage and belongings, which you had sent ahead through a moving company before driving up to Massachusetts. Everything you own is boxed away and piled up in the middle of the floor. The reality of this move finally slams home as you stare at the sprawling jumble of stuff, and suddenly you feel very lost and adrift. Night has now undeniably fallen, and the house is very, very dark. There is probably just enough residual ambience to feel your way upstairs to the bedroom, but the rest of the house is a tenebrous maze of shadows, and any exploring would probably best be done in the morning. Michael strolls along after you. Michael stretches his arms and yawns. "Well," he says, "I think I'm going to turn in. There'll be plenty of time to unpack and explore tomorrow. Good night, hon." He kisses you on the cheek. "Don't stay up too late." And with that, he goes upstairs. A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from. >n Darkness It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing. >s Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. The front door stands open to the south. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. >up Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >n Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Michael is curled up in bed, sound asleep. If it weren't for this hopelessly backwater town and the disturbing circumstances surrounding the house, you'd say this was your dream home. Even so, as much as you would like to relax and enjoy the comforts of a fully furnished historical New England estate, you can't help but be put off by the shady aura surrounding the family that used to live here. The last of the line, you remind yourself, recently committed suicide after killing his wife and two daughters with a shotgun. Involuntarily you shiver, glancing nervously at the doorways to the south and west. >get in bed Gratefully, you remove your clothes, leave your things on the bedroom floor, crawl into bed and pull the covers up to your chin. >sleep Something is nagging at you, preventing you from sleeping... suddenly you remember -- you've left the front door unlocked. Michael tosses uneasily, one hand waving vaguely in front of his face for a moment before sinking back once again into troubled sleep. >get up Reluctantly, you do so. Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor. Your trenchcoat is here. Michael is curled up in bed, sound asleep. You can also see your umbrella, a lantern and a keyring (on which are two keys ( a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) here. >dress (first taking the clothes) You put on the clothes. >s Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >d Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. The front door stands open to the south. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. >close door You close the front door. >x luggage It's all a huge, hopeless mess. Just looking at it instantly drains you of any desire to unpack. >lock door You don't have the correct key. >u Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >n Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Your trenchcoat is here. Michael is curled up in bed, sound asleep. You can also see your umbrella, a lantern and a keyring (on which are two keys ( a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) here. >get all umbrella: Taken. trenchcoat: Taken. lantern: Taken. keyring: Taken. >s Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >d Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from. >lock door You lock the front door. A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from. >up Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >n Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Michael is curled up in bed, sound asleep. >undress You take off the clothes. >get in bed Gratefully, you leave your things on the bedroom floor, crawl into bed and pull the covers up to your chin. >save Ok. >sleep Almost immediately you fall asleep, and as the wind slithers around the eaves and the house creaks furtive secrets to itself, you drift into troubling dreams... You are waiting in your bed, with the coverlet up under your chin, waiting for Father to come tuck you in. Footsteps in the hall pause outside your door. You close your eyes; when you open them again Father is standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red, and you wonder if he has been crying. Slowly, he starts to take off his belt. Only it's not your father after all, it's Michael. He hands you a golden sphere and says: "I don't know what it opens yet but I have an idea." Your reflection is like a little doll trapped inside the sphere. Everything is tinged with gold. Your face swells and stretches comically as you stare back at yourself through the curved, distorting walls. Reaching out, your fingers curve back on themselves... the wall breaks and... You are running from the eyes, the terrible red-rimmed eyes, through endless, narrow corridors of wooden slats and crumbling plaster. You stumble through turn after turn, hopelessly lost. There is a small hole in the boards -- peering through it you see Michael in the study, typing diligently away. You scream, you pound on the wall, but he can't hear you. The red-rimmed eyes draw closer; hurrying down a twisting passage you find a dead end... the wall breaks and... Outside, you stand at another dead end, a high brick wall at the end of a steep, twisting lane. Written in black spraypaint... He always returns to his blood. Behind you, you hear the buzzing of a fly. You turn... [ * THE SECOND DAY * It is hard to prevent the impression of a faint, malign odour about the village street, as of the massed mould and decay of centuries. It is always a relief to get clear of the place. -- H.P. Lovecraft] You wake up. Steam billows gently by, and you can hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. You can hear Michael splashing around, noisily enjoying his shower. >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, belting out "I'm Deranged" in his best David Bowie croon. >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, belting out a spirited, one-man rendition of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy". >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, practicing his Christopher Walken routine. "Do you know who I am? I am the Antichrist!" >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, having a spirited conversation with himself. You can't make out any of the words; he's probably sounding out some dialogue for one of his stories. >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, practicing his Dennis Hopper routine. "Heineken?! Fuck that shit! PABST BLUE RIBBON, MAN!" >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, belting out "You're So Cruel" in his best Bono falsetto. >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, belting out "I'm Deranged" in his best David Bowie croon. >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, practicing his Gabriel Byrne routine. "Sister, when I've raised hell, you'll know it!" >listen You've never known anyone who loves a morning shower more than your husband. To him it's better than coffee. You can hear him from all the way out here, belting out "Rock Me Amadeus" at the top of his voice. >look Master Bedroom, on the four-poster bed The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor. Your trenchcoat is here. You can also see your umbrella, a lantern and a keyring (on which are two keys ( a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) here. On the four-poster bed you can see Michael's pants (in which is Michael's wallet (which is closed)). >get up Reluctantly, you do so. Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor. Your trenchcoat is here. Michael's pants are draped across the foot of the bed. You can also see your umbrella, a lantern and a keyring (on which are two keys ( a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) here. >x pants (Michael's pants) They're the same plain khakis he usually wears. You notice something in the back pocket. >x back pocket They're the same plain khakis he usually wears. You notice something in the back pocket. >get wallet from pants (Michael's pants) With a nervous glance toward the bathroom, you slip the wallet from Michael's pants. >open wallet You open the wallet, revealing Michael's faculty card. >get card The shower suddenly stops. Quickly you palm the card, replace the wallet and arrange the pants the way you found them. A moment later Michael emerges from the bathroom, toweling his hair. "My, don't you look tempting this morning," he says, giving you a kiss. He tosses the towel back into the bathroom and gets dressed. "I think I'm going to stay home and get some writing done. I don't actually start work until tomorrow, so..." He kisses you on the cheek as he walks out into the hall. "If you go out today, see if you can find a newspaper. I want to learn as much as I can about this town." He looks at you for a moment, and his voice becomes serious. "I love you, hon. You know that, don't you? I really want us to try and be happy here." Then he turns and pads down the hall. You take a deep breath as he goes. You've never lied to Michael or hidden anything from him before, ever; now, hardly two days into your new life, you're already sneaking through his wallet. Oh yeah. You're off to a great start. >look Master Bedroom The master bedroom is a picture-postcard of rustic New England charm. Faded sketches of rural landscapes adorn the walls; a beautifully carved dressing mirror stands in one corner; an old-fashioned accordion radiator gurgles quietly beneath the window. The most striking feature, an enormous, antique, four-poster bed, must be the largest piece of furniture in the house. Doorways lead west and south. Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor. Your trenchcoat is here. You can also see your umbrella, a lantern and a keyring (on which are two keys ( a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) here. >get all clothes: Taken. umbrella: Taken. trenchcoat: Taken. lantern: Your hands are full. keyring: Your hands are full. >wear coat Shouldn't you put some clothes on, first? >dress You put on the clothes. >wear coat You put on the trenchcoat. >get all lantern: Taken. keyring: Taken. >put lantern in coast You can't see any such thing. >put lantern in coat You slip the lantern into the pocket of your trenchcoat. >s Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >d Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. >w Dining Room Much of the elegance has faded from this room. The huge dining table running the length of it is covered with a thick gray film of dust, and the china cupboard standing against the far wall is draped in shadow. Doorways to the north and east offer little relief from the gloom. For what must be the hundredth time, you wish you could open the windows in this place. >x table It's a finely built table, a valued antique like much of the furniture in this house. It will need to be oiled after so many months of neglect, though. >x cupboard It's a free-standing cabinet about as tall as you are, crafted of cherrywood. The double paneled doors are closed. >open cupboard The cupboard is empty; the china must have been auctioned off, in the confusion before Michael was contacted, perhaps. Down at the bottom of the cupboard is a velvet lining, where the silverware would usually be kept. >x lining The lining is soft, dusky burgundy. One corner in back is pulled up a bit and slightly torn. >pull lining You pull the lining back a bit further and discover a thin, palm-sized journal tucked underneath it. Intrigued, you pull the little book free. Your score has just gone up by two points. >get journal You already have that. >read journal It's a slim little book, no bigger than your hand, bound in imitation leather. The mice really have been at it; most of the pages have been chewed away. What's left of the journal reads: Desperate. Went back to the old twisting lane and found only a blank wall. Without the amulet, how can I resist -- ...bottles, bottles... Getting worse. People I have never met smile knowingly at me in the street. The police believe I am a child molester, but have brought no charges against me as yet. Why? Head hurts all the time. I have turned the cellar upside-down... damn it all, where is it? Dreamed of Father again. Dreamed of Grandfather. Those horrible, red-rimmed eyes... -- into the safe, finally. 9-38-56. Won't forget THAT soon. Ha! CANNOT DISCOVER ENTRANCE IN THE CELLAR!!! Secret eludes me still but I WILL FIND IT!!! The clue is in their names, that pestilential procession of names! If I could only -- The text breaks off as several more pages are missing. the last fragmented entry reads: -- will fail. There is no recourse left. I know now what I must do. Julia -- >n Kitchen Where once pots and skillets and various utensils hung in profusion, the kitchen walls are now merely ranks of dusty cabinets and a forest of empty hooks. Doorways lead east and south, a small pantry lies to the northwest, and the back door to the north leads out of the house. Someone's flashlight is lying on the kitchen counter; one of the movers must have left it. An odd feeling of gloom overtakes you momentarily, and you find yourself thinking about the Verlac family's personal effects -- the everyday mundanities, such as kitchen utensils. Were they thrown out, or donated to charity, or auctioned off as grisly souvenirs? What about the canned goods? Did anyone think to take them? The cabinets might even still be stocked. Morbidly, you wonder what Mrs. Edward Verlac might have been cooking for dinner the night her husband blew her head off. >get flashlight (slipping the faculty card into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the flashlight. It's battery-powered, and waterproof too, by the look of it. The flashlight is currently switched off. >open cabinet The cabinets are not, after all, still stocked -- much to your relief. There's nothing in there but an old book of matches. >get matches (slipping the umbrella into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the book of matches. A label on the side reads, "Water-resistant matches. Strike on cover." There are six matches left. >nw Darkness It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing. >turn on flashlight The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam. Pantry The pantry is empty save for a layer of dust on the shelves. A door to the south leads down to the cellar, or you can return to the kitchen to the southeast. Leaning in the corner is an old broom. >get broom (slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the broom. It's just an ordinary-looking broom. >unlock door (first taking the keyring) (slipping the torn journal into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) Taken. You unlock the cellar door. >d (opening the cellar door first) You descend the gloomy steps into the dank cellar. Cellar The old, flagstone walls gleam with unwholesome-smelling moisture, and the sagging timbers creak uneasily above your head. Ancient, frayed wiring festoons the ceiling like some strange species of clinging vine. Portions of the cellar extend south and east into the clammy darkness, though you could always beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to the north. One largish bundle of wires leads down to a rusty old fuse cabinet bolted to the far wall. >s Storage Old crates and boxes piled high against the walls make this room seem even smaller and dingier than it actually is, which is saying a lot. A doorway lies north; the other walls contain nothing but shadows and dirt-filled corners. >search crates You spend some time poking dispiritedly through boxes of second-hand table settings, discarded shoes and outdated encyclopedias, but the only thing you manage to dig up is an old cardboard box full of newspaper clippings, which might make interesting reading later if you can find the time. The only thing at all noteworthy about the room, in fact, is that it desperately wants cleaning; there's even a big, nasty-looking spider web in a corner behind one of the crates. >remove web You're not wearing that. >clean web With a single sweep of the broom, you clear the spider web away. >get box (the cardboard box) (slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the cardboard box. It's an old gray shoebox, ragged around the edges, with the lid missing. In the cardboard box are some newspaper clippings. >read clippings (the newspaper clippings) CHURCH CLOSED, PREACHER SUSPECT IN COMMUNIST CRACKDOWN The Church of Celestial Wisdom in Anchorhead, Massachusetts was shut down and its congregation disbanded yesterday after its pastor, the Rev. Mordecai Verlac, 70, was accused of distributing Communist propaganda to his pari- shioners. Authorities in Arkham were informed by an anonymous call two days earlier. "The caller told us that the Reverend was 'preaching not from the Good Book, but from a terrible book,' and that he had been warn- ing them about some kind of 'invasion' or 'great event' that would be happening soon," said Sgt. Biedermeyer of the Arkham Police Department. "It smelled Red to me, so I made the decision to call our HUAC representative up in Salem." The raid commenced shortly after morning services began at 8:00 am, in order to confiscate printed material and catch any possible accomplices before they could hide or destroy evidence. No officers who participated in the raid were available for comment, although one man coming out of the building afterwards was allegedly overheard saying that it was "the worst thing he'd ever seen." The Church of Celestial Wisdom was founded in 1860 by Rev. Ver- lac's grandfather, the notorious orator and painter Elijah Verlac. The building, which is considered by many to be a historical land- (continued on A12) [Please press SPACE.] (mimeographed page, dated February 10, 1959) Any information regarding the whereabouts of Daryl Beasley, age 9, should be reported immediately to the Anchorhead police. Daryl was last seen by his mother after she dropped him off at the Route 20 bus stop, just north of Old Mill Town Road, at 8:30 am three days ago. He was not there when the bus made its scheduled stop at 8:36 am. Daryl is 4'10" tall, of slight build, with brown hair and brown eyes. At the time of his disappearance, he was wearing brown corduroy pants, blue sneakers, and a white, short-sleeved button-down shirt. If you have seen Daryl Beasley, or if you know anything about his disappearance, please call 555-4362. [Please press SPACE.] PAINTING SELLS FOR 1000£, SIGHT UNSEEN The infamous mystic Aleister Crowley purchased a painting at an auction at Sotheby's for 1000 pounds sterling on Monday without so much as glancing at it. The painting, entitled "The Legacy", is by the late American Elijah Verlac, and was sold along with numerous other pieces by a representative of the Verlac estate. Crowley reportedly strode into the auction room wearing full ceremonial robes and immediately bid 1000£ -- well over twice the going bid. He ordered it wrapped and transported immediately to his home. It is not known whether Crowley had ever seen the painting before arriving at the auction. "I've never seen anything like it," said Sir Walton Radcliffe, Esq., presiding auctioneer for the Verlac exhibit, "but I suppose one might expect such behavior from a person who calls himself, 'The Great Beast'." Mordecai Verlac, Elijah's grandson and executor of the Verlac estate, was not present at the auction. Crowley has stated that he has never met Mordecai Verlac and has no desire to. "I encountered Verlac in a former life," he is reported as saying, "and I would not do so again for all the kingdoms in Hades. He has gone where I dare not." Elijah Verlac is known by art historians more for his grotesque (continued on A25) [Please press SPACE.] (crumpled flyer showing a blurry snapshot of a young girl with short, curly hair) HAVE YOU SEEN ME? Tara Luffington last seen: March 25, 1982 age at disappearance: 6 age today: 10 hair: red eyes: green last wearing: green t-shirt, white tennis shoes, blue overalls with a button that reads: "I love cats" Any information, please call 555-4362." [Please press SPACE.] Friends and Family will grieve the loss of Sgt. HOWARD BIEDERMEYER, who died on October 28, 1956 at the age of 46, of complications following a massive aneurism. Howard was a loving husband and a devoted public servant. Services will be held this Saturday at the Good Earth Funeral Home, 9:00 am. [Please press SPACE.] BONES DISCOVERED IN WOODS, CHILD FEARED DEAD The bones of what police believe to be a small child were discovered yesterday by pic- nickers in the woods near Birch Road, just south of Anchorhead. Police have drawn no conclusions as yet, but there is a strong suspicion that the bones may be the remains of Christopher Till- worth, who disappeared near that area two weeks ago. Sgt. Ronald Franklin of the Arkham police was not optimistic. "We have contacted the boy's mother, and are trying to prepare her for the worst," he said. "No one here wants to give up hope prematurely, but the general feeling here is, we've found the boy." The remains, which consisted of a femur and partial skull, are being shipped to a forensic lab in Boston for further analysis. Rumors that the bones displayed teeth marks consistent with animal bites are so far unsubstantiated. Christopher, who would have turned 7 on the 19th, is the fifth child to disappear in the last (continued on A10) [Please press SPACE.] RESPECTED PHYSICIAN RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY Dr. Timothy Rebis, a respected obstetrician at Arkham Sisters of Mercy Hospital for the last 20 years, announced his retirement yesterday to a stunned Board of Directors. He gave no reason for his un- expected decision. "I am truly stunned," said Bernard Talbot, Chairman of the Board. "No one saw this coming. No one." A source within the hospital who wished to remain anonymous ascribed the doctor's abrupt de- parture to a nervous breakdown, but this has not been confirmed by any of Dr. Rebis' colleagues. (continued on D5) [Please press SPACE.] (photostatic copy of a much older document; a notation at the bottom dates it at the end of the 18th century) BE IT KNOWNE that, through the Generositie and Enterprise of the Hon. Goodman Heinrich Verlac, the Miskaton Valley Mille shall be Rebuilt, even upon the Ashes of the Olde which was Tragically Burnt; and BE IT KNOWNE that, upon its Newe Christening, there shall Arise a Sore Need for Men of Able Bodie and Industrious Bent to Work therein; and BE IT KNOWNE that the Hon. Goodman Heinrich Verlac is thereby holding a General Call for Employment, and any Honest Man of Working Age is Encouraged to Apply. [Please press SPACE.] ANTHROPOLOGIST TURNED AWAY IN PROPERTY DISPUTE Prominent anthropologist Dr. Joseph Corbin's repeated attempts to secure permission to set up an archeological dig in nearby Anchorhead came to an end yester- day when he lost his suit against the Rev. Mordecai Verlac. The case has been pending for over six months. The Rev. Verlac has strongly disputed Corbin's right to dig in the area, contending that the land in question belongs to the ancestral Verlac estate and is therefore his private property. Last week, Rev. Verlac's lawyers presented conclusive evidence of prior ownership, and the judge quickly ruled in his favor. Dr. Corbin, who is a protégé and close personal friend of the noted folklorist Dr. J. Arnsworth Frazer, hoped to discover relics of the little-known Misquat Indian culture, which is believed to have inhabited this area cen- turies prior to European settle- ment. Corbin called the decision "a travesty". Many expected scholars at near- by Miskaton University to rally behind Corbin's battle, but most of the faculty have been strangely (continued on D8) [Please press SPACE.] CONFLAGRATION CLAIMS PAPER MILL -- AGAIN Arkham firefighters worked late into the night yesterday, battling a blaze that brought Anchorhead's historic paper mill to the ground despite their best efforts. The mill, which provides jobs for roughly two-thirds of the town's population, caught fire yesterday around 4:00 pm. Although there have been rumors of an ex- plosion, the exact cause of the fire remains unknown. Fire Inspector Donald Brown re- mains puzzled. "There is evidence of chemical burns that are incon- sistent with the materials used in paper manufacture," he told re- porters. "There's metal fused with metal in there... it's all messed up." Interestingly, this is not the first time the Anchorhead mill has burned. The original mill was built by Wilhelm Verlac in the latter part of the 17th century, and historical records indicate that it burned down after only ten years. The mill was rebuilt by Wilhelm's grandson, Heinrich Ver- lac, a few decades later. This one lasted until shortly before the Civil War -- and some still hold that it was burned down by Confederate sympathizers. The current mill was rebuilt in 1922 by Heinrich's great-great- grandson, Rev. Mordecai Verlac. Mordecai, in addition to being a fiery preacher and outspoken Pro- hibitionist, was quite wealthy and owned numerous and widespread in- vestments. At the age of 70, this controversial figure was accused (continued on A16) [Please press SPACE.] It is with great joy that Gwyneth and Paul Ward announce the engage- ment of their only daughter, JULIA GWENDOLYN WARD, to Dr. EDWARD PHILLIP VERLAC. Edward is an associate professor of history at Miskaton University in Anchorhead, Massachusetts; Julia plans to attend medical school at Arkham College. They plan a late June wedding. We wish them good fortune and long happiness in their union. (The announcement is dated December 12, 1984, and is accompanied by a picture of the young couple. She has long, dark hair and a serious expression; he, although only in his twenties, is already starting to bald a little. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his face for some time. It seems open and guileless, and he is clearly very happy. There is no hint there of the nightmare his world would one day become.) [Please press SPACE.] Storage Old crates and boxes piled high against the walls make this room seem even smaller and dingier than it actually is, which is saying a lot. A doorway lies north; the other walls contain nothing but shadows and dirt-filled corners. You can see an old-fashioned iron key here. >get key (the old-fashioned iron key) (slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the old-fashioned iron key. It's an old key, the kind with a round barrel about a quarter-inch in diameter and flat, square teeth. Your score has just gone up by one point. >put key on keyring (the old-fashioned iron key on the keyring) The old-fashioned iron key is now on the keyring. >inv You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a cardboard box full of newspaper clippings, a broom and a flashlight (providing light). The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a keyring, on which are three keys (an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, your umbrella, Michael's faculty card, a lantern and a flask (which is closed). >save Ok. >n Cellar The old, flagstone walls gleam with unwholesome-smelling moisture, and the sagging timbers creak uneasily above your head. Ancient, frayed wiring festoons the ceiling like some strange species of clinging vine. Portions of the cellar extend south and east into the clammy darkness, though you could always beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to the north. One largish bundle of wires leads down to a rusty old fuse cabinet bolted to the far wall. >x wires The wiring runs back and forth across the ceiling in every direction -- wrapped around timbers, in and out of rusted, broken conduits, crossing and re-crossing itself in a dozen places. You can see several places where the insulation is cracked or stripped altogether. It's enough to send any self-respecting fire marshall into conniptions. >up Gratefully, you leave the clammy confines of the cellar behind. Pantry The pantry is empty save for a layer of dust on the shelves. A door to the south leads down to the cellar, or you can return to the kitchen to the southeast. The cellar door stands open, revealing dark stairs leading down. >se Kitchen Where once pots and skillets and various utensils hung in profusion, the kitchen walls are now merely ranks of dusty cabinets and a forest of empty hooks. Doorways lead east and south, a small pantry lies to the northwest, and the back door to the north leads out of the house. >turn off flashlight You switch the flashlight off. >e Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A somewhat Boschian scene, depicting a line of naked, emaciated men, their ankles shackled and chained together, shuffling forward to offer obeisance to the glowing maw of an enormous furnace. The men are malnourished and covered with terrible burns. The foremost is kneeling, offering... something, you can't make out what... up to the mouth of flames, while the rest stand as far back as they are able, their heads bowed in what appears to be fear and penitence. It isn't clear where this is supposed to be taking place; beyond the fiery glow there is nothing but soot-filled, Stygian blackness. An artist's rendition of Hell, perhaps? For some reason, you are reminded of old photographs of the Nazi death camps, in which Jews were forced to feed the ovens with the corpses of their own. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A somewhat Boschian scene, depicting a line of naked, emaciated men, their ankles shackled and chained together, shuffling forward to offer obeisance to the glowing maw of an enormous furnace. The men are malnourished and covered with terrible burns. The foremost is kneeling, offering... something, you can't make out what... up to the mouth of flames, while the rest stand as far back as they are able, their heads bowed in what appears to be fear and penitence. It isn't clear where this is supposed to be taking place; beyond the fiery glow there is nothing but soot-filled, Stygian blackness. An artist's rendition of Hell, perhaps? For some reason, you are reminded of old photographs of the Nazi death camps, in which Jews were forced to feed the ovens with the corpses of their own. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A group of old midwives cluster around a bed-ridden woman who is apparently giving birth. The old women are wizened and grim, with crooked hands and bloodstained aprons. They seem to confer with each other in dark whispers that the younger woman, who is drenched in sweat and obviously in great pain, cannot hear. By the corner of the bed, an ominous detail: a bucket full of murky, red water. Strangely, though, the old women are not the only ones present at the birth. Nearby, in another bed, lies a shriveled, decrepit old man. Although seemingly at death's door, he struggles to raise himself, as if to see the birthing over the heads of the hunched midwives. His wasted visage shows an expression of satisfaction or approval, and he is reaching out with one skeletal arm in a manner curiously similar to the famous picture on the Sistine Chapel, of God giving life to His creation Adam. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A group of old midwives cluster around a bed-ridden woman who is apparently giving birth. The old women are wizened and grim, with crooked hands and bloodstained aprons. They seem to confer with each other in dark whispers that the younger woman, who is drenched in sweat and obviously in great pain, cannot hear. By the corner of the bed, an ominous detail: a bucket full of murky, red water. Strangely, though, the old women are not the only ones present at the birth. Nearby, in another bed, lies a shriveled, decrepit old man. Although seemingly at death's door, he struggles to raise himself, as if to see the birthing over the heads of the hunched midwives. His wasted visage shows an expression of satisfaction or approval, and he is reaching out with one skeletal arm in a manner curiously similar to the famous picture on the Sistine Chapel, of God giving life to His creation Adam. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A group of white men in Revolutionary period clothing, taking prisoner a group of Native Americans. The exact situation is unclear: the white men stand around with muskets threatening, while the natives, who are chained together, file into a fenced enclosure, as though being herded into a compound of some sort. In the extreme background, at the far end of the enclosure, stands a large brick building. Dark, grainy smoke billows up from two stone chimneys rising above the structure. Leaning very close, you can just make out another group of natives being herded into the structure by more of the white men. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A young apprentice butcher learns his trade in a slaughterhouse. The older man -- heavyset, thick jaw and sloping brow -- holds his cleaver above a severed calf's head, looking expectantly at the boy as though demonstrating the proper technique. The boy, holding a smaller cleaver of his own, looks on attentively. It would be reminiscent of something by Norman Rockwell, except for the frankly alarming amount of gore. The aprons and faces of both master and apprentice are streaked with blood; blood pools on the chopping block and overspills the gutters; blood drips from the walls and from the skinned carcasses that can be seen hanging in the background. The two butchers stand ankle-deep in a reeking abattoir. And... there's something wrong with the boy. Most of his body is hidden behind the chopping block, but there are details about the parts you can see that... don't seem to fit quite right. The arm holding the cleaver is slightly misshapen, for example, the fingers deformed in a way that you can't quite make out. And his neck seems just a bit too thick, and his head seems just a bit too large and blocky. His face looks normal enough, except that it seems to have been placed just slightly off-center. It's a very subtly disturbing effect. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A group of primitive tribesmen dance within a ring of standing stones, beneath a lightning-streaked sky. Their dress and some of the fetishes they carry -- feathers, rattles, ceremonial masks -- all seem to represent a Native American culture, but the men themselves are... strange. They look truly savage and degenerate, in a way that you don't often see Native Americans depicted. Peering closely, you can see that some of them even appear to be deformed. Overlooking the dance stands a tall obelisk on a hill, silhouetted against the storm clouds above. The artist added a strange effect to the cloud formations directly above the obelisk; the color and shading seem to suggest a red, baleful eye looking down upon the strange ritual below. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A madman, clad only in a filthy, ragged loincloth, his thin body covered with dirt and sores, dances wildly on a precipice between two massive, metal pillars. His long, gray hair whips about his face in an unseen wind; behind him, beyond the precipice, violet clouds seethe and roil. He seems to be playing some strange sort of wind instrument, like a flute, making the whole scene look oddly like a macabre Jethro Tull album cover. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene The simple but striking image of five young women being burned to death at the stake. Around them stand a crowd of men and women dressed in rustic, 17th century clothing; they jeer and throw stones. The ringleader, standing in front of the five glowing pyres with the smoking torch still in his hand, wears a clergyman's collar. The artist obviously went to painstaking lengths to depict the burning in ghastly detail: skin curling away from blackened flesh; hair shriveling; eyes boiling in their sockets and melting across cracked and splitting cheeks... repeated five times over, on the bodies of five thrashing, screaming girls. It turns your stomach to look at. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A simple scene, without the gruesome and fantastic detail that embellishes so many of the other paintings: a sailing ship on dark waters, coming in to port in the dead of night. A lighthouse, standing tall in the distance, lights the way. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >w Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >e Gallery A long, oak-paneled room, with doorways to the south and west. Paintings line the walls, mounted beneath small, shaded lamps that would illuminate the canvasses nicely if only the electricity were working. Still, even in the shadowed gloom you can see that all were done by the same artist. >x paintings All of them are bizarre, and most of them border on the grotesque. Alien landscapes peopled by writhing, malformed creatures; ancient temples built in strange, eye-bending architectures; monstrous beasts crawling through shadows that cannot quite conceal their disturbingly human shapes -- these seem to make up the bulk of the paintings' subject matter. And yet, despite the fantastical nature of the images painted, the style is neither abstract nor surreal. In fact, the level of detail approaches the photorealistic. Excruciating attention has been paid to light, shadows, and textures; even the alien creatures are depicted with gruesome anatomical accuracy. It is as though the artist had worked from actual, living models rather than from what must have been a thoroughly deranged imagination, and the overall effect is rather chilling. One scene in particular catches your eye. >x scene A madman, clad only in a filthy, ragged loincloth, his thin body covered with dirt and sores, dances wildly on a precipice between two massive, metal pillars. His long, gray hair whips about his face in an unseen wind; behind him, beyond the precipice, violet clouds seethe and roil. He seems to be playing some strange sort of wind instrument, like a flute, making the whole scene look oddly like a macabre Jethro Tull album cover. You shake yourself suddenly, and realize you've been staring intently at the painting for minutes on end. You step back and rub your tired eyes. When you look again, however, the picture you were just examining is no longer in front of you. None of the other paintings have moved as far as you can tell, but that particular scene seems to have disappeared without leaving so much as a blank space on the wall. >s Sitting Room The east wall is occupied by a beautiful antique sofa, and a large, hand-woven rug covers the hardwood floor. The huge marble fireplace in the north wall helps complete the impression of comfort and warmth, and for a moment or two you can almost think of this place as somewhere you could live, as opposed to merely somewhere others have died. The foyer lies west, and a doorway to the left of the fireplace leads north. Your brief sense of comfort quickly drains away, however, as you become aware of the icy and maniacal stare emanating from the great portrait hanging over the mantelpiece. Under the malefic gaze of those red-rimmed eyes, the most comforting thought you can muster is that of immediate flight. On the sofa is a family album. >get album You pick up the family album. It's a slim, hardbound volume in dark leather, unadorned except for name "Verlac" embossed on the front. Glancing at the title page, you notice two details: one, the book was self-published; and two, it was published in 1944. So it's a good bet that Edward Verlac and his family aren't mentioned here. >read album The book contains portraits and brief biographies (although, strangely, no birth or death dates) on some two hundred members of the Verlac clan, from the central family figures to the distant second cousins. If you want to read about someone in here, you'll have to look them up by name. >look up wilhelm in album The entry reads: Wilhelm Verlac Fled with mother Eustacia Verlac during the Witch Burnings of 1653; returned to Anchorhead in 1663; elected mayor of Anchorhead in 1690; built the Miskaton River Mill in 1695; began construction of the lighthouse in 1706. The picture is a reproduction of a charcoal sketch, probably done when he was a younger man. The similarities to the portrait in the sitting room is evident, though: the patrician nose; the harsh, thin line of the mouth; the lean, wolfish jaw. It is the eyes, however, that carry the true family resemblance. Even in the rough, colorless strokes of charcoal, you can see that they are edged with the same raw madness that haunts the red-tinged gaze of the sitting room portrait. >look up heinrich in album The entry reads: Heinrich Verlac Added cupola to the Verlac Estate in 1759; elected mayor of Anchorhead in 1765; rebuilt the Miskaton River Mill in 1770; led the battle of Quattac Bend in the Misquat Uprising of 1772; arrested as a Royalist sympathizer in 1777 but subsequently cleared of all charges; completed construction of the lighthouse in 1795. The portrait is of Heinrich as an older man, in his late fifties, perhaps. The German ancestry shows through more clearly here, in the set of his jaw and the line of his forehead. The eyes burn with aggressive pride... and perhaps a little of the madness which stained the gaze of his ancestors as well. >look up elijah in album The entry reads: Elijah Verlac Traveled to Europe in 1824 to study painting and to research the Verlac genealogy; returned to Anchorhead in 1832; entered the seminary at Arkham College in 1834; ordained in 1844; began construction of the Church of Celestial Wisdom in Anchorhead in 1860; accused of Confederate sympathies in 1862; retired from the clergy and devoted life to painting in 1873. On of the earliest photographic portraits in the album, it depicts a man in his sixties, at least. His face is deeply scored by time, his skin mottled with liver spots, his long, gray hair swept back from a high, bony forehead. This man resembles the portrait in the sitting room more than any of the others, for he has practically the same eyes -- the raw, bloodshot madness staring out from hollow caves in his skull. You note one other interesting detail: he appears to have an extra digit, a sixth finger, on his right hand. >look up mordecai in album The entry reads: Mordecai Verlac Currently residing in Anchorhead; attended seminary at Arkham College in 1906; ordained in 1912; re-established the Church of Celestial Wisdom in 1920; rebuilt the Miskaton River Mill in 1922. The photograph depicts a man who has returned to his Puritan roots: dressed in spartan black, hair clipped in an archaic tonsure, clutching a Bible in his lap as he glares stoically at the camera. This is the kind of man who would whip his children for laughing on Sunday. His eyes still carry the Verlac madness, burning with single-minded righteousness. >look up eustacia in album The entry reads: Eustacia Verlac Born to Croseus Verlac; gave birth to one son, Wilhelm; fled Anchorhead during the Witch Burnings of 1653; remained in hiding in Arkham for 10 years, then returned with son in 1663; died 1686. The woman in the portrait is strikingly beautiful, with jet black hair that hangs down past her shoulders like a shining, velvet curtain. There is some resemblance to the thin, cruel features of her father, but not the ragged, red- tinged madness about the eyes. Eustacia's eyes are not red at all; they are cold and deep and very dark. >look up croseus in album The entry reads: Croseus Verlac Born the son of a provincial cabinet-maker in the Höllental Valley circa 1590; fled Germany in 1620 to avoid charges of heresy; came to the New World in 1622 on the ship Dawn Maiden; founded the town of Anchorhead in 1624; began construction of Verlac estate in 1625; signed the non-aggression pact with Chief Chuaquacqat of the Misquat tribe in 1631. The picture is a full-page black-and-white reproduction of the portrait hanging in the sitting room. Underneath it, someone has scribbled in pencil: his is our blood he always returns to his blood >w Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. >get luggage Honestly, you just can't muster enough motivation. >x luggage It's all a huge, hopeless mess. Just looking at it instantly drains you of any desire to unpack. >up Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >e Upstairs Hall The shuttered window at the end of the hall throws a gloomy rectangle of light onto the bare wooden floor. Doorways lead north and south. There is a cord dangling in mid-air here, right about level with your face. >n Library Whatever else their faults may have been, the Verlacs were evidently not ones to shun the printed word. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling in this dark- paneled, green-carpeted room, interrupted only by doorways to the east and south. A rich, brown leather armchair sits in stately repose near the window, with a polished brass pipe stand nearby completing the picture of some blue- blooded country squire's literary refuge. Once again, you are struck by how easily this place could have been the perfect home. A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors stand closed to the east. Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover. >get volume (The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales) (slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales. It's an old medieval tome dated in the early 1300s, written by one Galarian Academius desChamps. >read volume Which do you mean, the bookshelves or The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales? >compleat manual Essentially, it's a textbook on the theory and practice of magickal wards and seals, mystic symbols inscribed on doors and containers in order to keep people and spirits out -- or in. It's all very deliberately vague and arcane (in addition to being written in medieval French and translated into Middle English, making it nearly impossible to understand), the kind of thing that likely got many a scholar burned at the stake in those days. You are surprised to find that a page in this old and probably quite valuable book has been folded down, as though to mark the place. The section marked discusses various methods of opening doors that have been sealed with the image of a pagan god. Speaking aloud the deity's true name will usually do the trick, apparently. >x bookshelf Literally hundreds of books stuff the shelves, many of them thick, cracked, leather-bound tomes with ribbon place-holders and titles lettered in raised gold leaf. It would take you years to peruse them all. However, one interesting title does catch your eye. An authentic first printing of Edgar Allen Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, shelved incongruously between volumes "G" and "H" of the Encyclopedia Americana. >get poe The book sticks stubbornly at first, and, thinking that it must be tightly wedged in between the encyclopediae, you give it a fierce jerk. Suddenly, the book slides halfway out, then pops back in with a loud "snick". Amazingly, a section of the bookshelf slides back, revealing a hidden safe. Your score has just gone up by one point. >x safe It's a stark cube of black, oily steel, fifteen inches to a side. Its only feature is a large calibrated dial set into the front. >save Ok. >turn dial to 9 The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 9... >turn dial to 38 The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 38... >turn dial to 56 The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 56... and with a hollow thunk, the safe suddenly swings open. Your score has just gone up by two points. >x safe It's a stark cube of black, oily steel, fifteen inches to a side. Its only feature is a large calibrated dial set into the front. The safe is currently open. >look in sfae You can't see any such thing. >look in safe In the safe are a puzzle box and a strange metal flute. >get all You'll have to be more specific about which objects you mean. >get box and flute puzzle box: (slipping the cardboard box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You don't have a lid for the box. If you put it in your pocket the clippings will just fall out and get lost. strange metal flute: (slipping the cardboard box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You don't have a lid for the box. If you put it in your pocket the clippings will just fall out and get lost. >drop box (the cardboard box) Dropped. >get box and flute Which do you mean, the cardboard box or the puzzle box? >drop cardboard box You're not holding the cardboard box. >get puzzle box You pick up the puzzle box. It's roughly the size and shape of a cigar box, carved from some dark and oddly streaked wood that you can't identify. All six surfaces are decorated in a complex arrangement of grooves and panels, most of which are illustrated with leering, demonic faces and obscene designs. As far as you can tell, it is in fact a box, and meant to be opened; however, you see no obvious way to do so. >get flute (the strange metal flute) (slipping the family album into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) You pick up the strange metal flute. It appears to be some kind of wind instrument, fashioned out of ornately carved, greenish metal. Seven holes of varying sizes are drilled along the top. You can hear Michael in the next room, typing away. >s Upstairs Hall The shuttered window at the end of the hall throws a gloomy rectangle of light onto the bare wooden floor. Doorways lead north and south. There is a cord dangling in mid-air here, right about level with your face. >s Children's Bedroom This must be the children's bedroom. The bed is smaller than the one in the master bedroom, its bright coverlet providing one of the few feeble splashes of color in what must have been, for most of its history, a joylessly Puritan household. A small vanity table occupies the opposite wall, and in the corner under the window stands an ancient crib. The only exit is to the north. A child's jewelry box sits on the corner of the vanity. >open jewelry box You open the jewelry box, revealing a silver locket. >x jewelry box It's hardly larger than your hand, made of wood and charmingly decorated with a picture of children dancing around a Maypole. Most likely a plaything of one of the later Verlac children. The lid is open to reveal a silver locket. >x locket It is oval-shaped, held shut with a tiny clasp. >get locket (slipping The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) Taken. >wear locket You put on the silver locket. >x bed Not as fancy as the four-poster, but it looks comfortable enough. >look under bed You notice some odd scratches in the floor around the legs of the bed frame -- marks about six inches long, scored into the wood. Otherwise, nothing but shadows and dust under the bed. >move bed Bracing yourself, you push the bed away from the wall, revealing a ragged hole in the wood paneling. >look in hole (the ragged hole) In the ragged hole is a bundle of soggy pages. >get pages You pick up the bundle of soggy pages. It appears to have been someone's diary. There must have been a leak at some time behind the wall where it was hidden, because most of the pages are water-logged and completely illegible. However, portions of a few entries remain untouched. Your score has just gone up by two points. >read pages Carefully, you turn the tattered pages. The handwriting is that of a young girl. You idly wonder if this might have been the diary of one of Edward Verlac's daughters -- but then you notice part of a date, just visible in the corner of the page: 1953. This must have been written, then, several years before Edward was born. The entries that are legible read as follows: ...Father came again to my bed last night... mother doesn't... tells me I can't... to be a good daughter. Sometimes it hurts, but Father always tells me I shouldn't cry. Father says a daughter must do her Duty if she wants to get into Heaven. And I do want to get into Heaven... [this entry dated 1957] ...my poor little William. Father calls him an aberration, child of the Devil, but I don't believe... locked in the attic. I go to see him whenever Father is away. I sing to him, sometimes, through the keyhole, and slip him sweets through the crack under the door... my baby is beautiful... can't let him hurt my dear baby William... to the doctor, and he has a plan... I can never... this locket, William, and I will always keep yours... to always remember my face... Nothing else is readable except for one fragmented entry near the very end of the book, the date in the corner reading February 27, 1961: ...dead, but not dead yet... will not allow him to do to Edward what he wanted to do to William... have learned... given him the charm against the... never take it off, dear Edward... [a page has been torn away] ...fear to sleep... mist at the window -- And that's all. >look up william in album There's nothing here you can look things up in. >inventory You are wearing a silver locket, your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a bundle of soggy pages, a strange metal flute, a puzzle box (which is closed) and a broom. The pockets of your trenchcoat contain The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales, a family album, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are three keys (an old- fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, your umbrella, Michael's faculty card, a lantern and a flask (which is closed). >put broom in coat The broom is too long to fit in your pockets, deep though they are. >put flute in coat (the strange metal flute in the trenchcoat) You slip the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat. >get family album Taken. >look up william in album You cannot find that name anywhere in the album. >n Upstairs Hall The shuttered window at the end of the hall throws a gloomy rectangle of light onto the bare wooden floor. Doorways lead north and south. There is a cord dangling in mid-air here, right about level with your face. >w Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >d Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from. >n Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >w Kitchen Where once pots and skillets and various utensils hung in profusion, the kitchen walls are now merely ranks of dusty cabinets and a forest of empty hooks. Doorways lead east and south, a small pantry lies to the northwest, and the back door to the north leads out of the house. >open back door It seems to be locked. >save Ok. >unlock door (first taking the keyring) (slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) Taken. You unlock the back door. >n (opening the back door first) Path Behind the House A gravel path starts here at the back door of the house, and marks a trail nearly overgrown by weeds and briars. It disappears into the undergrowth to the northwest, framed by crooked trees with overhanging branches that seem to form a stunted, jagged archway into the dim recesses of the forest. >nw Stooping to avoid the sharp, bare twigs that snag your clothes and seem to reach greedily for your eyes, you pick your way through the undergrowth to a small clearing. Family Plot Old, moss-slimed tombstones, many broken off and leaning crazily like an old man's teeth, poke up from the soft, mulchy earth. In their midst stands an ancient marble crypt, its heavy iron door nearly obscured by thick draperies of ivy. The trees press close around this quiet enclave of death, leaning together over your head as if sharing secrets. A gap in the undergrowth to the southeast reveals a narrow gravel path. >x trees The woods are ancient, thick with undergrowth and full of shadows. Branches creak, leaves rustle beneath unseen, half-imagined footsteps, and strange birdcalls echo through the trees. >x tombstones Years of neglect have left the tombstones in bad repair -- the ones not broken are eroded to near-illegibility, and those not eroded are covered with thick, sticky moss. From what you can make out, though, most of them are servants' graves. Family members were most likely buried in the larger structure in the middle of the clearing. >x crypt Grimly carved letters over the door spell out a single name: "VERLAC". A gust of wind blows your hair into your face. >x door Grimly carved letters over the door spell out a single name: "VERLAC". The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat. >open door It seems to be locked. >unlock door You go through all the keys on your keyring, trying each one in turn, and after several false attempts you discover that the old-fashioned iron key fits the lock. You unlock the iron door. In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind. >open door You open the iron door. >enter The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend. Darkness It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing. >light flashlight The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam. In the Crypt The air is clammy and frigid, the stone walls damp and streaked with mud and lichen. Pale, swollen roots push through cracks in the masonry. The smell of damp corruption is almost overpowering here, though the stairs to the south lead toward fresher air. The walls of this chamber contain dozens of wide, shallow niches; in each niche, a coffin. >x walls You can't see any such thing. >x coffin Rank upon rank of the ancient Verlac family remains are stacked away in this hole, left to crumble and deliquesce together, merging back into the dark matter which gave them birth. Above each niche is a nameplate indicating who was buried here and when they died. >x nameplate Most of the nameplates are illegible, corroded with centuries of rot and verdigris. There are a few names visible, however. You could look someone up if you have a specific name in mind. >look up william on nameplate (in The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales) You discover nothing of interest in The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales. >exit You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind. Family Plot Old, moss-slimed tombstones, many broken off and leaning crazily like an old man's teeth, poke up from the soft, mulchy earth. In their midst stands an ancient marble crypt, its heavy iron door nearly obscured by thick draperies of ivy. The trees press close around this quiet enclave of death, leaning together over your head as if sharing secrets. A gap in the undergrowth to the southeast reveals a narrow gravel path. >se Path Behind the House A gravel path starts here at the back door of the house, and marks a trail nearly overgrown by weeds and briars. It disappears into the undergrowth to the northwest, framed by crooked trees with overhanging branches that seem to form a stunted, jagged archway into the dim recesses of the forest. >s Kitchen Where once pots and skillets and various utensils hung in profusion, the kitchen walls are now merely ranks of dusty cabinets and a forest of empty hooks. Doorways lead east and south, a small pantry lies to the northwest, and the back door to the north leads out of the house. >drop seales (first taking The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales) (slipping the bundle of soggy pages into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free) Taken. Dropped. >n Path Behind the House A gravel path starts here at the back door of the house, and marks a trail nearly overgrown by weeds and briars. It disappears into the undergrowth to the northwest, framed by crooked trees with overhanging branches that seem to form a stunted, jagged archway into the dim recesses of the forest. >nw Stooping to avoid the sharp, bare twigs that snag your clothes and seem to reach greedily for your eyes, you pick your way through the undergrowth to a small clearing. Family Plot Old, moss-slimed tombstones, many broken off and leaning crazily like an old man's teeth, poke up from the soft, mulchy earth. In their midst stands an ancient marble crypt, its heavy iron door nearly obscured by thick draperies of ivy. The trees press close around this quiet enclave of death, leaning together over your head as if sharing secrets. A gap in the undergrowth to the southeast reveals a narrow gravel path. >enter The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend. In the Crypt The air is clammy and frigid, the stone walls damp and streaked with mud and lichen. Pale, swollen roots push through cracks in the masonry. The smell of damp corruption is almost overpowering here, though the stairs to the south lead toward fresher air. The walls of this chamber contain dozens of wide, shallow niches; in each niche, a coffin. >look up william on nameplate What do you want to look that up in? >nameplate The nameplate reads "William Verlac, b. June 22, 1954, d. September 18, 1958". Unlike the others, William's coffin is a ramshackle affair of cheap pine, held together with rusting nails. It's half-rotten with age and so shabbily built you could probably open it with your bare hands. >open william's coffi n I only understood you as far as wanting to open William's coffin. >open william's coffin Compelled by a gruesome curiosity, you dig your fingers under the soft, rotting boards and pry up the lid. With the shriek of pulling nails and a shower of crumbling wood, the coffin comes open, and you look inside, expecting to find a child's tiny skeleton... Dear God. There's no child buried here. Instead, the coffin contains only the worm-eaten bones of some kind of animal. Who would have buried an animal in place of the child that should have been interred here? And why would they do such a thing? Glumly, you look around at the rest of the coffins, and realize that anyone who might have known the answers to these questions is probably already buried in this room. >x bones You're no veterinarian, but these cannot possibly be the bones of a human child. A dog seems most likely, at a rough guess. >get bones The skeleton is in pieces; parts of it crumble even as you touch it. Only the animal's skull seems reasonably intact. >get skull You pick up the animal's skull. The gruesome thing seems to leer at you with its bleached, toothy grin. >up You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind. Family Plot Old, moss-slimed tombstones, many broken off and leaning crazily like an old man's teeth, poke up from the soft, mulchy earth. In their midst stands an ancient marble crypt, its heavy iron door nearly obscured by thick draperies of ivy. The trees press close around this quiet enclave of death, leaning together over your head as if sharing secrets. A gap in the undergrowth to the southeast reveals a narrow gravel path. >se Path Behind the House A gravel path starts here at the back door of the house, and marks a trail nearly overgrown by weeds and briars. It disappears into the undergrowth to the northwest, framed by crooked trees with overhanging branches that seem to form a stunted, jagged archway into the dim recesses of the forest. >s Kitchen Where once pots and skillets and various utensils hung in profusion, the kitchen walls are now merely ranks of dusty cabinets and a forest of empty hooks. Doorways lead east and south, a small pantry lies to the northwest, and the back door to the north leads out of the house. You can also see The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales here. >close door You close the back door. >lock door You lock the back door. >e Back Hall A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south. >s Foyer Although it appears spacious from the outside, the house's interior feels cramped and gloomy. The walls seem too close together; the ceiling is too high. The doorways, leading in several directions, are narrow and filled with shadows, and the stairs leading up to the second floor are steep and rickety. This is not a house that makes you feel welcome. It is a house that makes you feel tiny and timid, and afraid of dark places. It is a house that makes you feel alone. Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer. >up Upstairs Landing A narrow hallway runs east, from the top of the stairs down the length of the house. To the north, directly opposite the stairs, is the master bedroom. >e Upstairs Hall The shuttered window at the end of the hall throws a gloomy rectangle of light onto the bare wooden floor. Doorways lead north and south. There is a cord dangling in mid-air here, right about level with your face. >n Library Whatever else their faults may have been, the Verlacs were evidently not ones to shun the printed word. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling in this dark- paneled, green-carpeted room, interrupted only by doorways to the east and south. A rich, brown leather armchair sits in stately repose near the window, with a polished brass pipe stand nearby completing the picture of some blue- blooded country squire's literary refuge. Once again, you are struck by how easily this place could have been the perfect home. A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors stand closed to the east. A section of the shelves in the western wall has slid to one side, revealing a hidden safe. You can also see a cardboard box (in which are some newspaper clippings) here. >get poe The book slides halfway out, then pops back in with a loud "snick". The safe door swings shut, and the section of bookshelf slides seamlessly back into place. You