text: [Themes: Lovecraftian, Horror, incest, surreal, child abuse, horror, self-mutilation]
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > say open the sesame
  (to yourself)
  Talking to yourself is a sure sign of impending mental collapse.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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 --
  
  > search bottles
  There are dozens of bottles here. You glance over the rows, but nothing jumps out at you as immediately odd.
  
  > get the album
  (slipping the gold locket into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  
  > look up Croseus
  (in the newspaper)
  You discover nothing of interest in the newspaper.
  
  > 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:
  
  > look at 1651
  You can't see any such thing.
  
  You can't see any such thing.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > close the doors
  You close the sliding doors.
  
  > 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.
  
  > look at the desk
  It's an ordinary writing desk with a small drawer, which is closed.
  
  > open the drawer
  You open the drawer, revealing the Cryptical Haermoniacon.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > turn on the torch
  The flashlight emits a warm yellow beam.
  
  > 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.
  
  > examine the hole
  (the small hole)
  It's almost big enough to put your finger through.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > look through the hole
  (the small hole)
  Standing on tiptoe and placing your eye up to the hole, you see only darkness.
  
  > drop typewritten
  (first taking the typewritten notice)
  (slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  Dropped.