OPEN - It's clear as glass, you smash

[ventriloschism]

Who: Donna, YOU, and your PERSONAL DEMONS
Where: House Beneviento
When: July 11th to the 31st
What: Angie wants to play....
Warnings: GENERAL HORROR, HALLUCINATIONS. WILL UPDATE AS THREADS ARE MADE.

SPECIAL NOTES: If you want to participate in this thread, PLEASE GO FILL OUT DONNA'S PERMISSIONS HERE!!!

The door to House Beneviento is wide open, the interior dark in comparison to the blazing sun outside.

It's a bit dreary, perhaps, even with the potted yellow flowers out on the porch that were likely an attempt to make it all seem a little more inviting...but it seems nice enough, and perhaps you've seen the painfully shy inhabitant and her outspoken puppet around Haven. Harmless enough. As you walk by the homely estate on 8 Miranda Lane, you glance into the dim foyer, just over the threshold standing oh-so-curiously unguarded.

You could swear you see movement in there, a flutter of a dress, maybe. And is that a giggle?

If you draw a little closer, just close enough to start smelling the porch planters, you look again.

In a blink, you see something or someone very personal to you, disappearing slowly into the home. Leading you inside. You gather yourself and cross through into a lit foyer, opening into a rather cozy living room, decorated with still more of those cheerful yellow flowers. It's actually rather homely indeed -

Until the door shuts and locks behind you.

((OOC: Angie is bored and Donna is still dealing with the shock of her powers coming back. If you enter the House, you will be drawn through a hallucinatory nightmare that is custom-tailored to your character. This begins with seeing something they can't resist going inside, then shortly after they start to explore, they will start to see Nightmares until they can find Donna and convince Angie to let you go. Don't worry, every one of you will be let go - if your character is overwhelmed or passes out, they will wake up on the porch with a cool cloth on their forehead and a note of apology from Donna.

Please fill out the permissions post above so I can properly customize your nightmares and know where your comfort levels are! Let's have some fun!))

Comments

[ventriloschism]

The house itself is nice enough - sweet smelling, a little chilly, furnished in cozy ways. If it weren't for two things, it might even actually be a very nice place to be.

One thing is the fact that something whips behind Alan, and by the time he can turn to look, the door is shut and locked.

The other is the page, glaringly white against the dark wooden table, still settling from where it had just been dropped from the landing up the stairs. A familiar page, with unmistakably familiar typewriter font scattered across it, daring him to read.

[drowningman]

In another life Alan might have appreciated the interior of this house, maybe he would have taken the time to have an amiable conversation with the homeowners over coffee wearing a cozy hand-knit sweater to keep the chill at bay and it would have been a charming little visit. This, however, was not another life and Alan did not like any house that looked or felt like it was built before the turn of the 21st century. You've got the unreliable plumbing, first of all.

Second, ghosts.

Third? Just plain creepy, especially if there's a basement or attic. Worse if there's both.

He jumps and whips his head to look over his shoulder at the now-shut door behind him. Great... Ghosts. Already, this house is not gaining any favor with him. When he turns his head back forward and sees the typewritten page upon the table, he swallows. One hand goes to his flashlight and the other goes to his gun as he slowly creeps forward to look down upon the table and see what the page says.

The worst part is knowing he hasn't written anything on his typewriter since he got here, so what page is this? When is it from?

Or... DID he write this here, and he just has no memory of it?

[ventriloschism]

Alan swallowed hard when he looked down at the page. He had to have written this - the characters were the same, the eccentricities of his usual typewriter all right there in black and white.

This was impossible. It couldn't be. But there it was. Had he been slipping again? Had he been writing, even here? Was his wife still in danger?

He didn't have time to think about it for very long before he heard the record playing.

The very moment Alan reads the last line, sure enough, the scratchy hiss of an old phonograph starts wailing from upstairs, a familiar song, skipping over and over on the same passage:

"And when he swore to bring back his love
By the stories he create-

And when he swore to bring back his love
By the stories he create-

And when he swore to bring back his love
By the stories he create...."