text: [Themes: Lovecraftian, Horror, Lovecraft, strong NPCs, research, body horror, surreal, incest, violence, rape references, changing environment, female protagonist]
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > go south
  (opening the cellar door first)
  It seems to be locked.
  
  > unlock door
  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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > get the key
  Which do you mean, the key to the house or the key to the cellar?
  
  > 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.
  
  > take the key
  (the old-fashioned iron key)
  (slipping the keyring into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  
  > 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.
  
  > turn off light
  You switch the flashlight off.
  
  It is now pitch dark in here!
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > close the door
  You close the iron door.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > close the door
  You close the front door.
  
  > take the notice
  (slipping the puzzle box into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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!
  
  > 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.