Anchorhead
Michael Gentry
academic NPC Available on Steam body horror changing environment child abuse child death city cover art female protagonist full length horror incest Inform 6 long long-form Lovecraft Lovecraftian parser rape references research self-mutilation strong NPCs surreal violence Xyzzy Awards 1998 XYZZY Best Setting
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. Travel to the haunted coastal town of Anchorhead, Massachusetts and uncover the roots of a horrific conspiracy inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Search through musty archives and tomes of esoteric lore; dodge hostile townsfolk; combat a generation-spanning evil that threatens your family and the entire world.
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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...

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.
About yourself
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 hand your umbrella.

The pockets of your trenchcoat are empty.
You examine umbrella
Olive green, with a hook-shaped handle. It's a handy little thing, when it rains. It's currently open.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.

The clouds overhead mutter restlessly to themselves.
You open the door
It seems to be locked.
You knock on the door
You rap on the glass sharply, peering through it into the dark room inside. Nobody answers. Strange; you just talked to the real estate agent -- Miss Benson, you think it was -- yesterday. She was going to meet you here.

The rain slackens off momentarily to a weak drizzle, then returns afresh in a brief, freezing downpour.
Go southeast
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 examine cans
The metal garbage cans are stuffed to overflowing with slowly decomposing refuse.
You look at the 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.
You climb the cans
You clamber onto the wobbling garbage can, precariously balanced.
You open the window
Hmm. You still can't quite reach, because the garbage can is too far away from the wall. Perhaps if you pushed it closer...
Go downwards
Carefully, you descend.
You stand on can
You clamber onto the wobbling garbage can, precariously balanced. You can just reach the lower edge of the window from here.
You open the window
You open the transom window.
Go inside
(closing the umbrella first)
It's a tight squeeze, but you just manage to wriggle through, dropping quietly to the floor inside.

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.
You look at the 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.
You look up yourself in the cabinets
(in the filing cabinets)
You don't find anything filed under that heading.

You can hear a fly buzzing around, hovering over the back of your neck.
About yourself
You look good, considering. A bit rattled by recent events, perhaps, but well-poised and collected, all the same.
You look at the ring
Staring at your wedding ring like that tends to make you sentimental.
You look at the fly
You can't see where the fly is. You're not even sure where the buzzing is coming from.
You go west
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.
You look at the machine
A simple answering machine, with a small display indicating messages received, a button labeled "PLAY", and a button labeled "DELETE".
You examine display
The display indicates there is one message on the machine, left (oddly enough) at 4:19 this morning. The display also shows that the message has already been checked.
You examine the coffee
Muddy-looking and unappetizing. Who knows how long it's been sitting out?
You examine the drawer
You can't see inside, since the drawer is closed.

You can hear a fly buzzing around, right around your head.
You open the drawer
It seems to be locked.
Inventory
You are wearing your wedding ring, your trenchcoat and your clothes; in addition, you have in your hand your umbrella.

The pockets of your trenchcoat are empty.
Murder fly
You can't see where the fly is. You're not even sure where the buzzing is coming from.
You look at the ring
Staring at your wedding ring like that tends to make you sentimental.
You remove the ring
You slip the plain gold band from your finger. Usually you feel almost naked without your ring on, although sometimes you do find yourself taking it off briefly, just to read the inscription along the inside.
You read the ring
Engraved along the inside are Michael's and your initials, along with your wedding date -- June 28th.
You wear the ring
The gold band slides onto your finger with a comforting snugness.
Go east
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.
You look up Verlac in the cabinets
(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.
You look at the keys
It's just an ordinary-looking keyring. There are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar) on it.
You go west
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.
You move the papers
Sifting through the paperwork, you find nothing that catches your attention.

You can hear a fly buzzing around, right around your head.
You look at the blinds
The blinds are drawn across the windows, letting in a thin trickle of light. They are coated with a thin film of dust.
You examine the front door
You can make out the words "tsruhkcarB & nosneB" stenciled across the glass. There is a latch on this side which can be turned to lock or unlock the door.
Search pockets
The trenchcoat is empty.
Go east
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.
You look up Benson in the cabinets
(in the filing cabinets)
You don't find anything filed under that heading.
You look up Michael in the cabinets
(in the filing cabinets)
As you search in vain for some mention of your husband's name, it dawns on you that the property is most likely listed under the family's original, ancestral name.
You unlock door
You unlock the office door.
Go west
(opening the real estate office door first)
The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella.

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.
You close the door
You close the real estate office door.
You open the umbrella
That's already open.
Go west
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.
Go northwest
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.
You examine the brick wall
It's just an ordinary-looking brick wall.
You climb the wall
The wall is featureless and very high; there's no way over it.
You go southeast
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.
You listen
At the very edge of your hearing you can just make out the sound of someone playing a violin -- a plaintive, haunting melody.
Yell
Come now; you're not that frightened.
You look around
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.

The rain slackens off momentarily to a weak drizzle, then returns afresh in a brief, freezing downpour.
You climb the wall
The wall is featureless and very high; there's no way over it.
You go to the south-west
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.
Go north
You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors.

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.
You examine the 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.
You take it
No one here looks as though they'd mind if you borrowed one of these lamps. Casually, you purloin the nearest one.
You go east
The exit is to the south.
Examine 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.
You look behind the bar
Not a bartender in sight.
You examine the people
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.
You go to the south
As you make your way to the door, your foot strikes something under one of the tables.
You look under the table
Some forgetful soul has left a flask underneath one of the tables, pushed into a shadowy corner.
You take the 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.
You examine 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.
You put the flask in coat
You slip the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You go south
The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella.

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.
You go to the west
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.
You go to the north-west
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.
Go west
You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors.

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.
Kiss Michael
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?"
You show the 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."
You examine 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.

Michael looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to lead the way.
Go east
The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella.

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.
Go southeast
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.
You go east
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 strolls along after you.
You go to the south
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.
You examine River
The Miskaton's waters are sluggish and dark. Some sort of oily film coats the surface, reflecting back ghostly swirls of color.
Go south
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.
You examine the obelisk
The obelisk measures about two feet square at its base, narrowing slightly as it rises a good fifteen feet to a bluntly pointed tip. An iron ring is embedded in the stone high up on one side, about two feet from the top. Dense, twisting hieroglyphs cover all four sides of the obelisk, although they are too worn to be read clearly.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.

"We really should be getting on to the house, don't you think?" asks Michael. "It's a bit rainy out."
You ask Michael about the house
"The Verlac family has been living in that old place for generations; they're an integral part of the history of this whole region. It's really quite interesting."
Go west
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.
You go south
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.

Michael scuffs around dispiritedly.
Go north
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 follows you.
You go east
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 strolls along after you.
You go east
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.
You go to the south
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.

The clouds overhead mutter restlessly to themselves.
You listen
The furtive creaking of branches and the soft rustling of leaves are all that you hear.
Go southwest
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.

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 strolls along after you.
Go northwest
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 strolls along after you.

"Well," says Michael, "this must be the place. We finally made it, honey. We're home!"
You read the 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.

The rain slackens off momentarily to a weak drizzle, then returns afresh in a brief, freezing downpour.
You look at the keys
It's just an ordinary-looking keyring. There are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar) on it.
You unlock door
You unlock the front door.
You go north
(opening the front door first)
You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors.

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.
You close the door
You close the front door.
You lock the door
You lock the front door.
Go upward
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.
Go north
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.
You go west
A small chamber of cold, white tile and floral-print wallpaper. It sports a genuine, whitewashed, claw-foot bathtub with a shower attachment, which is a definite plus. The bedroom lies east.
Go east
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 trenchcoat.
You take off the clothes.
You drop all
lantern: Dropped.
keyring: Dropped.
trenchcoat: Dropped.
clothes: Dropped.
umbrella: Dropped.
You enter the bed
Gratefully, you crawl into bed and pull the covers up to your chin.
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...
You wake up. Steam billows gently by, and you can hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.
You look around
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 keyring (on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) and a lantern here.

On the four-poster bed you can see Michael's pants (in which is Michael's wallet (which is closed)).
You examine the wallet
It's just his wallet, an ordinary leather wallet.
You open the wallet
(first taking the wallet)
With a nervous glance toward the bathroom, you slip the wallet from Michael's pants.
You open the wallet, revealing Michael's faculty card.
You examine the faculty card
The card identifies your husband as a faculty member at Miskaton University, entitled to all the privileges that implies.
Close the wallet
You close the wallet.
You put the wallet in the pants
(Michael's pants)
You put the wallet into Michael's pants.
Go west
The bathroom is occupied at the moment.
You stand
Reluctantly, you do so.

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 keyring (on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar)) and a lantern here.
You wear the clothes
(first taking the clothes)
You put on the clothes.
You take the keyring and the lantern
keyring: Taken.
lantern: Taken.
Wear coat
(first taking the trenchcoat)
You put on the trenchcoat.
You examine the landscapes
The sketches are charcoal on yellowed paper, pictures of the surrounding countryside. They're quite pretty, actually, lending an air of comfort to an otherwise cold and moribund house. Each drawing is initialed in the corner - "J.W.V. - '95".
Go south
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.
You go to the east
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.
Go north
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.

You pause as the shower shuts off, and you hear Michael moving around in the next room. His footsteps thump loudly on the hardwood floor as he comes down the hall, and then are muffled again as he steps onto the deep green carpet of the library.

"Good morning," he says, smiling and kissing you lightly on the cheek. He looks around at the crowded rows of books. "Neat, huh? I may go through some of them this morning. Since the fogies don't need me to start work until tomorrow, I thought I'd stay home and try to get some writing done."

As he steps through the sliding doors into the study, he turns and says, "I'll be in here for a while, okay? Oh, and if you go out today, see if you can find a newspaper somewhere." He smiles as he slides the doors shut.
You examine the volume
(The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales)
It's an old medieval tome dated in the early 1300s, written by one Galarian Academius desChamps.
You read it
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.
Look around
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.
You look at the books
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.
You look at Poe
It's a beautifully bound book in near-perfect condition, and probably extremely valuable -- if it really is authentic. Michael will go nuts when he sees this.
You read Poe
You'll have to take it down from the bookshelf if you want to read anything other than the spine.
You take 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.
You look at 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.
You examine the dial
The dial is calibrated from one to sixty. It is currently set to 24.
You take safe
You don't even want to guess how much that thing weighs. You'd likely break your back just trying to lift it.
You go south
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.

A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
You go to the south
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.
You look at the 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 closed.
You open the box
You open the jewelry box, revealing a silver locket.
You examine the locket
It is oval-shaped, held shut with a tiny clasp.
You open the locket
You open the silver locket, revealing a boy's picture.
You look at the picture
(the 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.
You examine boy
The boy in the picture looks no more than three or four years old. He is smiling, but there is something disconcerting about his expression, as though his head were not shaped quite right or his features had been placed slightly wrong. He might possibly have been mentally retarded. It's difficult to tell, because the picture has been cropped so closely you can't even see the edges of the boy's face. Only his features fill the tiny frame.
You look through the window
Through the narrow slats in the shutters, you can make out the bony, grasping branches of the surrounding trees, waving in the wind. Not a soothing sight.
You look at the crib
The crib is made of wood and held together with pegs, not nails. It's probably at least as old as the house.
You look in the crib
The crib is empty.
You look at the vanity
A simple vanity table, scaled down for a child, spartan in design and almost wholly without decoration. It's hard to imagine keeping any sort of makeup or jewelry on it, but then again, vanity of even the most innocent kind was probably discouraged in most of the Verlac children.
You look under the 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.
You pull the bed
Bracing yourself, you push the bed away from the wall, revealing a ragged hole in the wood paneling.
You examine the hole
It's about six inches wide, and looks like it was made by by someone breaking in the wall with a hammer and pulling chunks of paneling out with their bare hands.
You look in the hole
In the ragged hole is a bundle of soggy pages.
You take the 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.
You examine diary
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.
You read the diary
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.
You go north
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.

A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
You go north
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.

You can also see your umbrella here.
You go to the west
A small chamber of cold, white tile and floral-print wallpaper. It sports a genuine, whitewashed, claw-foot bathtub with a shower attachment, which is a definite plus. The bedroom lies east.

Michael's bath towel lies crumpled in the corner, next to the tub.
You take the towel
Taken.
You smell it
Smells a bit mildewy.
You take the umbrella
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Go downward
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.
You examine the luggage
It's all a huge, hopeless mess. Just looking at it instantly drains you of any desire to unpack.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
Open luggage
Honestly, you just can't muster enough motivation.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
You go north
A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south.
You go west
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.
You take the flashlight
(slipping the lantern 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.
You open the cabinets
The cabinets are not, after all, still stocked -- much to your relief. There's nothing in there but an old book of matches.
You take the matches
(slipping the bundle of soggy pages 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.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

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.
You examine the broom
It's just an ordinary-looking broom.
Go southeast
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 turn off the flashlight
You switch the flashlight off.
You go to the north
(opening the back door first)
It seems to be locked.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You unlock the back door.
Go north
(opening the back door first)

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.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a keyring, on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a book of matches with six matches left, a flashlight and your umbrella.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a towel, a bundle of soggy pages, a lantern and a flask (which is closed).
You examine 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.
You go northwest
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.

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.
You look at the 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.
You examine crypt
Grimly carved letters over the door spell out a single name: "VERLAC".
Go southeast
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.
Go south
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 close the door
You close the back door.
You lock it
You lock the back door.
You go to the south
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.
You examine the cupboard
It's a free-standing cabinet about as tall as you are, crafted of cherrywood. The double paneled doors are closed.
You open it
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.
You look at the lining
The lining is soft, dusky burgundy. One corner in back is pulled up a bit and slightly torn.
You move lining
That would accomplish very little.
You take the lining
That's hardly portable.
You pull the 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.
Examine book
Which do you mean, the torn journal or the book of matches?
You look at torn
(the torn 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.
You read it
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. 13-41-10. 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 --
You examine 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.
Go east
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.
You go to the north
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.

Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover.
You open safe
There's no handle on the door; it opens when you get the combination right.

You can hear Michael in the next room, typing away.
You turn the dial to 13
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 13...
You turn the dial to 41
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 41...
You turn the dial to 10
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 10... and with a hollow thunk, the safe suddenly swings open.
You look in safe
In the safe are a puzzle box and a strange metal flute.
You take all from safe
puzzle box: (slipping the umbrella into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You remove the puzzle box from the safe. 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.
strange metal flute: (slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You remove the strange metal flute from the safe. 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 look at the faces
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.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You turn on the light
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.
Go upwards
The ancient rungs creak alarmingly as you ascend.

It's much cooler up here than in the rest of the house, and you find it hard to suppress a shiver. Grotesque, looming shadows crawl across the low, slanted ceiling, and the dust hangs thick and motionless in the air. To the west the ceiling dips even lower until the space beneath leaves hardly room enough to crawl, while to the north stands a wooden door, draped in shadows and half-hidden by the slanting eaves.
You examine the door
It's an ordinary wooden door, unremarkable except for the antique metal keyplate. Beneath the door, a thin line of faint light is barely visible.
You look through the keyhole
The keyhole is dark, as though blocked by something.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a strange metal flute, a puzzle box (which is closed), a torn journal, a keyring, on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar) and a book of matches with six matches left.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a flashlight (providing light), your umbrella, a towel, a bundle of soggy pages, a lantern and a flask (which is closed).
Go downwards
The ancient rungs creak alarmingly as you descend.

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.

A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
Go east
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.
Examine 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.
You 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.
You look up Julia in the album
No mention of Edward's wife, since the book was published in 1944 and she probably wasn't even born yet. Even so, you're uncertain whether Julia Ward would have even counted as a proper Verlac.
You examine the eyes
They are the eyes from your dream, without question.
You look at the portrait
The man in the portrait is the apotheosis of everything cruel and inhuman that you have ever laid eyes on. His archaic Puritan dress would indicate that he must have lived a very long time ago; perhaps he was the founder of the Verlac family in this region. If so, it's no wonder they all wound up murdered or mad: the red-rimmed eyes glaring down from his gaunt and haggard face seem to blaze with a terrible insanity. There is nothing regal, fatherly or dignified about this portrait. It is the essence of raving, gibbering evil captured on canvas.
You look up William
What do you want to look that up in?
Album
No mention of Michael in here, which isn't surprising, since he wasn't born until 1973. Even so, Michael is such an extremely distant relative, it's doubtful he would have been in this book in any case.
You examine the sofa
It's a 19th century William IV-style sofa with wide, flaring armrests and beautifully scrolled mahogany woodwork. The upholstery is a soft, faded wine color.
You enter it
It doesn't matter how filled with Christmas spirit you are; you're not going up that chimney.
You look in chimney
(the lantern)
You find nothing of interest.
You examine the rug
The rug has a rustic, quilt-like pattern to it, and it covers all but the outer edges of the hardwood floor.
You move the rug
The rug is too heavy for you to move by yourself.
Lift rug
You lift one corner of the rug and look underneath. Nothing but dust and floorboards.
You look behind the portrait
The portrait doesn't move; it's firmly attached to the wall.
You look around
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.

The portrait gazes down at you with crimson-edged malice.

On the sofa is a family album.
You go to the north
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.
You examine the painting
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.
You look at 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.
Go west
A short hallway, connecting rooms to the east, west and south.
You go to the west
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 go south
(opening the cellar door first)
It seems to be locked.
You unlock door
You unlock the cellar door.
You go to the south
(opening the cellar door first)
You descend the gloomy steps into the dank 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.
You examine the cabinet
It's an ancient, clunky metal box, about the size of a kid's lunchbox. There's some sort of lettering on the cover, but it's too corroded to read.
Go east
This wing of the cellar is even older than the rest, with walls of piled, unmortared stone. The entire room is filled with wine racks. They cover every wall except for one spot to the west, where an exit leads back to the main cellar.

All of the racks are dust-covered and empty except for one against the north wall, which contains some forty or fifty dark bottles.

You are reminded of something Michael told you during the long drive up: about how when the police arrived after the shooting, they found the wine cellar in a shambles -- nearly every bottle thrown to the floor and shattered, and the whole place reeking of rotted grapes. All except the bottles in the north rack. None of those had been touched. No one could posit a motive for it.

You smile a bit, recalling your husband's ability to turn a piece of insignificant trivia into a compelling story. Still, though, now that you're actually standing here... it all seems very strange.
You look at the bottles
Row after row of smooth, dust-covered glass. The wine inside is dark and murky, reminding you, somewhat irrationally, of blood.
You take the bottle
Strange; the bottles all seem to be fixed in place. They won't come out of the rack no matter how you tug at them.
You examine rack
These racks must have at one time contained hundreds upon hundreds of wine bottles. Idly, you wonder which member of the family developed such a taste for what would have been, for the first few generations at least, a sinful vice of the basest kind.
Go west
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.
Go south
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.
Examine crates
The accumulated junk of almost four centuries' worth of one family's strangeness. Most of it is old linens, moth-eaten clothes, newspaper clippings -- exciting stuff like that. There's far more here than you could ever go through, even if you had the inclination to.
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.
You look at the web
Not a pretty, symmetrical spiral web like you see in nature magazines; this is a tangled, ugly mass of dull gray threads spun in every direction, the work of some careless, inebriated arachnid on a weekend binger. Way back in the corner, almost buried beneath the disheveled strands, is an old-fashioned iron key.
You break the web with the umbrella
(first taking the umbrella)
(slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The pointy end of the umbrella doesn't do much damage to the thick, tangled web.
You get the key with the umbrella
(the old-fashioned iron key with the umbrella)
Carefully, you snag the key with the end of the umbrella and drag it clear of the web.
You examine the iron key
It's an old key, the kind with a round barrel about a quarter-inch in diameter and flat, square teeth.
You go to the north
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.
You get the key
Which do you mean, the key to the house or the key to the cellar?
You go south
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.

A nasty-looking spider web fills one dark corner like some sort of sticky, fibrous mold.

You can also see an old-fashioned iron key and a cardboard box (in which are some newspaper clippings) here.
You take the key
(the old-fashioned iron key)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You look at the clippings
(the newspaper clippings)
There are dozens of articles in the box, many of them yellowed with age. Many of them, you note with unease, refer to missing children, but otherwise you can deduce no obvious connection among any of the stories.
Go north
Gratefully, you leave the clammy confines of the cellar behind.

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.

The cellar door stands open, revealing dark stairs leading down.
You turn off light
You switch the flashlight off.

It is now pitch dark in here!
You 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 back door.
Go north
(opening the back door first)

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.
You go northwest
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.

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.
You 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.
Go inside
(opening the iron door first)
The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You turn on the light
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

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.
You examine the coffins
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.
You read the nameplates
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.
You look up edward in the nameplates
(in the nameplates)
The nameplate reads "Edward Verlac, b. April 26, 1960, d. March 14, 1997". Like the others, this coffin is built of solid oak, sealed with lead.
You look up Julia in the nameplates
(in the nameplates)
The nameplate reads "Julia Ward Verlac, b. May 4, 1964, d. January 10, 1997". Like the others, this coffin is built of solid oak, sealed with lead.
You look up William in nameplates
(in the nameplates)
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.
You open the 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.
You look at the 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.
You go to the south
You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind.

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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You close the door
You close the iron door.
You go south
The undergrowth is too thick in that direction.
Go southeast
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.
You unlock door
You unlock the front door.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
Go northwest
Doorways lie to the east, west and north; stairs lead up; and the front door stands to the south.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
Go south
(opening the front door first)

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 front door stands open to the north.

The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

A typewritten notice has been attached to the front door.
You close the door
You close the front door.
You take the notice
(slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You look at the 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.
Go southeast
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.
Go east
The hillside rises too steeply in that direction.
Go northeast
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.
You go south
The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.
You go to the east
A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.
You examine the church
The hoary structure towers over your head, built of massive, ancient stones that are now black with age and nearly buried beneath an invading tide of ivy. The doors and windows are boarded shut. The steeple is a jagged silhouette against the brooding sky.
You go southeast
The path bends northeast, around the side of the church.

The forest encroaches right up to the iron fence here, some of which is literally buried in the tangled underbrush. There are no doors on this side, although a wooden trap door over by the corner of the building probably leads into a cellar. A path leads southwest, around to the front of the church.
You look at the door
The boards are old and warped, but still quite sturdy. It is locked with a heavy padlock.
Unlock padlock
You go through all the keys on your keyring, trying each one in turn, but none of the keys seem to fit.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
Go east
The wrought-iron fence surrounds the entire churchyard. The only way out is around that little path to the southwest.
You go southwest
The path bends northwest, around the side of the church.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.
Go south
The forest grows denser as you go, crowding thickly up to either side of the road. The groping, tangled branches block out what little sunlight there is left. Your footsteps are muffled; whispering leaves and the slow drip of water are the only sounds you can hear. Beyond the watching trees, the shadows are impenetrably thick. The road stretches interminably, north to south.
You go south
You walk a bit farther down the road, but it doesn't seem to lead anywhere, and the shadows grow thicker the farther down you go. After a while you turn back, unable to suppress a shiver.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
Go north
The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You go north
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.
Wear coat
You're already wearing that!
You go north
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.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Go downwards
(opening the rusty gate first)
The gate swings open noisily on its rusty hinges.
You pass through the gate and down the stone steps, which curve northwest as they lead down to the edge of the river.

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.
Go upward
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.
Go west
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.

A damp newspaper lies on the curb, fluttering slightly in the wind.

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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You take the newspaper
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the newspaper. It's the "Weekly Arkham Herald". Anchorhead, apparently, is not large enough to warrant its own newspaper.
You read the newspaper
The front page story is about Jeffrey Greer, 8 years old, who was abducted from his home at #11 Mill Town Road last night. Little Jeffrey is the latest victim in a series of abductions that stretches back for years, one every six months or so, and that authorities believe is the work of a single perpetrator. Local police had hoped to prove that Edward Verlac had been behind the kidnappings, but were unable to obtain a confession or any hard proof. Edward Verlac was convicted of murdering his wife and two daughters, one of whom was 15 months old, in January of this year; he was found not guilty by reason of insanity and incarcerated in Danvers Asylum, where he remained until committing suicide last March. This latest kidnapping, occurring after Edward's death, seems to have cleared up any lingering suspicions that he might have been the culprit.

Anyone possessing information regarding the whereabouts of Jeffrey Greer is strongly urged to speak to the authorities as soon as possible.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You go south
A long, dimly lit, north-south corridor stretches away from the courthouse entrance. Closed, unmarked doors line either side of the hall, their pebbled glass windows lit from within by a murky, yellow-orange light. Silence reigns here; your footsteps echo eerily on the tiled floor, and occasionally you can hear muted conversation behind one of the doors -- you can't tell which. At the hall's southern end, a staircase leads down into the basement; a sign hanging above it reads "RECORDS". You can return to Town Square to the north.
Go down
A single bulb dangling from the ceiling casts a watery, yellow light against the brick walls. A rickety staircase to the north leads back up to the ground floor, and two narrow doorways lead into the record archives. Over the southeast door hangs a sign that reads "BIRTH RECORDS", while the southwest door bears the sign "DEATH RECORDS".
You go to the southeast
A bare room with cinderblock walls. Thousands of records and documents, most yellow and brittle with age, are stacked everywhere in towering piles. The exit lies northwest.
You look up Edward in records
(in the archives)
Edward Verlac: born April 26, 1960.
You look up Michael in the records
(in the archives)
You can find no records under that heading.
You look up Julia in the records
(in the archives)
Julia Ward: born May 4, 1964.
You look up William in the records
(in the archives)
William Verlac: born June 22, 1954.
You go to the southwest
A bare room with cinderblock walls. Thousands of records and documents, most yellow and brittle with age, are stacked everywhere in towering piles. The exit lies northeast.
You look up Edward in the records
(in the archives)
Edward Verlac: died March 14, 1997.
You look up Julia in the records
(in the archives)
Julia Ward Verlac: died January 10, 1997.
You look up William in the records
(in the archives)
William Verlac: died September 18, 1958.
You look up yourself in the records
(in the archives)
You can find no records under that heading.
You look up Verlac in the records
(in the archives)
There are dozens of Verlacs listed here; you'll have to be more specific than that.
You go north
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.
Go southwest
This is a featureless blind alley, a dead end. Through the narrow and heavily shadowed opening to the northeast, you can see the square and the obelisk at its center.
You examine the obelisk
Although you're too far away to read the hieroglyphs on its sides, you have an otherwise excellent view of the obelisk from here.
You examine the obelisk
The obelisk measures about two feet square at its base, narrowing slightly as it rises a good fifteen feet to a bluntly pointed tip. An iron ring is embedded in the stone high up on one side, about two feet from the top. Dense, twisting hieroglyphs cover all four sides of the obelisk, although they are too worn to be read clearly.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You take the ring
(the wedding ring)
You already have that.
You pull iron ring
The iron ring is high out of your reach.
You go north
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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You go north
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.
Go east
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.

(opening the real estate office door first)

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.

The office door is open.

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.
You go to the west
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.
You look at the door
The door has a glass front with the name of the real estate company -- Benson & Brackhurst -- stenciled across it.
Go east
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.

The office door is open.

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.
You examine the answering machine
A simple answering machine, with a small display indicating messages received, a button labeled "PLAY", and a button labeled "DELETE".
You read the display
The display indicates there is one message on the machine, left (oddly enough) at 4:19 yesterday morning. The display also shows that the message has already been checked.
You go to the north
The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
Go west
As you cross the railroad tracks, the air becomes warmer, more dingy, and slightly more difficult to breathe.

The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
Go north
The road peters out at a wide clearing of rutted mud, flanked by uneven rows of decrepit, clapboard shacks. The town is quiet, almost deserted; only a few bits of loose tarpaper blowing listlessly in the wind betray the overall stillness.
Go south
The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
Go south
The path curves southwest, leading you into an overgrown area behind the mill.

The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.

Flakes of ash drift gently down from the sky like gray snow, coating everything with a thin layer of soot.
You go southeast
The trail heads up a short embankment and emerges from the thicket alongside the railroad tracks. The tracks run down from the northeast and past the mill, continuing southwest but slowly curving westward until they cross the Miskaton River some miles outside of town. From the embankment you can look out over the entire heath: jagged, shadowy rooftops to the south; the oily ribbon of the Miskaton to the west; and to the east, the lighthouse sentinel and the leaden waters of the Atlantic beyond.
You go to the north-east
It's dangerous to walk along railroad tracks.
You go to the north-west
The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.
You go northeast
The path curves to the north, leading you around to the front of the mill.

The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
Go northeast
The road goes north and east from here. The mill gate lies southwest, and an overgrown trail leads south.
Go east
As you cross the railroad tracks, the air seems to lift slightly, becoming more breathable once again.

The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
You go east
The road heads out over a narrow breakwater jutting out into the ocean.

You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go northeast
You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.

The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.
You examine the lighthouse
Its towering shadow seems to lean menacingly over you, eclipsing half the sky. It is an old and brooding thing, heavy with the weight of centuries of dark memories. Craning your neck to see the top of it, you can't help but make the comparison with a lightning rod, as if this building were the focus for whatever restless forces seem to be stirring through the turbid atmosphere above.

Despite the ominous cast to the weather, no beacon can be seen from the top of the lighthouse.
You examine the door
A monstrous slab of solid bronze set into the thick stone wall of the lighthouse base. Age and seawater have covered its once gleaming surface with an unhealthy green crust of verdigris.
You unlock door
You go through all the keys on your keyring, trying each one in turn, but none of the keys seem to fit.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go southeast
Carefully, you climb down the rocks. The path bends northeast, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.

A small outcropping of stone, just large enough for you to stand on, sticks out from the end of the breakwater. The hungry sea laps at your feet, surging over the rocks and then trickling down into crevices. To the southwest, an uneven trail leads back up the rocks, around the side of the lighthouse.

Beyond the breakwater's tip, a turbulent patch of water bubbles and seethes, as if something were lurking just beneath the surface -- turning, perhaps, in uneasy sleep.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You examine the sea
The sea is the color of old pewter, surging and chopping restlessly beneath the clouds.
You examine the patch
It looks... unnatural.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
Search patch
The patch of turbulent water is just beyond your reach.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You go to the south-west
The trail turns northwest, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.

You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.

The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.
You go to the southwest
You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Go northwest
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.
You go west
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.
Go north
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.
You look at 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."
You look at the 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.
You look up Michael in the register
(in the dog-eared register)
Your husband's name is down at the bottom. The title of the book
is A Historical Overview of Superstitions in the Miskaton Valley Region by J. Arnsworth Frazer, pub. 1906. Quite a mouthful.
You look up the necromicon on the register
(in the dog-eared register)
You don't find that name on the register.
You go east
The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You go south
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.
You go southwest
The ground begins to rise sharply as the road climbs up into the hills south of town.
Go northwest
The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.
You go to the north
(opening the front door first)

The front door stands open to the south.

Your luggage is still here, spread out all over the foyer.
You close the door
You close the front door.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
Look around
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.
Go east
A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
Go north
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.

Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover.
You go to the east
(opening the sliding doors first)

This smaller room adjoining the library seems comfortable enough, although it is dusty and cluttered from having not been lived in for the better part of a year. Aside from the desk and the chair and the empty shelves, the only real feature of the room is the large, ornate fireplace in the southern wall.

A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors lead west, to the library.

Michael's laptop sits in the middle of the desk, humming quietly to itself. Also on the desk is a letter opener.

Although his computer is still on, Michael isn't here. In fact, you realize, you haven't heard him anywhere in the house since you got home. And you even found him a newspaper. Where in the world could he have gotten to?
You take the opener
(slipping the umbrella into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the letter opener. It's a rather ornate thing, with a silver hilt and a slim, sharp tip.
You examine the laptop
A top-of-the-line model: it's sleek, lightweight and very fast, a real status symbol for the writer who wants to look as though he might stop whatever he's doing at the drop of a hat and suddenly hack out a bestseller. While you have yet to witness Michael do this, he really had been wanting one since before the two of you even met; so, to celebrate his new teaching position, you splurged and bought him one.

The laptop is currently switched on.
You read it
The computer is in screen-saver mode: blank except for a single window requesting a 4-digit user passcode. Odd; you didn't think Michael ever used the passcode utility.
You go west
A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors lead east, to the study.

A section of the shelves in the western wall has slid to one side, revealing a hidden safe.

Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover.
You put the newspaper under the door
You slide the newspaper under the door, leaving only an inch or two sticking out on your side.
You put the opener in the keyhole
The tip of the letter opener bumps against something, and you hear something thump onto the newspaper on the other side of the door.
You pull the newspaper
Something metallic falls off the newspaper as you pull it out from under the door.
Look around
It's much cooler up here than in the rest of the house, and you find it hard to suppress a shiver. Grotesque, looming shadows crawl across the low, slanted ceiling, and the dust hangs thick and motionless in the air. To the west the ceiling dips even lower until the space beneath leaves hardly room enough to crawl, while to the north stands a wooden door, draped in shadows and half-hidden by the slanting eaves.

You can also see an old-fashioned brass key here.
You take key
(the old-fashioned brass key)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the old-fashioned brass key. It's an old key, the kind with a round barrel about a quarter-inch in diameter and flat, square teeth.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
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 brass key fits the lock.
You unlock the door.
Go north
(opening the door first)

A cramped little annex off the main attic, with a tiny, shuttered window high up on the north wall. A pile of mouldering straw in the corner and what looks like pencil marks on the lower part of the walls seem to indicate that someone lived here once. Or, possibly, was kept here.
You look at the straw
This disgusting mess might actually have been some poor soul's bed. You shudder, wondering what sick relative was kept prisoner here, and when.
You examine the marks
They look like a child's drawings, made with pencil or some kind of charcoal. Most of them are smudged and faded, but you can make out stick figures here and there, and the occasional, lollipop-shaped tree.
You search the straw
You gingerly poke through the filthy straw, barely able to suppress your disgust. However, your search is not unrewarded: underneath the thickest part of the pile, you discover a tiny gold locket.
You examine the gold
Which do you mean, the gold locket or the wedding ring?
Locket
It is oval-shaped, held shut with a tiny clasp.
You open it
You open the gold locket, revealing a woman's picture.
You examine the picture
From the quality of the photograph, you'd say the picture must have been taken sometime in the fifties. The woman looks no more than twenty years old. Her pale, fragile face is framed by straight, dark, mousy hair, and she seems to stare plaintively out at you, her expression one of haunted resignation.
You take the picture
That's fixed in place.
Close locket
You close the gold locket.
You take it
(slipping the typewritten notice into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
%
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...

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.
Go southeast
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.
Go upwards
The window is too high.
You ascend
(opening the transom window first)
(closing the umbrella first)
It's a tight squeeze, but you just manage to wriggle through, dropping quietly to the floor inside.

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.
Go west
(opening the real estate office door first)
It seems to be locked.
You unlock door
You unlock the office door.
Go west
(opening the real estate office door first)
The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella.

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.
You close the door
You close the real estate office door.
You go to the east
The rain is still coming down, so you open your umbrella.

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 hurries to catch up.

"I apologized about the car, right?" says Michael sheepishly.

A sudden gust of wind blows a cold spray of rain into your face.
You tell Michael about the real estate 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?"
You ask Michael about the house
"The Verlac family has been living in that old place for generations; they're an integral part of the history of this whole region. It's really quite interesting."
You go southeast
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 strolls along after you.
Go east
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 hurries to catch up.
Go south
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 hurries to catch up.
You go south
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 strolls along after you.
You go east
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 follows you.
You go to the south
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 hurries to catch up.
You go southwest
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.

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 follows you.
You go to the north-west
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 follows you.

"Well," says Michael, "this must be the place. We finally made it, honey. We're home!"
You examine 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.
You take it
Taken.
Go north
(opening the front door first)
You close your umbrella, as is your habit after coming indoors.

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 follows 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.
You drop all
typewritten notice: Dropped.
lantern: Dropped.
keyring: Dropped.
umbrella: Dropped.

Michael emits a brief snore, then rolls over and sinks back into troubled sleep.
Undress
You take off the trenchcoat.
You take off the clothes.
You drop all
trenchcoat: Dropped.
clothes: Dropped.
You enter the bed
Gratefully, you crawl into bed and pull the covers up to your chin.
Kiss Michael
Gently, you kiss your husband's forehead. His skin feels dry and feverish.
You take the 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.
Go west
You'll have to get off the four-poster bed first.
You stand
Reluctantly, you do so.

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 keyring (on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar)), a lantern and a typewritten notice here.
You take the shower
You've always been more of a bath person, actually.
You take the bath
(the towel)
You pick up the towel. It's still a little damp from Michael's shower, but otherwise it's a perfectly ordinary bath towel.
You drop the towel
Dropped.
You enter the bath
(the towel)
That's not something you can enter.
You take the towel
Taken.
Go east
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 keyring (on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar)), a lantern and a typewritten notice here.
You wear the clothes
(first taking the clothes)
You put on the clothes.
Wear coat
(first taking the trenchcoat)
You put on the trenchcoat.
You take all
umbrella: Taken.
keyring: Taken.
lantern: (slipping the faculty card into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
typewritten notice: (slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a typewritten notice, a lantern, a keyring, on which are two keys (a key to the house and a key to the cellar) and your umbrella.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a towel, Michael's faculty card and a flask (which is closed).
You go east
(opening the sliding doors first)
Michael is in the study, typing furiously at his laptop. As you walk in he looks up at you with a pained expression. "Can it wait?" he asks you. "I think I'm onto something really good here, and if I don't get it all out I'm going to lose it. If you don't mind, hon, I could really use the next hour or so to myself."

Not wanting to disturb him, you tiptoe out, shutting the doors quietly behind you.
Dial
(The Compleat Manual of Wardes and Seales)
You'd probably have better luck if you were near a phone.

You can hear Michael in the next room, typing away.
You look at the dial
The dial is calibrated from one to sixty. It is currently set to 27.

You can hear Michael in the next room, typing away.
You go to the south
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.
Go downward
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.
Go west
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.
You 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.
You look at the lining
The lining is soft, dusky burgundy. One corner in back is pulled up a bit and slightly torn.
You pull the 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.
Examine book
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.
You read it
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. 8-23-36. 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 --
You go north
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.
You take the flashlight
(slipping the umbrella 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.
You open the cabinet
The cabinets are not, after all, still stocked -- much to your relief. There's nothing in there but an old book of matches.
You take the matches
(slipping the keyring 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.
You take the broom
(slipping the lantern into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the broom. It's just an ordinary-looking broom.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the typewritten notice into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You unlock the cellar door.
You go to the south
(opening the cellar door first)
You descend the gloomy steps into the dank 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.
You break the web with the broom
With a single sweep of the broom, you clear the spider web away.
You take key
(the old-fashioned iron key)
(slipping the torn journal 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.
You look at the clippings
(the newspaper clippings)
There are dozens of articles in the box, many of them yellowed with age. Many of them, you note with unease, refer to missing children, but otherwise you can deduce no obvious connection among any of the stories.
You go north
Gratefully, you leave the clammy confines of the cellar behind.

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.
You unlock door
You unlock the back door.
You go to the north
(opening the back door first)

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.

A sudden gust of wind catches up the newspaper clippings and whirls them away, leaving you with an empty box.
Go west
The undergrowth is too thick in that direction.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
Go north
(opening the iron door first)
The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

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.
You look up the mordecai
(in the nameplates)
You can't find that name anywhere; but then again, it may just be too corroded for you to read.
You look up William
(in the nameplates)
That's not a name you're familiar with. Since the nameplates are filled with names you're not familiar with, you are unable to get very far looking for it.
You go to the south
You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind.

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.
You lock it
You lock the iron door.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go southeast
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.
Go south
(opening the back door first)

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 a cardboard box (in which are some newspaper clippings) here.
You take the 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.
Examine 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.
You look up the wilhelm in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You look at the portrait
The man in the portrait is the apotheosis of everything cruel and inhuman that you have ever laid eyes on. His archaic Puritan dress would indicate that he must have lived a very long time ago; perhaps he was the founder of the Verlac family in this region. If so, it's no wonder they all wound up murdered or mad: the red-rimmed eyes glaring down from his gaunt and haggard face seem to blaze with a terrible insanity. There is nothing regal, fatherly or dignified about this portrait. It is the essence of raving, gibbering evil captured on canvas.
You look up Eustacia in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You look up Croseus in the album
The entry reads:

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:
You look up the elijah in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You look up the mordecai in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You look up Heinrich in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You look up Edward in the album
Since this book was only published in 1944, there is no mention of Edward Verlac or his family. He probably wasn't even born yet.
Look around
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.

The portrait gazes down at you with crimson-edged malice.
You take the locket
(slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the silver locket. It is oval-shaped, held shut with a tiny clasp.
You look at the picture
(the 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.
You examine the boy'S
The boy in the picture looks no more than three or four years old. He is smiling, but there is something disconcerting about his expression, as though his head were not shaped quite right or his features had been placed slightly wrong. He might possibly have been mentally retarded. It's difficult to tell, because the picture has been cropped so closely you can't even see the edges of the boy's face. Only his features fill the tiny frame.
Close locket
You close the silver locket.
You take the pages
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
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.
You examine 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.
You read the 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.
You look around
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, its lid open.

The bed has been pushed away from the wall slightly, revealing a ragged hole in the paneling.
You look at the table
A simple vanity table, scaled down for a child, spartan in design and almost wholly without decoration. It's hard to imagine keeping any sort of makeup or jewelry on it, but then again, vanity of even the most innocent kind was probably discouraged in most of the Verlac children.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the family album into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You go through all the keys on your keyring, trying each one in turn, but none of the keys seem to fit.
You examine the door
It's a free-standing cabinet about as tall as you are, crafted of cherrywood. The double paneled doors are open.
Go north
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 a cardboard box (in which are some newspaper clippings) here.
Go north
(opening the iron door first)
It seems to be locked.
You unlock door
You unlock the iron door.
You close the door
You close the iron door.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You go south
The undergrowth is too thick in that direction.
Go south
(opening the front door first)
It seems to be locked.
You go to the south
(opening the front door first)

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 front door stands open to the north.

The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.
You close the door
You close the front door.
Go west
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.

A damp newspaper lies on the curb, fluttering slightly in the wind.

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.
You take the newspaper
(slipping the silver locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the newspaper. It's the "Weekly Arkham Herald". Anchorhead, apparently, is not large enough to warrant its own newspaper.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You read the newspaper
The front page story is about Jeffrey Greer, 8 years old, who was abducted from his home at #11 Mill Town Road last night. Little Jeffrey is the latest victim in a series of abductions that stretches back for years, one every six months or so, and that authorities believe is the work of a single perpetrator. Local police had hoped to prove that Edward Verlac had been behind the kidnappings, but were unable to obtain a confession or any hard proof. Edward Verlac was convicted of murdering his wife and two daughters, one of whom was 15 months old, in January of this year; he was found not guilty by reason of insanity and incarcerated in Danvers Asylum, where he remained until committing suicide last March. This latest kidnapping, occurring after Edward's death, seems to have cleared up any lingering suspicions that he might have been the culprit.

Anyone possessing information regarding the whereabouts of Jeffrey Greer is strongly urged to speak to the authorities as soon as possible.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go south
A long, dimly lit, north-south corridor stretches away from the courthouse entrance. Closed, unmarked doors line either side of the hall, their pebbled glass windows lit from within by a murky, yellow-orange light. Silence reigns here; your footsteps echo eerily on the tiled floor, and occasionally you can hear muted conversation behind one of the doors -- you can't tell which. At the hall's southern end, a staircase leads down into the basement; a sign hanging above it reads "RECORDS". You can return to Town Square to the north.
You look up Croseus
(in the archives)
You search in vain for a while before remembering that Croseus Verlac wasn't born in this country, and would therefore probably not have any birth certificate on record.
You look up Eustacia
(in the archives)
Eustacia Verlac: born November 22, 1634.
You look up William
(in the archives)
William Verlac: born June 22, 1954.
You look up Mordecai
(in the archives)
Mordecai Verlac: born January 30, 1886.
You look up Elijah
(in the archives)
Elijah Verlac: born December 16, 1802.
You look up daryl
(in the archives)
You can find no records under that heading.
You look up Heinrich
(in the archives)
Heinrich Verlac: born October 18, 1734.
You look up wilhelm
(in the archives)
Wilhelm Verlac: born March 11, 1651.
You look up Eustacia
(in the archives)
Eustacia Verlac: died April 8, 1686.
You look up Croseus
(in the archives)
Croseus Verlac: died March 11, 1651.
You look up wilhelm
(in the archives)
Wilhelm Verlac: died October 18, 1734.
You look up Heinrich
(in the archives)
Heinrich Verlac: died December 16, 1802.

You seem to be uncovering a pattern here; all these Verlacs seem to have lived to a ripe old age and then died on the very day the next one is born. The birth records are incomplete -- no parents are listed, and no cause of death is noted on the death records -- there's just not enough information here to draw a conclusion. You'll simply have to keep digging until you find the answers...
You look up Elijah
(in the archives)
Elijah Verlac: died January 30, 1886.
You look up Mordecai
(in the archives)
Mordecai Verlac: died April 26, 1960.
You examine the obelisk
The obelisk measures about two feet square at its base, narrowing slightly as it rises a good fifteen feet to a bluntly pointed tip. An iron ring is embedded in the stone high up on one side, about two feet from the top. Dense, twisting hieroglyphs cover all four sides of the obelisk, although they are too worn to be read clearly.
Go north
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.
You go north
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.
You go to the west
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.
You ring bell
Ding.

A moment later, the gaunt and fishy-eyed librarian emerges silently from the shadows behind the counter.
You ask the librarian for the frazer
The librarian says nothing. Slowly, very slowly, she looks you up and down, and then, just as slowly, she turns to look at the sign posted over the counter. Finally, agonizingly slowly, she turns back to you, and stares at you with a vague, unblinking air of disapproval.
You give the ithe d to the librarian
(first taking the faculty card)
(slipping the bundle of soggy pages into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The librarian looks the card over, nods slowly, and hands it back to you without a word.
You ask the librarian about the frazer
Wordlessly the librarian retreats back into the shadows, only to reappear the next moment carrying the thick, dusty tome you saw your husband with earlier. Dutifully, you sign the register, and the librarian hands you the book before disappearing again.
You look at Frazer
A thick and weighty tome, its full title is A Historical Overview
of Superstitions in the Miskaton Valley Region by J. Arnsworth
Frazer, published in 1906. It begins: "Although New England has always been an abundant storehouse of American myth and folklore, the Miskaton River Valley has long been recognized as particularly fecund ground for tall tales and fanciful superstition. Legends abound of hideous, inhuman races living within the venerable hills; of pagan rituals enacted at unholy burial grounds and dedicated to ancient, blasphemous gods..." and continues along the same lines in the typically dry and bombastic style of those times.
You read Frazer
As you open the book, a slip of paper falls from its pages and flutters to the ground.
You take the slip
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the slip of paper. Someone was apparently using it as a bookmark. There's some writing on one side.
You read the slip
It says:

born-died same date?
have to chk. records

The handwriting is unmistakably Michael's.
You ring bell
Ding.

A moment later, the gaunt and fishy-eyed librarian emerges silently from the shadows behind the counter.
You give Frazer to the librarian
Wordlessly the librarian takes the tome from you and spirits it back to the shadowy depths of the reserved stacks.
Go east
Where once a building stood, there is now only cracked pavement and rampant weeds. A high chain-link fence surrounds this vacant lot; the only breaks lie to the west and southeast.

An old man dressed in dirty rags sits on his mattress, muttering to himself as he stares intently out to sea.
You look at the man
This pitiful creature might once have been a successful and healthy man, but alcohol and mental illness have dragged him down irretrievably into degenerate squalor. His clothes are filthy tatters; his hair is a matted, knotted mess; his body reeks of booze and urine. He sits on his mattress, seemingly oblivious to you or the rest of the world, and that's where he'll stay until either Death or the next drink comes around.

The old bum is clutching a small object to his chest; he rubs it and turns it in his hands constantly, as though it were some sort of relic or charm. It's hard to tell, but it appears to be a key.
You talk to the man
What do you want to talk to the bum about?
Key
(the small copper key)
The old man squints at you with bleary, cunning eyes. "Don't know too much about that," he quavers. "Memory's not what it used to be... I'm so thirsty, Miss, so thirsty..."
You give the flask to the man
(first taking the flask)
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
His eyes burning with greed, the old man snatches the flask from your hand, unscrews the cap and tips it up into his waiting mouth. Trickles of pungent brown liquid ooze from the corners of his mouth as he swallows convulsively, his hands trembling, his eyes squeezed shut and streaming tears. Finally, he falls back onto his mattress with a beatific smile on his mud-smeared face, the flask dropping from his fingers.
You take the key
(the small copper key)
"Mine!" the old man hisses, clapping his hands onto his chest as though you were about to frisk him for it. "It's mine, and I won't let it go!"
You ask man about the man
The old man sighs. "I was a doctor, once. I was a very good doctor. But that was before Edward, you know. Little Edward and his..." His voice trails off to a whisper, but you could swear he mouthed the word "brother".

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You ask the man about the rebis
The bum shakes his head and looks away. "T'ain't my name no more..." he says quietly. "...no more..."
You ask the man about Edward
The old man lets out a vicious cackle. "They got to him, didn't they? Maggots got to him good. Got into his head. The maggots got into his head, eatin' at him 'til he had to crack it open to get 'em out. Poor boy." He shakes his head. "Delivered him, I did. Pulled him right out of his mama. Him and his -- " Suddenly he stops, and will say no more.
You ask the man about the brother
The old man falls silent all of a sudden, and for a while he simply stares down at his hands, limp and open in his lap. Then, drawing a deep breath, he begins to speak, and for the first time his voice is steady, without the reedy whine of alcoholic craving.

"Ayuh, little Edward had a brother, so he did. And I know him. I know of William, so I do. I delivered the child. Anna Verlac was his mother. It... it was... "

He leans over and grips your arm with a hand that is suddenly steady and strong. "It was her father's poison seed, y'see. That evil bastard poisoned her womb and put a monster inside her. What she gave birth to... it was... it wasn't... oh, God, when I held that... that abortion in the shape of an infant, that thing with hooves for feet and its crown of writhing... when it looked up at me... It looked
up at me with its father's red-rimmed eyes." The old man shudders convulsively, and it is a while before he can speak again.

"Anna and I decided between ourselves, we did. The... her child... it lived for a few years, but it was sickly, and in pain, and it could never be normal nor healthy. She brought it to me... I was her doctor, you see, I'd seen her through her child's birth, and she trusted me... and I put the thing down, softly and without pain, and they laid it to rest in the family crypt.

"And Anna thanked me for it, so she did."

The old man falls silent again, and his wavering, bloodshot eyes wander once more out to sea. And he is lost, once again, to the horror and pain of the memories that can only be silenced by drink.
You ask the man about William
"All I care to tell of that tragedy, I've told," the old man says quietly, not looking at you. "I've no wish to speak of it again."
You ask the man about Anna
Tears stream unchecked down the old man's face. "Shouldn't have happened to the girl. Only seventeen, she was, still a child when he... when that red-eyed monster took her... " His eyes suddenly darken, his fists clench. "HIS OWN DAUGHTER, GODS FUCK 'EM! SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT TO HIS OWN DAUGHTER! GODS FUCK 'EM ALL!!"
You examine copper key
"Mine!" the old man hisses, clapping his hands onto his chest as though you were about to frisk him for it. "It's mine, and I won't let it go!"
You ask the man about the house
The old man screws his face up in confusion. "Don't know about that," he mutters.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You ask the man about Michael
The old man screws his face up in confusion. "Don't know about that," he mutters.
You ask the man about Mordecai
The old man shrinks away from you. "Not here!" he hisses. "Not anywhere! Never speak it!"
You ask the man about Verlac
(the Verlac family)
The old man seems to physically shrink just a little bit, darting nervous glances around the empty lot. "Oh, they're the worst of the lot," he whispers. "They're the queen maggots, so they are. Sittin' all fat and full of poison in the center of the nest. Partick'ly that one, the worst one of all -- the one with the red-rimmed eyes."
You take the flask
Taken.
You look at the mattress
The mattress is stained and beaten, oozing stuffing in several places. From the cans and food wrappers scattered around it, it looks as though somebody's been using it as a bed.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You search the mattress
The bum sits cross-legged in the exact center of the mattress.
You go to the west
The old man waves good-bye. "Don't be a stranger," he calls.

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.
You go to the south
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.
You go southwest
The ground begins to rise sharply as the road climbs up into the hills south of town.

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.
You go to the northwest
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 Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You go north
(opening the front door first)
It seems to be locked.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the faculty card into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You unlock the front door.
You go to the north
(opening the front door first)

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.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a keyring, on which are three keys (an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a flask (which is open but empty), a slip of paper and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain Michael's faculty card, a newspaper, a bundle of soggy pages, a silver locket, a family album, a flashlight, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You read the journal
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. 8-23-36. 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 --
You turn the dial to 8
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 8...
You turn the dial to 23
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 23...
You turn the dial to 36
The tumblers tick quietly as you turn the dial to 36... and with a hollow thunk, the safe suddenly swings open.
You take the box and the flute
puzzle box: (slipping the slip of paper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
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.
strange metal flute: (slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
(closing the flask first)
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 take the opener
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the letter opener. It's a rather ornate thing, with a silver hilt and a slim, sharp tip.
You examine the laptop
A top-of-the-line model: it's sleek, lightweight and very fast, a real status symbol for the writer who wants to look as though he might stop whatever he's doing at the drop of a hat and suddenly hack out a bestseller. While you have yet to witness Michael do this, he really had been wanting one since before the two of you even met; so, to celebrate his new teaching position, you splurged and bought him one.

The laptop is currently switched on.
You remove the ring
You slip the plain gold band from your finger. Usually you feel almost naked without your ring on, although sometimes you do find yourself taking it off briefly, just to read the inscription along the inside.
You look at the screen
The computer is in screen-saver mode: blank except for a single window requesting a 4-digit user passcode. Odd; you didn't think Michael ever used the passcode utility.
You read the inscription
Engraved along the inside are Michael's and your initials, along with your wedding date -- June 28th.
Type 0628
(on the laptop)
The passcode window disappears and the screen suddenly fills with text, apparently the last thing Michael was working on before he got up and left.
You read the screen
Michael has evidently been writing something, but it's not a story; it looks more like some kind of journal entry.

I cannot sleep.

Or perhaps I should say: I must not sleep, since I
am perfectly capable of sleep -- in fact, lately sleep has come to me more easily, more quickly, and more insidiously than it ever has before. But I don't want to sleep.

I have been hoping that the terrible dreams would prove to be stress-related, that they would fade once the move was behind us and we had finally settled in -- but that has not turned out to be the case. They're stronger than ever. Red-rimmed eyes pursuing me through strange corridors, and the voice -- the whisperer who tells me I am not who I am. The whisperer tells me secrets of this house, secrets of those who lived here -- they are my blood, and he tells me he always returns to his blood. He tells me of secret keys and combinations; I don't know what they open yet but I have an idea --

Tomorrow I must go down to the cellar. I must see if the things revealed to me in that terrible book are true.

I know she is worried about me. I want to tell her, but --

The entry ends there, unfinished.
You go to the west
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 lead east, to the study.

A section of the shelves in the western wall has slid to one side, revealing a hidden safe.

Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover.
You go south
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.

A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
Go upwards
The ancient rungs creak alarmingly as you ascend.

It's much cooler up here than in the rest of the house, and you find it hard to suppress a shiver. Grotesque, looming shadows crawl across the low, slanted ceiling, and the dust hangs thick and motionless in the air. To the west the ceiling dips even lower until the space beneath leaves hardly room enough to crawl, while to the north stands a wooden door, draped in shadows and half-hidden by the slanting eaves.
You pull the newspaper
(slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Something metallic falls off the newspaper as you pull it out from under the door.
You take the key
(the old-fashioned brass key)
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the old-fashioned brass key. It's an old key, the kind with a round barrel about a quarter-inch in diameter and flat, square teeth.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
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 brass key fits the lock.
You unlock the door.
Go north
(opening the door first)

A cramped little annex off the main attic, with a tiny, shuttered window high up on the north wall. A pile of mouldering straw in the corner and what looks like pencil marks on the lower part of the walls seem to indicate that someone lived here once. Or, possibly, was kept here.
You examine the marks
They look like a child's drawings, made with pencil or some kind of charcoal. Most of them are smudged and faded, but you can make out stick figures here and there, and the occasional, lollipop-shaped tree.
You look at the straw
This disgusting mess might actually have been some poor soul's bed. You shudder, wondering what sick relative was kept prisoner here, and when.
You search the straw
You gingerly poke through the filthy straw, barely able to suppress your disgust. However, your search is not unrewarded: underneath the thickest part of the pile, you discover a tiny gold locket.
You examine the gold locket
It is oval-shaped, held shut with a tiny clasp.
Go south
It's much cooler up here than in the rest of the house, and you find it hard to suppress a shiver. Grotesque, looming shadows crawl across the low, slanted ceiling, and the dust hangs thick and motionless in the air. To the west the ceiling dips even lower until the space beneath leaves hardly room enough to crawl, while to the north stands a wooden door, draped in shadows and half-hidden by the slanting eaves.
Go downwards
The ancient rungs creak alarmingly as you descend.

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.

A rickety wooden ladder stands here, descending from a three-foot by three-foot square of darkness in the ceiling.
You look up anna
(in the nameplates)
The nameplate reads "Anna Verlac, b. June 24, 1936, d. March 23, 1962". Like the others, this coffin is built of solid oak, sealed with lead.
You search William
In William's coffin is an animal's skeleton.
You search skeleton
The skeleton is in pieces; parts of it crumble even as you touch it. Only the animal's skull seems reasonably intact.
You examine the skull
The gruesome thing seems to leer at you with its bleached, toothy grin.
You take the skull
(slipping the letter opener into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Go east
Where once a building stood, there is now only cracked pavement and rampant weeds. A high chain-link fence surrounds this vacant lot; the only breaks lie to the west and southeast.

The old man looks up at you with fawning admiration.
You show the skull to the man
The old man starts visibly when you show him the skull. "What about it?" he mutters.
You ask the man about the skull
"I don't know what you're talking about, so I don't," says the old man, but it's plain he's hiding something. He tries to crawl away, but is plainly too weak, and settles instead for rolling over on the mattress to face the other direction. "You're speaking gibberish. Go away."
You ask the man about skull
The old man bares his teeth. "You can't prove it! You can't prove anything, so you can't!"

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You continue
"I'll not listen to lies!" screeches the old man, clapping his hands to his ears.
You keep going
"I'll not listen to lies!" screeches the old man, clapping his hands to his ears.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You take the key
(the small copper key)
"Mine!" the old man hisses, clapping his hands onto his chest as though you were about to frisk him for it. "It's mine, and I won't let it go!"
You tell the man about the coffin
"I told you about that already," snaps the old man. "Why don't you leave me alone?"
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands an animal's skull, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a newspaper and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a letter opener, a strange metal flute, a puzzle box (which is closed), a flask (which is closed), a slip of paper, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a silver locket, a family album, a flashlight, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You show the boy's picture to the man
(first taking the silver locket)
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The bum makes no move to take the locket, but he stares at the boy's picture inside with something akin to fear. "Ayuh," he whispers hoarsely, "that's him, so it is. That's the boy. That's William."
You show the box to man
(first taking the puzzle box)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The old man stares at the puzzle box blankly, not sure what you want him to do with it.
You show the pages to the man
(first taking the bundle of soggy pages)
(slipping the animal's skull into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The old man stares at the bundle of soggy pages blankly, not sure what you want him to do with it.
You take the pages
You already have that.
Go southwest
The ground begins to rise sharply as the road climbs up into the hills south of town.

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.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You go to the north-west
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 Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the silver locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You unlock the front door.
Go north
A cramped little annex off the main attic, with a tiny, shuttered window high up on the north wall. A pile of mouldering straw in the corner and what looks like pencil marks on the lower part of the walls seem to indicate that someone lived here once. Or, possibly, was kept here.

Lying amongst the filthy straw is a gold locket.
You take the locket
(the gold locket)
(slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You turn on the light
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

The ceiling descends here to no more than three feet from the floor; you are forced to crawl through the cramped darkness on your hands and knees. To the east the attic becomes more spacious, while the northwest corner opens into an oddly-angled corridor.
Go northwest
As you make your way down the corridor, you begin to get dizzy, then nauseous. Lines seem to cross without bending, the ceiling becomes the walls and the floor becomes the ceiling. Half-blind, unsure even of which direction you were going in, you stagger forward and suddenly find yourself in a...

The ceiling descends here to no more than three feet from the floor; you are forced to crawl through the cramped darkness on your hands and knees. To the east the attic becomes more spacious, while the northwest corner opens into an oddly-angled corridor.
You turn on the light
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

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.
Go south
You descend the gloomy steps into the dank 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.
You open the cabinet
It takes some grumbling and some tugging and finally a good, sharp yank, but the cabinet finally pops open.
You look in the cabinet
There's about two dozen fuses lined up in there, the old-fashioned kind that look like round, glass plugs. Every last one of them is blown.
You take the fuse
You pull one of the fuses out and try to rub some of the grime off. Sure enough, the little metal strip inside is melted to a black, twisted cinder. With a sigh, you plug it back into its socket.
Go east
This wing of the cellar is even older than the rest, with walls of piled, unmortared stone. The entire room is filled with wine racks. They cover every wall except for one spot to the west, where an exit leads back to the main cellar.

All of the racks are dust-covered and empty except for one against the north wall, which contains some forty or fifty dark bottles.

You are reminded of something Michael told you during the long drive up: about how when the police arrived after the shooting, they found the wine cellar in a shambles -- nearly every bottle thrown to the floor and shattered, and the whole place reeking of rotted grapes. All except the bottles in the north rack. None of those had been touched. No one could posit a motive for it.

You smile a bit, recalling your husband's ability to turn a piece of insignificant trivia into a compelling story. Still, though, now that you're actually standing here... it all seems very strange.
You examine the wine
Which do you mean, the wine racks or the wine bottles?
Bottles
Row after row of smooth, dust-covered glass. The wine inside is dark and murky, reminding you, somewhat irrationally, of blood.
You take the bottle
Strange; the bottles all seem to be fixed in place. They won't come out of the rack no matter how you tug at them.
You examine the racks
These racks must have at one time contained hundreds upon hundreds of wine bottles. Idly, you wonder which member of the family developed such a taste for what would have been, for the first few generations at least, a sinful vice of the basest kind.
You search bottles
There are dozens of bottles here. You glance over the rows, but nothing jumps out at you as immediately odd.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
(first taking the strange metal flute)
(slipping the bundle of soggy pages into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You cover the first hole
You place your finger over the first flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an eerie, almost sub-sonic note. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You cover the second hole
You place your finger over the second flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an odd mixture of metallic, warbling notes which intertwine and harmonize eerily with each other. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You cover the third hole
You place your finger over the third flute hole.
You cover the fourth hole
You place your finger over the fourth flute hole.
You cover the fifth hole
You place your finger over the fifth flute hole.
You cover the sixth hole
You place your finger over the sixth flute hole.
You cover the seventh hole
You place your finger over the seventh flute hole.
You look at the flute
(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 Your fingers are covering the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh holes.
You put the flute in the coat
(the strange metal flute in the trenchcoat)
You slip the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You examine the flute
(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 examine the gold locket
It is oval-shaped, the clasp open to reveal a tiny picture inside.
You show the gold locket to the man
The bum starts to reach for the locket, but his hand stops a few inches away. His fingers are trembling. He gazes at the woman's picture with grief and regret, and a hint of something akin to love. "Why," he whispers, "that's the very likeness, so it is. That's my Anna. Pretty little Anna..."
You show the flask to the man
(first taking the flask)
His eyes burning with greed, the old man snatches the flask from your hand, unscrews the cap and tips it up into his waiting mouth. Then, sputtering angrily as he realizes there is no whiskey in it, he hurls the flask across the lot and glares at you with something approaching real hatred.
You put the broom in the pocket
The broom is too long to fit in your pockets, deep though they are.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You go south
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.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You examine the ivy
The ivy clutches at the weathered stones as if trying to drag them back down into the earth.
You examine door
At least a dozen sturdy boards have been nailed across the sturdy oak doors; even with proper tools, it would take you days to pry them loose.
You examine the window
You can't see inside at all; the windows are completely boarded up.
You examine the boards
The boards are sturdy pine, securely nailed across every visible door and window.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You look at the padlock
The padlock, which is the size of your fist, is so thoroughly rusted that it looks like one huge homogeneous lump of corrosion. Although it's still quite strong, you might be able to break it if you had something heavy enough.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a flask (which is open but empty), a gold locket, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar) and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a strange metal flute, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, an animal's skull, a newspaper, a letter opener, a slip of paper, Michael's faculty card, a family album, a flashlight, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You hit the padlock with the broom
You can't get in a good blow with the broom; you need something heavier.
You hit the padlock with the flashlight
(first taking the flashlight)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You can't get in a good blow with the flashlight; you need something heavier.
You hit the padlock with the skull
(first taking the animal's skull)
(slipping the gold locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You can't get in a good blow with the animal's skull; you need something heavier.
You examine the underbrush
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.
You look at your surroundings
The forest encroaches right up to the iron fence here, some of which is literally buried in the tangled underbrush. There are no doors on this side, although a wooden trap door over by the corner of the building probably leads into a cellar. A path leads southwest, around to the front of the church.
You look under underbrush
You find nothing of interest.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You examine the fence
The fence is about chest-high and topped with nasty iron spikes. Weeds and ground vines wind up through the bars, most of which are bent and some of which are missing altogether.
You look at the bars
The fence is about chest-high and topped with nasty iron spikes. Weeds and ground vines wind up through the bars, most of which are bent and some of which are missing altogether.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You take the bar
That's hardly portable.
You pull the bars
That would accomplish very little.
You go to the southwest
The path bends northwest, around the side of the church.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go to the north
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 flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
Smell film
You can make out a shadowy reflection of yourself in the slowly rippling water.

The river has an unpleasant, oily smell to it.
You fill the flask with the water
You dip the flask into the Miskaton, collecting a small quantity of river water.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Empty flask
You can't pour the nothing; it's not a liquid.
You examine 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.
You look in the flask
In the flask is a small quantity of river water.
You pour the water
(the small quantity of river water)
The small quantity of river water spills out over the ground, where it quickly trickles away.
Go upwards
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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You take the stone
They're hardly portable.
You go north
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.
You fill the flask
(with the newspaper)
(first taking the newspaper)
(slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
(closing the flask first)
Taken.
The mouth of the flask is too narrow.
Go south
The path curves southwest, leading you into an overgrown area behind the mill.

The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.
You examine the foundations
The broken rubble is all that remains of whatever building once stood here.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You examine rebar
The broken rubble is all that remains of whatever building once stood here.
Go southeast
The trail heads up a short embankment and emerges from the thicket alongside the railroad tracks. The tracks run down from the northeast and past the mill, continuing southwest but slowly curving westward until they cross the Miskaton River some miles outside of town. From the embankment you can look out over the entire heath: jagged, shadowy rooftops to the south; the oily ribbon of the Miskaton to the west; and to the east, the lighthouse sentinel and the leaden waters of the Atlantic beyond.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You examine the tracks
They're just ordinary-looking railroad tracks.
Go northwest
The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Go northeast
The path curves to the north, leading you around to the front of the mill.

The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You look at the gate
The gate, a twenty-foot high barricade of narrowly spaced, thick, black, iron bars, is designed to roll horizontally, sealing off the entrance to the mill compound. It is currently shut and locked. There are no guardhouses, no buzzers or intercoms, no apparent means of getting in or letting anyone inside know you want in; just this implacable gate in an unscalable wall.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You examine bars
The gate, a twenty-foot high barricade of narrowly spaced, thick, black, iron bars, is designed to roll horizontally, sealing off the entrance to the mill compound. It is currently shut and locked. There are no guardhouses, no buzzers or intercoms, no apparent means of getting in or letting anyone inside know you want in; just this implacable gate in an unscalable wall.
Go east
The road heads out over a narrow breakwater jutting out into the ocean.

You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.
Go east
The narrow breakwater is surrounded by ocean. You can only go west, back to shore; or northeast, to the lighthouse.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
You go southeast
Carefully, you climb down the rocks. The path bends northeast, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.

A small outcropping of stone, just large enough for you to stand on, sticks out from the end of the breakwater. The hungry sea laps at your feet, surging over the rocks and then trickling down into crevices. To the southwest, an uneven trail leads back up the rocks, around the side of the lighthouse.

Beyond the breakwater's tip, a turbulent patch of water bubbles and seethes, as if something were lurking just beneath the surface -- turning, perhaps, in uneasy sleep.
You go to the south-west
The trail turns northwest, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.

You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.

The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.
Go southwest
You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
Go southwest
The narrow breakwater is surrounded by ocean. You can only go west, back to shore; or northeast, to the lighthouse.
Go west
The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
Go east
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 gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You go south
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.
Go downwards
Not unless you jump.
You go to the south
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.
Go downwards
You pass through the gate and down the stone steps, which curve northwest as they lead down to the edge of the river.

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.
You fill the flask
What do you want to fill the flask with?
Water
You dip the flask into the Miskaton, collecting a small quantity of river water.
You give the flask to man
His eyes burning with greed, the old man snatches the flask from your hand and tips it up into his waiting mouth. Then, sputtering angrily as he realizes there is no whiskey in it, he hurls the flask across the lot and glares at you with something approaching real hatred.
You pour the water
The small quantity of river water spills out over the ground, where it quickly trickles away.
You ask the man about the whiskey
The bum perks up. "More whiskey?" he asks greedily.
Go east
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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You go north
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.
You go east
The exit is to the south.
Examine 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.
You look behind the bar
Not a bartender in sight.
You examine the people
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.
You ask the people about the bum
No one answers you, or even looks your way.
You ask the people about Michael
Suddenly, although you wouldn't have thought it possible, the pub becomes even more icily silent. Even the lantern flames seem to pause their flickering. The nearest of the locals turns toward you, squinting through eyes like black glass embedded in his ancient leathery skin. His lips barely seem to move beneath his salt-encrusted beard.

"Some things best left alone by outsiders, ma'am," he rasps. "Some things best left alone by decent folk altogether."

Back in one of the darker corners, someone spits deliberately on the floor.

And then all eyes are back on their beer. It's as if you didn't exist at all.
You examine the ring
(the wedding ring)
Staring at your wedding ring like that tends to make you sentimental.
You look at the iron ring
It's just an ordinary-looking iron ring.
You pull iron ring
The iron ring is high out of your reach.
You examine the hieroglyphs
They are not Egyptian, which is what you first assumed from the general shape and design of the obelisk. In fact, though you're no archaeologist, these carvings don't look like any sort of ancient writing you've ever seen. The characters, which must have been carved very deeply in order to survive this much erosion, twist and squirm in disturbing ways, flowing into and through each other and almost seeming to shift slightly as you try to follow their lines. The effect is deeply unsettling, and you have to suppress an urge to take a step or two back away from the monument.
You get the iron ring with the umbrella
(first taking the umbrella)
(slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The iron ring is high out of your reach.
You climb the obelisk
The sides of the obelisk are much too steep and smooth to climb.
You knock on it
No one answers.
Go west
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.
You go to the south
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.
Go south
Ugly, mint-green tiles and walls of whitewashed cinderblock comprise the decor of this inhospitable waiting room. A hard little sofa upholstered in avocado vinyl and a feebly struggling potted palm are provided for the comfort of visitors, although you get the feeling that few inmates of this institution are fortunate enough to have visitors. A metal gate bars entrance to a southern passageway, which you assume leads to the inmates' section. The exit lies north.

An orderly sits by the gate, leisurely perusing a pornographic magazine.

A large key dangles from the orderly's belt.
You look at the orderly
The pockmarked and overweight orderly is absorbed in his magazine, which is just as well, since it's kept him from turning his leering attentions to you. He occasionally pauses to tweak a swollen blackhead on the back of his neck, or to mutter some crass observation about one of the women in his magazine.

There's a name tag pinned to his expansive chest.
You examine the sofa
It is the apotheosis of utilitarian decor, little more than a horizontal slab with some vertical slabs around the sides to keep people from falling off. And it is avocado.
You examine tag
It reads: "CHUCK".
You ask Chuck about the Asylum
"Listen, I just work here, lady."
You ask Chuck about the rebis
The orderly shrugs. "Wouldn't know," he mutters.
You examine the palm
(the torn 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.
You ask him about Edward
The orderly squints at you. "Who? -- Oh, wait! You mean the guy, ventilated his whole goddamn family early this year. Yeah, I remember him. What a nutball. We put him in a rubber room, he lasted two weeks. Bashed his fuckin' brains in on the little observation window. Reinforced glass, took him right out." The orderly scratches his head. "Christ, I gotta get around to cleaning that mess up one of these days." Then with a heavy sigh, he returns to his magazine.
You get the potted palm
That's hardly portable.
You examine the large key
Presumably, it opens the barred gates, providing access into (or out of) the asylum.
Go south
(opening the barred gate first)
The orderly laughs at your attempts. "Nice try, lady, but you're never gettin' in there without this," he says, patting the key on his belt.
You take the large key
The orderly slaps your hand away. "Nice try, lady, " he sneers, "but I got eyes in the back of my head; I'm like a fuckin' hawk."

"... ooh, yeah," whispers the orderly, ogling his magazine.
You take the large key
The orderly slaps your hand away. "Nice try, lady, " he sneers, "but I got eyes in the back of my head; I'm like a fuckin' hawk."
You hit the CHUCK with the broom
Much as you'd like to, it probably wouldn't be wise in the long run.

The orderly honks loudly into a handkerchief, pauses to take a quick peek at the goods, then stuffs the rag back into his pocket.
You look around
Ugly, mint-green tiles and walls of whitewashed cinderblock comprise the decor of this inhospitable waiting room. A hard little sofa upholstered in avocado vinyl and a feebly struggling potted palm are provided for the comfort of visitors, although you get the feeling that few inmates of this institution are fortunate enough to have visitors. A metal gate bars entrance to a southern passageway, which you assume leads to the inmates' section. The exit lies north.

An orderly sits by the gate, leisurely perusing a pornographic magazine.

A large key dangles from the orderly's belt.

"... ooh, yeah," whispers the orderly, ogling his magazine.
You look at the magazine
"Juggs". How charming.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands your umbrella, a flask (which is open but empty), an animal's skull and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a flashlight, a gold locket, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a strange metal flute, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, a slip of paper, Michael's faculty card, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern and a towel.

Airy strains of vacuous elevator music waft through the room from invisible speakers.
Examine 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.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
(first taking the strange metal flute)
(slipping the animal's skull into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You show the skull to chuck
(first taking the animal's skull)
(slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
(closing the flask first)
He glances at the animal's skull without anything remotely resembling interest, and returns to his magazine without a word.
You show the gold locket to chuck
(first taking the gold locket)
(slipping the umbrella into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
He glances at the gold locket without anything remotely resembling interest, and returns to his magazine without a word.
You open the gold locket
That's already open.
You remove coat
You take off the trenchcoat.
You remove clothes
You've never been big on that "natural" look. If you decide you need to take a bath or go to bed, you can disrobe then; otherwise, keep 'em on.
Wear coat
You put on the trenchcoat.
You examine the windows
The whole place exudes a sense of oppressive claustrophobia -- standing in its shadow for even a second is enough to make your skin crawl. Even the seemingly innocuous motto emblazoned over the main entrance fills you with an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
You read the motto
"Health, Discipline, Tranquillity" -- emblazoned in an arch over the double-snake symbol of a caduceus. Somehow, you are not reassured.
You go north
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.
You search the grass
The cobblestones are slick from the rain and worn with many centuries' passage.
Go northwest
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 Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You unlock the front door.
You examine the luggage
It's all a huge, hopeless mess. Just looking at it instantly drains you of any desire to unpack.
You examine the 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.
You look at the cabinets
The cabinet is empty.
You examine the shelves
They're just ordinary-looking shelves.
Go downwards
You descend the gloomy steps into the dank 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.
You go to the east
This wing of the cellar is even older than the rest, with walls of piled, unmortared stone. The entire room is filled with wine racks. They cover every wall except for one spot to the west, where an exit leads back to the main cellar.

All of the racks are dust-covered and empty except for one against the north wall, which contains some forty or fifty dark bottles.
You look at the bottles
Row after row of smooth, dust-covered glass. The wine inside is dark and murky, reminding you, somewhat irrationally, of blood.
You say open the sesame
(to yourself)
Talking to yourself is a sure sign of impending mental collapse.
You read the bottles
The labels are faded and obscured by dust, but you can make out a few of them. Some of these vintages appear to be very old.
Clean bottles
Your fingers leave clear marks in the dust.
You read the label
(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.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a strange metal flute, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a flashlight (providing light), a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, a slip of paper, Michael's faculty card, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern and a towel.
You read the torn journal
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. 8-23-36. 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 --
You search bottles
There are dozens of bottles here. You glance over the rows, but nothing jumps out at you as immediately odd.
You get the album
(slipping the gold locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You look up Croseus
(in the newspaper)
You discover nothing of interest in the newspaper.
You look up Croseus in the album
The entry reads:

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:
You look at 1651
You can't see any such thing.

You can't see any such thing.
You read the volume
Which do you mean, the bookshelves or The Compleat Manual of
Wardes and Seales?
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.
You open the shutter
You can't; the window is painted shut.
Examine books
The shelves on the western wall have slid back slightly, revealing a hidden safe.
You search the books
(the strange metal flute on the pipe stand)
There's not enough room on the pipe stand for the strange metal flute.

The shelves on the western wall have slid back slightly, revealing a hidden safe.
Go east
This smaller room adjoining the library seems comfortable enough, although it is dusty and cluttered from having not been lived in for the better part of a year. Aside from the desk and the chair and the empty shelves, the only real feature of the room is the large, ornate fireplace in the southern wall.

A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors lead west, to the library.

Michael's laptop sits in the middle of the desk, humming quietly to itself.
You close the doors
You close the sliding doors.
You look at the doors
Each door is carved from a single piece of mahogany, and polished to a deep, rich shine. The doors are closed.
You look at the desk
It's an ordinary writing desk with a small drawer, which is closed.
You open the drawer
You open the drawer, revealing the Cryptical Haermoniacon.
You examine cryptical
The leather covers are worn and cracked; the metal corner fittings tarnished; the pages yellow and brittle. Inscribed on the title page are the words Cryptical Haermoniacon: Manual of the Atonal
Servitors beneath what you presume must be the same words written
in some strange, vaguely Arabic-looking alphabet.
You look at the fireplace
The fireplace is carved from beautiful, dark-veined marble, a strange shade that is not quite a deep, forest green and not quite a murky, dusky red. The mantelpiece is flanked by a pair of polished brass spheres.
You read the cryptical
The greater portion of the book is written in an incomprehensible, flowing cipher; however, the margins in several pages are glossed in English. The book appears to contain instructions for traveling to somewhere called "the Domain of Nehilim", and for worshipping or perhaps summoning an entity that dwells there: He Who Is Named
Not; nor may that Name be taught among His followers; that Name which may be learned only by gazing upon His Terrible Countenance...

The only specific details involve a ritual used to open a one-way portal into the Womb of Nehilim, allowing the magician to enter or possibly throw some hapless soul into its chaotic, blasphemous depths. The ritual seems to have something to do with music, and requires the magician to "Attune ye Pillars to ye Resonant Haermonicae", whatever that means.

The rest, by only the barest contrast, is nothing but pure raving.
You look at the spheres
You see the room behind you in distorted miniature, and your own face swelling and stretching comically as you peer into the sphere's reflective surface.

Looking closely, you notice some smudges on the otherwise immaculately polished brass.
Turn spheres
The sphere twists clockwise a few degrees, there is a barely audible "click", and the sphere snaps back into its original position. Suddenly, the entire fireplace slides about eighteen inches to the left with a hollow grinding sound, revealing a narrow corridor in the southwest wall.
You turn on the torch
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.
You go to the south-west
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.
Go southwest
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

A thin beam of light slants through the dusty air, coming from a small hole half way up one wall.
You examine the hole
(the small hole)
It's almost big enough to put your finger through.
You look through the hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see the sitting room, from a vantage high up on the wall. It occurs to you that you might well be looking directly through the eyes of the man in the portrait hanging over the fireplace.
You look through hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see the children's bedroom. Through some strange trick of the angle, you appear to be looking straight down at the bed from the middle of the ceiling.
You go to the northwest
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

There is a small hole in one of the slats, about halfway up the wall.
You look through the hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see only darkness.
You drop typewritten
(first taking the typewritten notice)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Dropped.
Look around
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

You can see a typewritten notice here.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a family album, a strange metal flute and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket, an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a flashlight (providing light), a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, a slip of paper, Michael's faculty card, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a lantern and a towel.
You look at the slip
Someone was apparently using it as a bookmark. There's some writing on one side.
You read the slip
It says:

born-died same date?
have to chk. records

The handwriting is unmistakably Michael's.
You drop slip
(first taking the slip of paper)
Dropped.
Go northwest
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

You can see a slip of paper here.
You go to the south-east
You are in a small, enclosed cupola situated, by the look of the view through the dingy skylight over your head, on top of the roof of the house. The walls are covered with astrological and astronomical charts with equations and diagrams scribbled across them in crabbed, stilted handwriting. The only exit seems to be an oddly-angled corridor to the southeast.

Dominating the center of the room is a large mounted telescope, pointed almost straight up through the skylight.
You examine charts
Most of the charts seem to be plotting the trajectory of some comet you've never heard of, as it gradually approaches the solar system over the course of several centuries. According to this, the comet is due to arrive...

Well, that's interesting. According to this, the comet is coming tomorrow.
You look at the skylight
At the edges of the view you can make out the topmost branches of the surrounding trees, groping at the sky like skeletal fingers.
You look at the telescope
Constructed of some greenish metal, the telescope consists in the main of an unadorned cylinder about eight inches in diameter, with an eyepiece near the bottom. Near the top, about six inches down from the telescope's upper end, is a thin, rectangular slot, cut horizontally into the side of the cylinder.
You look at the slot
It looks as though it might be a receptacle of some kind, perhaps for a special lens.
You look through the telescope
The sky is too overcast; you can't see anything other than a blank, gray circle of solid clouds.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a family album, a strange metal flute and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket, an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a flashlight (providing light), a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, Michael's faculty card, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a lantern and a towel.
Look around
You are in a small, enclosed cupola situated, by the look of the view through the dingy skylight over your head, on top of the roof of the house. The walls are covered with astrological and astronomical charts with equations and diagrams scribbled across them in crabbed, stilted handwriting. The only exit seems to be an oddly-angled corridor to the southeast.

Dominating the center of the room is a large mounted telescope, pointed almost straight up through the skylight.
You examine the equations
Most of the charts seem to be plotting the trajectory of some comet you've never heard of, as it gradually approaches the solar system over the course of several centuries. According to this, the comet is due to arrive...

Well, that's interesting. According to this, the comet is coming tomorrow.
Go west
The ceiling descends here to no more than three feet from the floor; you are forced to crawl through the cramped darkness on your hands and knees. To the east the attic becomes more spacious, while the northwest corner opens into an oddly-angled corridor.
You go to the east
(opening the sliding doors first)

This smaller room adjoining the library seems comfortable enough, although it is dusty and cluttered from having not been lived in for the better part of a year. Aside from the desk and the chair and the empty shelves, the only real feature of the room is the large, ornate fireplace in the southern wall.

A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors lead west, to the library.

A dark, narrow corridor gapes in the wall to the southwest, partially hidden by the marble fireplace.

Michael's laptop sits in the middle of the desk, humming quietly to itself.
Go southwest
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

You can see a typewritten notice here.
Go northeast
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

There is a small hole in one of the slats, about halfway up the wall.
Go northwest
This smaller room adjoining the library seems comfortable enough, although it is dusty and cluttered from having not been lived in for the better part of a year. Aside from the desk and the chair and the empty shelves, the only real feature of the room is the large, ornate fireplace in the southern wall.

A beautiful pair of mahogany sliding doors lead west, to the library.

A dark, narrow corridor gapes in the wall to the southwest, partially hidden by the marble fireplace.

Michael's laptop sits in the middle of the desk, humming quietly to itself.
You drop the torch
(first taking the flashlight)
Dropped.
You take the matches
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Light match
One of the matches starts to burn.
You go southwest
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

You can see a slip of paper here.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
Go northwest
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.
You examine the hole
Which do you mean, the first flute hole, the second flute hole, the third flute hole, the fourth flute hole, the fifth flute hole, the sixth flute hole or the seventh flute hole?
Go downwards
You descend the gloomy steps into the dank 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.
You go west
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.

You can also see a lantern (providing light) here.
Go north
(opening the iron door first)
The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend.

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.
You examine the hole
Which do you mean, the first flute hole, the second flute hole, the third flute hole, the fourth flute hole, the fifth flute hole, the sixth flute hole or the seventh flute hole?
You go to the south
You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind.

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.
You go north
The faint echo of dripping water and a musty smell of decay grow stronger as you descend.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You go south
You involuntary take a deep breath of fresh air as you leave the clammy, foetid depths of the crypt behind.

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.

You can see a lantern here.
You look at the scene
The scene depicts a young girl kneeling down next to a closed door, whispering through the keyhole. It is evidently late at night, as the girl is wearing her nightgown, and she is surrounded by shadows. The room on the other side of the door is lit, and the light shining through the keyhole and through the crack under the door casts an eldritch, yellow glow across her face. The girl appears to be furtively slipping something underneath the door; you can't see what, exactly.

It's a fairly innocent-looking scene; charming, even, in a way... that is, until you notice the mottled appendage snaking out from underneath the door to meet her hand. From her expression, the girl is either unaware of it or unperturbed by it. Either way, the effect is deeply disturbing.

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.
Go south
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.

The portrait gazes down at you with crimson-edged malice.
You examine the eyes
They are the eyes from your dream, without question.
You go northeast
The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

There is a small hole in one of the slats, about halfway up the wall.

You can also see a flashlight (providing light) here.
You take the torch
(slipping the family album into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Go upwards
You stumble forward blindly...
Gratefully, you leave the clammy confines of the cellar behind.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You turn on the torch
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.

You can see a typewritten notice here.
You look through the hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see the wine cellar, seen from down low in a corner, near the floor.
You put the torch in the hole
(the small hole)
That can't contain things.
You go east
This wing of the cellar is even older than the rest, with walls of piled, unmortared stone. The entire room is filled with wine racks. They cover every wall except for one spot to the west, where an exit leads back to the main cellar.

All of the racks are dust-covered and empty except for one against the north wall, which contains some forty or fifty dark bottles.

You can also see a lantern (providing light) here.
You search the wall
There are dozens of bottles here. You glance over the rows, but nothing jumps out at you as immediately odd.
You examine the hole
Which do you mean, the first flute hole, the second flute hole, the third flute hole, the fourth flute hole, the fifth flute hole, the sixth flute hole or the seventh flute hole?
You knock on the racks
No one answers.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a flashlight (providing light), a book of matches with five matches left and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a family album, a strange metal flute, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket, an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, Michael's faculty card, a torn journal and a towel.
You read the soggy
(first taking the bundle of soggy pages)
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.
You look at 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.
Shake box
(first taking the puzzle box)
(slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You can hear something rattling around in there.
You pull the panel
Nothing obvious happens.
You hit the panel
The strange wood is virtually indestructible; your blows don't even scratch the finish.
Kiss box
Try to restrain yourself.
You get album
(slipping the bundle of soggy pages into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You look up Mordecai
(in the newspaper)
You discover nothing of interest in the newspaper.
You look up Mordecai in the album
The entry reads:

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.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a family album, a puzzle box (which is closed), a flashlight (providing light) and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a bundle of soggy pages, a book of matches with five matches left, a strange metal flute, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket, an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, Michael's faculty card, a torn journal and a towel.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a family album, a puzzle box (which is closed), a flashlight and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a bundle of soggy pages, a book of matches with five matches left, a strange metal flute, a keyring, on which are four keys (an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a gold locket, an animal's skull, your umbrella, a flask (which is closed), a silver locket, a newspaper, a letter opener, Michael's faculty card, a torn journal and a towel.
You hit padlock with the umbrella
(first taking the umbrella)
(slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You can't get in a good blow with the umbrella; you need something heavier.
You hit the padlock with the flask
(first taking the flask)
(slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You can't get in a good blow with the flask; you need something heavier.
Go west
The wrought-iron fence surrounds the entire churchyard. The only way out is around that little path to the southwest.
Go southwest
The path bends northwest, around the side of the church.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You examine bars
The fence is about chest-high and topped with nasty iron spikes. Weeds and ground vines wind up through the bars, most of which are bent and some of which are missing altogether.
You go west
The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
(first taking the strange metal flute)
(slipping the family album into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You examine the first hole
It's a small round hole; you cover it with your finger in order to change the flute's pitch.
Yes
debugcheapnitfol quit with exit status: 0
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open), inside which is a strange black disk, a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

The walls are bare wooden slats, patched with crumbling plaster and spiked with bent, rusted nails. The passage, no more than two feet wide at its widest point, bends and twist at confusing angles, making it hard to tell which direction you're heading in.
You look through the hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see the children's bedroom. Through some strange trick of the angle, you appear to be looking straight down at the bed from the middle of the ceiling.

Suddenly Michael walks into the bedroom. He moves slowly, looking around and lightly touching things, as if visiting old memories. He walks over to the crib and spends some minutes staring down into its empty blankets, after which he sighs. Then he turns and adjusts the coverlet on the child's bed.

He walks over to the vanity and picks up the jewelry box. Carefully, he opens it and, finding it empty, sets it down again with a soft curse. He looks around the room suspiciously, as if expecting to find the culprit hiding in a corner somewhere. For a moment Michael simply stands there aimlessly, compulsively rubbing his forehead; then he stalks out of the room and is gone.
You look through hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see the sitting room, from a vantage high up on the wall. It occurs to you that you might well be looking directly through the eyes of the man in the portrait hanging over the fireplace.

At that moment, Michael wanders into the sitting room, muttering something incoherent. He looks around blankly, lost, as if he had come into the room in order to do something only in the next instant to forget what it was. Then his eyes fall on you, and he smiles.

You nearly jerk away from the spyhole, heart pounding wildly, when it suddenly occurs to you that he's not looking at you at all; he's looking at the portrait through which you are peering.

Michael regards the portrait with a strange air of familiarity. He gazes into its eyes (and also, unbeknownst to him, your own eyes) the way one might appraise an old friend one hasn't seen for some time. His expression is deferential, admiring, and... something else; you can't quite put your finger on at first, but as your husband continues to gaze rhapsodically at the terrible portrait, a sickening realization strikes you.

The expression is vanity. Ugly, self-absorbed vanity. Your husband is staring at this portrait the way he might preen himself in a mirror.

Michael brushes his fingers back through his hair and walks out of the room, chuckling softly to himself.
You look through the hole
(the small hole)
Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see only darkness.

Just as you are about to move away from the spyhole, you hear footsteps on a stone floor. A light shines in through a doorway, and a moment later Michael skulks into the room, which you now realize is the wine cellar, seen from down low in a corner, near the floor.

Halfway across the room he stops, darts a suspicious glance over his shoulder, and shines his light into every corner, as though searching for potential spies. At one point he looks straight at you, and you nearly recoil, alarmed at the sight of his crazed, red-rimmed eyes. He does not spot you, however, and in a moment he moves on.

He walks over to the rack at the north end of the room, and does something with the bottles -- you can't quite see, because his back is toward you. Then there is a click and a heavy grinding sound, and the entire northern wall swings back, revealing a hidden passage!

The room is filled for a moment with a wild, wretched keening, like a cold wind blowing through an empty chasm. With one last, wary look behind him, Michael steps through the portal. The light disappears, the wall swings back with another grinding sound, and then all is quiet.
You look at the door
The front door is a huge, paneled slab of black oak.
You close the door
That's already closed.
You examine the bottles
Row after row of smooth, dust-covered glass. The wine inside is dark and murky, reminding you, somewhat irrationally, of blood.

There are five bottles in the third row from the bottom that have been handled recently; the fingermarks are clearly outlined on their dusty labels. One label is partially torn and the other is all but faded completely, but at a quick glance you count a Pinot Noir, a Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Cheval Blanc.
You examine the torn bottle
The label on this bottle is partially torn away. There is a raised letter "E" stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You examine faded bottle
This bottle is so old that the label has almost faded beyond legibility, although from what you can make out it is probably a fine Merlot. A raised letter "C" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You examine pinot noir
A robust Pinot Noir, vintage 1651; obviously one of those collector's items that just keeps getting more and more valuable as long as you don't open it. A raised letter "W" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You look at Cabernet
A vintage Cabernet Sauvignon from 1734. A raised letter "H" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You look at Cheval
A light Cheval Blanc, 1886. There is a raised letter "M" stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
Turn faded
The bottle with the faded label rotates a quarter-turn clockwise, then snaps back with a loud "click".
Turn torn
(the bottle with the torn label)
The bottle with the torn label rotates a quarter-turn clockwise, then snaps back with a loud "click".
You turn cheval
The bottle of light Cheval Blanc rotates a quarter-turn clockwise, then snaps back with a loud "click". A rumbling grating sound suddenly fills the wine cellar, and the racks and a portion of the stone wall behind them swing back, revealing a dark passageway to the north from which blows a hot, foul wind.
Smell
The air reeks of the infernal depths.

Another blast of hot, foul-smelling air comes shrieking out of the pit.
You go north
The passageway ends here at a fathomless pit, a puckered circular hole in the rock from which the foul wind seems to emanate, howling up from the depths like a reeking banshee.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
You examine the pit
The pit nearly spans the corridor from wall to wall and is at least twenty feet across, much to far to jump. The wind which occasionally gusts up from the bottomless reaches smells of decaying things, and moans like a living thing as it races past you.
You look in the pit
The bottom is lost to darkness.
Go downwards
Into the pit? Not bloody likely.
You look at the Bridge
The ropes are frayed and tangled; the planks are rotten and, in places, missing entirely, leaving dark, howling gaps. A very dubious structure, all in all, but there's no other way to cross.
You examine the Bridge
The ropes are frayed and tangled; the planks are rotten and, in places, missing entirely, leaving dark, howling gaps. A very dubious structure, all in all, but there's no other way to cross.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
You go to the north
Carefully, you edge out onto the swaying planks. The ropes creak ominously as you cross. A couple of the tattered lines snap just as you reach the halfway mark, and the bridge lists sharply to the left. A few more steps, however, and you are safely on the other side.

The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
Go south
The walls of this passageway are carved from solid rock with unearthly precision; ten feet wide, ten feet high, perfectly smooth and perfectly square. The passage runs north, sloping downward into the depths of the hillside. A foul wind gusts intermittently from the darkness below.
You go south
There is only a blank stone wall now. The only way onward is north, further into the depths.
You go north
The passageway ends here at a fathomless pit, a puckered circular hole in the rock from which the foul wind seems to emanate, howling up from the depths like a reeking banshee.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
Go north
Carefully, you edge out onto the swaying planks. A blast of wind roars up from beneath you, shaking the thin strand like a pennant in a stiff breeze, and you cling grimly to the ropes. A few more steps, however, and you are safely on the other side.

The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
Go northeast
The vast, stone staircase plunges down into the earth. The seemingly interminable steps curve in a gentle sweep from the southwest, above you, dropping toward black, unplumbed depths to the north.
Go downward
The stairs end here at a huge, greenish-gold door set into the north wall. There is nothing else here; nowhere to go but onward or back.
You look at the door
The door is enormous, nearly fifteen feet on a side, and made entirely of some smooth, greenish-gold metal that reflects your light with an oily, wavery sheen. There is no handle, no keyhole or latch of any kind. There seems to be no physical way of opening the door at all -- just the smooth rectangle of metal, adorned with a single symbol etched into its center.
You look at the symbol
The emblem in the center of the door is that of a stylized open eye, surrounded by wavy, radiating lines which resemble nothing less than a crown of sinuous tentacles. You shudder, unable to suppress the feeling that you have seen that eye somewhere before.
You ascend
You start back up the wide steps...

The vast, stone staircase plunges down into the earth. The seemingly interminable steps curve in a gentle sweep from the southwest, above you, dropping toward black, unplumbed depths to the north.
You go southwest
The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
You look in the telescope
The swirling hole in the sky fills the telescope's field of view, turning silently as you watch. The upper depths of the maelstrom are too dark to see, though occasionally you make out sparks of green energy as they arc across the gap.
You put the lens in the telescope
(first taking the strange black disk)
(slipping the silver locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The strange black disk drops neatly into the slot.
You look in the telescope
For a few moments all you can see is a murky, swirling blackness; then patterns of colors begin to emerge, like the rainbow sheen of oil on water. The black disk grows translucent, stars become visible through the swirling haze, and then...

Dear Christ.

Dear Christ, you can see it.

The comet, roaring silently through the endless void, streaking toward Earth, and it's alive, this thing that is coming is ALIVE, tendrils that must be hundreds, thousands of miles long streaming before it, reaching out to grasp and strangle and devour whole worlds, and it is coming here, it is coming to Earth, and its great, lidless, red-rimmed eye rolls over in a vast lake of vitreous fluid, and it

...you wake up some time later, shaking your head. You're not
sure what, exactly, you just witnessed; whether it was a genuine astronomical phenomenon, or a hallucination, or the actual form of some Dark God from the Outer Reaches, come to devour the world. You're not even entirely sure you remember what it looked like. The only thing you can clearly recall is a single name, pulsing in your brain like a bruise:

"Ialdabaoloth".

And that's all.
You turn cheval
The bottle of light Cheval Blanc rotates a quarter-turn clockwise, then snaps back with a loud "click". A rumbling grating sound suddenly fills the wine cellar, and the racks and a portion of the stone wall behind them swing back, revealing a dark passageway to the north from which blows a hot, foul wind.
You go to the north
Carefully, you edge out onto the swaying planks. The ropes creak ominously as you cross. A couple of the tattered lines snap just as you reach the halfway mark, and the bridge lists sharply to the left. A few more steps, however, and you are safely on the other side.

The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.

Another blast of hot, foul-smelling air comes shrieking out of the pit.
Ialdabaoloth
The metallic door suddenly rings out as if struck; it vibrates in aching harmony with the blasphemous name -- a shrill, grating sound like a dentist's drill. The air grows thick and terrible shapes waver and melt in the air before you -- shapes that twitch and move with hungry purpose, and seem to look at you -- and then the ringing fades away. There is a moment of stillness, and then the gleaming door swings smoothly open on perfectly balanced and utterly silent hinges.
You go north
The doorway opens out into a large, dome-ceilinged cavern. You stand at the threshold for a moment, peering into the strange, phosphorescent gloom, before your eyes can make out enough details to see what this place is; even then, it is almost a full minute before your mind can accept what you are seeing...

The cave is lined, floor to ceiling, with mummified human corpses. Shrunken and desiccated, they lie in jumbled heaps inside irregularly carved niches. Carvings cover the rock walls in between the niches -- grotesque, leering faces too horrible even to look upon, their features twitching and smirking in the wavering light that sifts down from above.

And dominating the center of the chamber: a dark monolith rising up through the green, murky light -- what you first took to be a large, supporting pillar, you now realize can only be the true base of the town square obelisk.

At the narrower, northern end of the vaguely egg-shaped cavern sits a massive stone altar, flanked on either side by a pair of strange, vibrating columns.
You examine the corpses
These bodies are very, very old; even the shapes of the skulls call to mind a more primitive and degenerate sort of folk than even the denizens of this town. This must be the inside of an ancient burial mound, although what sort of Indian tribe could have erected such a huge and monstrous obelisk, you can't imagine.
You examine the carvings
Which do you mean, the first pictogram, the second pictogram, the third pictogram or the fourth pictogram?
You examine the first pictogram
A circle of stick-men, dancing or worshipping around a shape like an upturned bowl -- perhaps a hill, or perhaps this very mound you're standing in was once above ground.
You look at second pictogram
A fiery star-burst, decorated with trailing lines (perhaps indicating a comet or shooting star?) descends from the sky, and rains fire and death upon the people of the mound.
You look at the third pictogram
The stick men are again pictured in a circle around the mound. One figure stands on top of the mound, raising a dagger over a second stick man bent backwards over some kind of altar. The mound is decorated with wavy lines radiating from the altar at the top down to the bottom -- perhaps indicating streams of blood?
You look at the fourth pictogram
The mound is now deserted, and the stick men seem to be constructing a tower of stones for some unclear purpose. The comet-symbol has returned, although there is an added eye-motif; the comet appears to be looking down on the tower with approval. Wavy lines radiate from the eye in all directions, several of them converging to join at the tower's tip.
You look at the obelisk
It is simply enormous. Nearly ten feet to a side at its base, the massive structure rises straight up through the ceiling, its tip penetrating the surface after what must be twenty or thirty feet of intervening rock. The hieroglyphs on this portion of the obelisk, untouched by eroding weather, are much clearer and deeper than the ones above.
You examine the altar
A single block of jet-black, featureless stone, approximately the size of a queen-sized bed. It is flanked by a pair of metal pillars.
You get on the altar
You clamber onto the great stone block.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble.

The columns' vibrations seem to grow momentarily stronger while the flute's sound lingers, their dissonant ringing resonating strangely with the warbling, metallic notes.
Down
You'll have to get off the altar first.
You look at the columns
Which do you mean, the left-hand column or the right-hand column?
You get off the altar
You get off the altar.

The cave is lined, floor to ceiling, with mummified human corpses. Shrunken and desiccated, they lie in jumbled heaps inside irregularly carved niches. Carvings cover the rock walls in between the niches -- grotesque, leering faces too horrible even to look upon, their features twitching and smirking in the wavering light that sifts down from above.

The obelisk base stands before you, vast and shadowy in the green, murky light.

At the narrower, northern end of the vaguely egg-shaped cavern sits a massive stone altar, flanked on either side by a pair of strange, vibrating columns.
You look athe left-hand column
The column is approximately seven feet high and cylindrical, made of some oily, greenish metal. It is vibrating very slightly, almost imperceptibly; only a thin shimmering around its edges and the faint ringing noise betray any motion at all.
You climb obelisk
The sides are much too steep to climb.
You cover the hole
Which do you mean, the first flute hole, the second flute hole, the third flute hole, the fourth flute hole, the fifth flute hole, the sixth flute hole or the seventh flute hole?
First
You place your finger over the first flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an eerie, almost sub-sonic note.

The columns' vibrations seem to grow momentarily stronger while the flute's sound lingers, their dissonant ringing resonating strangely with the warbling, metallic notes.
Uncover first hole
You lift your finger from the first flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an eerie, deep note.

The columns' vibrations seem to grow momentarily stronger while the flute's sound lingers, their dissonant ringing resonating strangely with the warbling, metallic notes.
Uncover second hole
You lift your finger from the second flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an eerie, low-pitched note.

The right-hand column's vibrations suddenly grow stronger, resonating in harmony with the warbling, metallic note of the flute. The two dissonances seem to intertwine, reinforcing each other, and for a single instant you think you see a strange rippling effect in the air over the altar. Then it is gone, and the sound fades.
Search corpses
When you touch them you get an unpleasant feeling, a crawling sensation of filth and infection. You back away, wiping your hands down the front of your clothes.
Go south
The stairs end here at a huge, greenish-gold door set into the north wall. There is nothing else here; nowhere to go but onward or back.
Go southwest
The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.

Another blast of hot, foul-smelling air comes shrieking out of the pit.
You open the door
You open the front door.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
Go south
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 front door stands open to the north.

The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as you step outside. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong with the air. A heavy, charged sensation, like standing next to high-tension wires; a faint odor of spoiled meat drifting on the wind; you can't put your finger on it, but it might have something to do with that strange hole in the sky.
You examine the hole
(the sky)
There is a spinning, churning hole in the clouds, directly over the lighthouse; an inverted whirlpool sucking streamers of gray up into itself. You'd think it was some sort of funnel cloud, except that it's not moving anywhere. It's simply hanging, turning slowly in the sky. The sight of that horrible, whirling hole makes you shudder, involuntarily recalling that hideous entity that lurks behind those clouds.
You close the door
You close the front door.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You examine obelisk
You can just make out the shape of the obelisk from here.
Go south
The forest grows denser as you go, crowding thickly up to either side of the road. The groping, tangled branches block out what little sunlight there is left. Your footsteps are muffled; whispering leaves and the slow drip of water are the only sounds you can hear. Beyond the watching trees, the shadows are impenetrably thick. The road stretches interminably, north to south.

There's something strangely familiar about the woods here... scenes from last night's dream flicker through your memory, but you are unable to recall the details.
You look at the trees
You scrutinize the edge of the road carefully, looking for whatever it was you saw...

There. On the west side. That stump, and the twisted sapling growing next to it; you recognize them. And just beyond them... the path. It's the path you took in your dream, a narrow rut running west through the underbrush. You can hardly believe it, but there it is.
You examine the stump
It's the rotted stump of a tree that must have fallen long ago. It's unremarkable, almost completely buried by the underbrush; the only reason you even noticed it is because of your dream.
You examine the sapling
A bent and stunted sapling, barely taller than you are, grows from the mulchy ground around the rotting stump. It's a perfectly ordinary-looking sapling, just like many others you've spotted growing here in and there among the trees -- except that this one was in your dream.
Go west
The tangled undergrowth has been beaten down in a path leading roughly from the east to the southwest. Shrubs and grass have been flattened and pushed aside, vines torn down, and small trees bent or even snapped in half, as though something heavy with huge, flat feet had simply trampled its way through.
Go southwest
The decayed remains of an old slaughterhouse stand here, now little more than a shell of crumbling brick and gaping holes, surrounded by a clearing of yellow, sickly grass. A path leads northeast, back toward the road; to the west, a gaping hole that might once have been a doorway leads into the rotting building.

The forest is unnaturally quiet here, you notice; there are no birds calling, no leaves rustling or branches creaking; even the whippoorwills have fallen silent. All is still, holding its collective breath in an expectant hush.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You look at the house
It's an ordinary-looking key. The word "house" is written on a tiny piece of tape affixed to the key's tab.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You examine building
The ancient walls are barely even holding themselves together. The only reason you can tell it used to be a slaughterhouse is the faded paint on one wall: "Crompton Meat Processing".
You go west
The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.

There's something odd about the ground here; some faint marking or pattern.

An old rusty meat hook sticks out of the ground nearby, its point half-buried in the dirt.

Over in the far corner, a tattered sheet of drawing paper lies discarded on the ground.
You examine the hook
The crossbar fits in your palm, leaving the hook part to stick out between the third and fourth fingers. It's a heavy sucker, nearly fifteen inches long from handle to point, made for hauling around carcasses with a minimum of ceremony. You wouldn't like to think what this could do to a living person.
You take the hook
Taken.
You take the paper
(the tattered drawing)
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the tattered drawing. The drawing is of a pair of crudely rendered figures, scrawled with dark, heavy lines that occasionally punch right through the paper. The two figures are holding hands. The one on the left is a smiling woman with long, straight hair; the one on the right...

Well, you don't know. Frankly, you'd rather not speculate. An octopus on human legs, maybe, if you could believe any healthy child would conceive of such a thing. Above the first figure is scribbled the word "MOMY"; above the second, "WILAM (ME)".
You examine the ground
The marks in the dirt are tracks of some kind, but not of any animal you're familiar with, unless there's a lame elephant loose in the New England woods. The prints are large -- quite a bit larger than your outspread hand, and vaguely round. They criss-cross the ground in every direction. Whatever made them obviously lives here, or at least visits quite often.
You open the gold locket
You open the gold locket, revealing a woman's picture.
You go to the south
Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well. A circle of rotting plywood covers the opening.
You examine well
It's built of mortared stone, and comes about to the level of your waist. The top of the well is covered by a circle of rotting plywood.
You look at the plywood
Nothing but a thick sheet of plywood cut into a rough circle, about a yard across.
You move the plywood
You dig your fingers under the edge of the plywood and, straining as hard as you can, manage to slide the heavy cover off the top of the well and onto the grass.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You look in well
The well is very deep, although the rough stonework would probably allow you to safely climb down. Its depths are too shadowy for you to make out any details at the bottom.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.
Go downwards
Carefully testing each foothold, you descend into the well.

The sky is a dim circle of light far above you. The stone walls press in on you from all sides, and the air is clammy and frigid. A faint odor of decay drifts up from the floor; the smell of a trapped animal decomposing under the back porch.

You are standing knee deep in a rattling jumble of children's bones.
You look at the bones
You can deduce only two things about the gruesome pile: there are more bones here than could be produced by a single child, and some of the bones are older than others. Whoever has been throwing them down here has been doing it for a long time.
Search bones
You notice a tuft of brown among the yellowed-ivory of the bones. Moving aside a clattering pile of ribs, you discover a child's teddy bear.
You take bear
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the teddy bear. It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
You read the newspaper
The front page story is about Jeffrey Greer, 8 years old, who was abducted from his home at #11 Mill Town Road last night. Little Jeffrey is the latest victim in a series of abductions that stretches back for years, one every six months or so, and that authorities believe is the work of a single perpetrator. Local police had hoped to prove that Edward Verlac had been behind the kidnappings, but were unable to obtain a confession or any hard proof. Edward Verlac was convicted of murdering his wife and two daughters, one of whom was 15 months old, in January of this year; he was found not guilty by reason of insanity and incarcerated in Danvers Asylum, where he remained until committing suicide last March. This latest kidnapping, occurring after Edward's death, seems to have cleared up any lingering suspicions that he might have been the culprit.

Anyone possessing information regarding the whereabouts of Jeffrey Greer is strongly urged to speak to the authorities as soon as possible.
You hug the bear
Come now; you're not that frightened.

You give the bear a big hug. Somehow, it is a cold comfort.
You go to the north
The only way out is up.
You go upwards
You painstakingly climb out of the old well.

Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You move the plywood
It took all your effort just to tip the cover off the well; you don't think you could muster the strength to heave it back on again.
You go north
The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.

Faint tracks mark the dirt here; large, rounded footprints tracking back and forth across the ground.
Go east
You are about to step back through the eastern wall when a noise makes you stop. In the woods outside, to the east -- something is there. Something breathing. Something huge.

A branch cracks sharply; and another. It's coming this way.
Wave gold locket
But you aren't holding that.

The sound of tearing undergrowth grows louder. Whatever it is, it's practically bulldozing its way through the forest.
You take the gold locket
(slipping the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

The ground trembles slightly with the thing's thunderous footsteps as it tromps up the path. It's right outside the slaughterhouse!
Wait
Time passes.

You never even see it coming. The east wall bursts inward in an eruption of bricks and mortar dust; squirming, ropy tentacles snake out from the obscuring cloud and wrap themselves around your your body... within moments you are unconscious, mercifully spared the sight of what happens to your body in the next few bloody minutes.
Go south
Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.

You hear it pause inside the building, its hide slithering loudly against the brick walls as it moves about. There is a horrible, wet snorting sound, as if it were trying to pick up a scent, then an unspeakable, inhuman grunt of anger.
Go downwards
As quickly as you are able, you scramble down the rough stone walls. Ten feet from the bottom, you slip, landing with a clatter amidst the dusty bones.

The sky is a dim circle of light far above you. The stone walls press in on you from all sides, and the air is clammy and frigid. A faint odor of decay drifts up from the floor; the smell of a trapped animal decomposing under the back porch.

You are standing knee deep in a rattling jumble of children's bones.

You cower down in the bottom of the well as the thing, whatever it is, moves closer. A shadow falls across the mouth of the well, and then the circle of light above you is blotted out by a shape so utterly, blasphemously hideous that even its mere silhouette is enough to blast you into unconsciousness. The last things you see are its squirming tentacles groping down the sides of the well for you...
You take the gold locket
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You open it
That's already open.
You drop the paper
(the tattered drawing)
Dropped.
You go to the south
Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well. A circle of rotting plywood covers the opening.
You move plywood
You dig your fingers under the edge of the plywood and, straining as hard as you can, manage to slide the heavy cover off the top of the well and onto the grass.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You take the bear
You pick up the teddy bear. It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
You look at the bear
It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
Go upwards
You painstakingly climb out of the old well.

Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.
Go north
The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.

Faint tracks mark the dirt here; large, rounded footprints tracking back and forth across the ground.

You can also see a tattered drawing, a silver locket (in which is a boy's picture) and a gold locket (in which is a woman's picture) here.
Go east
You are about to step back through the eastern wall when a noise makes you stop. In the woods outside, to the east -- something is there. Something breathing. Something huge.

A branch cracks sharply; and another. It's coming this way.
Go south
Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.

The sound of tearing undergrowth grows louder. Whatever it is, it's practically bulldozing its way through the forest.
You wait
Time passes.

The ground trembles slightly with the thing's thunderous footsteps as it tromps up the path. It's right outside the slaughterhouse!

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You wait
Time passes.

You hear it pause inside the building, its hide slithering loudly against the brick walls as it moves about. There is a horrible, wet snorting sound, as if it were trying to pick up a scent, then an unspeakable, inhuman grunt of anger.
You wait for a while
Time passes.

You never even see it coming. A massive, bloated shape suddenly looms up behind the hole in the northern wall, and half a dozen fat, fleshy tentacles snake out with awful, twitching speed and wrap themselves around your body. Your head cracks against a brick as it drags your body through the opening, knocking you mercifully unconscious before the thing starts on you.
You wear the silver
Which do you mean, the silver locket or the letter opener?
Locket
(first taking the silver locket)
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You put on the silver locket.
You drop the paper
(the tattered drawing)
Dropped.
You go to the south
Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well. A circle of rotting plywood covers the opening.
You move the plywood
You dig your fingers under the edge of the plywood and, straining as hard as you can, manage to slide the heavy cover off the top of the well and onto the grass.
You wait awhile
Time passes.

The sound of tearing undergrowth grows louder. Whatever it is, it's practically bulldozing its way through the forest.
You wait
Time passes.

The ground trembles slightly with the thing's thunderous footsteps as it tromps up the path. It's right outside the slaughterhouse!
Wait
Time passes.

You never even see it coming. The east wall bursts inward in an eruption of bricks and mortar dust; squirming, ropy tentacles snake out from the obscuring cloud and wrap themselves around your your body... within moments you are unconscious, mercifully spared the sight of what happens to your body in the next few bloody minutes.
You hide under the bones
You burrow down into the bones, piling more bones on top of you for cover while trying to make as little noise as possible. In the midst of your digging, you notice a child's teddy bear among the bones.
You take bear
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the teddy bear. It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
Ascend
The bones fall away, clattering loudly as you stand up.
Go upwards
You painstakingly climb out of the old well.

Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
Go west
The only exits are through the ragged holes to the east and south.

The sound of tearing undergrowth grows louder. Whatever it is, it's practically bulldozing its way through the forest.
Go down
As quickly as you are able, you scramble down the rough stone walls. Ten feet from the bottom, you slip, landing with a clatter amidst the dusty bones.

The sky is a dim circle of light far above you. The stone walls press in on you from all sides, and the air is clammy and frigid. A faint odor of decay drifts up from the floor; the smell of a trapped animal decomposing under the back porch.

You are standing knee deep in a rattling jumble of children's bones.

The ground trembles slightly with the thing's thunderous footsteps as it tromps up the path. It's right outside the slaughterhouse!
You hide under the bones
You burrow down into the bones, piling more bones on top of you for cover while trying to make as little noise as possible.

You hear it pause inside the building, its hide slithering loudly against the brick walls as it moves about. There is a horrible, wet snorting sound, as if it were trying to pick up a scent, then an unspeakable, inhuman grunt of anger.
You wait awhile
Time passes.

Scarcely daring to breathe, you lie as still as possible beneath your cover of bones as the thing, whatever it is, moves closer. A shadow falls across the mouth of the well, and then the circle of light above you is blotted out by a shape so utterly, blasphemously hideous that it is all you can do to remain conscious. Two grotesquely blue and childlike eyes blink down into the darkness of the well, searching...

And then it is gone.

You must have lost consciousness after all, judging from the stiffness in your limbs and the difference in the light. You have no idea how long you were out, but the creature must have passed you by. The forest is still again; the breathing and footsteps, gone.

Involuntarily, you let out a long, shuddering breath.
Ascend
The bones fall away, clattering loudly as you stand up.
Go upwards
You painstakingly climb out of the old well.

Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.
You go to the east
The decayed remains of an old slaughterhouse stand here, now little more than a shell of crumbling brick and gaping holes, surrounded by a clearing of yellow, sickly grass. A path leads northeast, back toward the road; to the west, a gaping hole that might once have been a doorway leads into the rotting building.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go to the north-east
The tangled undergrowth has been beaten down in a path leading roughly from the east to the southwest. Shrubs and grass have been flattened and pushed aside, vines torn down, and small trees bent or even snapped in half, as though something heavy with huge, flat feet had simply trampled its way through.
Go east
The forest grows denser as you go, crowding thickly up to either side of the road. The groping, tangled branches block out what little sunlight there is left. Your footsteps are muffled; whispering leaves and the slow drip of water are the only sounds you can hear. Beyond the watching trees, the shadows are impenetrably thick. The road stretches interminably, north to south.

At the edge of the forest, on the west side of the road, stand the rotted stump and twisted sapling from your dream.
Go north
The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.

A small group of townsfolk has gathered up at the north end of the road. As you approach, still breathless from your encounter with the thing at the slaughterhouse, they turn toward you -- and that's when you notice that the one in the lead has an axe in his hand. And the one behind him has a pair of garden shears.

A couple of men move over to your left, and several more step out of the forest behind you. All of them carry weapons or nasty farm implements of some kind, and all of them look as though they're just about ready to put an end to a certain over-curious, outsider woman who doesn't know enough to keep her nose out of things better left undisturbed.
You give the bear to men
They don't seem impressed.

The townsfolk shuffle a bit closer, raising their weapons in anticipation of the kill.
Ialdabaoloth
One of the men turns on you with a withering gaze; another makes a fork-fingered gesture in your direction. The syllables die unspoken behind your lips.

The townsfolk shuffle a bit closer, raising their weapons in anticipation of the kill.
Go east
You dart past the men on your right, making a break for the church. The townsfolk hover around the entrance to the churchyard but do not follow you, confident that there is no way you can escape.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.
You break padlock with the hook
You raise the meat hook high over your head and bring it squarely down onto the padlock. The rusted metal casing splits open, the hasp falls loose, and the padlock, now nothing but a broken shell, slides to the ground.
You examine padlock
It's little more than a twisted hunk of torn metal. You'd hardly even guess it was ever used as a padlock.
You take it
(slipping the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Go downward
(opening the trap door first)
As you drop to the floor, the trap door suddenly slams shut above you. You hear noises outside -- something thumping against the door, and low voices. You hear someone muttering, and a brief round of unpleasant laughter. Then the voices drift away.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

Centipedes and beetles scurry away across the rotten floorboards as you shine your light across the room. Over in the corner sits a hulking shape of black metal that was probably once a wood-burning furnace; aside from that, the cellar looks empty. A dark alcove, the shadows within too thick to see through, opens in the west wall, and a trap door in the ceiling leads back up to the outside.

At the very edge of your light's glow, you can just make out a horribly suggestive shape lying in the shadows behind the furnace.
You examine the shape
It's the dead body of a woman. Her head has been raggedly hacked away, and her clothes above the waist are soaked through with blood. As you fight to control your rising gorge, you note that the body cannot have been here for very long; the decay, though bad, is not very far advanced. She must have been killed within the last couple of days at most.

> SAVE

Ok.
%
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...

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.
You look around
Centipedes and beetles scurry away across the rotten floorboards as you shine your light across the room. Over in the corner sits a hulking shape of black metal that was probably once a wood-burning furnace; aside from that, the cellar looks empty. A dark alcove, the shadows within too thick to see through, opens in the west wall, and a trap door in the ceiling leads back up to the outside.

At the very edge of your light's glow, you can just make out a horribly suggestive shape lying in the shadows behind the furnace.
You open the trap door
It seems to be locked.
You look at the furnace
It's a big, pot-bellied iron furnace, blackened from years of use, with a hatch on one side and numerous twisting pipes which snake out of the top and grope their way up to the ceiling.
Go west
This alcove used to house a stairwell leading up and down; now it contains only a few rotted boards jutting from the walls and an empty shaft dropping down out of sight. Above you hang the broken-off remains of the stairs leading up to the ground floor, the last shattered riser only a couple of tantalizing feet out of reach.
You look at the riser
It looks as though it might bear your weight; unfortunately it's just a couple of feet beyond your reach.
You examine the shape
It's the dead body of a woman. Her head has been raggedly hacked away, and her clothes above the waist are soaked through with blood. As you fight to control your rising gorge, you note that the body cannot have been here for very long; the decay, though bad, is not very far advanced. She must have been killed within the last couple of days at most.
You search the body
Gingerly, trying to avoid the worst of the blood, you lift the woman's lapel, hoping to find something -- identification, maybe. Her wallet is missing; however, you do find, tucked into the pocket of her blazer, a small, steel key.
You examine it
It looks like the kind of key that would open a desk drawer.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a small steel key, a broken padlock, a teddy bear, a tattered drawing and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a meat hook, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight (providing light), a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
Go west
This alcove used to house a stairwell leading up and down; now it contains only a few rotted boards jutting from the walls and an empty shaft dropping down out of sight. Above you hang the broken-off remains of the stairs leading up to the ground floor, the last shattered riser only a couple of tantalizing feet out of reach.
You jump
You take a few steps back, draw in a deep breath, and make a dash for the edge. At the last possible second you jump, sailing out over the pit as you make a desperate grab for the bottom riser...

... and catch it.

Unfortunately, you lose your grip on the broom, the tattered drawing, the teddy bear, the broken padlock and the small steel key while trying to grab the riser, and they tumble it tumbles into the darkness below.

The riser bends ominously under your weight but doesn't give. Panting, you haul yourself up onto the creaking stairs.

The stairs stop short about seven feet shy of the basement floor, the bottom-most steps hanging suspended over an empty shaft that descends beyond sight into the shadowy depths. What's left of the structure creaks and shifts uneasily under your feet. At the top of the stairs to the north, a doorway opens onto the ground floor of the church.

The creaking under your feet is getting louder.
You put all in the pocket
small steel key: You slip the small steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
broken padlock: You slip the broken padlock into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
teddy bear: You slip the teddy bear into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
tattered drawing: You slip the tattered drawing into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
broom: The broom is too long to fit in your pockets, deep though they are.
You throw the broom on the riser
The bottom-most riser is just beyond your reach.
You jump
You take a few steps back, draw in a deep breath, and make a dash for the edge. At the last possible second you jump, sailing out over the pit as you make a desperate grab for the bottom riser...

... and catch it.

The riser bends ominously under your weight but doesn't give. Panting, you haul yourself up onto the creaking stairs.

The stairs stop short about seven feet shy of the basement floor, the bottom-most steps hanging suspended over an empty shaft that descends beyond sight into the shadowy depths. What's left of the structure creaks and shifts uneasily under your feet. At the top of the stairs to the north, a doorway opens onto the ground floor of the church.

The creaking under your feet is getting louder.
You go to the north
A dim antechamber, opening onto the main chapel to the east. To the west, the main doors to the church have been solidly nailed shut, and through a shadowy doorway to the south you can see stairs leading down.

Piled in one dusty corner is a heap of old cloth.
You examine the door
At least a dozen sturdy boards have been nailed across the sturdy oak doors; even with proper tools, it would take you days to pry them loose.

From the stairwell behind you there is a sudden, painful shriek of nails ripping out of stone, a loud, protracted splintering, and finally a thunderous crash that seems to echo up the shaft from far below.
You look at the heap
It's a hooded robe, left in a rumpled heap on the floor.
You wear it
You'll have to take off the trenchcoat first.
You look at the coat
You bought this coat during your honeymoon in England; it's a genuine London Fog. In addition to looking very cool, it has several deep pockets in which you can fit just about anything.
You examine the robe
The robe is made of some rough, heavy material, dyed a deep, murky red, like old wine. Its voluminous folds would easily cover you head to toe.
You look around
A dim antechamber, opening onto the main chapel to the east. To the west, the main doors to the church have been solidly nailed shut, and a shadowy doorway to the south leads to further darkness.
Go east
Broken shards from the shattered the stained glass windows grits under your feet as you step around rows of overturned pews. The dust and cobwebs have been busy here, reclaiming another bit of this town's abandoned history. To the west lies the vestibule; to the east, a small doorway behind the pulpit leads to the back of the church.

The big wooden cross that once hung above the pulpit has fallen, split in half.

On the pulpit is a huge, black tome.
You examine the cross
From the way it fell, it looks as though it must have been hung upside-down.
You look at the tome
It lies open atop the pulpit, thicker than an unabridged dictionary. Its thousands of yellowed, crinkly pages are bound in a strange black material that looks like some kind of hide but clearly isn't leather. Your first thought was that it might be a Bible, but a glance is sufficient to tell you otherwise. The text within is arranged in two columns, the first in what looks like Latin, the second a translation in English. There are illustrations, as well: horrible icons that make your skin crawl to look at.
You read it
As you lean closer over the pages to make out the words in this dim light, the letters seem to writhe and crawl across the page, twisting themselves into strange combinations, horrible words that you've never read before... and yet, somehow, you can understand their repulsive meaning. Something about a "Blessed Event",  which will happen very soon, and a hideous god whose name may not be spoken...

Is this the book that was preached in this church before it fell to ruin? Are these the gods these people worshipped? You want to tear your eyes from the page in revulsion, but some small, gleefully filthy part of you wants to keep reading, to uncover the secrets that the people of Anchorhead uncovered...

Will you read on?
No
You step away from the podium with a shudder.
You read it
You are reluctant to look at the repulsive thing again.
You put all in the coat
small steel key: You slip the small steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
broken padlock: You slip the broken padlock into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
teddy bear: You slip the teddy bear into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
tattered drawing: You slip the tattered drawing into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
broom: The broom is too long to fit in your pockets, deep though they are.

From far below you hear the faint lapping of water.
You take the robe
You shake the cloth out, revealing it to be a hooded robe.

From the stairwell behind you there is a sudden, painful shriek of nails ripping out of stone, a loud, protracted splintering, and finally a thunderous crash that seems to echo up the shaft from far below.
Go east
Broken shards from the shattered the stained glass windows grits under your feet as you step around rows of overturned pews. The dust and cobwebs have been busy here, reclaiming another bit of this town's abandoned history. To the west lies the vestibule; to the east, a small doorway behind the pulpit leads to the back of the church.

The big wooden cross that once hung above the pulpit has fallen, split in half.

On the pulpit is a huge, black tome.
You read tome
It lies open atop the pulpit, thicker than an unabridged dictionary. Its thousands of yellowed, crinkly pages are bound in a strange black material that looks like some kind of hide but clearly isn't leather. Your first thought was that it might be a Bible, but a glance is sufficient to tell you otherwise. The text within is arranged in two columns, the first in what looks like Latin, the second a translation in English. There are illustrations, as well: horrible icons that make your skin crawl to look at.

As you lean closer over the pages to make out the words in this dim light, the letters seem to writhe and crawl across the page, twisting themselves into strange combinations, horrible words that you've never read before... and yet, somehow, you can understand their repulsive meaning. Something about a "Blessed Event",  which will happen very soon, and a hideous god whose name may not be spoken...

Is this the book that was preached in this church before it fell to ruin? Are these the gods these people worshipped? You want to tear your eyes from the page in revulsion, but some small, gleefully filthy part of you wants to keep reading, to uncover the secrets that the people of Anchorhead uncovered...

Will you read on?
Yes
As your hungry eyes lap up word after blasphemous word, it all becomes clear to you: you come to understand the true nature of He Who Is Named Not, and what the Verlacs were trying to accomplish all these years, preparing the people of Anchorhead for the Blessed Event... it all makes sense to you now.

You step back, smiling, from the podium. There's no need to be afraid, you realize, for neither yourself nor your husband are in any danger. It's all right. It all makes sense. And when you raise your hands to your face and slowly push the fingernails of your first and middle fingers into each eye, digging the soft, bloody tissue out and dragging it down your cheeks in ropy smears... why, that's all right, too.

It's the most natural thing in the world.
Burn tome
You step away from the podium with a shudder.

You don't have a match.
You look at the pulpit
Where once fiery-tongued preachers harangued congregations of quaking Puritans, now there is simply a dusty wooden box on its end. Sitting atop it is a huge, black-bound tome.
You examine the cross
From the way it fell, it looks as though it must have been hung upside-down.
You move the pulpit
That would accomplish very little.
You look at the windows
The stained-glass windows are old and coated with grime, and many of the panels have been broken out by time and vandals. Enough remains for you to make out most of the designs depicted in them, however -- and you find them vaguely disturbing. Saints -- at least none of the saints you're aware of -- should not be depicted performing such acts, nor with such insidious leers on their faces as they perform them.
You look at the pews
The once orderly procession of benches is now a jackstraw jumble of broken wood
Go east
This little room behind the chapel is hardly bigger than a broom closet. A ladder bolted to the wall leads up through a hatch, presumably up into the steeple.
You examine the ladder
It's an ordinary wooden ladder.
Go upwards
A tiny space inside the tip of the church's steeple, barely five feet across, the walls tapering to only two feet across some twelve feet above your head. There is a narrow window, but it seems to have been painted black at some point. The only exit seems to be the ladder from which you just emerged.

An old length of rope dangles down from a square hole cut in the ceiling.
You examine the hole
(the square hole)
You can't quite see what's up there, but you assume it must lead to the belfry.
Go upward
You haul yourself up onto the rope, bringing your whole weight to bear. It holds for about three seconds -- then there is a sharp snap from above you and a muffled clank. The rope falls, spilling you to the floor amidst an untidy tangle of coils.
You get tome
A horrid coldness seeps into your fingers as you try to pick the book up; it flows from the book itself into your body, soaking into your bones and making your back teeth ache. Quickly, you set the book down again, absently trying to rub the unpleasant sensation from your hands.
Burn book
(the huge, black tome)
The match isn't lit.
Light match
One of the matches starts to burn.
Burn book
(the huge, black tome)
Petty arson isn't going to solve your problems.
Go south
The stairs are completely gone, now. All that's left is a narrow ledge overlooking an empty shaft, and a fair portion of the railing still nailed to the wall.
You tie the rope to the railing
You tie the rope securely to the railing, letting the other end dangle down into the dark shaft.
You put all in the pocket
hooded robe: No matter how tightly you roll up the heavy robe, it is still too big to fit in your pocket.
You drop the robe in the shaft
The hooded robe drops down out of sight, and a few seconds later you hear a faint splash.
You climb the rope
Gripping the end of the rope tightly, you lower yourself off the edge and shimmy down into the darkness.

Your feet dangle over empty space. Looking down, you can barely make out a faint glimmer of water, far below.
You jump
You take a deep breath, shut your eyes tight, say a quick prayer... and let go of the rope.

The heart-stopping plunge lasts only a second or two before you hit shockingly cold water. Your flashlight goes out and blackness envelopes you. Water rushes into your mouth and nose; the stone bottom slams into your side and nearly knocks the wind out of you... and then you find your feet, and your head breaks the surface. Blindly, you thrash about until you find higher ground, and you crawl, choking and sputtering, feeling cold brick beneath your fingers.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a small steel key, a meat hook, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
Light match
One of the matches starts to burn.

The walls of this long, rectangular chamber are made of crumbling brick, not concrete; most likely it was built at some earlier period than the rest of the tunnels. The ceiling is lost in darkness above you, but from the sounds of the echoes it must be pretty high. Water flowing in from the northwestern tunnel has pooled in a depression sunk into the limestone floor, becoming quite deep near the far end.

The shattered wreckage of the church stairway lies half submerged in the water-filled depression. You're lucky to have missed it in your fall.

You can also see a hooded robe here.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight must not be quite as waterproof as you originally thought; the beam flickers unsteadily, and you have to bang it against the palm of your hand a couple of times to get it to work.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You go northwest
The tunnel is ankle-deep in brackish water, though raised walkways on either side provide relatively dry footing. The walls are slick, the air damp and foul. The main tunnel runs north and southeast. Numerous smaller pipelines lead in all directions, but all are too small for you to crawl through. Iron rungs embedded in the wall lead up through an access shaft, back to the surface.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You get the robe
Taken.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
Go northwest
The tunnel is ankle-deep in brackish water, though raised walkways on either side provide relatively dry footing. The walls are slick, the air damp and foul. The main tunnel runs north and southeast. Numerous smaller pipelines lead in all directions, but all are too small for you to crawl through. Iron rungs embedded in the wall lead up through an access shaft, back to the surface.
Go north
The ceiling in this north-south tunnel is so low you must bend nearly double to navigate it. Water drips endlessly through the walls and ceiling, seeping in through thousands of invisible fissures, the constant plip-plip-plipping echoing loudly throughout the tunnel. The air is so damp you can hardly breathe. Unless your sense of direction is mistaken, you must be crossing the Miskaton River -- underneath
it.
I beg your pardon?
You go north
This looks to be an older part of the sewer system that has fallen into disrepair. Many of the pipes here have crumbled and are filled with debris.

Set in the low ceiling is an old iron hatch.
You examine the hatch
It's a rectangle of corroded metal, just over a foot long on each side. There are hinges along one edge on this side; if you could get your fingers under the opposite edge, you could probably pry it open.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a meat hook, a hooded robe, a book of matches with five matches left and a lantern (providing light).

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a small steel key, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, your umbrella and a towel.
You put the steel key on the ring
(first taking the small steel key)
(slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Putting things on the wedding ring would achieve nothing.
Go south
The ceiling in this north-south tunnel is so low you must bend nearly double to navigate it. Water drips endlessly through the walls and ceiling, seeping in through thousands of invisible fissures, the constant plip-plip-plipping echoing loudly throughout the tunnel. The air is so damp you can hardly breathe. Unless your sense of direction is mistaken, you must be crossing the Miskaton River -- underneath
it.
You wear the robe
You put on the hooded robe.
You go upward
This tiny, concrete-lined alcove within the underside of the bridge forms the top of a vertical shaft leading down into darkness. Iron rungs embedded in the wall provide a way down.

In the north wall is a small metal door.
Go north
(opening the small metal door first)

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.
You go to the east
Where once a building stood, there is now only cracked pavement and rampant weeds. A high chain-link fence surrounds this vacant lot; the only breaks lie to the west and southeast.

A filthy old mattress lies among the weeds over in one corner of the lot.
Go west
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.

There appears to be a commotion of sorts to the north, where a group of townsfolk have gathered.

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.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You go north
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.

A group of wary-looking townsfolk has gathered, keeping a watchful eye on the streets leading to and from the bridge.

Suddenly, someone's finger jabs out at you. "It's the woman!" He shouts. "Get her!!"
You go south
The game is up. You turn to run, but already the men are on your heels...

There is no time to run. Heavy boots on the cobblestones; hands lunging toward you -- they are everywhere, grabbing you from every side, immobilizing you. Someone's huge, calloused paw closes around your windpipe and starts to squeeze. Just before you black out, you can feel yourself being lifted off your feet...
You remove the robe
You take off the hooded robe.
Wear coat
You put on the trenchcoat.
Go north
(opening the small metal door first)

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go west
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.

There appears to be a commotion of sorts to the north, where a group of townsfolk have gathered.

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.
Go southwest
This is a featureless blind alley, a dead end. Through the narrow and heavily shadowed opening to the northeast, you can see the square and the obelisk at its center.
You examine the Square
Although you're too far away to read the hieroglyphs on its sides, you have an otherwise excellent view of the obelisk from here.
Wait
Time passes.
Go northeast
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.

There appears to be a commotion of sorts to the north, where a group of townsfolk have gathered.

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.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You examine the group
The townsfolk have gathered in a small crowd on Whateley Bridge. Word of your snooping must have gotten around quickly; these fellows are obviously not taking any chances on the possibility of you escaping from the church, and are keeping a sharp lookout.
Go west
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.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a meat hook, a hooded robe and a lantern (providing light).

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a book of matches with five matches left, a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are six keys (a small steel key, a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, your umbrella and a towel.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go southeast
The path bends northeast, around the side of the church.

The forest encroaches right up to the iron fence here, some of which is literally buried in the tangled underbrush. There are no doors on this side, although a wooden trap door over by the corner of the building probably leads into a cellar. A path leads southwest, around to the front of the church.

You can see a shiny new padlock here.
You look at the padlock
Which do you mean, the shiny new padlock or the broken padlock?
You shine
What do you want to shine?
You examine shiny padlock
This padlock is about as big as the first one, with the extra advantage of being brand spanking new. No way you're getting this one off without a key.
You go southwest
The path bends northwest, around the side of the church.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.
Go downward
You pass through the gate and down the stone steps, which curve northwest as they lead down to the edge of the river.

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You look at water
The water is dark, brackish brown, and utterly foul. An oily sheen covers its surface, and occasionally small lumps float by -- lumps of what, you'd rather not guess.
You go north
This looks to be an older part of the sewer system that has fallen into disrepair. Many of the pipes here have crumbled and are filled with debris.

Set in the low ceiling is an old iron hatch.
You examine the pipes
The pipes are broken and jagged, filled with debris and thick slime.
You search them
You find only broken debris.
You get them
They're hardly portable.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a meat hook, a hooded robe and a lantern (providing light).

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a book of matches with five matches left, a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are six keys (a small steel key, a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, your umbrella and a towel.
You open it
(first taking the flask)
You open the flask.
Go south
The ceiling in this north-south tunnel is so low you must bend nearly double to navigate it. Water drips endlessly through the walls and ceiling, seeping in through thousands of invisible fissures, the constant plip-plip-plipping echoing loudly throughout the tunnel. The air is so damp you can hardly breathe. Unless your sense of direction is mistaken, you must be crossing the Miskaton River -- underneath
it.
You fill the flask
(with the newspaper)
(first taking the newspaper)
(slipping the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get
a hand free)
Taken.
The mouth of the flask is too narrow.
You put the water in the flask
(first taking the sewer water)
You'd only get your fingers wet.
You fill the flask with the water
You dip the flask into the fetid water, collecting a small
quantity of sewer water.
You pour the water on the hinges
(the small quantity of sewer water on the rusty hatch)
Stop trying to make a mess.
You examine the water
(the small quantity of sewer water)
It's just an ordinary-looking small quantity of sewer water.
You pour the water
(the small quantity of sewer water)
The small quantity of sewer water spills out over the floor, where it quickly trickles away.
You knock on the hatch
No one answers.
Go north
The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.
You examine the film
The Miskaton's waters are sluggish and dark. Some sort of oily film coats the surface, reflecting back ghostly swirls of color.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You pour the water on the hinges
(the small quantity of river water on the rusty hatch)
Stop trying to make a mess.
You pour the flask on the hinges
You can't pour the flask; it's not a liquid.
You put the water on the hinges
(the small quantity of river water on the rusty hatch)
Putting things on the rusty hatch would achieve nothing.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a newspaper, a flask (which is open), inside which is a small quantity of river water, a hooded robe and a lantern (providing light).

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a meat hook, a book of matches with five matches left, a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are six keys (a small steel key, a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, your umbrella and a towel.
You examine the 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.
You pour the water on the robe
(the small quantity of river water on the hooded robe)
Stop trying to make a mess.
Ialdabaoloth
The blasphemous syllables crawl loathsomely from your lips. The word lingers in the air like a cyst -- just hearing the sound of it makes you nauseous. Nature itself seems to draw back from the sound, as though horrified by your very voice.
Go south
The ceiling in this north-south tunnel is so low you must bend nearly double to navigate it. Water drips endlessly through the walls and ceiling, seeping in through thousands of invisible fissures, the constant plip-plip-plipping echoing loudly throughout the tunnel. The air is so damp you can hardly breathe. Unless your sense of direction is mistaken, you must be crossing the Miskaton River -- underneath
it.
You look at the 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.
You examine the scene
A strange scene, showing only a clergyman staring down into the pages of a large, black-bound book. The point of view is that of someone standing beneath the pulpit, looking up -- so that the text of the book is hidden from the viewer, while the preacher's face is clearly visible.

He seems to be caught in a paroxysm of terror: his face livid; his lips stretched back in a gruesome rictus; his eyes bulging wide and shot red with blood. The cords in his neck are rigid and taut, as though he were straining to tear his gaze from the page, and yet he still grips the edges of the pulpit with whitened knuckles.

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.
You examine the 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.
You examine the 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.
You look at the 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.
You examine the 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.
You look at the 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.
You go to the east
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.
You go north
A cramped little annex off the main attic, with a tiny, shuttered window high up on the north wall. A pile of mouldering straw in the corner and what looks like pencil marks on the lower part of the walls seem to indicate that someone lived here once. Or, possibly, was kept here.
You unlock back door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
(closing the flask first)
Taken.
You unlock the back door.
You examine the roots
The fleshy, tuberous roots seem to be probing their way through the walls like so many dead, swollen fingers.
You look at the 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.
Go south
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.
Examine crates
The accumulated junk of almost four centuries' worth of one family's strangeness. Most of it is old linens, moth-eaten clothes, newspaper clippings -- exciting stuff like that. There's far more here than you could ever go through, even if you had the inclination to.
You search them
It would take years to properly sort through all this junk. Just thinking about it makes you tired.
Go south
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.

A cold, noiseless draft coils through the narrow entrance hall. You shiver, wondering where it came from.
You look at the mirror
A flawless mirror in a beautifully scrolled walnut frame. It's about as tall as you are.
You look in the mirror
You look good, considering you're filthy from splashing around in the sewers and soaking wet. A bit rattled by recent events, perhaps, but well-poised and collected, all the same.
You look at the radiator
The radiator runs on gas, not electricity, which is why it's even working at all. It's quiet and it keeps the room cozy, which is all you really need it to do, so everything seems to be in order there.
You go west
A small chamber of cold, white tile and floral-print wallpaper. It sports a genuine, whitewashed, claw-foot bathtub with a shower attachment, which is a definite plus. The bedroom lies east.
You examine the tub
It looks deep enough to swim in. You could spend hours soaking in that thing.
You examine the doors
Each door is carved from a single piece of mahogany, and polished to a deep, rich shine. The doors are open.
You examine Benson
It's the dead body of a woman. Her head has been raggedly hacked away, and her clothes above the waist are soaked through with blood. As you fight to control your rising gorge, you note that the body cannot have been here for very long; the decay, though bad, is not very far advanced. She must have been killed within the last couple of days at most.

A skittering movement from the corpse makes you jump. When you look again, you see it's only an insect crawling across her blouse.
You examine the hatch
You can just make out a fresh bloodstain underneath the hatch. It drips down the side of the furnace in several streaks.
You open it
Your throat tightens as you slowly open the bloodstained hatch...

Slow horror washes over you. You found exactly what you expected to find, of course. It's the real estate agent's severed head.
You get the head
You'd just as soon leave the repulsive thing alone.
You examine the head
It's the gore-spattered head of the real estate agent -- you recognize her from the cover of a brochure she sent you in the mail several months ago. The eyes are still open and the mouth thrown wide in a silent scream.
Search furnace
In the wood-burning furnace is the real estate agent's severed head.
You examine the trap door
The boards are old and warped, but still quite sturdy.
You examine the beetles
You can't see any such thing.

You can't see any such thing.
You look at the shaft
The walls of the shaft are rough stone, dropping down farther than you can see.
You throw the broom in the shaft
The broom drops down out of sight, and a few seconds later you hear a faint splash.
You examine the stairs
It looks as though it might bear your weight; unfortunately it's just a couple of feet beyond your reach.
Go east
Centipedes and beetles scurry away across the rotten floorboards as you shine your light across the room. Over in the corner sits a hulking shape of black metal that was probably once a wood-burning furnace; aside from that, the cellar looks empty. A dark alcove, the shadows within too thick to see through, opens in the west wall, and a trap door in the ceiling leads back up to the outside.

At the very edge of your light's glow, you can just make out a horribly suggestive shape lying in the shadows behind the furnace.
You jump into the shaft
The pit at your feet is dark and fathomless; there's no way to safely descend from here.
You jump
You take a few steps back, draw in a deep breath, and make a dash for the edge. At the last possible second you jump, sailing out over the pit as you make a desperate grab for the bottom riser...

... and catch it.

The riser bends ominously under your weight but doesn't give. Panting, you haul yourself up onto the creaking stairs.

The stairs stop short about seven feet shy of the basement floor, the bottom-most steps hanging suspended over an empty shaft that descends beyond sight into the shadowy depths. What's left of the structure creaks and shifts uneasily under your feet. At the top of the stairs to the north, a doorway opens onto the ground floor of the church.

The creaking under your feet is getting louder.
You look through the windows
Boards nailed across the windows on the outside prevent you from seeing out.
Go east
This little room behind the chapel is hardly bigger than a broom closet. A ladder bolted to the wall leads up through a hatch, presumably up into the steeple.
You open the window
The window is adamantly stuck shut.
You examine the window
It's just an ordinary-looking narrow window.
You jump
You jump on the spot, fruitlessly.
You examine the hole
(the square hole)
You can't quite see what's up there, but you assume it must lead to the belfry.
You enter the hole
(the square hole)
The square hole is well out of reach.
You pull the rope
You tug on the rope, but it seems firmly attached to whatever it's tied to at the top of the steeple.
You climb it
You haul yourself up onto the rope, bringing your whole weight to bear. It holds for about three seconds -- then there is a sharp snap from above you and a muffled clank. The rope falls, spilling you to the floor amidst an untidy tangle of coils.
You drop all
hooded robe: Dropped.
Inventory
You are wearing your clothes and your wedding ring.
You take all
trenchcoat: Taken.
hooded robe: Taken.
length of rope: You pick up the length of rope. It's about twenty feet long, frayed in a few places but still sturdy enough.
Wear coat
You put on the trenchcoat.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a length of rope and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a small steel key, a meat hook, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight (providing light), a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You examine the opener
It's a rather ornate thing, with a silver hilt and a slim, sharp tip.
You look around
A tiny space inside the tip of the church's steeple, barely five feet across, the walls tapering to only two feet across some twelve feet above your head. There is a narrow window, but it seems to have been painted black at some point. The only exit seems to be the ladder from which you just emerged.
You open the tome
The book is already open.
Close tome
Strange; the spine won't bend. The book is rigid as a board and will not close.
You turn off flashlight
You'd have to let go of the rope to do that.
You jump
You take a deep breath, shut your eyes tight, say a quick prayer... and let go of the rope.

The heart-stopping plunge lasts only a second or two before you hit shockingly cold water. Your flashlight goes out and blackness envelopes you. Water rushes into your mouth and nose; the stone bottom slams into your side and nearly knocks the wind out of you... and then you find your feet, and your head breaks the surface. Blindly, you thrash about until you find higher ground, and you crawl, choking and sputtering, feeling cold brick beneath your fingers.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight must not be quite as waterproof as you originally thought; the beam flickers unsteadily, and you have to bang it against the palm of your hand a couple of times to get it to work.

The walls of this long, rectangular chamber are made of crumbling brick, not concrete; most likely it was built at some earlier period than the rest of the tunnels. The ceiling is lost in darkness above you, but from the sounds of the echoes it must be pretty high. Water flowing in from the northwestern tunnel has pooled in a depression sunk into the limestone floor, becoming quite deep near the far end.

The shattered wreckage of the church stairway lies half submerged in the water-filled depression. You're lucky to have missed it in your fall.

You can also see a hooded robe and a broom here.
You get all
hooded robe: Taken.
broom: Taken.
You examine stairway
Rusty nails and jagged, broken boards jut from the water like teeth. You're very lucky you weren't impaled when you fell.

The flashlight beam flickers uncertainly for a moment, then comes back a bit weaker than before.
Go northwest
The tunnel is ankle-deep in brackish water, though raised walkways on either side provide relatively dry footing. The walls are slick, the air damp and foul. The main tunnel runs north and southeast. Numerous smaller pipelines lead in all directions, but all are too small for you to crawl through. Iron rungs embedded in the wall lead up through an access shaft, back to the surface.
Go north
This looks to be an older part of the sewer system that has fallen into disrepair. Many of the pipes here have crumbled and are filled with debris.

Set in the low ceiling is an old iron hatch.

The flashlight beam flickers uncertainly for a moment, then comes back a bit weaker than before.
You hit the hinges with the opener
(first taking the letter opener)
Violence isn't the answer to this one.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a letter opener, a broom and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a small steel key, a meat hook, a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight (providing light), a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You look at the rust
(the broken padlock)
It's little more than a twisted hunk of torn metal. You'd hardly even guess it was ever used as a padlock.
Close hatch
That's already closed.

It is now pitch dark in here!
Shake flashlight
(first taking the flashlight)
You jiggle the flashlight a bit and slap it against your palm, but it doesn't seem to improve the situation much.
You turn on the flashlight
You flip the switch on and off uselessly. The water must have finally done your poor flashlight in.
You open the flashlight
There's really no point in taking the batteries out; you don't have any spares anyway.
You go south
You stumble forward blindly...

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You go north
You stumble forward in the dark, smacking your head painfully against a wall.
You get the lantern
(slipping the flashlight into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Light match
One of the matches starts to burn.

This tiny, concrete-lined alcove within the underside of the bridge forms the top of a vertical shaft leading down into darkness. Iron rungs embedded in the wall provide a way down.

In the north wall is a small metal door.
Go north
(opening the small metal door first)

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You go south
You walk a bit farther down the road, but it doesn't seem to lead anywhere, and the shadows grow thicker the farther down you go. After a while you turn back, unable to suppress a shiver.
Go west
The tangled undergrowth has been beaten down in a path leading roughly from the east to the southwest. Shrubs and grass have been flattened and pushed aside, vines torn down, and small trees bent or even snapped in half, as though something heavy with huge, flat feet had simply trampled its way through.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You go to the south-west
The decayed remains of an old slaughterhouse stand here, now little more than a shell of crumbling brick and gaping holes, surrounded by a clearing of yellow, sickly grass. A path leads northeast, back toward the road; to the west, a gaping hole that might once have been a doorway leads into the rotting building.
You go north
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 gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You listen
You hear only silence, and your own breathing.
You look up jeffrey
(in the archives)
Jeffrey Greer: born August 4, 1989.
You look up jeffrey
(in the archives)
The boy isn't dead yet; the fear is that he might be by the time anyone finds him.
Yell
Come now; you're not that frightened.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
(first taking the strange metal flute)
(slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You put the flute in the coat
(the strange metal flute in the trenchcoat)
You slip the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You call the mob
You'd probably have better luck if you were near a phone.
You put the hook in the iron ring
(first taking the meat hook)
The iron ring is high out of your reach.
You put the hook in the coat
You slip the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You examine the group
The townsfolk have gathered in a small crowd on Whateley Bridge. Word of your snooping must have gotten around quickly; these fellows are obviously not taking any chances on the possibility of you escaping from the church, and are keeping a sharp lookout.
Wave coat
You look ridiculous waving the trenchcoat.
You go north
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.

A group of wary-looking townsfolk has gathered, keeping a watchful eye on the streets leading to and from the bridge.

The townsfolk turn toward you as you walk blithely up to them.

Suddenly, someone's finger jabs out at you. "It's the woman!" He shouts. "Get her!!"
You jump off the Bridge
Throwing caution to the wind, you clamber up onto the parapet and leap off into space. A moment later you are plunged chest-deep into shockingly cold water. The current is not strong, however, and you quickly thrash your way over to a small ledge underneath the bridge, having suffered little worse than a ruined pair of slacks.

Above you, you can hear shouts from the villagers as they peer over the sides of the bridge. It's obvious they think you must been taken by the current and don't realize that you're hiding right beneath them. It looks like you've bought yourself a little time.

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.
You listen
The water laps quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound.
You pull the hood
Nothing obvious happens.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
About yourself
The voluminous robe covers you from head to foot. As long as no one looks too closely under the hood, it makes a pretty effective disguise.
You go north
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.

A group of wary-looking townsfolk has gathered, keeping a watchful eye on the streets leading to and from the bridge.
There is no time to run. Heavy boots on the cobblestones; hands lunging toward you -- they are everywhere, grabbing you from every side, immobilizing you. Someone's huge, calloused paw closes around your windpipe and starts to squeeze. Just before you black out, you can feel yourself being lifted off your feet...
You ask Chuck about the key
Which do you mean, the keys, the small copper key or the large cell key?
You ask Chuck about the large key
"You know what this thing is hanging off my belt?" gloats the orderly, patting the key proudly. "I'll tell you what it is: it's fuckin' responsibility, that's what it is. And don't you touch it."
Ialdabaoloth
The blasphemous syllables crawl loathsomely from your lips. The word lingers in the air like a cyst -- just hearing the sound of it makes you nauseous. Nature itself seems to draw back from the sound, as though horrified by your very voice.

The orderly stares at you, dumbfounded. "Man," he breathes, "that was some seriously fucked up shit."
You get the large key
The orderly slaps your hand away. "Nice try, lady, " he sneers, "but I got eyes in the back of my head; I'm like a fuckin' hawk."
Go downwards
You pass through the gate and down the stone steps, which curve northwest as they lead down to the edge of the river.

The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You fill the flask with the water
(first taking the flask)
The flask has to be open before you can fill it.
You open the flask
You open the flask.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You fill the flask with the water
You dip the flask into the Miskaton, collecting a small quantity of river water.
You pour the water on the plant
You dump the small quantity of river water onto the plant, figuring anything must be an improvement.
You fill the flask with the water
You dip the flask into the Miskaton, collecting a small quantity of river water.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at your clothes.
You fill the flask with the water
(the small quantity of river water)
There's already a small quantity of river water in the flask; filling it with small quantity of river water would only make a mess.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
%
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...
Look around
The ponderous stones of Whateley Bridge arch overhead, casting this little concrete ledge into deep shadow. At your feet, the dark waters lap quietly against the stones with a hollow, subterranean sound. Stone steps to the southeast lead back up to street level.

A small metal door, blotchy with rust, is set into the south bank of the river, underneath the bridge.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
Go south
This tiny, concrete-lined alcove within the underside of the bridge forms the top of a vertical shaft leading down into darkness. Iron rungs embedded in the wall provide a way down.

In the north wall is a small metal door.
Go up
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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at your clothes.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
Your hands are full.
You don't have the correct key.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You check your inventory
You are wearing a hooded robe, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a flask (which is open), inside which is a small quantity of river water, a lantern, a broom and your trenchcoat.
You put the flask in the coat
(closing the flask first)
You slip the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a lantern, a broom and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a flask (which is closed), a meat hook, a strange metal flute, a book of matches with five matches left, a flashlight, a letter opener, a tattered drawing, a teddy bear, a broken padlock, a small steel key, a newspaper, a silver locket, a gold locket, an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, your umbrella and a towel.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You unlock door
That's unlocked at the moment.
You take the match
(slipping the lantern into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Light lantern
You really should take it out of your pocket first.
You take the lantern
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You unlock door
(first taking the keyring)
(slipping the lantern into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
That's unlocked at the moment.
You take the matches and the lantern
book of matches: (slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
(closing the flask first)
Taken.
lantern: (slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You take the match
You already have that.
Go northwest
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.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You turn cheval
The bottle of light Cheval Blanc rotates a quarter-turn clockwise, then snaps back with a loud "click". A rumbling grating sound suddenly fills the wine cellar, and the racks and a portion of the stone wall behind them swing back, revealing a dark passageway to the north from which blows a hot, foul wind.

A hot, howling wind gusts up from the depths of the passageway.
You go north
The passageway ends here at a fathomless pit, a puckered circular hole in the rock from which the foul wind seems to emanate, howling up from the depths like a reeking banshee.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
You go north
You take a deep breath and step out onto the bridge once again. On your fourth step, the board beneath you snaps in two. You plunge through the gap into the yawning blackness with a terrified shriek that is lost amid the roaring wind. You are only able to panic for a few moments, however, before the bone-shattering impact silences you. The wind carries the smell of you quickly through subterranean crevices, and your ruptured corpse provides a grand feast for the scuttling carrion feeders that live on the pit's stony floor.
Look around
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 stands here, frowning and absently rubbing at his forehead.
You check what you're carrying
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open), inside which is a strange black disk, a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You ask Michael about the laptop
"Goddammit, just leave me the hell alone, why don't you?" Michael suddenly turns on you, baring his teeth and shaking his finger in your face. "I can't even think with you bothering me like this! Fuck this," he says, shaking his head. "Fuck this. I'm getting out of here. I need to be alone for a while."

He storms out of the room, and a few moments later you hear the front door slam.

For a moment you can only stand there in the empty house, shaky and close to tears. You've had fights before, but never has Michael been so vicious. And the worst part of it is, you know something is wrong with him, something terrible, but you don't know what it is, or how to fix it, or why it seems to be tearing your husband away from you. You've never felt so utterly helpless.
You go to the south
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.

Michael wanders in from the north. He gives you a strange look, as if he hadn't expected to find you here.
You go to the north
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 lead east, to the study.

A section of the shelves in the western wall has slid to one side, revealing a hidden safe.

Resting on the pipe stand is a sizable volume decorated with a gilded pentagram on its cover.

You can hear Michael moving around elsewhere in the house, the floorboards creaking uneasily with his footsteps.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a newspaper, a strange metal flute, a silver locket and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a gold locket, a flashlight (providing light), a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open), inside which is a strange black disk, a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You put the disk in the slot
(first taking the strange black disk)
(slipping the silver locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The strange black disk drops neatly into the slot.
You look through the telescope
For a few moments all you can see is a murky, swirling blackness; then patterns of colors begin to emerge, like the rainbow sheen of oil on water. The black disk grows translucent, stars become visible through the swirling haze, and then...

Dear Christ.

Dear Christ, you can see it.

The comet, roaring silently through the endless void, streaking toward Earth, and it's alive, this thing that is coming is ALIVE, tendrils that must be hundreds, thousands of miles long streaming before it, reaching out to grasp and strangle and devour whole worlds, and it is coming here, it is coming to Earth, and its great, lidless, red-rimmed eye rolls over in a vast lake of vitreous fluid, and it

...you wake up some time later, shaking your head. You're not
sure what, exactly, you just witnessed; whether it was a genuine astronomical phenomenon, or a hallucination, or the actual form of some Dark God from the Outer Reaches, come to devour the world. You're not even entirely sure you remember what it looked like. The only thing you can clearly recall is a single name, pulsing in your brain like a bruise:

"Ialdabaoloth".

And that's all.
You look at torn
(the bottle with the torn label)
The label on this bottle is partially torn away. There is a raised letter "E" stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You look at faded
This bottle is so old that the label has almost faded beyond legibility, although from what you can make out it is probably a fine Merlot. A raised letter "C" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You examine Pinot
A robust Pinot Noir, vintage 1651; obviously one of those collector's items that just keeps getting more and more valuable as long as you don't open it. A raised letter "W" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You look at Cheval
A light Cheval Blanc, 1886. There is a raised letter "M" stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You look at Cabernet
A vintage Cabernet Sauvignon from 1734. A raised letter "H" has been stamped into the bottom of the bottle.
You go north
Carefully, you edge out onto the swaying planks. The planks creak and bend beneath your weight. One of them snaps just as you lift your weight from it, coming very close to spilling you into the abyss below. A few more steps, however, and you are safely on the other side.

The passageway turns east here, the stone floor dropping down in a series of wide steps carved into the living rock. The stairs continue down to the northeast, eventually curving out of sight. The only other way on from here is a narrow, oddly-angled corridor in the northwest corner.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.
You get the flute
(the strange metal flute)
You already have that.
Cover third
Which do you mean, the third pictogram or the third flute hole?
Hole
You place your finger over the third flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an eerie, low-pitched note.

The right-hand column's vibrations suddenly grow stronger, resonating in harmony with the warbling, metallic note of the flute. The two dissonances seem to intertwine, reinforcing each other, and for a single instant you think you see a strange rippling effect in the air over the altar. Then it is gone, and the sound fades.
You cover the fourth hole
You place your finger over the fourth flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an odd mixture of metallic, warbling notes which intertwine and harmonize eerily with each other.

The columns' vibrations seem to grow momentarily stronger while the flute's sound lingers, their dissonant ringing resonating strangely with the warbling, metallic notes.
Cover fifth
You place your finger over the fifth flute hole.
Uncover fourth
Which do you mean, the fourth pictogram or the fourth flute hole?
Hole
You lift your finger from the fourth flute hole.
Uncover fifth
You lift your finger from the fifth flute hole.
Cover sixth
You place your finger over the sixth flute hole.
You play the flute
(the strange metal flute)
The flute emits an odd mixture of metallic, warbling notes which intertwine and harmonize eerily with each other.

The strange harmony of the flute blends with the atonal ringing of the two columns, and the three sounds suddenly grow stronger, resonating with and reinforcing one another, intertwining like a dissonant, invisible braid. The sound increases in volume, piercing your eardrums and causing the very air to shimmer.

Suddenly the air above the altar begins to ripple as though with extreme heat. The very fabric of space seems to twist and buckle between the two columns; and then, with a sound like a wet sheet being torn slowly down the middle, the fabric splits.

You are immediately swept off your feet by a powerful sucking vacuum, pulling everything within reach toward the portal. Dust and debris; bones and loose rock from the burial niches; everything not nailed down goes flying across the temple and into the all-devouring maw hovering over the altar-stone. Desperately, you wedge your fingers into a crack in the floor and hang on for dear life as the wind tries to claw you away. You scream, and even the sound of your voice is whipped away, pulled over your shoulder like a trailing ribbon and sucked into whatever blasphemous dimension lies beyond that horrible rift.

For a few agonizing moments you don't think you're going to make it; then, suddenly, the chaos stops, leaving you breathless on the floor.

Painstakingly, you pry your stiff, bleeding fingers out of the crack and roll over. The rift is gone. The air is normal, and the columns are ringing quietly, as if nothing had happened.
You examine the flute
(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 Your fingers are covering the holes.
Go south
Carefully, you edge out onto the swaying planks. A blast of wind roars up from beneath you, shaking the thin strand like a pennant in a stiff breeze, and you cling grimly to the ropes. A few more steps, however, and you are safely on the other side.

The passageway ends here at a fathomless pit, a puckered circular hole in the rock from which the foul wind seems to emanate, howling up from the depths like a reeking banshee.

A thin and decrepit rope bridge spans the pit, shivering occasionally in the wind.

Another blast of hot, foul-smelling air comes shrieking out of the pit.
You go north
You take a deep breath and step out onto the bridge once again. On your fourth step, the board beneath you snaps in two. You plunge through the gap into the yawning blackness with a terrified shriek that is lost amid the roaring wind. You are only able to panic for a few moments, however, before the bone-shattering impact silences you. The wind carries the smell of you quickly through subterranean crevices, and your ruptured corpse provides a grand feast for the scuttling carrion feeders that live on the pit's stony floor.
You go to the south
(opening the front door first)

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 front door stands open to the north.

The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as you step outside. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong with the air. A heavy, charged sensation, like standing next to high-tension wires; a faint odor of spoiled meat drifting on the wind; you can't put your finger on it, but it might have something to do with that strange hole in the sky.
Go east
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.
Go southeast
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. One of the garbage cans has been pushed up against the wall directly underneath it.
You look at the fence
One of the boards seems to be loose down at the bottom; you could probably just squeeze through.
You enter the fence
Dropping to your hands and knees, you wriggle underneath the loose board and scramble down a muddy slope.

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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You examine trash
There is nothing of any worth or interest here, just drifts of trash.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
You examine the sewage pipe
The concrete pipe is about a foot and a half in diameter. Looking in, you can only see about three feet before the inner walls of the pipe disappear into blackness.
You enter the pipe
(the outflow pipe)
You don't really feel like crawling head first into a smelly, filthy, pitch black sewer pipe.
You go west
You pick your way up the slope, push the loose board aside and slip back in through the gap.

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. One of the garbage cans has been pushed up against the wall directly underneath it.
You go to the north-west
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.
Go north
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.
Go northwest
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.

Strange; the graffiti is gone now. Not a trace of it left.
You examine the wall
It's just an ordinary-looking brick wall.
You look at the 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.
Go north
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.
You go to the south-west
(opening the gate first)
It seems to be locked.
You look at the gate
The gate, a twenty-foot high barricade of narrowly spaced, thick, black, iron bars, is designed to roll horizontally, sealing off the entrance to the mill compound. It is currently shut and locked. There are no guardhouses, no buzzers or intercoms, no apparent means of getting in or letting anyone inside know you want in; just this implacable gate in an unscalable wall.
Go south
The path curves southwest, leading you into an overgrown area behind the mill.

The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.
You examine the concrete
The broken rubble is all that remains of whatever building once stood here.
You examine the wall
The wall is twenty feet high, solid brick. Stepping back a bit and looking up, you note that a forest of vicious glass shards is embedded along the top.
You look at the lighthouse
The lighthouse stands tall against the horizon, a dingy white tower amidst a gray sky and a grayer sea. Despite the ominous cast to the weather, no beacon is shining from the tower's top.
You examine River
The Miskaton winds down from the northwest, then bends in a more easterly direction some miles west of town. Its last half-mile or so neatly divides the town of Anchorhead in half before emptying into the sea. Its waters are murky and torpid, hiding many old secrets in its languid depths.
You go west
The thickets block the way back, except for the trail to the northwest.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You look at the thickets
The thickets are full of painful thorns and appear quite impenetrable. They are also very deep; there's no telling what could be hidden -- or what could be hiding -- in their brambly depths.
You go northeast
You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.

The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
You examine the water
Which do you mean, the sea or the patch of turbulent water?
Patch
It looks... unnatural.
You look in the patch
The patch of turbulent water is just beyond your reach.
You examine the sky
There is a spinning, churning hole in the clouds, directly over the lighthouse; an inverted whirlpool sucking streamers of gray up into itself. You'd think it was some sort of funnel cloud, except that it's not moving anywhere. It's simply hanging, turning slowly in the sky. The sight of that horrible, whirling hole makes you shudder, involuntarily recalling that hideous entity that lurks behind those clouds.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a strange black disk, a newspaper, a strange metal flute and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
You take the notice
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
You put the notice in the patch
The typewritten notice hits the water with a splash. Before it can even begin to sink, dozens of thin, gelatinous tendrils, like the tentacles of a jellyfish, swarm up from the water, entangling the typewritten notice and dragging it under.
Go southwest
You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.
You examine the shacks
All peeling paint, broken glass and missing shingles, the houses are poorly built and teetering on the verge of falling apart completely. They are arranged in a vague suggestion of rows on either side of the mud clearing, numbered #1 through #12 with those cheap little nail-up plastic numbers you can buy at hardware stores. Presumably, these denote each shack's "street address".
You look at the newspaper
It's the "Weekly Arkham Herald". Anchorhead, apparently, is not large enough to warrant its own newspaper.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You read it
The front page story is about Jeffrey Greer, 8 years old, who was abducted from his home at #11 Mill Town Road last night. Little Jeffrey is the latest victim in a series of abductions that stretches back for years, one every six months or so, and that authorities believe is the work of a single perpetrator. Local police had hoped to prove that Edward Verlac had been behind the kidnappings, but were unable to obtain a confession or any hard proof. Edward Verlac was convicted of murdering his wife and two daughters, one of whom was 15 months old, in January of this year; he was found not guilty by reason of insanity and incarcerated in Danvers Asylum, where he remained until committing suicide last March. This latest kidnapping, occurring after Edward's death, seems to have cleared up any lingering suspicions that he might have been the culprit.

Anyone possessing information regarding the whereabouts of Jeffrey Greer is strongly urged to speak to the authorities as soon as possible.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a typewritten notice, a strange black disk, a newspaper and a broom.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a lantern, your umbrella and a towel.
Go south
The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
Go east
As you cross the railroad tracks, the air seems to lift slightly, becoming more breathable once again.

The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
Go south
Ugly, mint-green tiles and walls of whitewashed cinderblock comprise the decor of this inhospitable waiting room. A hard little sofa upholstered in avocado vinyl and a feebly struggling potted palm are provided for the comfort of visitors, although you get the feeling that few inmates of this institution are fortunate enough to have visitors. A metal gate bars entrance to a southern passageway, which you assume leads to the inmates' section. The exit lies north.

An orderly sits by the gate, leisurely perusing a pornographic magazine.

A large key dangles from the orderly's belt.

Airy strains of vacuous elevator music waft through the room from invisible speakers.
You look at the orderly
The pockmarked and overweight orderly is absorbed in his magazine, which is just as well, since it's kept him from turning his leering attentions to you. He occasionally pauses to tweak a swollen blackhead on the back of his neck, or to mutter some crass observation about one of the women in his magazine.

There's a name tag pinned to his expansive chest.
You examine tag
It reads: "CHUCK".

The orderly honks loudly into a handkerchief, pauses to take a quick peek at the goods, then stuffs the rag back into his pocket.
You look at the magazine
"Juggs". How charming.

The orderly honks loudly into a handkerchief, pauses to take a quick peek at the goods, then stuffs the rag back into his pocket.
You ask Chuck about Edward
The orderly squints at you. "Who? -- Oh, wait! You mean the guy, ventilated his whole goddamn family early this year. Yeah, I remember him. What a nutball. We put him in a rubber room, he lasted two weeks. Bashed his fuckin' brains in on the little observation window. Reinforced glass, took him right out." The orderly scratches his head. "Christ, I gotta get around to cleaning that mess up one of these days." Then with a heavy sigh, he returns to his magazine.
You ask Chuck about the cell
Which do you mean, Danvers Asylum or the large cell key?
You touch the cell key
The orderly slaps your hand away. "Nice try, lady, " he sneers, "but I got eyes in the back of my head; I'm like a fuckin' hawk."

Airy strains of vacuous elevator music waft through the room from invisible speakers.
You ask chuck about Juggs
He fixes you with a disgusting leer. "Great stuff, ain't it? Fuckin-ay. You should see the nutballs when they get a hold of this shit. Man, they can't get enough!" The orderly guffaws for a moment or two, then finally catches your withering stare and, embarrassed, throws himself into the magazine with renewed abandon.
You play flute
(the strange metal flute)
(first taking the strange metal flute)
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You blow an open chord into the little flute, and it resonates with an eerie, metallic warble. The sound lingers in the air for a moment, then gently fades away.
You cover the sixth hole
You place your finger over the sixth flute hole.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You open the door
You open the front door.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go north
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.
You look in the tub
The bathtub is empty.
You look under the tub
It's just an ordinary-looking shower attachment.

You find nothing of interest.
You examine the lamps
The lamps are made of polished brass, with frosted green shades -- like an old-fashioned desk lamp, only mounted on the wall.
You look at the 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.
You unlock back door
(first taking the keyring)
You unlock the back door.
You go to the east
A high, spiked iron fence surrounds the rear and sides of the property, running all the way to the tree line. If you want to get around it, you'll have to go back through the house.
You go to the south
(opening the front door first)

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 front door stands open to the north.

The Verlac mansion looms before you, casting an air of menace over the clearing.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go west
As you cross the railroad tracks, the air becomes warmer, more dingy, and slightly more difficult to breathe.

The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You go to the south-west
(opening the gate first)
It seems to be locked.
You go south
The path curves southwest, leading you into an overgrown area behind the mill.

The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You go southeast
The trail heads up a short embankment and emerges from the thicket alongside the railroad tracks. The tracks run down from the northeast and past the mill, continuing southwest but slowly curving westward until they cross the Miskaton River some miles outside of town. From the embankment you can look out over the entire heath: jagged, shadowy rooftops to the south; the oily ribbon of the Miskaton to the west; and to the east, the lighthouse sentinel and the leaden waters of the Atlantic beyond.
You search thickets
You find nothing of interest.

You can hear a low rumbling and a distant, plaintive whistle coming from the northeast.
You enter the thickets
They're not something you can enter.

The train lumbers into view, its rumbling passage growing louder as it approaches.
You search thickets
Carefully pushing the prickly branches aside, you find a rusty metal hatch set into the base of the wall.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind. You look to the east in time to see the train go by, rolling southwest past the mill toward less melancholy climes.
You examine the hatch
It's just an ordinary-looking metal hatch.
Go south
The street goes west from here. You can enter the office to the east or the alley to the southeast.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Clean table
You wipe your finger through the dust, revealing the rich teak beneath -- and a heavy scratch. Alarmed, you wipe away more dust... someone has scratched the letter "C" into the beautiful surface of this table.
You look at the C
A deep scar in the shape of the letter "C", gouged into the teak.
Go south
(opening the small metal door first)

This tiny, concrete-lined alcove within the underside of the bridge forms the top of a vertical shaft leading down into darkness. Iron rungs embedded in the wall provide a way down.

In the north wall is a small metal door.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.

The tunnel is ankle-deep in brackish water, though raised walkways on either side provide relatively dry footing. The walls are slick, the air damp and foul. The main tunnel runs north and southeast. Numerous smaller pipelines lead in all directions, but all are too small for you to crawl through. Iron rungs embedded in the wall lead up through an access shaft, back to the surface.
Go west
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.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You ask Chuck about Michael
"Look, lady," the orderly interrupts you. "Is your old man in there?" He jerks his thumb toward the southern hallway. "I didn't think so. Which means I don't give a fuck."
You get the magazine
"Hey, you fuckin' mind?" snaps the orderly, snatching it away from you.
You take key
(the cell key)
The orderly slaps your hand away. "Nice try, lady, " he sneers, "but I got eyes in the back of my head; I'm like a fuckin' hawk."

"... ooh, yeah," whispers the orderly, ogling his magazine.
You drop all
newspaper: Dropped.
strange black disk: Dropped.
strange metal flute: Dropped.
broom: Dropped.
You take the bath
(the towel)
Taken.
You enter the tub
You get into the bathtub.
Go east
You'll have to get out of the bathtub first.
Go outside
You get out of the bathtub.

A small chamber of cold, white tile and floral-print wallpaper. It sports a genuine, whitewashed, claw-foot bathtub with a shower attachment, which is a definite plus. The bedroom lies east.

Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor.

Your trenchcoat is here.

You can also see a broom, a strange metal flute, a strange black disk and a newspaper here.
You go west
A small chamber of cold, white tile and floral-print wallpaper. It sports a genuine, whitewashed, claw-foot bathtub with a shower attachment, which is a definite plus. The bedroom lies east.

Your clothes lie in an untidy pile on the floor.

Your trenchcoat is here.

You can also see a broom, a strange metal flute, a strange black disk and a newspaper here.
You take the bath
There's no need for a bath right now; you're perfectly clean.
You take all
newspaper: Taken.
broom: Taken.
strange metal flute: Taken.
strange black disk: Taken.
Go east
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.

You can also see a towel here.
You go southeast
The gentle creaking of hawsers and the hollow slap of water beneath the wooden pier provide a faint counterpoint to the endless, rhythmic surging of the sea. The fishing industry (like the paper industry) has all but died away in Anchorhead; nonetheless there are still a few boats tied to the pier. A path leads back through an opening in a chain-link fence to the northwest; otherwise, it's just you and the ocean.

An old, discarded tin of fish oil sits at the end of the pier.
You examine the tin
It's dented and rusty, and you can barely make out the words "Skagen, Denmark" printed along the side. The lid is closed.
You take the tin
(slipping the strange metal flute into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You put tin in the coat
You slip the old tin into the pocket of your trenchcoat.
You open tin
You open the old tin, revealing a smelly quantity of fish oil.
You look at the oil
(the fish oil)
It's a viscous, nasty-smelling goo, made from and made for feeding fish. Not very appetizing.
You smell it
Ugh.
You close tin
You close the old tin.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
Describe the surroundings
The gentle creaking of hawsers and the hollow slap of water beneath the wooden pier provide a faint counterpoint to the endless, rhythmic surging of the sea. The fishing industry (like the paper industry) has all but died away in Anchorhead; nonetheless there are still a few boats tied to the pier. A path leads back through an opening in a chain-link fence to the northwest; otherwise, it's just you and the ocean.
Go southwest
The decayed remains of an old slaughterhouse stand here, now little more than a shell of crumbling brick and gaping holes, surrounded by a clearing of yellow, sickly grass. A path leads northeast, back toward the road; to the west, a gaping hole that might once have been a doorway leads into the rotting building.

The forest is unnaturally quiet here, you notice; there are no birds calling, no leaves rustling or branches creaking; even the whippoorwills have fallen silent. All is still, holding its collective breath in an expectant hush.
You go west
The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.

There's something odd about the ground here; some faint marking or pattern.

An old rusty meat hook sticks out of the ground nearby, its point half-buried in the dirt.

Over in the far corner, a tattered sheet of drawing paper lies discarded on the ground.
You take it
The crossbar fits in your palm, leaving the hook part to stick out between the third and fourth fingers. It's a heavy sucker, nearly fifteen inches long from handle to point, made for hauling around carcasses with a minimum of ceremony. You wouldn't like to think what this could do to a living person.
Taken.
You take it
(the newspaper)
It's the "Weekly Arkham Herald". Anchorhead, apparently, is not large enough to warrant its own newspaper.
(slipping the strange black disk into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You take it
The drawing is of a pair of crudely rendered figures, scrawled with dark, heavy lines that occasionally punch right through the paper. The two figures are holding hands. The one on the left is a smiling woman with long, straight hair; the one on the right...

Well, you don't know. Frankly, you'd rather not speculate. An octopus on human legs, maybe, if you could believe any healthy child would conceive of such a thing. Above the first figure is scribbled the word "MOMY"; above the second, "WILAM (ME)".
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You move the plywood
You dig your fingers under the edge of the plywood and, straining as hard as you can, manage to slide the heavy cover off the top of the well and onto the grass.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You examine the bear
(slipping the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the teddy bear. It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
Go upwards
You painstakingly climb out of the old well.

Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.

Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.

A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.
You go north
The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.

There's something odd about the ground here; some faint marking or pattern.
You examine the pattern
The marks in the dirt are tracks of some kind, but not of any animal you're familiar with, unless there's a lame elephant loose in the New England woods. The prints are large -- quite a bit larger than your outspread hand, and vaguely round. They criss-cross the ground in every direction. Whatever made them obviously lives here, or at least visits quite often.
Go east
You are about to step back through the eastern wall when a noise makes you stop. In the woods outside, to the east -- something is there. Something breathing. Something huge.

A branch cracks sharply; and another. It's coming this way.
You go east
The forest grows denser as you go, crowding thickly up to either side of the road. The groping, tangled branches block out what little sunlight there is left. Your footsteps are muffled; whispering leaves and the slow drip of water are the only sounds you can hear. Beyond the watching trees, the shadows are impenetrably thick. The road stretches interminably, north to south.

At the edge of the forest, on the west side of the road, stand the rotted stump and twisted sapling from your dream.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go north
The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.

A small group of townsfolk has gathered up at the north end of the road. As you approach, still breathless from your encounter with the thing at the slaughterhouse, they turn toward you -- and that's when you notice that the one in the lead has an axe in his hand. And the one behind him has a pair of garden shears.

A couple of men move over to your left, and several more step out of the forest behind you. All of them carry weapons or nasty farm implements of some kind, and all of them look as though they're just about ready to put an end to a certain over-curious, outsider woman who doesn't know enough to keep her nose out of things better left undisturbed.
You go to the east
You dart past the men on your right, making a break for the church. The townsfolk hover around the entrance to the churchyard but do not follow you, confident that there is no way you can escape.

A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Go southeast
The path bends northeast, around the side of the church.

The forest encroaches right up to the iron fence here, some of which is literally buried in the tangled underbrush. There are no doors on this side, although a wooden trap door over by the corner of the building probably leads into a cellar. A path leads southwest, around to the front of the church.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You break the padlock with the hook
(first taking the meat hook)
(slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You raise the meat hook high over your head and bring it squarely down onto the padlock. The rusted metal casing splits open, the hasp falls loose, and the padlock, now nothing but a broken shell, slides to the ground.
You take the padlock
(slipping the tattered drawing into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the broken padlock. It's little more than a twisted hunk of torn metal. You'd hardly even guess it was ever used as a padlock.
You open the door
You open the trap door.
Go downward
As you drop to the floor, the trap door suddenly slams shut above you. You hear noises outside -- something thumping against the door, and low voices. You hear someone muttering, and a brief round of unpleasant laughter. Then the voices drift away.

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You jump
You take a few steps back, draw in a deep breath, and make a dash for the edge. At the last possible second you jump, sailing out over the pit as you make a desperate grab for the bottom riser...

... and catch it.

Unfortunately, you lose your grip on the broom, the teddy bear, the meat hook, the broken padlock and the small steel key while trying to grab the riser, and they tumble it tumbles into the darkness below.

The riser bends ominously under your weight but doesn't give. Panting, you haul yourself up onto the creaking stairs.

The stairs stop short about seven feet shy of the basement floor, the bottom-most steps hanging suspended over an empty shaft that descends beyond sight into the shadowy depths. What's left of the structure creaks and shifts uneasily under your feet. At the top of the stairs to the north, a doorway opens onto the ground floor of the church.

The creaking under your feet is getting louder.
You take rope
You pick up the length of rope. It's about twenty feet long, frayed in a few places but still sturdy enough.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hand a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a tattered drawing, a newspaper, a towel, a strange black disk, an old tin (which is closed), a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight (providing light), a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a book of matches with six matches left, a torn journal, a typewritten notice, a lantern and your umbrella.
You put the robe in the shaft
The hooded robe drops down out of sight, and a few seconds later you hear a faint splash.
Go down
You're at the end of the rope; there's nowhere else to go.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight must not be quite as waterproof as you originally thought; the beam flickers unsteadily, and you have to bang it against the palm of your hand a couple of times to get it to work.

The walls of this long, rectangular chamber are made of crumbling brick, not concrete; most likely it was built at some earlier period than the rest of the tunnels. The ceiling is lost in darkness above you, but from the sounds of the echoes it must be pretty high. Water flowing in from the northwestern tunnel has pooled in a depression sunk into the limestone floor, becoming quite deep near the far end.

The shattered wreckage of the church stairway lies half submerged in the water-filled depression. You're lucky to have missed it in your fall.

You can also see a hooded robe, a broom, a teddy bear, a meat hook, a broken padlock and a small steel key here.
You take all
small steel key: Taken.
hooded robe: Taken.
broom: Taken.
teddy bear: Taken.
meat hook: (slipping the small steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
broken padlock: (slipping the teddy bear into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You pour oil on the hinge
(the fish oil on the rusty hatch)
Stop trying to make a mess.
You put the oil on the hinge
(first getting some fish oil)
You dip your finger in and come up with a small glob of pungent fish oil.

You rub a good amount of fish oil all over the rusty hinges.
You close tin
You close the old tin.
You open hatch
The oiled hinges give a little, allowing you to wiggle your fingers further under the door's edge. A sharp tug -- and the door swings down suddenly, spilling filthy water into your face.
You go upward
From the smell of it, this must be a sewage outflow tunnel. Filthy water swirls past a metal grate to the west and eddies around your hands and knees, on which you are forced to crawl in this cramped cylindrical passageway. To the east, the tunnel narrows still further, terminating about twenty feet further in a circle of dim light.
Much of the water is pouring through an open hatch set in the floor of the tunnel.

The flashlight beam flickers uncertainly for a moment, then comes back a bit weaker than before.
You go to the east
You reach the end of the pipe and wriggle your way out, dropping awkwardly to the sand.

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 look at the puddle
The water coming from the pipe is foul-smelling and brown.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
You go west
At the top of the slope you find a tall, wooden fence with a loose board near the bottom; pushing it aside, you manage to wriggle through the gap.

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. One of the garbage cans has been pushed up against the wall directly underneath it.
Go east
(opening the real estate office door first)

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.

The office door is open.

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.
You close the door
You close the real estate office door.
Unlock drawer with steel key
(first taking the small steel key)
(slipping the broken padlock into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You unlock the drawer.
You open the drawer
You open the drawer, revealing a hastily written letter and a tarnished bronze key.
You take all from drawer
tarnished bronze key: (slipping the old tin into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You remove the tarnished bronze key from the drawer. It is heavy and apparently very old, crusted over in places with a thin rime of verdigris.
hastily written letter: (slipping the small steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You remove the hastily written letter from the drawer. It consists of several pages torn from a yellow legal pad and stapled in the corner; each page is covered on both sides, top to bottom, with erratic, frightened handwriting. It is dated two days ago -- the day you arrived in Anchorhead.
You read the letter
(the hastily written letter)
The letter reads:

"To whom it may concern --

"My name is Claudia Benson, and I attest that I am of sound mind and body, at least for what little time I have left.

"If you are reading this anywhere within the city limits of Anchorhead, be aware that your life is in grave and immediate danger. Nearly all of the inhabitants of this city are members of a secret cult that has thrived since before the first settlers arrived here in the early 1600s and is still strong today. Its members are fanatical and quite insane, and will kill anyone who learns their secrets. I received a phone call early this morning which I believe is a threat to my life; I assume the cult somehow discovered that I was planning to divulge information to an outsider and now plans to silence me. In case I don't make it, I am leaving this testimony for someone to find; hopefully it will be someone who can put a stop to this madness once and for all.

"The cult originally evolved from the rituals of the ancient Misquat Indian tribe that once lived in this region. Although this tribe is now extinct, its beliefs have been passed down relatively unchanged through generations of settlers for nearly four centuries. These beliefs center around the worship of some sort of demon or god from the outer reaches of space, which visited the earth millions of years ago and will return some day to wreak terrible destruction. I am unclear on the exact details as there is very little historical information available on this tribe, unless the University is hiding material from me, which I am half-convinced it may well be.

"The ringleaders of this cult are and have always been the Verlac family. Every second generation a male Verlac is born, and the role of high priest is passed down from grandfather to grandson, following some arcane ritual of ascension. There is a persistent legend that this ritual somehow involves a transmigration of souls -- that, in fact, all male Verlacs are actually the reincarnation of the original founder of the American line. Although this is obviously nothing more than local superstition, the legend has such a hold on the people of the region that it may have become a self-perpetuating delusion on the part of the members of the Verlac family, each male child honestly believing that he is his own grandfather reborn. Edward Verlac rejected this obscene birthright, and I believe that the townspeople drove him to insanity for it.

"Regardless of the truth behind these legends, the cult is planning to act very soon. In the 1920s, Edward's grandfather Mordecai Verlac began preaching that the return of the 'Nameless God' was imminent -- specifically, that it would occur the day after tomorrow. He re-opened the defunct paper mill, converting it into a factory to build some sort of device, a 'beacon' with which to facilitate the Nameless God's entry into this world. This device is very nearly finished, and in two days they will be ready to enact their great ritual -- what they call the 'Blessed Event'. It will most likely entail the wholesale slaughter of every non-cultist man, woman and child in the city. The child abductions of the past few years were most likely preparatory sacrifices perpetrated by the cult, and there is no reason to believe that the killing will stop once their great ritual is complete.

"If you are, in fact, the young man who planned to move into the Verlac estate, you must be careful. The cult is almost certainly watching your every move, and will attempt to induct and brainwash you into their cult or, failing that, murder both you and your wife. I had hoped to warn you upon your arrival; however, as the message on my answering machine this morning attests, I don't have much time left. With any luck, I'll be out of the city by tonight. If I don't make it, please try to stop these people. This key might help -- I managed to dig it out our old property file on the lighthouse. I know they consider that building important for some reason. Do what you can with it. And be careful. These cultists are a menace, inbred and insane to the last man, and no one will be safe until they are wiped off the face of the earth.

"Good luck, and be careful.

-- Claudia Benson"
You go to the west
(opening the real estate office door first)

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.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You close the door
You close the real estate office door.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You go west
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.

There appears to be a commotion of sorts to the south, where a group of townsfolk have gathered.
You show the bear to the woman
(first taking the teddy bear)
(slipping the tarnished bronze key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The woman's eyes widen in sudden recognition, and she takes the teddy bear from you, turning it over to read the name stitched on the back. Tears well up in her eyes, spilling over onto her pale, sunken cheeks. "This is my boy's," she whispers. "This is Jeffrey's."

She looks at you suddenly. "Where did you find this? Did you find..." but then she stops. She can see from your face that you have not found her son, only this one clue. But... even one clue, however tenuous, offers possibility. And the woman's face softens, just a little bit, with something that you guess hasn't made its home there in a very, very, long time:

Hope.

"Come in," she says softly. "Thank you for bringing me this. Please, come in."

She steps aside from the door, and you enter her home.

A dirty, ramshackle home, scraped together out of the bits and ends of working-class poverty. The floor is warped and broken wood, bare dirt showing through the cracks between boards. Rags hang across the window in lieu of curtains. Over in the far corner is a rickety old stove; in the opposite corner a threadbare cot; it hits you suddenly that a family of three once lived, slept and ate all in this single room, which is slightly smaller than your bedroom back at the house.

The woman watches you expectantly.

On the threadbare cot is a teddy bear.

A set of grime-smeared overalls hangs on a hook next to the front door to the west.
You look at the woman
She is pale and thin from lack of food. Her hair is prematurely gray. The dismal poverty and constant fear that she has lived in all her life have leached her body of its youth, leaving her aged before her time, stooped and scarred with worry. She clutches a tattered shawl, its fabric the faded color of old dishwater, close around her throat, and she watches you the way a wounded rabbit might watch a potentially hungry cat.
You ask the woman about Jeffrey
"It came in the night," the woman tells you, her voice barely above a whisper, "just like when it took all the other children over the years. It came through the window and took him away while we slept." The woman's voice breaks, and she shakes her head, trying not to weep. "Without my Jeffrey, I don't know if I can go on." Her look implores you. "If you do find him, please tell me. Please bring my boy back to me!"
You tell the woman about William
She shakes her head. "I don't know much about those folks, except that they're bad all the way through. I try to stay away from their business. They said it was Edward who was stealing all those children, but I guess that wasn't ever true."
You tell the woman about well
The woman presses her fist against her mouth and looks away. "No," she says softly, "I can't believe that. I can't believe my little boy could be down in that..." She breaks off, unable even to complete the thought.
You tell woman about bones
Which do you mean, the dog's skeleton or the well?
You ask the woman about the overalls
She smiles, sad and wistful. "Max did maintenance work up at the mill," she says, "until the accident. It was five years ago this September. One of the big presses must have malfunctioned... they told me there were no remains to speak of..." She sighs. "Max was a good man. He took care of Jeffrey and me. I keep his overalls there to remember him by."
You ask the woman about Mill
The woman's expression grows hard and bitter. "They keep us like animals," she says, indicating the shack, the town, the poverty around her. "We're forced to live in company housing, buy all our food and goods from the company, all on the pittance the company gives us." She bites her lower lip. "And now I don't even get that; with Max gone I'm drawing compensation, which was barely enough to feed Jeffrey and me... before... " She stops as her lips begin to tremble.
You ask the woman about Claudia
The woman just looks away absently; apparently, she doesn't know very much about that.
You show the letter to the woman
(the hastily written letter to the pale, frightened woman)
The woman hardly even looks at it.
You examine the overalls
They look like a normal set of industrial overalls, the kind of uniform you'd see mill workers in. Stitched into the fabric just above the breast pocket is the name "Max".
Search overalls
In the overalls is a long steel key.
You ask the woman about long steel key
"Max had lots of keys to the mill. He did maintenance work there."
You ask the woman for the long steel key
"Oh!" exclaims the woman softly. "I didn't even realize that was still in his pocket. I suppose it opens some door at the mill." She takes the key out of the overalls and looks at it for a long while. "Yes," she says, finally. "Take it. I don't need it... and perhaps it will help you find Jeffrey."
Goodbye
The woman seems lost in contemplation.
You go west
The woman attempts a wan smile as you make ready to leave. "Thank you," she says softly, indicating the stuffed bear. "If you discover anything else, please let me know."

The road peters out at a wide clearing of rutted mud, flanked by uneven rows of decrepit, clapboard shacks. The town is quiet, almost deserted; only a few bits of loose tarpaper blowing listlessly in the wind betray the overall stillness.
You go to the south-west
(opening the gate first)
It seems to be locked.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You search thickets
Carefully pushing the prickly branches aside, you find a rusty metal hatch set into the base of the wall.
You unlock the hatch with the long steel key
You unlock the metal hatch.
Go inside
(opening the metal hatch first)

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.

The noise of machinery is growing steadily louder.
You turn on the flashlight
The flashlight must not be quite as waterproof as you originally thought; the beam flickers unsteadily, and you have to bang it against the palm of your hand a couple of times to get it to work.

The machines behind the walls are reaching a feverish pitch, and an unpleasant vibration ripples up and down the crawlway.

You are at the southern end of a long, narrow crawlway leading northward into the mill. All around you, through the metallic walls, you can hear the oppressive thumping and grinding of heavy machinery. The air in here is hot and smells of burnt engine oil.

A large metal valve wheel juts out from the middle of one of the many fat, sweating pipes lining the walls. Just to its left is a gauge of some sort.
Examine gauge
The gauge has a circular face with a needle that sweeps in a 270 degree arc across a set of numbered calibrations, most of which are colored green. The last 30 degrees or so are colored bright red. The needle is slowly traveling down the right side of the dial, about three-quarters of the way to the red zone.

Just as the mechanical noises reach a crescendo, the pipes at the north end of the crawlway suddenly give vent to an enormous gout of superheated steam. The entire north half of the crawlway is momentarily filled with vapor and intense heat, which just as quickly dissipates. The noise behind the walls recedes to a calmer level, and the needle on the gauge swings back down to zero.
Turn wheel
The metal wheel is incredibly hot, and you jerk your blistered hands away.
You put the towel on the wheel
(first taking the towel)
(slipping the hastily written letter into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You drape the towel over the valve wheel.

The needle slowly creeps up the dial.
Turn wheel
You grip the sides of the wheel -- even through the towel, you can feel the heat radiating from it -- and haul it clockwise with all your strength. It squeaks reluctantly at first, then gives all at once. From down the corridor you hear an enormous hissing rush as steam is vented from the pipes, and the needle in the gauge drops abruptly down to zero.

The flashlight beam flickers uncertainly for a moment, then comes back a bit weaker than before.
Go north
The air grows hotter the farther in you go, and it is becoming difficult to breathe.

You are roughly at the center of the access crawlway, which stretches north and south from here.
Go north
The north end of the access crawlway ends at a sturdy metal hatch. A thick haze of steam hangs in the air, and the heat is like an oven -- the walls and floor are almost blistering to the touch.

The hatch is closed.

It is now pitch dark in here!
Light match
(first taking the book of matches)
(slipping the long steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
One of the matches starts to burn.

You are at the southern end of a long, narrow crawlway leading northward into the mill. All around you, through the metallic walls, you can hear the oppressive thumping and grinding of heavy machinery. The air in here is hot and smells of burnt engine oil.

A large metal valve wheel juts out from the middle of one of the many fat, sweating pipes lining the walls. Just to its left is a gauge of some sort.
Light lantern
You really should take it out of your pocket first.
You take the lantern
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.

It is now pitch dark in here!
Go west
The woman attempts a wan smile as you make ready to leave. "Thank you," she says softly, indicating the stuffed bear. "If you discover anything else, please let me know."

The road peters out at a wide clearing of rutted mud, flanked by uneven rows of decrepit, clapboard shacks. The town is quiet, almost deserted; only a few bits of loose tarpaper blowing listlessly in the wind betray the overall stillness.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Go south
The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
Enter
(opening the metal hatch first)

It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You go outside
The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.

Set into the base of the mill wall, nearly covered by the thickets, is a metal hatch.
You take the lantern
(slipping the hastily written letter into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.

The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
Go inside
It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.

The machines behind the walls are reaching a feverish pitch, and an unpleasant vibration ripples up and down the crawlway.
Light match
(first taking the book of matches)
(slipping the long steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
One of the matches starts to burn.

Just as the mechanical noises reach a crescendo, the pipes at the north end of the crawlway suddenly give vent to an enormous gout of superheated steam. The entire north half of the crawlway is momentarily filled with vapor and intense heat, which just as quickly dissipates. The noise behind the walls recedes to a calmer level.

You are at the southern end of a long, narrow crawlway leading northward into the mill. All around you, through the metallic walls, you can hear the oppressive thumping and grinding of heavy machinery. The air in here is hot and smells of burnt engine oil.

A large metal valve wheel juts out from the middle of one of the many fat, sweating pipes lining the walls. Just to its left is a gauge of some sort.
You read the gauge
The gauge has a circular face with a needle that sweeps in a 270 degree arc across a set of numbered calibrations, most of which are colored green. The last 30 degrees or so are colored bright red. The needle is currently resting all the way to the left, at zero.

The needle slowly creeps up the dial.

Ouch! You drop the match as it burns down to your fingers.
You put the towel on the wheel
(first taking the towel)
(slipping the book of matches into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You drape the towel over the valve wheel.

The noise of machinery is growing steadily louder.
Turn wheel
You grip the sides of the wheel -- even through the towel, you can feel the heat radiating from it -- and haul it clockwise with all your strength. It squeaks reluctantly at first, then gives all at once. From down the corridor you hear an enormous hissing rush as steam is vented from the pipes, and the needle in the gauge drops abruptly down to zero.
Go north
The air grows hotter the farther in you go, and it is becoming difficult to breathe.

You are roughly at the center of the access crawlway, which stretches north and south from here.
You go to the north
The north end of the access crawlway ends at a sturdy metal hatch. A thick haze of steam hangs in the air, and the heat is like an oven -- the walls and floor are almost blistering to the touch.

The hatch is closed.
You open hatch
You shove the handle down, and it remains in the lowered position when you let go. Behind the metal walls you can hear mechanisms clanking into gear, and a faint, rapid ticking sound.
Go north
(opening the hatch first)
The handle is down as far as it will go.
You examine the hatch
The hatch is round and quite sturdy-looking. There is a handle on this side, and a small notice fixed to the wall nearby.

You hear a heavy clunking sound from within the hatch.
Printed
"Maintenance hatch operates on a timed-release mechanism. Door will unlock approx. 15 s after handle is pulled."

There is a sharp metallic CLANK from within the hatch, and the handle snaps back to an upright position.
You open hatch
The handle is down as far as it will go.
You go north
(opening the hatch first)
The handle is down as far as it will go.

You hear a heavy clunking sound from within the hatch.
Go north
(opening the hatch first)
With a sharp tug, the heavy metal door swings open.

Waves of heat and noise assault you from every corner. Towering above you on all sides are the enormous vats, presses and sundry machinery, the ever-churning inner workings of the paper mill. An opening in the base of the south wall leads back to the maintenance crawlway, and narrow aisles lead in several other directions through the chugging machinery. A grilled catwalk high over your head provides a more direct route across the factory; however, you see no way to get up there from here.

A long chain dangles from overhead, its last few feet pooled on the floor next to a bank of controls.
You examine the vats
The machines squat like gigantic mechanical trolls all around you, ceaselessly clanking, groaning, vibrating and spitting steam.

Strange; although you could hardly call yourself acquainted with the workings of a paper mill, you can't help but notice that none of the machines you can see seem to be involved with anything like the making of paper. At any rate, you don't see any paper -- or any wood pulp, or any dye, or anything else you might reasonably assume a paper mill would have on hand -- anywhere. The machines are definitely busy churning out something -- but what?
You examine the controls
The waist-high bank has all number of arcane lights, dials and gauges on it; however, the only two controls that bear mentioning are a lever and a large red button.
Examine button
It's a large button, colored bright red.
You look at the lever
The lever juts out about a foot from the panel.
You examine the chain
It runs all the way up past the catwalk to the ceiling. Its links look somewhat greasy.
You go to the north
You take a deep breath, check your clothing for any loose, dangling hems that could be caught by a hungry gear shaft, and edge your way into the works.

You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.
Go north
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.
Go northwest
Your path is blocked by a towering bank of chugging machinery.
You go north
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

A red light bulb set high up on one of the machines begins blinking on and off.
Go south
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

You notice a light bulb set high up on one of the machines, blinking bright, angry red.

Bolted to the side of one of the machines is a steel ladder, leading up.
You go upward
Several workbenches and racks of arcane electronic equipment have been dragged together to form a sort of open laboratory on this wide balcony overlooking the mill. A wide table dominates the area, strewn with precision tools, bits of wire, and scribbled calculations. To the south, a narrow catwalk hangs above the mill floor, and a metal ladder leads down into the machinery below.

Prominent among the strange tools scattered across the table is a strange caliper-like instrument.

On the workbenches are some notes and some arcane electronic equipment.

One of the racks contains a number of circular mirrors, stacked side by side like dishes in a dishwasher.

Tacked up on the wall is a large technical blueprint.
You examine the mirrors
Which do you mean, the mirror labeled #1, the mirror labeled #2, the mirror labeled #3 or the mirror labeled #4?
You examine the blueprint
The blueprint is a technical schematic for some extremely complicated device, the exact purpose of which is anything but clear. It looks a bit like a telescope, a bit like a microwave oven turned inside out, and a bit like the "industrial laser" from Goldfinger. The
inner workings of the device involve a complicated arrangement of lenses and mirrors and a hopeless tangle of circuitry that vaguely resembles several dozen street maps of Manhattan laid across each other. Some of the notations on the circuitry don't even look like technical symbols; they look more like cabbalistic runes.

Next to what must represent the main focusing mirror of the device, someone has written the number "0.0113"; someone else, in another handwriting, has scratched that number out and written below it, "0.0128".
You look at the equipment
Circuitboards, electronic components of various shapes and sizes. It's all entirely beyond you.
You examine the caliper
Made of stainless steel, molded in a strangely flowing, almost organic design, the calipers -- if that is what they are -- resemble no other tool you've ever seen. It has three independently adjustable arms, each ending in a needle-point pincer, which fold back on themselves at grotesque, asymetrical angles toward a floating center point. There is a calibrated readout set near the base, which presumably provides a measure of whatever strange contortion of space is occupied by whatever object is placed between the pincers at the tool's other end.
Measure
What do you want to measure?
You examine the notes
The notes are a mess of incomprehensibly scrawled numbers; long printouts of technical data, tangled diagrams and complex formulae. Even if you had the slightest idea what all the calculations meant, the numbers are barely even legible.

Lifting up a sheet of cribbed equations, you notice what looks to be a general memo to all mill workers.
You examine the memo
It's a flimsy sheet of paper with the following message printed on it:

!!NOTICE TO ALL BRETHREN!!
The focusing mirrors must be kept absolutely clean at ALL TIMES. Even the slightest smudge of dirt or grease can create dangerous instabilities in the refraction patterns.

All mirrors must receive ionization treatment as a matter of course. As an extra precaution, however, always use sterilized surgical gloves when handling them.

In the Name of He Who Is Named Not,
the Mgt.
You examine table
It's just an ordinary-looking table.
Go downwards
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

Bolted to the side of one of the machines is a steel ladder, leading up.
Go east
Your path is blocked by a towering bank of chugging machinery.
You drop the notice
(first taking the typewritten notice)
(slipping the calipers into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Dropped.
You go to the north
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

You notice a light bulb set high up on one of the machines, blinking bright, angry red.
Inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a lantern (providing light), a broom and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a pair of calipers, a book of matches with five matches left, a hastily written letter, an old tin (which is closed), a broken padlock, a meat hook, a tattered drawing, a newspaper, a strange black disk, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, your umbrella and three keys (a long steel key, a tarnished bronze key and a small steel key).
You drop the padlock
(first taking the broken padlock)
Dropped.

Without warning, a shrieking steam-release valve lets loose a scalding gout of vapor right in front of you, causing you to stagger backward, strike a low railing with the back of your knees, and topple over into a stainless-steel mixing vat twenty feet deep.

Before you can recover from the fall, two dozen jet nozzles set around the inner circumference of the vat's rim squirt several hundred gallons of high-density mold-injection polymer onto you, at a temperature high enough to set cloth on fire -- although this is not a major concern for you, since you are almost instantaneously submerged and completely cut off from the air. The vat is filled to the rim in less than a second and a half -- slightly less time than it takes for the heat and lack of oxygen to kill you, and you are still to some degree conscious when the hydraulic mold-press slams down onto the seething liquid, generating a pressure that rapidly turns your body into something resembling a wet, wadded-up beach towel.
You go south
Waves of heat and noise assault you from every corner. Towering above you on all sides are the enormous vats, presses and sundry machinery, the ever-churning inner workings of the paper mill. An opening in the base of the south wall leads back to the maintenance crawlway, and narrow aisles lead in several other directions through the chugging machinery. A grilled catwalk high over your head provides a more direct route across the factory; however, you see no way to get up there from here.

A long chain dangles from overhead, its last few feet pooled on the floor next to a bank of controls.
You pull the lever
You feel something click as the lever activates a hidden releasing mechanism; then, suddenly, the chain snaps up into the air with a loud metallic rattle. You quickly step back as a large block of heavy equipment -- attached to the other end of the chain -- comes plummeting down from the ceiling. At the last instant, a system of reducing pulleys slows the block's descent and prevents it from crashing into the floor.
You examine the equipment
A dense conglomeration of tubes and compressors packed into a sturdy metal frame; a bit like a cooling unit from the back of a refrigerator, only larger and even more technical looking. It's securely attached to the end of a chain, which in turn must be attached to some kind of pulley system up near the ceiling.
You get on it
You get onto the block of heavy equipment.
You pull the lever
The lever pulls down and then snaps back up -- ka-chunk!
Go north
You'll have to get off the block of heavy equipment first.
Go outside
You get off the block of heavy equipment.

The catwalk stretches north, a narrow ribbon of metal grillwork dangling fifty feet over the factory floor and shuddering dangerously in time with the machines beneath it. There are no railings of any kind. At the far end you can see what looks like a wide balcony with several large banks of equipment.

A large block of heavy equipment hangs in the air just a foot or two beyond the edge of the catwalk.
You look at the balcony
You can't see it very well from here. It looks to be a workshop of some kind, with workbenches and several large banks of equipment.
You go to the north
Several workbenches and racks of arcane electronic equipment have been dragged together to form a sort of open laboratory on this wide balcony overlooking the mill. A wide table dominates the area, strewn with precision tools, bits of wire, and scribbled calculations. To the south, a narrow catwalk hangs above the mill floor, and a metal ladder leads down into the machinery below.

Prominent among the strange tools scattered across the table is a strange caliper-like instrument.

On the workbenches are some notes and some arcane electronic equipment.

One of the racks contains a number of circular mirrors, stacked side by side like dishes in a dishwasher.

Tacked up on the wall is a large technical blueprint.
You take the calipers
You pick up the calipers. Made of stainless steel, molded in a strangely flowing, almost organic design, the calipers -- if that is what they are -- resemble no other tool you've ever seen. It has three independently adjustable arms, each ending in a needle-point pincer, which fold back on themselves at grotesque, asymetrical angles toward a floating center point. There is a calibrated readout set near the base, which presumably provides a measure of whatever strange contortion of space is occupied by whatever object is placed between the pincers at the tool's other end.
Measure 1
(the mirror labeled #1)
(with the calipers)
The instrument holds the mirror delicately clamped between its pincers; the readout reads "0.0191".
You put the caliper on the bench
You put the calipers on the workbenches.
Go downwards
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

Bolted to the side of one of the machines is a steel ladder, leading up.
Go north
You are picking your way through a narrow gap between high banks of vibrating machinery. Twisting aisles branch off in numerous directions, some of them so narrow you'd have to turn sideways to make your way through.

Without warning, a shrieking steam-release valve lets loose a scalding gout of vapor right in front of you, causing you to stagger backward, strike a low railing with the back of your knees, and topple over into a stainless-steel mixing vat twenty feet deep.

Before you can recover from the fall, two dozen jet nozzles set around the inner circumference of the vat's rim squirt several hundred gallons of high-density mold-injection polymer onto you, at a temperature high enough to set cloth on fire -- although this is not a major concern for you, since you are almost instantaneously submerged and completely cut off from the air. The vat is filled to the rim in less than a second and a half -- slightly less time than it takes for the heat and lack of oxygen to kill you, and you are still to some degree conscious when the hydraulic mold-press slams down onto the seething liquid, generating a pressure that rapidly turns your body into something resembling a wet, wadded-up beach towel.
You go south
Waves of heat and noise assault you from every corner. Towering above you on all sides are the enormous vats, presses and sundry machinery, the ever-churning inner workings of the paper mill. An opening in the base of the south wall leads back to the maintenance crawlway, and narrow aisles lead in several other directions through the chugging machinery. A grilled catwalk high over your head provides a more direct route across the factory; however, you see no way to get up there from here.

A long chain dangles from overhead, its last few feet pooled on the floor next to a bank of controls.
You go south
The north end of the access crawlway ends at a sturdy metal hatch. A thick haze of steam hangs in the air, and the heat is like an oven -- the walls and floor are almost blistering to the touch.

The hatch is open.
Go south
You are at the southern end of a long, narrow crawlway leading northward into the mill. All around you, through the metallic walls, you can hear the oppressive thumping and grinding of heavy machinery. The air in here is hot and smells of burnt engine oil.

A large metal valve wheel juts out from the middle of one of the many fat, sweating pipes lining the walls. Just to its left is a gauge of some sort.

Michael's damp bath towel is draped across the wheel.
You unlock the door with the bronze key
(first taking the tarnished bronze key)
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You unlock the massive bronze door.

Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
You go inside
(opening the massive bronze door first)
With great effort, you manage to pull the ancient, creaking door open a few inches, enough to slip through.

The sound of the ocean is muffled behind the thick cinderblock walls, and the air is damp and heavy. You can almost feel the weight of two hundred feet of hoary old whitewashed brick pressing down on you from above. To the west, a narrow strip of dim light marks the exit. Cracked concrete steps lead up.
You go upward
You climb the winding stairs in a gradual spiral around the inner circumference of the tower, and finally emerge, breathless, at the top.

The stairs give onto a wide, circular chamber surrounded by windows. The glass is old and streaked with grime, but you still have to catch your breath at the magnificence of the view. In one direction, the dying heath and the stunted cluster of buildings that is Anchorhead; in the other, the ocean like a vast, undulating blanket.

Sitting in the middle of the room is what looks like a swivel mount of some kind, although nothing is mounted on it now. Looking up, you see that it rests directly below a large, hexagonal skylight.
You examine mount
The mounting is ring-shaped, about three feet in diameter, and is designed to allow whatever is to be mounted on it to turn freely in all directions. It was probably originally intended to hold the beacon when the lighthouse was still in operation.
You look at the skylight
That big, churning hole in the sky is perfectly framed by the hexagonal skylight.
You turn the mount
The swivel mount itself is not designed to turn; only whatever's mounted on it.
You look at the hole
(the sky)
There is a spinning, churning hole in the clouds, an inverted whirlpool sucking streamers of gray up into itself. You'd think it was some sort of funnel cloud, except that it's not moving anywhere. It's simply hanging, turning slowly in the sky. The sight of that horrible, whirling hole makes you shudder, involuntarily recalling that hideous entity that lurks behind those clouds.
You examine the Anchorhead
From this distance, all you can make out of Anchorhead are the leaning shapes of its rooftops, huddled in a thin, jagged line against the base of the hills to the south.
You examine the ocean
The great, gray ocean stretches out as far as you can see, merging with the clouds on the horizon.
You examine the chain
It runs all the way up past the catwalk to the ceiling. Its links look somewhat greasy.

The block of equipment sways and tilts slightly under your feet.
Go downward
You'll have to get off the block of heavy equipment first.
Go downwards
You slide down the chain, landing awkwardly on the floor below.

Waves of heat and noise assault you from every corner. Towering above you on all sides are the enormous vats, presses and sundry machinery, the ever-churning inner workings of the paper mill. An opening in the base of the south wall leads back to the maintenance crawlway, and narrow aisles lead in several other directions through the chugging machinery. A grilled catwalk high over your head provides a more direct route across the factory; however, you see no way to get up there from here.

A long chain dangles from overhead, its last few feet pooled on the floor next to a bank of controls.
About yourself
You look good, considering you're covered in grimy ash, filthy from splashing around in the sewers and soaking wet. A bit rattled by recent events, perhaps, but well-poised and collected, all the same.
Examine gauge
The gauge has a circular face with a needle that sweeps in a 270 degree arc across a set of numbered calibrations, most of which are colored green. The last 30 degrees or so are colored bright red. The needle is currently resting all the way to the left, at zero.
You unlock the gate with the long steel key
(first taking the long steel key)
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
There don't seem to be any keyholes or locking mechanisms. Irritated, you wonder how anybody manages to get to work on time in this city.
Go east
As you cross the railroad tracks, the air seems to lift slightly, becoming more breathable once again.

The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
You enter the pipe
(the outflow pipe)
Well, you've already been through this pipe from the other end, and at this point you can't get much dirtier than you already are, so... taking a deep breath, you duck your head and wriggle your way into the pipe.

Note to self: if you ever make it through this alive, you'd better get one hell of an anniversary present come next June.

From the smell of it, this must be a sewage outflow tunnel. Filthy water swirls past a metal grate to the west and eddies around your hands and knees, on which you are forced to crawl in this cramped cylindrical passageway. To the east, the tunnel narrows still further, terminating about twenty feet further in a circle of dim light.
Much of the water is pouring through an open hatch set in the floor of the tunnel.
You go to the west
The thick metal grate blocks further progress up the tunnel.
Go downward
This looks to be an older part of the sewer system that has fallen into disrepair. Many of the pipes here have crumbled and are filled with debris.

Set in the low ceiling is an old iron hatch, hanging open.
You listen
The constant echoes of dripping water are quite loud in here.
You close the door
You close the small metal door.
You go west
The street leads east and south from here.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
Kiss chuck
The very thought is repellent.
You ask Chuck about Edward
The orderly squints at you. "Who? -- Oh, wait! You mean the guy, ventilated his whole goddamn family early this year. Yeah, I remember him. What a nutball. We put him in a rubber room, he lasted two weeks. Bashed his fuckin' brains in on the little observation window. Reinforced glass, took him right out." The orderly scratches his head. "Christ, I gotta get around to cleaning that mess up one of these days." Then with a heavy sigh, he returns to his magazine.
You ask chuck for the key
Which do you mean, the cell key, the long steel key, the tarnished bronze key, the small steel key, the small copper key, the old-fashioned brass key, the old-fashioned iron key, the key to the house or the key to the cellar?
Cell key
The orderly laughs. "I don't think so, lady."

You pointedly look the other way as the orderly takes another tweak at the pimple on his neck.
You take the keyring
(slipping the long steel key into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
You put the brass key on the keyring
The old-fashioned brass key is now on the keyring.

The orderly scratches himself absently.
You put long steel on the keyring
(first taking the long steel key)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The long steel key is now on the keyring.
You put the small steel on the keyring
(first taking the small steel key)
The small steel key is now on the keyring.
You look at the keyring
It's just an ordinary-looking keyring. There are seven keys (a small steel key, a long steel key, an old-fashioned brass key, a small copper key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar) on it.
You shake keys
(first taking the keyring)
That would accomplish very little.
Go south
(opening the barred gate first)
The orderly laughs at your attempts. "Nice try, lady, but you're never gettin' in there without this," he says, patting the key on his belt.
You ask Chuck about the Asylum
"Listen, I just work here, lady."
You ask Chuck about inmates
"We get all kinds of freaks in here, lady. You have no idea." The orderly laughs unpleasantly. "We got some professor in week before last, found him naked in his office, he'd cut off his own fuckin' foot and was tryn'a eat it. Last year some guy killed his whole family with a goddamn shotgun." The orderly shakes his head. "It's a great fuckin' world, ain't it, lady? Great fuckin' world."
You ask Chuck about Julia
The orderly shrugs. "Wouldn't know," he mutters.
You ask Chuck about Chuck
The orderly leers at you. "I get off later this evening, if you want to get to know me better."
You ask Chuck about Verlac
(the Verlac family)
"I don't give a shit who you're related to," the orderly says wearily. "You'll have to visit them somewhere else, because they ain't here."
You look at matches
A label on the side reads, "Water-resistant matches. Strike on cover." There are five matches left.

You pointedly look the other way as the orderly takes another tweak at the pimple on his neck.

Airy strains of vacuous elevator music waft through the room from invisible speakers.
You look up Max Greer in the records
(in the archives)
Max Greer: born March 19, 1963.
You look up Max Greer in the records
(in the archives)
Max Greer: died September 2, 1992.
Go west
All of the doors are locked.
You show the letter to Chuck
Which do you mean, the hastily written letter or the letter opener?
Hastily
(first taking the hastily written letter)
(slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
He glances at the hastily written letter without anything remotely resembling interest, and returns to his magazine without a word.
You show the skull to chuck
(first taking the animal's skull)
(slipping the hastily written letter into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
He glances at the animal's skull without anything remotely resembling interest, and returns to his magazine without a word.
You check your inventory
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands an animal's skull, a lantern (providing light), a broom and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a hastily written letter, a keyring, on which are seven keys (a small steel key, a long steel key, an old-fashioned brass key, a small copper key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), a towel, a book of matches with five matches left, a tarnished bronze key, an old tin (which is closed), a broken padlock, a meat hook, a tattered drawing, a newspaper, a strange black disk, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice and your umbrella.
You show the faculty card to chuck
(first taking the faculty card)
(slipping the animal's skull into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
He glances at the faculty card without anything remotely resembling interest, and returns to his magazine without a word.
You stand
The block of heavy equipment sways alarmingly as you step off, almost spilling you.
You go to the north
Several workbenches and racks of arcane electronic equipment have been dragged together to form a sort of open laboratory on this wide balcony overlooking the mill. A wide table dominates the area, strewn with precision tools, bits of wire, and scribbled calculations. To the south, a narrow catwalk hangs above the mill floor, and a metal ladder leads down into the machinery below.

Prominent among the strange tools scattered across the table is a strange caliper-like instrument.

On the workbenches are some notes and some arcane electronic equipment.

One of the racks contains a number of circular mirrors, stacked side by side like dishes in a dishwasher.

Tacked up on the wall is a large technical blueprint.
You take the blueprint
The blueprint curls up into a loose tube as you pull it from the wall.
Go south
The catwalk stretches north, a narrow ribbon of metal grillwork dangling fifty feet over the factory floor and shuddering dangerously in time with the machines beneath it. There are no railings of any kind. At the far end you can see what looks like a wide balcony with several large banks of equipment.

A large block of heavy equipment hangs in the air just a foot or two beyond the edge of the catwalk.
You take towel
(slipping the blueprint into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
Taken.
Hastily
(first taking the hastily written letter)
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The woman hardly even looks at it.
You show the blueprint to the woman
(first taking the blueprint)
(slipping the hastily written letter into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The woman hardly even looks at it.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are wearing your trenchcoat, your clothes and your wedding ring; in addition, you have in your hands a blueprint rolled into a loose tube, a lantern (providing light), a broom and a hooded robe.

The pockets of your trenchcoat contain a hastily written letter, a towel, a book of matches with five matches left, three keys (a long steel key, a tarnished bronze key and a small steel key), an old tin (which is closed), a broken padlock, a meat hook, a tattered drawing, a newspaper, a strange black disk, a strange metal flute, a silver locket, a gold locket, a flashlight, a keyring, on which are five keys (a small copper key, an old-fashioned brass key, an old-fashioned iron key, a key to the house and a key to the cellar), an animal's skull, Michael's faculty card, a bundle of soggy pages, a puzzle box (which is open but empty), a flask (which is closed), a letter opener, a slip of paper, a family album, a torn journal, a typewritten notice and your umbrella.
Go east
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.

A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
You go south
The game is up. You turn to run, but already the men are on your heels...

There is no time to run. Heavy boots on the cobblestones; hands lunging toward you -- they are everywhere, grabbing you from every side, immobilizing you. Someone's huge, calloused paw closes around your windpipe and starts to squeeze. Just before you black out, you can feel yourself being lifted off your feet...
You go north
You'll have to get off the block of heavy equipment first.

The block of equipment sways and tilts slightly under your feet.
You take the caliper
(slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You pick up the calipers. Made of stainless steel, molded in a strangely flowing, almost organic design, the calipers -- if that is what they are -- resemble no other tool you've ever seen. It has three independently adjustable arms, each ending in a needle-point pincer, which fold back on themselves at grotesque, asymetrical angles toward a floating center point. There is a calibrated readout set near the base, which presumably provides a measure of whatever strange contortion of space is occupied by whatever object is placed between the pincers at the tool's other end.
Look around
Several workbenches and racks of arcane electronic equipment have been dragged together to form a sort of open laboratory on this wide balcony overlooking the mill. A wide table dominates the area, strewn with precision tools, bits of wire, and scribbled calculations. To the south, a narrow catwalk hangs above the mill floor, and a metal ladder leads down into the machinery below.

On the workbenches are some notes and some arcane electronic equipment.

One of the racks contains a number of circular mirrors, stacked side by side like dishes in a dishwasher.

Tacked up on the wall is a large technical blueprint.
You look at the equipment
Circuitboards, electronic components of various shapes and sizes. It's all entirely beyond you.
You search it
The mirror is perfectly round and exquisitely polished. It is very slightly concave on its reflecting surface, distorting the edges of your face as you stare into it. On the back is a small label with the number 3 written on it.
You examine rack
The rack has four slots labeled one through four.

In the rack are four mirrors (the mirror labeled #1, the mirror labeled #2, the mirror labeled #3 and the mirror labeled #4).
You take the rack
That's fixed in place.
Go south
You are at the southern end of a long, narrow crawlway leading northward into the mill. All around you, through the metallic walls, you can hear the oppressive thumping and grinding of heavy machinery. The air in here is hot and smells of burnt engine oil.

A large metal valve wheel juts out from the middle of one of the many fat, sweating pipes lining the walls. Just to its left is a gauge of some sort.
You look at the pipes
Dozens of thick, metal pipes line the walls and ceiling of the crawlway, some of them leaking tiny plumes of steam from loose joints.
You examine the machinery
The machines squat like gigantic mechanical trolls all around you, ceaselessly clanking, groaning, vibrating and spitting steam.
Go north
Several workbenches and racks of arcane electronic equipment have been dragged together to form a sort of open laboratory on this wide balcony overlooking the mill. A wide table dominates the area, strewn with precision tools, bits of wire, and scribbled calculations. To the south, a narrow catwalk hangs above the mill floor, and a metal ladder leads down into the machinery below.

On the workbenches are a printed memo, some notes and some arcane electronic equipment.

One of the racks contains a number of circular mirrors, stacked side by side like dishes in a dishwasher.

Tacked up on the wall is a large technical blueprint.
You take blueprint
(slipping the mirror labeled #3 into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
The blueprint curls up into a loose tube as you pull it from the wall.
Go south
The catwalk stretches north, a narrow ribbon of metal grillwork dangling fifty feet over the factory floor and shuddering dangerously in time with the machines beneath it. There are no railings of any kind. At the far end you can see what looks like a wide balcony with several large banks of equipment.

A large block of heavy equipment hangs in the air just a foot or two beyond the edge of the catwalk.
You go south
The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.

Set into the base of the mill wall, nearly covered by the thickets, is a metal hatch.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
Go northeast
You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.

The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.

A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
You unlock the door with the bronze key
(first taking the tarnished bronze key)
(slipping the blueprint into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
You unlock the massive bronze door.

The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
You go inside
(opening the massive bronze door first)
With great effort, you manage to pull the ancient, creaking door open a few inches, enough to slip through.

The sound of the ocean is muffled behind the thick cinderblock walls, and the air is damp and heavy. You can almost feel the weight of two hundred feet of hoary old whitewashed brick pressing down on you from above. To the west, a narrow strip of dim light marks the exit. Cracked concrete steps lead up.
You go upward
You climb the winding stairs in a gradual spiral around the inner circumference of the tower, and finally emerge, breathless, at the top.

The stairs give onto a wide, circular chamber surrounded by windows. The glass is old and streaked with grime, but you still have to catch your breath at the magnificence of the view. In one direction, the dying heath and the stunted cluster of buildings that is Anchorhead; in the other, the ocean like a vast, undulating blanket.

Sitting in the middle of the room is what looks like a swivel mount of some kind, although nothing is mounted on it now. Looking up, you see that it rests directly below a large, hexagonal skylight.
You examine mount
The mounting is ring-shaped, about three feet in diameter, and is designed to allow whatever is to be mounted on it to turn freely in all directions. It was probably originally intended to hold the beacon when the lighthouse was still in operation.
You examine the blueprint
You spread out the rolled-up blueprint to look it over.

The blueprint is a technical schematic for some extremely complicated device, the exact purpose of which is anything but clear. It looks a bit like a telescope, a bit like a microwave oven turned inside out, and a bit like the "industrial laser" from Goldfinger. The
inner workings of the device involve a complicated arrangement of lenses and mirrors and a hopeless tangle of circuitry that vaguely resembles several dozen street maps of Manhattan laid across each other. Some of the notations on the circuitry don't even look like technical symbols; they look more like cabbalistic runes.

Next to what must represent the main focusing mirror of the device, someone has written the number "0.0113"; someone else, in another handwriting, has scratched that number out and written below it, "0.0128".
You look at the disc
It's a dark, glassy circle, about the width of your hand in diameter and half an inch thick in the middle, tapering off to thinness toward the edge like a convex lens. Its color is the deep, oily black of obsidian, though you fancy you can see faint swirls of color inside it like the rainbow sheen of oil on water. Its curved surface is cool and perfectly smooth. Although incredibly hard, the material does not feel like stone; there is an odd, yielding quality to it, almost like something organic... almost, you realize with disquiet, like skin.