The world filters back into focus as the darkness around your eyes recedes slowly, leaving images on your retinas like whitewashed memories. It's not unlike coming up from under murky, oil-filmed water. At first there is no color or definition, no edges and distinction. The entire landscape is little more than spotted blurs, inkblots across your vision, and no amount of blinking clears your eyes of the formless shapes.<br/><br/>The first solid piece of this reality's puzzle forms under your feet as you waver slightly, unbalanced. For the first time you realize that you are standing, and that the floor under you has the gentle, whining give of old floorboards. A creak finds your ears and tells you that the room is real enough to complain when you move. Inhaling confirms the age of your surroundings; you can taste the dust and musty hint of old furniture. Your skin turns to goosebumps as you realize that the air is chilled with the promise of gloomy weather outside the poorly sealed window frames. As if on cue, the dimness over your eyes falls away. Everything comes into blessed focus.<br/><br/>The foyer you stand in (for it must be a foyer, hallways stretch in three directions and you can make out a staircase straight across from a large double door) is shaped like an octagon, the ceiling stretching high above your head and out of sight. The wood walls were glorious once, but have been unkept for many years and faded to a sad gray that makes a half-hearted attempt at being oak. Gilded frames provide a base for spiders to cover the paintings within in torn silver veils. Old lounging couches and chairs, once plush, sit dusty and faded on similarly neglected rugs. A single grandfather clock stands against the northwestern wall, ticking deeply.<br/><br/>If one looks too hard down the hallways, the ends of them seem to disappear into shadow and countless rows of doors. The double door, the front entrance if one were to venture a guess, sports tarnished brass handles and impressively carved details along it's frame, the words<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-size: 85%; line-height: 116%;">CINIS, CINIS, OMNES CADENT</span></span>woven into a portrayal of some kind of flower and hands linked together as if in dance. Two windows flank the door, both fogged inside and out and letting in light enough to suggest that it is overcast outside. Wind occasionally howls, rattling the panes.<br/><br/>But you, I'm sure, are busy realizing that there are others with you in the room. Each stands facing the center of the foyer, perched on the wood floor around a deep red, opulent circular rug.  Your toes are lined up against its patchy, crumbling edge, like candles arranged around a witch's circle. Slowly it occurs to you that you can't recall where you were just now, or what you were doing. There may even be the notion that you are simply dreaming, and this is a product of your pop-culture fed subconscious.<br/><br/>Whatever it is that you believe, something inside of you starts to sink into a hard knot. Words not your own rise in the back of your mind.<br/><br/>"The door has been opened."<br/><br/>Welcome to the House.