text: [Themes: Lovecraftian, Horror, horror, academic NPC, body horror, Lovecraftian, Lovecraft, surreal, child abuse, child death]
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > look at the lining
  The lining is soft, dusky burgundy. One corner in back is pulled up a bit and slightly torn.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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 --
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > break the web with the broom
  With a single sweep of the broom, you clear the spider web away.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  The cellar door stands open, revealing dark stairs leading down.
  
  > unlock door
  You unlock the back door.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.