It’s London, 1950. The war might be over, but the city still wears its scars—bricks blackened by smoke, ration queues thinning but not gone, and coins that never seem to stretch far enough.
You’re sat in a threadbare armchair by the window of your rented flat, the sort where the wallpaper peels in the corners and the radiators clank louder than the neighbours argue. The sky outside’s a dull grey, hanging low like it can’t quite be arsed to clear. A kettle whistles weakly in the kitchen, more steam than substance.
You finished uni a few months back—cap, gown, and all that—but the diploma’s gathering dust on the mantle, while rejection letters curl in the bin like dead leaves. The wireless crackles from the corner of the room, some chipper voice going on about industry reforms and meat prices, but it’s background noise at best.
You’ve still not found a job. Not for lack of trying, mind you. It's just... no one’s hiring. Not someone like you, anyway.
Rent’s due again soon. Your savings? Dwindling faster than a pint left unattended. You keep thinking about asking your folks for help, but pride’s a stubborn thing, isn’t it?
A draught sneaks in through the cracked window frame, carrying with it the smell of petrol and damp newspapers.
[[Light a cigarette.]]
[[Pour yourself a drink from the cupboard—what’s left of the whisky.]]
[[Both. Sod it. Have both.]]
[[Pick up the newspaper. Scan the jobs section. Maybe today’s the day.]]You bring the fag to your lips, flicking your silver lighter open with a practiced hand. The flame catches, and the end glows a dull orange as you take that first drag. It hits the back of your throat like soot—bitter, acrid. You puff it out almost instantly, grimacing. The first one always tastes like shite.
Still, you slip it back between your lips and draw in deeper this time, letting the smoke settle in your lungs. There’s a quiet sort of relief in it, like the world pressing pause for a moment. The nicotine wraps round your nerves, takes the edge off. You exhale slowly, watching the smoke drift towards the cracked ceiling.
The papers say it’s good for you—calms the nerves, sharpens the mind. Whether that’s true or not, who bloody knows. Either way, you’re not in a place to argue. Things are looking up, they say, but you've yet to see much of that yourself. At the very least, the fag’s doing a better job than the government when it comes to keeping you sane.
Still, no matter how comforting it is, a cigarette won’t pay the bloody rent.
[[So go on then. Look for a job.]]
[[Or don’t. Maybe not today.]]You pour yourself a whisky—cheap as sin, sharp enough to take the edge off. It’s the kind that stings going down and leaves your throat raw, but hell, it’s worth it. Worth it for the burn alone. The warmth spreads slow, settling in your gut like a small fire, just enough to remind you you’re still alive.
You don’t bother with a glass this time. Straight from the bottle feels more honest.
The air’s stale. Curtains half-drawn. Shadows long. The whisky rolls over your tongue with a bitter twist, sour oak and something vaguely chemical. Still better than the tap water, you reckon.
You lean back in the chair, letting your head rest against the wall. Another swig. Another moment lost to the haze.
They say things are looking up. That the worst is over. But from where you’re sitting, not much has changed. The job’s still missing, the rent’s still looming, and the world still feels like it’s moving on without you. At least the bottle doesn’t ask questions.
Still, drink alone won’t keep the bailiffs off your back.
[[So go on then. Look for a job.]]
[[Or don’t. Maybe not today.]]You pour yourself a whisky—cheap stuff, sharp as vinegar—but sod it, it does the job. It bites as it goes down, singes your throat on the way to your gut, but there’s a comfort in the burn. A warmth that spreads slow, like a fire trying to light in the cold.
Especially when it’s chased with smoke.
You bring the fag to your lips, flicking your silver lighter open with a snap. The flame catches. That first drag mingles with the whisky still lingering on your tongue—ash and alcohol, bitter and biting. The smoke tastes fouler than usual, like it’s clashing with the spirit, but you don’t pull away. You grimace, cough once, then sip again. The second swig goes down easier with the cigarette smouldering between your fingers.
You drag deeper this time, letting the nicotine and booze do their quiet dance. One dulls the nerves, the other fuels whatever’s left. You exhale through your nose, the smoke curling up and around the rim of your glass.
The papers claim smoking’s good for the nerves. Doctors nod along, all smiles and lab coats, but what do they know? You’d like to see one of them live a week in your shoes and not end up chain-smoking and necking whisky by noon. Things are supposedly on the mend, they say. Economy rising. London rebuilding. But down here, in a flat with cracked walls and cold floorboards, the only thing rising is your bar tab.
Still, neither fags nor whisky will pay the bloody rent.
[[So go on then. Look for a job.]]
[[Or don’t. Maybe not today.]]Neither the whisky nor the cigarettes’ll sort your life out, and you know it. The bottle’s near empty, the ashtray’s spilling over, and still the rent looms like a storm cloud. With a sigh, you reach for the newspaper.
It’s damp—must’ve caught some of last night’s rain through the cracked window—and the ink’s smudged, bleeding across the page like some drunk’s attempt at a love letter. You flip to the back, fingers leaving faint grey streaks. That’s where they bury the real jobs. The ones no one wants.
Most listings go on about certifications, experience, trade skills—qualifications you haven’t got. Pages and pages of work meant for people who made better choices. Still, not all of them ask for much.
You pause at a few. Underlined one or two. A tight feeling twists in your gut. Should’ve studied something useful, shouldn’t you? But no—had to chase the dream. Thought you were bloody Byron.
And look where that got you.
[[Check out that construction job.]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.]]
[[Check out that housekeeping job.]]Neither the whisky nor the cigarettes’ll sort your life out, and you know it. The bottle’s near empty, the ashtray’s spilling over, and still the rent looms like a storm cloud. With a sigh, you reach for the newspaper.
It’s damp—must’ve caught some of last night’s rain through the cracked window—and the ink’s smudged, bleeding across the page like some drunk’s attempt at a love letter. You flip to the back, fingers leaving faint grey streaks. That’s where they bury the real jobs. The ones no one wants.
Most listings go on about certifications, experience, trade skills—qualifications you haven’t got. Pages and pages of work meant for people who made better choices. Still, not all of them ask for much.
You pause at a few. Underlined one or two. A tight feeling twists in your gut. Should’ve studied something useful, shouldn’t you? But no—had to chase the dream. Thought you were bloody Byron.
And look where that got you.
[[Check out that construction job.]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.]]
[[Check out that housekeeping job.]]Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
You’ve been spinning that line for weeks now, letting the days slip by like ash off the end of a fag. Curtains half-drawn, the flat quiet, save for the occasional creak or the hum of passing traffic. You’ve stopped checking the time—what for, really?
Hiding away from it all... it was easier, at first. Safer. No pressure, no expectations. No need to see the pity in old mates’ eyes or hear them say “chin up” when you’d rather not hear anything at all. But the smokes? They’re not enough anymore. Not to keep your head right. Not when reality keeps tapping at the windows like bloody rain.
Rent’s due soon. Again.
And the landlord? He’s not the sort to offer second chances. No law’s going to save you—not when the only thing that matters is profit. He’s got mouths to feed too, he says, but it’s hard to care when your own stomach’s starting to ache.
So then...
[[Open the newspaper. Find a job. Pretend there’s still hope.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]Before you find yourself out on the street—no roof, no warmth, just more problems stacked on top of the ones you’ve already got—you let out a low sigh and reach for the newspaper.
The paper’s still damp, edges curling, pages soft from last night’s rain. Must’ve seeped in through the cracked window you’ve been meaning to fix for months. The ink’s a mess, smudged and bleeding like some drunk sod's scribbled regrets. You thumb through it anyway, fingers blackened by the print, flipping straight to the back—the graveyard of forgotten work.
That’s where they stick the real jobs. The kind no one brags about.
Most of it’s the usual lot—certificates required, years of experience needed, trade skills you never bothered to learn. Page after page written for people who didn’t piss away their time chasing some bloody fantasy.
Still, not all of them ask much. A few are circled in pen from the last time you tried to give a damn.
You stare at one for a moment. Then another. A cold weight curls in your stomach. Should’ve done something proper with your life. Should’ve listened. But no—you were going to be different, weren’t you? Thought you had a poet’s soul. Thought the world gave a toss.
And now?
Now you’re here. Skimming the bottom of the barrel, hoping for anything to keep the bailiffs at bay.
[[Check out that construction job.]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.]]
[[Check out that housekeeping job.]]<i>No. Doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve had it. With all of it.</i>
You pack what little you’ve got into a threadbare satchel and take to the streets. No grand farewell. Just cold pavement underfoot and the dull ache of hunger gnawing at your gut.
You try begging—open hand out, eyes low. Most walk past without a glance. A few toss a look of pity. None stop. No one’s got time for a stranger’s ruin, not in this city. Not now.
When you’re lucky, you find scraps in the bins behind cafés. Bits of bread, maybe half a bruised apple if you’re blessed. But folk don’t waste like they used to. Not with rations and prices climbing every week. Spoiled food still finds a home, and it’s rarely the bin.
The days shorten. Nights stretch on, bitter and sharp. You curl beneath a railway arch, coat pulled tight, but the wind slips through anyway, licking at your bones.
Then one night, you just stop waking up.
No warmth. No grand send-off. Just a body gone cold beneath a grey London sky.
<i>At least it was the cold that took you, and not a politician in a polished suit.</i>
<b>Ending One</b>
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><i><strong>CONSTRUCTION WORKERS WANTED – IMMEDIATE START</strong>
<strong>Strong Lads Needed for Site Work</strong><br>
Ongoing builds across Greater London require able-bodied men. No prior experience necessary—training provided on site.<br>
Must be punctual, dependable, and fit for heavy lifting.<br>
Pay: 2 shillings an hour, with potential for long hours and overtime.
Apply in person at Mill & Sons Contractors, Wapping Yard, E1, Monday to Friday, 7:00am sharp. Ask for Mr. Doyle.</i>
<hr>
You run your thumb over the ad, smudging the already-faded ink a little further. "Strong lads"—that’s all they need these days. Doesn’t matter if you’ve read Shakespeare or written sodding sonnets. If you can lift bricks and keep your gob shut, you’re golden.
Industrialisation never did have time for dreamers. But it’s got plenty of space for blokes with tired backs and calloused hands.
You eye the address again. Wapping’s not too far. You could be there by morning if you’re up early enough. You’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of breaking your spine for a few shillings, but rent’s due and whisky doesn’t pour itself.
Your arms ache already, just thinking about it—but at least it’s honest work. And they’re not asking for a degree, are they?
Just a bit of strength and the will to show up.
You fold the paper. Maybe this is it.
[[Go to Wapping Yard in the morning.|WappingStart]]
[[Keep reading the paper.|JobListings]]<i><strong>HOUSEKEEPER URGENTLY REQUIRED – GENEROUS PAY</strong>
<strong>LIVE-IN OPTION AVAILABLE – MUST BE COMMITTED</strong><br>
House in URGENT need of a responsible individual to maintain order and cleanliness.<br>
Previous candidates have proven unsuitable. You MUST be reliable, thorough, and capable of working independently.<br>
Location: Broadcombe, a quiet town on the outskirts of London.<br>
This position pays <strong>3 shillings an hour</strong>, with food and board provided should the applicant choose to move in.<br>
Duration: Stay for as many months as you like. But the house must be looked after. That is non-negotiable.<br>
Apply directly to <strong>Ms. Agatha Bellamy</strong>, 12 Holloway Lane, Broadcombe. No phone enquiries. Serious applicants only.</i>
<hr>
You blink at the ad. The words are printed in a sharp, no-nonsense hand—even the type feels... watchful. You can tell from the phrasing this Mrs. Bellamy’s not the kind to suffer fools. But then again, she’s clearly been looking for someone for a while. Probably desperate by now, considering how generous the pay is—three shillings an hour, plus board? That’s bloody unheard of, especially for housekeeping.
A town job might mean quiet nights, less city smoke. You could even move in, if you wanted. A bed, hot meals, steady coin. Hell, maybe that’s all you need to sort yourself out.
But something about the way she wrote ''the house must be looked after''... gives you pause. Like it wasn’t just some dusty manor she was talking about—but something that breathes.
You rub your neck. That sort of chill doesn’t come from the window draft.
Still. With the way things are going, can you really afford to ignore it?
[[Pack for Broadcombe.|BroadcombeStart]]
[[Keep reading the paper.|JobListings]]<i><strong>JANITOR WANTED – LONDON CITY DISTRICT</strong>
<strong>FULL-TIME POSITION – IMMEDIATE START</strong><br>
Public building requires reliable janitorial staff for daily cleaning and maintenance tasks.<br>
Must be punctual, able to work unsupervised, and not afraid to get your hands dirty.<br>
Previous experience preferred but not essential. Uniform provided.<br>
Pay: <strong>2 shillings and 6 pence per hour</strong>, weekdays only.<br>
Apply in person at <strong>District Maintenance Office, 14 Brigsby Lane, SE5</strong>, between 8 and 10am.</i>
<hr>
You run your eyes across the ad, then again, slower this time. Nothing strange about it—just a proper job, one of the few that still take people without a bloody certificate for wiping down a corridor.
Janitor work's not glamorous, but it’s solid. No heavy lifting, no long train rides out to the sticks. Just you, a mop, and a bit of elbow grease. Decent hours, steady pay. Enough to cover rent if you're smart with your spending.
Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.
[[Head to Brigsby Lane in the morning.|CityJanitorStart]]
[[Keep reading the paper.|JobListings]]You fold the corner of the page, thumb hovering above the listings. One ad catches your eye, then another. Might be worth weighing them out before jumping in blind.
[[Check out that construction job.]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.]]
[[Check out that housekeeping job.]]The town’s a bit further than you’d like, but the ad didn’t leave much room for questions. No number to ring, no way of knowing anything other than what’s written in those stark, desperate lines. “Previous candidates have proven unsuitable.” You’ve seen the phrase a hundred times before—could mean anything, really. It could mean the house is a right mess, or the last few couldn’t handle the work. Or maybe they just weren’t committed enough.
You can do the job. You know that much. It’s just cleaning, isn’t it? How hard can it be?
A small, part of you wonders—what are the other candidates doing wrong? Maybe it’s more than just dusting and sweeping. Maybe there’s something a bit off about the place, something no one else could stomach.
But whatever it is, you’ll find out when you get there. You’re already on the train, the click-clack of the tracks rhythmically pulling you closer to Broadcombe. Might as well make it worth your ticket, even if the job doesn’t pan out. At the very least, you can take a look at the town.
The damp, grey sky seems to weigh down on the landscape, as if London itself is holding its breath. The buildings seem all the same—grey stone and crumbling brick, like they’ve seen too many years and not enough care. Even the trees here look different, branches twisting like crooked fingers, reaching up as if to hold the clouds in place.
And then, there it is.
Broadcombe.
A long stretch of houses, scattered, like they’ve been forgotten by time itself. The one Mrs. Bellamy’s place stands out, but not in a way that you’d expect. The house is small, run-down, the kind that could use more than a lick of paint. The wood at the edges is curling and peeling, and you can’t help but notice the windows are too dark, too empty. Like the house is waiting. Or watching.
You feel a chill run down your spine—the same one you got when you read the ad, when you thought about what you might be walking into.
The wind picks up, rattling the branches, making the whole scene look even more desolate.
The silence here is thick, like the place doesn’t quite belong in the world anymore. There’s no bustle of people, no life to it, just the occasional bird cawing in the distance. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you think it’s hiding something.
You could still leave. You’re not tied to this. But the thought of turning back now… Well, it feels harder than it should.
You step closer to the house. The door, ajar just a little, creaks as the wind passes through, like it’s expecting you. Or daring you.
You could walk away now. Pretend you never saw the ad, and just move on. But something inside you pushes you forward. Maybe it’s the three shillings an hour. Maybe it’s just that you’ve got nothing left to lose.
Either way, you’re already here.
[[Knock on the door.]]
[[Turn back.]]The next morning, you’re up before the sun’s properly risen, the sky hanging low and dull like wet laundry. Fog clings to the pavement, and your boots slap against it, too loud for comfort at this hour. Brigsby Lane isn't far, just a few streets down from the biscuit factory, past the newsagent who never smiles.
District Maintenance Office—there it is. Looks like it hasn’t seen a lick of paint since before the war. You take a breath, square your shoulders, and knock.
"You're early. Good," says a man who looks like he hasn’t slept since ration books. He thrusts a set of overalls at you, no introduction. "Bucket’s in the closet. Loo’s down the corridor. Floor’s a bloody disgrace."
And that’s the interview, apparently.
By lunchtime, you’ve swept two stairwells, unclogged something awful in the men’s lav, and realised the boiler makes a noise like it’s about to explode—but apparently that’s normal.
"Pay’s Friday. Don’t touch the staff biscuits," the same man grunts later, nodding toward a tin in the break room that’s already been pillaged.
Still, you’re hired. No questions about your degree, your past, your dreams. Just got handed a mop and told where to scrub.
It’s not what you imagined when you first moved to the city. You pictured… something else. Suits, maybe. A desk. A bit of dignity. But dignity doesn’t pay rent, and dreams don’t keep you warm.
This does.
So, as you walk home with bleach on your hands and the distinct scent of disinfectant in your nose, you mutter, “Well… at least I’m not on the bloody street.”
<i>Could be worse. Could always be worse.</i>
<b>Ending Two</b>
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>The morning comes far too early, the familiar thrum of the city’s heartbeat already pounding in your chest. You pull on your boots and shrug on a jacket, every part of you groaning in protest. The fog’s still thick, wrapping around your ankles, but you’ve got a job to get to. Wapping Yard’s not far—just a short walk if you can avoid the crowds.
You arrive at the site just as the workers are starting to gather. The smell of wet cement, sawdust, and steel hits you, thick and heavy in the air. A couple of lads are huddled by the entrance, already lighting their fags, laughing like it’s any other day.
A man steps up to you—Mr. Doyle, his thick accent barely cutting through the noise of the construction yard.
"You here for the job?" he asks, giving you a quick once-over. He doesn't even look at the piece of paper you hold.
"Yeah," you say, a little unsure.
"Good," he grunts. "We need strong lads for site work. You’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty, are you?"
You shake your head. "Not at all."
Mr. Doyle’s eyes narrow, scanning you up and down. He spits on the ground. "We work hard here. Long hours. Sometimes overtime if you can handle it. But if you’ve got the muscle, you’ll make decent money. Two shillings an hour, maybe more if you're lucky." He gestures toward the site. "If you want in, you better be able to keep up."
You nod, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. Two shillings an hour—better than begging. But you’ve never done this sort of work before, not like this. Still, you have to swallow that doubt. You need this. You’re bloody desperate.
Mr. Doyle eyes you for a moment longer, then motions toward a stack of bricks. "Lift that. Let’s see what you’ve got."
You don’t hesitate. You grab one of the heavy bricks and hoist it up. It feels like your back might snap, but you manage to carry it to where he’s pointed, setting it down with a grunt.
He raises an eyebrow, impressed, but says nothing.
"You’ve got strength. You’ll do. Show up tomorrow at 7 sharp. No excuses. If you’re late, you’re out. I’ll see you then."
No handshake, no pleasantries. Just that blunt nod, and then he’s off to shout orders at the lads.
You stand there for a moment, the weight of the brick still in your arms, trying to ignore the ache in your back. This is it. This is the life now.
The thought of it—the endless lifting, the grime, the sore muscles—isn’t exciting. You can’t say it’s your dream job, but it’s a job. And, right now, that’s all that matters.
As you leave, the sound of hammers and saws echoes behind you. It’s not glamorous, it’s not dignified, but it’s survival. Just another cog in the wheel of this bloody industrial machine.
Still, rent’s due, and whisky doesn’t pour itself. And for the first time in weeks, you feel like you might just make it through another day.
Ending Three
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>You knock on the semi-open door and step back a little, just in case someone’s on the other side ready to swing a bat at your skull. You don’t fancy a nasty knock to the head, not today.
But instead of a loud thwack, it’s a woman who appears in the gap. She’s in her fifties, her skin pale, hair white, and the lines under her eyes tell a story of exhaustion—a woman who’s been worn down by time and perhaps a good bit of sorrow. She peeks out from behind the broken door, barely enough room to fit her face through.
The door’s barely hanging on, held up by a chain lock that looks like it might snap at any moment. She doesn’t make an effort to open it further.
Her gaze is cold, piercing, those light blue eyes stark against her pale face. You can tell she’s been through something—maybe not recently, but in the past. Those eyes are tired, like she’s seen everything life could throw at her and more.
She doesn’t look confused, or angry, or frightened. There’s nothing on her face but that deep, unsettling emptiness. It’s like she’s a machine, and the human part of her got buried somewhere along the way. She’s seen so much, maybe, that nothing surprises her anymore.
It’s like she doesn’t even know why you’re standing there. Or worse—she does, and it’s no big deal.
The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. The air in the street seems to thicken, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. That strange, uneasy feeling you had earlier is still there—worse now. It feels like something’s wrong, like this place should be abandoned, or worse, forgotten.
You should go. You know you should go. The hairs on your neck are standing up. Something’s not right.
But that damn job.
You need it.
[[Greet her.]]
[[Turn back.|turn back 2]]You decide to turn back, the decision firm as you feel that unsettling chill run down your spine again. You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]Before you find yourself out on the street—no roof, no warmth, just more problems stacked on top of the ones you’ve already got—you let out a low sigh and reach for the newspaper.
The paper’s still damp, edges curling, pages soft from last night’s rain. Must’ve seeped in through the cracked window you’ve been meaning to fix for months. The ink’s a mess, smudged and bleeding like some drunk sod's scribbled regrets. You thumb through it anyway, fingers blackened by the print, flipping straight to the back—the graveyard of forgotten work.
That’s where they stick the real jobs. The kind no one brags about.
Most of it’s the usual lot—certificates required, years of experience needed, trade skills you never bothered to learn. Page after page written for people who didn’t piss away their time chasing some bloody fantasy.
Still, not all of them ask much. A few are circled in pen from the last time you tried to give a damn.
You stare at one for a moment. Then another. A cold weight curls in your stomach. Should’ve done something proper with your life. Should’ve listened. But no—you were going to be different, weren’t you? Thought you had a poet’s soul. Thought the world gave a toss.
And now?
Now you’re here. Skimming the bottom of the barrel, hoping for anything to keep the bailiffs at bay.
[[Check out that construction job.|check out const 2]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.|check out jant 2]]<i><strong>CONSTRUCTION WORKERS WANTED – IMMEDIATE START</strong>
<strong>Strong Lads Needed for Site Work</strong><br>
Ongoing builds across Greater London require able-bodied men. No prior experience necessary—training provided on site.<br>
Must be punctual, dependable, and fit for heavy lifting.<br>
Pay: 2 shillings an hour, with potential for long hours and overtime.
Apply in person at Mill & Sons Contractors, Wapping Yard, E1, Monday to Friday, 7:00am sharp. Ask for Mr. Doyle.</i>
<hr>
You run your thumb over the ad, smudging the already-faded ink a little further. "Strong lads"—that’s all they need these days. Doesn’t matter if you’ve read Shakespeare or written sodding sonnets. If you can lift bricks and keep your gob shut, you’re golden.
Industrialisation never did have time for dreamers. But it’s got plenty of space for blokes with tired backs and calloused hands.
You eye the address again. Wapping’s not too far. You could be there by morning if you’re up early enough. You’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of breaking your spine for a few shillings, but rent’s due and whisky doesn’t pour itself.
Your arms ache already, just thinking about it—but at least it’s honest work. And they’re not asking for a degree, are they?
Just a bit of strength and the will to show up.
You fold the paper. Maybe this is it.
[[Go to Wapping Yard in the morning.|WappingStart]]
[[Keep reading the paper.|JobListings2]]<i><strong>JANITOR WANTED – LONDON CITY DISTRICT</strong>
<strong>FULL-TIME POSITION – IMMEDIATE START</strong><br>
Public building requires reliable janitorial staff for daily cleaning and maintenance tasks.<br>
Must be punctual, able to work unsupervised, and not afraid to get your hands dirty.<br>
Previous experience preferred but not essential. Uniform provided.<br>
Pay: <strong>2 shillings and 6 pence per hour</strong>, weekdays only.<br>
Apply in person at <strong>District Maintenance Office, 14 Brigsby Lane, SE5</strong>, between 8 and 10am.</i>
<hr>
You run your eyes across the ad, then again, slower this time. Nothing strange about it—just a proper job, one of the few that still take people without a bloody certificate for wiping down a corridor.
Janitor work's not glamorous, but it’s solid. No heavy lifting, no long train rides out to the sticks. Just you, a mop, and a bit of elbow grease. Decent hours, steady pay. Enough to cover rent if you're smart with your spending.
Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.
[[Head to Brigsby Lane in the morning.|CityJanitorStart]]
[[Keep reading the paper.|JobListings2]]You fold the corner of the page, thumb hovering above the listings. One ad catches your eye, then another. Might be worth weighing them out before jumping in blind.
[[Check out that construction job.]]
[[Check out that janitor’s job.]]"Hello—"
The moment your voice breaks the silence, she cuts you off, her gaze fixed and unblinking, not an ounce of warmth in her expression.
"Are you here for the job?" she asks, her voice sharp and brisk, as if the pleasantries of a greeting were beneath her.
"Y-yeah, I am," you reply, a bit taken aback by her coldness, her gaze, and everything else about her—the house, the town, the eerie stillness hanging in the air. There’s something unsettling about the way everything seems to be stuck in time, as if the world outside had moved on, but here... nothing had.
She eyes you up and down, studying you as though weighing whether you’d be enough, whether you were capable. Her gaze lingers, piercing, as if she’s measuring the very fibre of your being.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a slight nod, then reaches up to unlock the chain. With a creak of the door, she steps aside.
"Come in," she says flatly, her words carrying no invitation, just the quiet command to enter.
You hesitantly step over the threshold, the chill of the air thickening around you as you follow her into the decaying house. Every creak of the floorboards echoes in the silence.
[[Follow her.]]
[[Turn back.|Turn back 3]]Without a word, you turn your back.
She doesn't say anything. She knows why you're leaving. She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]You follow her inside, your heart a little heavier with each step, a nagging feeling crawling at the back of your mind. Is this a mistake? Are you about to end up in some grisly scene straight out of a nightmare?
The moment you cross the threshold, it’s clear this place is well past its prime. The air inside is thick with age, a musty scent of mildew and dust that feels as though it’s woven into the very walls themselves. The house could really do with a proper renovation, but it’s clear that’s not in the cards anytime soon.
The wallpaper in the hallway grabs your attention first—green, faded, with a pattern of delicate white flowers that once might’ve been charming but now only look tired and worn. The edges are peeling away in places, as though the house is slowly shedding its skin. There’s a faint yellow stain near the baseboards, where water has clearly leaked in at some point, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s in a rush to fix it.
You step into the narrow hallway. To your left, there’s a door that you assume must lead to the bathroom—closed, with a chipped white paint job, the doorknob tarnished with years of use. Further down, a door frame on the right reveals a hole where a door should be—like someone had tried to fix it but never quite finished.
You pass it, making your way into the living room. The space feels cramped, as if the walls are leaning in on you. A faded floral-patterned couch dominates the room, sagging in the middle. The television is on, its flickering screen showing a dull, droning news programme, though you’re not sure anyone’s actually paying attention to it. The furniture looks mismatched, the kind of odd collection you'd expect from a house that’s seen better days. Everything in here feels second-hand, tired, like it’s been lived in too long without any care.
"Sit," she commands, her voice flat and emotionless as she lowers herself onto the couch. The cushions creak under her weight. You hesitate, but there’s nowhere else to go. You sit down, the upholstery too stiff, the air too still.
"So," she says, her pale eyes locking onto yours, "why do you want this job?"
[[I need the money.]]
[[I need the experience.]]
[[I was interested in this town.]]Without a word, you turn your back.
She can guess why you left.
She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]"I need the money," you reply, clear and to the point.
"Hm. Don’t we all," she mutters, giving you a quick once-over. "At least you're bein' honest. I can respect that."
She leans back slightly, the sharpness in her gaze never leaving. "Right then," she continues, furrowing her brows, "how do you reckon you are at followin’ rules?"
[[I'm excellent at that.]]
[[I'm no good at that.|I'm horrible at that.]]
[[Depends on the rules.]]"I need the experience," you reply, the words feeling stiff on your tongue, like they don’t quite fit.
She furrows her brows, her gaze sharp as a tack, like she can smell the lie from a mile off.
"Right..." she says, not bothering to call you out directly. There's no need. She already knows why you're here.
Still, she doesn’t dwell on it. "So, how do you reckon you are at followin' rules?"
[[I'm excellent at that.]]
[[I'm horrible at that.]]
[[Depends on the rules.]]"I was interested in this town," you reply, the words feeling stiff on your tongue, like they don’t quite fit.
She furrows her brows, her gaze sharp as a tack, like she can smell the lie from a mile off.
"Right..." she says, not bothering to call you out directly. There's no need. She already knows why you're here.
Still, she doesn’t dwell on it. "So, how do you reckon you are at followin' rules?"
[[I'm excellent at that.]]
[[I'm horrible at that.]]
[[Depends on the rules.]]"I'm excellent at that," you reply, straightforward.
"Mhm." She watches you carefully now, eyes narrowed just a touch. "And if your—say—life depended on the rules?"
Her tone is quiet, but there’s weight behind it. She’s reading your face like it’s a book, searching for the slightest twitch, the faintest doubt.
She doesn’t want to waste time. Not if it means putting a young life like yours at risk. Not if she’s already guessed… you might not be the right one either.
[[Say yes, with a stutter.]]
[[Say yes, clearly.]]
[[Say no.]]“I’m no good at that,” you admit, honest and low.
“Out,” she snaps, turning her face to the barred window. Not another word.
You rise from the settee, retrace your steps down the narrow hall, and step back into the cold. With any luck, you’ll never have reason to darken that doorstep again.
She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]“Depends on the rules,” you admit, honest and low.
“Out,” she snaps, turning her face to the barred window. Not another word.
You rise from the settee, retrace your steps down the narrow hall, and step back into the cold. With any luck, you’ll never have reason to darken that doorstep again.
She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]“Y-yes,” you reply.
“Out,” she snaps, turning her face to the barred window. Not another word.
You rise from the settee, retrace your steps down the narrow hall, and step back into the cold. With any luck, you’ll never have reason to darken that doorstep again.
She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]"Yes," you reply, your tone clear, unwavering.
She studies you for a long moment. Not just listening—measuring. Trying to decide whether you're being earnest… or just another desperate soul saying whatever it takes to get a foot in the door.
Finally, she nods, ever so slightly.
"Alright. And when can you start?"
[[Tomorrow.]]
[[Today.]]
[[A week from now.]]“No,” you reply honestly.
“Out,” she snaps, turning her face to the barred window. Not another word.
You rise from the settee, retrace your steps down the narrow hall, and step back into the cold. With any luck, you’ll never have reason to darken that doorstep again.
She knows you too are unsuitable for the job, just as the previous people that came here were.
You’ve seen enough of this eerie town. No matter how much the pay might tempt you, it’s not worth it. That icy sensation crawling beneath your skin is more than enough reason to leave it behind.
To hell with the ticket money. Wasted, sure, but it’s a small price for peace of mind. You turn on your heel, heading back the way you came, past the crooked shops and silent streets. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You don't want to be part of it.
The walk back to the station feels long, colder than before, but it’s only the early evening when you arrive in London. The city’s noise, the traffic hums and the distant voices, feel like a sharp contrast to that quiet graveyard of a place. You feel a flicker of something resembling relief.
By the time you get back to your flat, it’s dark, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. The city’s heavy fog is just starting to roll in, that sort of damp that gets into your bones, no matter how many layers you wear. You can smell the coal smoke from the nearby factories drifting in the air, and the rumble of a passing tram makes you realise just how quiet everything has been tonight.
You’re not quite ready to crawl back into the lonely flat yet, though. The cold has you shivering, not from the weather, but from the strange sensation of something missing. You stand at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog, that endless stretch of grey.
Maybe it’s the disappointment, maybe the weight of the day’s wasted hope, but something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. You’ll make your way back soon enough, but for now, the night has its grip on you, and all you want is to shake it off.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]"Tomorrow," you reply—short, like she seems to prefer it.
She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. "Why’s that?"
[[I need to bring my stuff.|i need to bring my stuff 2]]
[[On second thought... I can start earlier.|start earlier tomorrow]]She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. "And your clothes? What are you going to sleep in?"
//Fuck//, you mutter under your breath, which luckily didn’t reach her olden ears.
The silence hangs like smoke in the air, waiting.
[[Tomorrow.|tomorrow 2]]
[[A week from now.|a week from now]]"A week from now," you reply—short, like she seems to prefer it.
She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. "Why’s that?"
[[I need to bring my stuff.]]
[[On second thought... I can start earlier.]]"I need to bring my stuff," you say.
"Hm. Whatever. I'll pay for your train ticket," she says, without a hint of hesitation.
[[Ask her why.|ask her why week]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.|tell her u pay ticket week]]
[[Silently accept her help.|accept help week]]"On second thought... I can start earlier," you say, correcting yourself, the words landing a bit too fast—as if eager to please.
"Tomorrow. I'll expect you tomorrow," she says, leaving no room for you to protest. I’ll pay for your train ticket,” she mutters, like she’s discussing the weather. Not a hint of hesitation, not a blink.
[[Ask her why.]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.]]
[[Silently accept her help.]]"I need to bring my stuff," you say.
"Hm. Whatever. I'll pay for your train ticket," she says, without a hint of hesitation.
[[Ask her why.]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.]]
[[Silently accept her help.]]"On second thought... I can start earlier," you say, correcting yourself, the words landing a bit too fast—as if eager to please.
She sighs, long and through her nose. “What about your things?” Her voice carries the fatigue of someone who’s had to repeat herself far too often. “Clothes, soap, a bloody toothbrush?”
You hadn't packed. You didn’t expect to get the job so quickly. But before you can stammer out a reason, she waves a hand dismissively.
“Whatever. I’ll pay for your train ticket,” she mutters, like she’s discussing the weather. Not a hint of hesitation, not a blink.
[[Ask her why.]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.]]
[[Silently accept her help.]]"Tomorrow," you say.
"Perfect. I'll pay for your train ticket," she says, without a hint of hesitation.
[[Ask her why.]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.]]
[[Silently accept her help.]]"A week from now," you say.
"Why wait for so long?" she asks, her tone sharp but not unkind—just tired, maybe, of delays and excuses.
[[I have some things to do.]]
[[On second thought, I could start tomorrow.]]“Why?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“I just… I just want to do whatever it takes to get someone to work here.” Her voice trembles slightly—not from emotion, but from the weight of something you can't quite name. Then, without meeting your eyes, she leans forward and reaches for a worn leather wallet sitting on the coffee table beside the couch. The movement is stiff, deliberate.
“Now here,” she says, flipping it open with practised fingers. From it, she pulls out <b>a crisp ten-pound note</b>—far more than the price of a train ticket. It looks almost untouched, as if it hadn’t been used since before the war.
“Is this enough?” she asks, holding it out to you. Not begging. Not demanding. Just offering, in that same mechanical, flat tone she’s had since you met her.
It’s enough to make your stomach twist.
[[Accept the money.]]
[[Don’t accept it.]]“Thank you, but I can pay for the ticket myself,” you reply, still genuinely grateful for her offer.
“Whatever. Now get out. I’ll expect you tomorrow,” she says, turning to look through the window again, her eyes tracking something unseen beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, yes—but there’s something strange about her. Kindness twisted into coldness, like it forgot how to wear a friendly face.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed you the note—it was like money meant nothing. Like it was just paper. Like she’d long stopped caring what it could buy.
And for all she knows, you might not even come back.
You don’t respond. Just rise, careful not to touch the walls, and make your way down the hallway again. The carpet muffles your steps, threadbare and stained with decades of footsteps. The green wallpaper—faded white flowers clinging to it—looks brittle now. Like it’d crumble at a touch.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky's a dull grey, the sort that hangs heavy over the city like a bad thought. You head to the station quickly, passing shuttered shops and lace-curtained windows that seem to watch you go.
The train station is nearly deserted.
One man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a blank stare, his uniform cap slightly crooked. The building echoes each footstep—no announcements, no crowds, no peanut vendors, no shouting newsboys. Just dust and that eerie, waiting silence.
You offer your ticket. He doesn’t speak. Just punches it with a hollow clack and nods toward the platform.
The train comes with a hiss of steam, its windows dark like tired eyes. You board. Only one other couple’s in the carriage, old, whispering in low voices like they don’t want the train to hear.
It’s a slow ride. The further you get from that town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop.
Was this a mistake?
The house—meant to be abandoned—looked exactly as it should’ve: peeling wallpaper, doorframe with no door, a living room that smelled like forgotten time.
And yet, she was there.
Alive. Hiring.
The pay sounds too good to be true.
But she paid for your train.
Still... that town.
Something about it grips your spine and doesn't let go.
You return to London just as twilight rolls in, the air thick with coal smoke and fog. The familiar grime settles on your coat like an old friend. A tram rattles by, streetlights buzz and flicker like they’re undecided about staying on.
You unlock your flat. Step in. Shut the door.
It’s warm here. Familiar. Real.
[[Pack for your trip tomorrow.]]
[[Don’t pack. You’re not going.]]You take the money without a word, but the gratitude sits quietly in your chest.
“Now get out. I’ll expect you tomorrow,” she says, turning to look through the window again, her eyes tracking something unseen beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, yes—but there’s something strange about her. Kindness twisted into coldness, like it forgot how to wear a friendly face.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed you the note—it was like money meant nothing. Like it was just paper. Like she’d long stopped caring what it could buy.
And for all she knows, you might not even come back.
You don’t respond. Just rise, careful not to touch the walls, and make your way down the hallway again. The carpet muffles your steps, threadbare and stained with decades of footsteps. The green wallpaper—faded white flowers clinging to it—looks brittle now. Like it’d crumble at a touch.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky's a dull grey, the sort that hangs heavy over the city like a bad thought. You head to the station quickly, passing shuttered shops and lace-curtained windows that seem to watch you go.
The train station is nearly deserted.
One man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a blank stare, his uniform cap slightly crooked. The building echoes each footstep—no announcements, no crowds, no peanut vendors, no shouting newsboys. Just dust and that eerie, waiting silence.
You offer your ticket. He doesn’t speak. Just punches it with a hollow clack and nods toward the platform.
The train comes with a hiss of steam, its windows dark like tired eyes. You board. Only one other couple’s in the carriage, old, whispering in low voices like they don’t want the train to hear.
It’s a slow ride. The further you get from that town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop.
Was this a mistake?
The house—meant to be abandoned—looked exactly as it should’ve: peeling wallpaper, doorframe with no door, a living room that smelled like forgotten time.
And yet, she was there.
Alive. Hiring.
The pay sounds too good to be true.
But she paid for your train.
Still... that town.
Something about it grips your spine and doesn't let go.
You return to London just as twilight rolls in, the air thick with coal smoke and fog. The familiar grime settles on your coat like an old friend. A tram rattles by, streetlights buzz and flicker like they’re undecided about staying on.
You unlock your flat. Step in. Shut the door.
It’s warm here. Familiar. Real.
[[Pack for your trip tomorrow.]]
[[Don’t pack. You’re not going.]]"I have some things to do," you explain yourself.
"Hm. Whatever. I'll pay for your train ticket," she says, without a hint of hesitation.
[[Ask her why.|ask her why week]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.|tell her u pay ticket week]]
[[Silently accept her help.|accept help week]]"On second thought, I could start tomorrow," you say, the words quick, almost stumbling over themselves—fearful of letting the opportunity slip through your fingers.
"Perfect. I'll pay for your train ticket," she says, without a hint of hesitation.
[[Ask her why.]]
[[Tell her you can pay for the ticket yourself.]]
[[Silently accept her help.]]“Why?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“I just… I just want to do whatever it takes to get someone to work here.” Her voice trembles slightly—not from emotion, but from the weight of something you can't quite name. Then, without meeting your eyes, she leans forward and reaches for a worn leather wallet sitting on the coffee table beside the couch. The movement is stiff, deliberate.
“Now here,” she says, flipping it open with practised fingers. From it, she pulls out <b>a crisp ten-pound note</b>—far more than the price of a train ticket. It looks almost untouched, as if it hadn’t been used since before the war.
“Is this enough?” she asks, holding it out to you. Not begging. Not demanding. Just offering, in that same mechanical, flat tone she’s had since you met her.
It’s enough to make your stomach twist.
[[Accept the money.|accpt money 2]]
[[Don’t accept it.|dont accept it 2]]“Thank you, but I can pay for the ticket myself,” you reply, still genuinely grateful for her offer.
“Whatever. Now get out,” she says, turning to look through the window again, her eyes tracking something unseen beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, yes—but there’s something strange about her. Kindness twisted into coldness, like it forgot how to wear a friendly face.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed you the note—it was like money meant nothing. Like it was just paper. Like she’d long stopped caring what it could buy.
And for all she knows, you might not even come back.
You don’t respond. Just rise, careful not to touch the walls, and make your way down the hallway again. The carpet muffles your steps, threadbare and stained with decades of footsteps. The green wallpaper—faded white flowers clinging to it—looks brittle now. Like it’d crumble at a touch.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky's a dull grey, the sort that hangs heavy over the city like a bad thought. You head to the station quickly, passing shuttered shops and lace-curtained windows that seem to watch you go.
The train station is nearly deserted.
One man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a blank stare, his uniform cap slightly crooked. The building echoes each footstep—no announcements, no crowds, no peanut vendors, no shouting newsboys. Just dust and that eerie, waiting silence.
You offer your ticket. He doesn’t speak. Just punches it with a hollow clack and nods toward the platform.
The train comes with a hiss of steam, its windows dark like tired eyes. You board. Only one other couple’s in the carriage, old, whispering in low voices like they don’t want the train to hear.
It’s a slow ride. The further you get from that town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop.
Was this a mistake?
The house—meant to be abandoned—looked exactly as it should’ve: peeling wallpaper, doorframe with no door, a living room that smelled like forgotten time.
And yet, she was there.
Alive. Hiring.
The pay sounds too good to be true.
But she paid for your train.
Still... that town.
Something about it grips your spine and doesn't let go.
You return to London just as twilight rolls in, the air thick with coal smoke and fog. The familiar grime settles on your coat like an old friend. A tram rattles by, streetlights buzz and flicker like they’re undecided about staying on.
You unlock your flat. Step in. Shut the door.
It’s warm here. Familiar. Real.
[[A week after...]]You gracefully take the money in your hand.
“Thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful. The note feels crisp between your fingers, strangely fresh for something so old.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed it over, it was like she frankly didn’t give a damn. About its worth. About the note’s value. Like money had lost all meaning to her.
And for all she knows, you might not even return.
“Now get out,” she says, turning to look through the window once more, her eyes tracking something invisible beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, sure, but there’s something odd in her behaviour—off-kilter kindness wrapped in coldness.
You don’t bother responding. You simply stand, pocket the note, and find your way back through the creaky hallway, your footsteps muffled on the worn, patterned carpet. The green wallpaper with its faded white flowers seems more brittle now, like it would crumble if you touched it.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky has dulled to a flat grey, smog curling in the distance. You head quickly toward the station, past shuttered shops and windows that all seem to watch you.
The train station is nearly empty.
A single man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a hollow look, his cap slightly askew. The building echoes your steps—no announcements, no bustling passengers, no smell of roasted peanuts or the chatter of a newsboy. Just dust and silence.
You present your ticket without a word. He doesn’t ask any questions. Just punches it and gestures towards the platform.
The train arrives a few minutes later with a hiss of steam, its windows dark, like empty eyes. You step into a carriage where you're the only passenger, save for an elderly couple seated far at the back, whispering to one another like they’re afraid to speak out loud.
The ride is slow. The further you get from that eerie town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop circling in your mind.
Was this a mistake?
That house... it looked abandoned. It was supposed to be abandoned. The wallpaper was peeling. The doorframe had no actual door, just an open wound of a wall. And yet, she was there. Sitting. Living. Hiring.
The pay—on paper—looks too good to be true.
But she did pay for your train ticket.
Still, that town...
There’s something about it that gave you the chills. That still does.
You arrive back in London just as the sky is starting to dim into fog-soaked twilight. Your footsteps echo against the pavement as you walk the final stretch to your flat, the familiar city grime feeling oddly comforting. Coal smoke hangs in the air. A tram rattles past. The yellow streetlights flicker to life.
You unlock your flat, close the door behind you—and stare at the note she gave you. Just one piece of paper. But it feels like a stone in your pocket.
You know taking the money and not showing up tomorrow would be scummy. You weren’t raised that way.
Then again, no one is forcing you to return.
[[A week after...]]You gracefully take the money in your hand.
“Thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful. The note feels crisp between your fingers, strangely fresh for something so old.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed it over, it was like she frankly didn’t give a damn. About its worth. About the note’s value. Like money had lost all meaning to her.
And for all she knows, you might not even return.
“Now get out. I’ll expect you tomorrow,” she says, turning to look through the window once more, her eyes tracking something invisible beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, sure, but there’s something odd in her behaviour—off-kilter kindness wrapped in coldness.
You don’t bother responding. You simply stand, pocket the note, and find your way back through the creaky hallway, your footsteps muffled on the worn, patterned carpet. The green wallpaper with its faded white flowers seems more brittle now, like it would crumble if you touched it.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky has dulled to a flat grey, smog curling in the distance. You head quickly toward the station, past shuttered shops and windows that all seem to watch you.
The train station is nearly empty.
A single man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a hollow look, his cap slightly askew. The building echoes your steps—no announcements, no bustling passengers, no smell of roasted peanuts or the chatter of a newsboy. Just dust and silence.
You present your ticket without a word. He doesn’t ask any questions. Just punches it and gestures towards the platform.
The train arrives a few minutes later with a hiss of steam, its windows dark, like empty eyes. You step into a carriage where you're the only passenger, save for an elderly couple seated far at the back, whispering to one another like they’re afraid to speak out loud.
The ride is slow. The further you get from that eerie town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop circling in your mind.
Was this a mistake?
That house... it looked abandoned. It was supposed to be abandoned. The wallpaper was peeling. The doorframe had no actual door, just an open wound of a wall. And yet, she was there. Sitting. Living. Hiring.
The pay—on paper—looks too good to be true.
But she did pay for your train ticket.
Still, that town...
There’s something about it that gave you the chills. That still does.
You arrive back in London just as the sky is starting to dim into fog-soaked twilight. Your footsteps echo against the pavement as you walk the final stretch to your flat, the familiar city grime feeling oddly comforting. Coal smoke hangs in the air. A tram rattles past. The yellow streetlights flicker to life.
You unlock your flat, close the door behind you—and stare at the note she gave you. Just one piece of paper. But it feels like a stone in your pocket.
You know taking the money and not showing up tomorrow would be scummy. You weren’t raised that way.
Then again, no one is forcing you to return.
Some people wouldn’t bat an eye. Some would pocket the note and never look back.
Are you one of those people?
[[No. I’ll go, but just because I’d feel guilty. What’s the worst that could happen?]]
[[No, but I’ll still go because I have to.]]
[[I am not, but… I’m not going.]]
[[I am, so I frankly don’t care about not going. Because I’m not.]]“No, but thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful.
“Now get out. I’ll expect you tomorrow,” she says, turning to look through the window again, her eyes tracking something unseen beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, yes—but there’s something strange about her. Kindness twisted into coldness, like it forgot how to wear a friendly face.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed you the note—it was like money meant nothing. Like it was just paper. Like she’d long stopped caring what it could buy.
And for all she knows, you might not even come back.
You don’t respond. Just rise, careful not to touch the walls, and make your way down the hallway again. The carpet muffles your steps, threadbare and stained with decades of footsteps. The green wallpaper—faded white flowers clinging to it—looks brittle now. Like it’d crumble at a touch.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky's a dull grey, the sort that hangs heavy over the city like a bad thought. You head to the station quickly, passing shuttered shops and lace-curtained windows that seem to watch you go.
The train station is nearly deserted.
One man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a blank stare, his uniform cap slightly crooked. The building echoes each footstep—no announcements, no crowds, no peanut vendors, no shouting newsboys. Just dust and that eerie, waiting silence.
You offer your ticket. He doesn’t speak. Just punches it with a hollow clack and nods toward the platform.
The train comes with a hiss of steam, its windows dark like tired eyes. You board. Only one other couple’s in the carriage, old, whispering in low voices like they don’t want the train to hear.
It’s a slow ride. The further you get from that town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop.
Was this a mistake?
The house—meant to be abandoned—looked exactly as it should’ve: peeling wallpaper, doorframe with no door, a living room that smelled like forgotten time.
And yet, she was there.
Alive. Hiring.
The pay sounds too good to be true.
But she paid for your train.
Still... that town.
Something about it grips your spine and doesn't let go.
You return to London just as twilight rolls in, the air thick with coal smoke and fog. The familiar grime settles on your coat like an old friend. A tram rattles by, streetlights buzz and flicker like they’re undecided about staying on.
You unlock your flat. Step in. Shut the door.
It’s warm here. Familiar. Real.
[[Pack for your trip tomorrow.]]
[[Don’t pack. You’re not going.]]No, but you'll still go because you have to.
You pull your light brown suitcase from beneath the bed, its leather edges scuffed, the brass clasp stubborn from disuse. Dust puffs out as you open it. Inside go your clothes—creased shirts, trousers that have thinned at the knees, and socks gone grey from too many washes. A jumper with a hole under the arm makes the cut; it's warm, at least. Some things haven’t been replaced in years. Maybe you couldn’t afford to. Maybe you just stopped caring.
You tuck your worn toothbrush into the side pocket along with the half-squeezed tube of Colgatus, the cap barely hanging on. It smells faintly of mint and old regrets.
You don’t lock the flat. Just close the door and pull it tight, letting the wind rattle it behind you. The streets are slick from an earlier drizzle, and you keep your head down as you make your way through the city. The lamps flicker, the air tastes of coal and damp stone.
By the time you reach the station, the light’s already fading. You queue quietly, hand over the note, and the man behind the booth barely looks up as he slides your ticket through the slot. A shriek of brakes sounds in the distance, like something protesting your decision before it even begins.
The train is waiting, coughing out steam like it’s too old to keep going. You board without thinking, without hesitation, and find a seat by the window. There’s no crowd—just silence and the soft clatter of tired wheels against tracks.
You watch the city fade, buildings giving way to bare fields and skeletal trees, all of it grey and lifeless. Hours pass in a sort of blur, the hum of the train the only comfort.
And then… [[you arrive.]]You're not going.
There’s no way.
The chill you felt in that… forsaken place wasn’t just a cold draft or bad vibes—it was deeper than that. It curled into your gut, made your teeth itch. It whispered get out in a language you didn’t know you understood until your legs were already walking.
And you listened.
No amount of crisp bills or polite threats could shake that feeling off.
Maybe it’s the disappointment. Maybe it’s the weight of wasted hope—of another job that slipped through your fingers, of another maybe turning into a definitely not. But something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. The fog, the cold, even the way London stares blankly at you tonight—it’s still better than that house.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]You are one of those people, so you don't care.
You're not going.
There’s no way.
The chill you felt in that… forsaken place wasn’t just a cold draft or bad vibes—it was deeper than that. It curled into your gut, made your teeth itch. It whispered get out in a language you didn’t know you understood until your legs were already walking.
And you listened.
No amount of crisp bills or polite threats could shake that feeling off.
Maybe it’s the disappointment. Maybe it’s the weight of wasted hope—of another job that slipped through your fingers, of another maybe turning into a definitely not. But something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. The fog, the cold, even the way London stares blankly at you tonight—it’s still better than that house.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]You’ll still go—not out of duty, not for the money—but because of that wretched, gnawing thing called guilt. It clings to your ribs like smoke, thick and sour, and no matter how far you try to walk from it, it follows.
You pull your light brown suitcase from beneath the bed, its leather edges scuffed, the brass clasp stubborn from disuse. Dust puffs out as you open it. Inside go your clothes—creased shirts, trousers that have thinned at the knees, and socks gone grey from too many washes. A jumper with a hole under the arm makes the cut; it's warm, at least. Some things haven’t been replaced in years. Maybe you couldn’t afford to. Maybe you just stopped caring.
You tuck your worn toothbrush into the side pocket along with the half-squeezed tube of Colgatus, the cap barely hanging on. It smells faintly of mint and old regrets.
You don’t lock the flat. Just close the door and pull it tight, letting the wind rattle it behind you. The streets are slick from an earlier drizzle, and you keep your head down as you make your way through the city. The lamps flicker, the air tastes of coal and damp stone.
By the time you reach the station, the light’s already fading. You queue quietly, hand over the note, and the man behind the booth barely looks up as he slides your ticket through the slot. A shriek of brakes sounds in the distance, like something protesting your decision before it even begins.
The train is waiting, coughing out steam like it’s too old to keep going. You board without thinking, without hesitation, and find a seat by the window. There’s no crowd—just silence and the soft clatter of tired wheels against tracks.
You watch the city fade, buildings giving way to bare fields and skeletal trees, all of it grey and lifeless. Hours pass in a sort of blur, the hum of the train the only comfort.
And then… [[you arrive.]]You pull your light brown suitcase from beneath the bed, its leather edges scuffed, the brass clasp stubborn from disuse. Dust puffs out as you open it. Inside go your clothes—creased shirts, trousers that have thinned at the knees, and socks gone grey from too many washes. A jumper with a hole under the arm makes the cut; it's warm, at least. Some things haven’t been replaced in years. Maybe you couldn’t afford to. Maybe you just stopped caring.
You tuck your worn toothbrush into the side pocket along with the half-squeezed tube of Colgatus, the cap barely hanging on. It smells faintly of mint and old regrets.
You don’t lock the flat. Just close the door and pull it tight, letting the wind rattle it behind you. The streets are slick from an earlier drizzle, and you keep your head down as you make your way through the city. The lamps flicker, the air tastes of coal and damp stone.
By the time you reach the station, the light’s already fading. You queue quietly, hand over the note, and the man behind the booth barely looks up as he slides your ticket through the slot. A shriek of brakes sounds in the distance, like something protesting your decision before it even begins.
The train is waiting, coughing out steam like it’s too old to keep going. You board without thinking, without hesitation, and find a seat by the window. There’s no crowd—just silence and the soft clatter of tired wheels against tracks.
You watch the city fade, buildings giving way to bare fields and skeletal trees, all of it grey and lifeless. Hours pass in a sort of blur, the hum of the train the only comfort.
And then… [[you arrive.]]The chill is just too much to ignore. Whether you took her money or not hardly matters—judging by the way she handed it over without a second thought, she likely has more to spare than you’ll ever see.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]A week slips by. So do your savings.
About that job… Are you actually going to show up?
Some wouldn’t even think twice. They’d pocket the train fare and vanish without a backward glance.
You could be one of those people. But are you?
[[No. I’ll go, but just because I’d feel guilty. What’s the worst that could happen?]]
[[No, but I’ll still go because I have to.]]
[[I am not, but… I’m not going.]]
[[I am, so I frankly don’t care about not going. Because I’m not.]]You gracefully take the money in your hand.
“Thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful. The note feels crisp between your fingers, strangely fresh for something so old.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed it over, it was like she frankly didn’t give a damn. About its worth. About the note’s value. Like money had lost all meaning to her.
And for all she knows, you might not even return.
“Now get out,” she says, turning to look through the window once more, her eyes tracking something invisible beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, sure, but there’s something odd in her behaviour—off-kilter kindness wrapped in coldness.
You don’t bother responding. You simply stand, pocket the note, and find your way back through the creaky hallway, your footsteps muffled on the worn, patterned carpet. The green wallpaper with its faded white flowers seems more brittle now, like it would crumble if you touched it.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky has dulled to a flat grey, smog curling in the distance. You head quickly toward the station, past shuttered shops and windows that all seem to watch you.
The train station is nearly empty.
A single man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a hollow look, his cap slightly askew. The building echoes your steps—no announcements, no bustling passengers, no smell of roasted peanuts or the chatter of a newsboy. Just dust and silence.
You present your ticket without a word. He doesn’t ask any questions. Just punches it and gestures towards the platform.
The train arrives a few minutes later with a hiss of steam, its windows dark, like empty eyes. You step into a carriage where you're the only passenger, save for an elderly couple seated far at the back, whispering to one another like they’re afraid to speak out loud.
The ride is slow. The further you get from that eerie town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop circling in your mind.
Was this a mistake?
That house... it looked abandoned. It was supposed to be abandoned. The wallpaper was peeling. The doorframe had no actual door, just an open wound of a wall. And yet, she was there. Sitting. Living. Hiring.
The pay—on paper—looks too good to be true.
But she did pay for your train ticket.
Still, that town...
There’s something about it that gave you the chills. That still does.
You arrive back in London just as the sky is starting to dim into fog-soaked twilight. Your footsteps echo against the pavement as you walk the final stretch to your flat, the familiar city grime feeling oddly comforting. Coal smoke hangs in the air. A tram rattles past. The yellow streetlights flicker to life.
You unlock your flat, close the door behind you—and stare at the note she gave you. Just one piece of paper. But it feels like a stone in your pocket.
[[A week after...]]“No, but thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful.
“Now get out. I’ll expect you tomorrow,” she says, turning to look through the window again, her eyes tracking something unseen beyond the iron bars. She’s rude, yes—but there’s something strange about her. Kindness twisted into coldness, like it forgot how to wear a friendly face.
Why would she do that, though? The way she handed you the note—it was like money meant nothing. Like it was just paper. Like she’d long stopped caring what it could buy.
And for all she knows, you might not even come back.
You don’t respond. Just rise, careful not to touch the walls, and make your way down the hallway again. The carpet muffles your steps, threadbare and stained with decades of footsteps. The green wallpaper—faded white flowers clinging to it—looks brittle now. Like it’d crumble at a touch.
Outside, the air is damp and still. The sky's a dull grey, the sort that hangs heavy over the city like a bad thought. You head to the station quickly, passing shuttered shops and lace-curtained windows that seem to watch you go.
The train station is nearly deserted.
One man stands behind a wooden counter, handing out tickets with a blank stare, his uniform cap slightly crooked. The building echoes each footstep—no announcements, no crowds, no peanut vendors, no shouting newsboys. Just dust and that eerie, waiting silence.
You offer your ticket. He doesn’t speak. Just punches it with a hollow clack and nods toward the platform.
The train comes with a hiss of steam, its windows dark like tired eyes. You board. Only one other couple’s in the carriage, old, whispering in low voices like they don’t want the train to hear.
It’s a slow ride. The further you get from that town, the lighter your chest begins to feel—but the questions don’t stop.
Was this a mistake?
The house—meant to be abandoned—looked exactly as it should’ve: peeling wallpaper, doorframe with no door, a living room that smelled like forgotten time.
And yet, she was there.
Alive. Hiring.
The pay sounds too good to be true.
But she paid for your train.
Still... that town.
Something about it grips your spine and doesn't let go.
You return to London just as twilight rolls in, the air thick with coal smoke and fog. The familiar grime settles on your coat like an old friend. A tram rattles by, streetlights buzz and flicker like they’re undecided about staying on.
You unlock your flat. Step in. Shut the door.
It’s warm here. Familiar. Real.
[[A week after...|a week after 2]]A week passes by.
Tomorrow, the old woman will be waiting. Expecting you to return to that eerie little town—the one that still creeps into your thoughts when the night is too quiet.
You stand in your flat, staring at your battered suitcase in the corner. The room is cold, the kind of cold that settles into the bones and whispers doubts with every passing second.
The silence stretches.
[[Pack for your trip tomorrow.]]
[[Don’t pack. You’re not going.]]The station hasn’t changed—only now, it feels even colder. The iron benches are slick with dew, glistening under the sickly, dim lamplight. A creeping mist curls through the air, hugging the cobblestones like a memory. The town looms in the distance, skeletal and still, as though it had been waiting for you all along, even before you’d left.
That chill you felt the first time?
It hasn’t gone.
It’s deeper now. A presence, unseen but undeniably there, crawls under your skin. Something behind those dark windows watches, waiting to see if you’ll come back.
[[Walk up to the door of that house.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]You walk up to the house, each step dragging like the weight of your thoughts is tied to your feet. The suitcase in your hand feels heavier than it did earlier, its handle digging into your palm, but you don’t stop. You’ve come this far, haven’t you?
You reach for the door with your free hand, your fingers brushing against the cold, weathered wood. It’s the same door you saw last time—slightly ajar, just like before—but there’s something off this time. The chain that should have kept it shut? It’s gone. Gone, and instead, there’s a slight obstruction on the ground. It’s not heavy, just enough to stop the door from opening fully, something subtle yet wrong.
The air around you grows colder as you stare at the door, and the weight of it all—the hesitation, the anticipation, and the strange pull towards it—feels like it’s pulling you in.
[[Push the door open.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]You’re not doing this. The unease weighs heavier now, pressing against your chest. You turn your back on the house, its shadow stretching long and cold, and force yourself to walk away. Every step feels harder, like the ground beneath you wants to pull you back, but you keep moving.
The station is just a shadow now, a dull promise in the distance. You can’t bring yourself to look back, not even once, as you make your way there—each breath colder than the last, the weight of what could have been pressing down on you.
...
You're not going.
There’s no way.
The chill you felt in that… forsaken place wasn’t just a cold draft or bad vibes—it was deeper than that. It curled into your gut, made your teeth itch. It whispered get out in a language you didn’t know you understood until your legs were already walking.
And you listened.
No amount of crisp bills or polite threats could shake that feeling off.
Maybe it’s the disappointment. Maybe it’s the weight of wasted hope—of another job that slipped through your fingers, of another maybe turning into a definitely not. But something tells you it’s better to be out here a while longer. The fog, the cold, even the way London stares blankly at you tonight—it’s still better than that house.
[[Check out the other jobs.]]
[[Don’t. Step outside, see what the pavement feels like at night.]]You push the door open, the slight obstruction giving way with a soft scrape against the floor. The house beyond is silent, too silent, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. The dim light from the street lamps outside barely cuts through the murkiness inside, casting long, twisted shadows across the room.
There’s something unsettling about the stillness, as though the house has been waiting for you—or perhaps, as though it’s forgotten how to make noise at all. You step inside, the floor creaking beneath your weight, and you feel the chill wrapping itself around you once more, just like it did before.
It’s like stepping into another world entirely—one that’s frozen, suspended in time, and yet, the air seems thick, heavy with an unspoken expectation.
[[Go inside.]]
[[Call out for the lady.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]Would you going inside be committing a crime?
She said to come today, and here you are—standing in front of her door, watching it hang ajar like an invitation, even though she hasn't opened it for you. It wasn’t exactly locked, but... was it really meant for you to enter? It’s not like you’re a lawyer—can’t afford one, anyway.
Still, you doubt it matters. From what you know of her, Agatha doesn’t seem the type to make a fuss over some half-baked trespassing.
The hallway smells of damp wood and musty old paper, a scent that clings to the air like it’s been stuck here for years. The stool at the door—a chipped white thing—seems to have been the only thing keeping it shut. Beneath the peeling paint, the dark brown wood shows through like it’s seen better days. Probably a hand-me-down from someone’s old flat.
You give a last glance over your shoulder, to the thick fog creeping down the street outside, curling into every corner, just as it does in the heart of this forgotten neighbourhood. The gas lamps flicker weakly, trying to compete with the dimness of the house. The hum of the street sounds distant, as if the town itself is holding its breath.
You step in, unsure of what to do with the door. The chain is still there, rusted and swinging slightly in the breeze. If she didn't want you to open it, she surely would’ve locked it better, wouldn’t she?
[[Lock it with the chain.]]
[[Close the door, holding it closed with the stool.]]
[[Do it with both.]]
[[Leave it open.]]"Hello, Ms. Agatha?" you call out, your voice echoing off the cold walls, but there’s no response. Not even the slightest shift in the air, no creak of a floorboard from the other side.
[[Go inside.|go in after calling her]]
[[Try calling her name again.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]"Ms. Agatha?" you call out again, but still no response.
[[Go inside.|go in after calling her]]
[[Go back while you can.]]You called her, and she is nowhere to be seen.
Legally speaking, it’s a bit of a grey area, isn’t it? She said to come today, and here you are—standing in front of her door, watching it hang ajar like an invitation, even though she hasn't opened it for you. It wasn’t exactly locked, but... was it really meant for you to enter? It’s not like you’re a lawyer—can’t afford one, anyway.
Still, you doubt it matters. From what you know of her, Agatha doesn’t seem the type to make a fuss over some half-baked trespassing.
The hallway smells of damp wood and musty old paper, a scent that clings to the air like it’s been stuck here for years. The stool at the door—a chipped white thing—seems to have been the only thing keeping it shut. Beneath the peeling paint, the dark brown wood shows through like it’s seen better days. Probably a hand-me-down from someone’s old flat.
You give a last glance over your shoulder, to the thick fog creeping down the street outside, curling into every corner, just as it does in the heart of this forgotten neighbourhood. The gas lamps flicker weakly, trying to compete with the dimness of the house. The hum of the street sounds distant, as if the town itself is holding its breath.
You step in, unsure of what to do with the door. The chain is still there, rusted and swinging slightly in the breeze. If she didn't want you to open it, she surely would’ve locked it better, wouldn’t she?
[[Lock it with the chain.]]
[[Close the door, holding it closed with the stool.]]
[[Do it with both.]]
[[Leave it open.]]You shut the door with a soft click, securing it with the chain lock. It doesn’t offer much protection—hell, a child could knock it aside, and the door would swing open without a second thought.
Still, you lock it anyway. It’s a small, fleeting attempt at control in a place that feels so far beyond your reach.
Turning away from the door, you step into the living room. The air is thick with the musty scent of stale cigarette smoke, overlaid with something too sweet. You expect Agatha to be there, maybe sitting in her usual spot, tea in hand, or staring out the window like last time. But when you look around, you find only silence and an empty room.
On the table, a crumpled list of paper catches your eye. The edges curl, as if it’s been sitting there for longer than it should.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]
[[Sit on the couch and wait for Agatha.]]You shut the door with a soft click, the stool placed carefully in front of it. It won’t stop a determined visitor, but it’ll keep the wind at bay. The chain doesn’t offer much more security—hell, a child could knock it aside, and the door would fly open, no trouble at all.
Still, you do it anyway. Just a small semblance of control in a place that feels decidedly out of your hands.
Turning away from the door, you step into the living room. The musty smell of stale cigarette smoke and something too sweet lingers in the air. You expect Agatha to be sitting there, waiting, maybe with a cup of tea, or perhaps simply staring out the window like last time. But when you glance around, you find nothing but emptiness.
On the table, there’s a crumpled list of paper. The edges curl slightly, as if it’s been left there for a while.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]
[[Sit on the couch and wait for Agatha.]]You shut the door with a soft click, placing the stool carefully in front of it. It won’t stop a determined visitor, but it’ll keep the wind at bay. The chain lock doesn’t offer much more security—hell, a child could knock it aside, and the door would swing open without hesitation.
Still, you do it anyway. A small, fleeting attempt at control in a place that feels so far beyond your reach.
Turning away from the door, you step into the living room. The air is thick with the musty scent of stale cigarette smoke, overlaid with something too sweet. You expect Agatha to be there, maybe sitting in her usual spot, tea in hand, or staring out the window like last time. But when you look around, you find only silence and an empty room.
On the table, a crumpled list of paper catches your eye. The edges curl, as if it’s been sitting there for longer than it should.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]
[[Sit on the couch and wait for Agatha.]]You decide to leave the door open for now.
Turning away from the door, you step into the living room. The musty smell of stale cigarette smoke and something too sweet lingers in the air. You expect Agatha to be sitting there, waiting, maybe with a cup of tea, or perhaps simply staring out the window like last time. But when you glance around, you find nothing but emptiness.
On the table, there’s a crumpled list of paper. The edges curl slightly, as if it’s been left there for a while.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.|read it door open]]
[[Go back while you can.]]
[[Sit on the couch and wait for Agatha.|sit on couch wait for her door open]]You can't help yourself.
The way the yellowed paper just sits there... doing nothing... Agatha nowhere to be seen.
It must be a note for you.
You pick up the coffee-stained piece of paper, and on it, in a typewriter's neat but uneven font, is written [[the following]]...You sit on the couch, staring at the empty room. The tick of an old clock on the wall echoes like a reminder of how long you've been waiting.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
Thirty minutes pass—or maybe more. You’ve lost track of time. The room doesn’t change. No footsteps. No door creaks. Just the heavy silence pressing in.
It's clear now: Agatha isn’t coming. She’s not here, and you’re left alone with the quiet hum of the house. The crumpled list still rests on the table, its edges curling with age, a tiny cry for attention in this otherwise still room.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.]]
[[Go back while you can.]]You sit on the couch, staring at the empty room. The tick of an old clock on the wall echoes like a reminder of how long you've been waiting.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
Thirty minutes pass—or maybe more. You’ve lost track of time. The room doesn’t change. No footsteps. No door creaks. Just the heavy silence pressing in.
It's clear now: Agatha isn’t coming. She’s not here, and you’re left alone with the quiet hum of the house. The crumpled list still rests on the table, its edges curling with age, a tiny cry for attention in this otherwise still room.
[[Go ahead and read it. Maybe it's for you.|read it door open]]
[[Go back while you can.]]<div class="letter">Hello, employee.
Congratulations on securing the job—this is your first day.
Now, taking care of this house shouldn’t be difficult.
Or... is it? I’ve lost track of how to form sentences properly. Anyway.
Follow these rules, and you’ll be fine. Disregard them, and you’ll die. If that happens, I’ll have to return, clean up your mess, and find a replacement. Worst of all? I’ll be the one left living here.
So, do as you’re told. Don’t ignore the rules.
And just so you know, there’s no turning back. You’re stuck here. For life.
1. Always keep the front door locked unless absolutely necessary. He doesn’t like it when it’s open.
2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is.
3. The same applies to the radio. Turn it on after 5 A.M., even if the volume’s low. Turn it off after 6 P.M.
4. If you feel watched, you are. Don’t try to look for him. He’s shy. When he’s ready, he’ll show himself.
5. If you’re doing something... inappropriate and feel watched, feel free to stop. It’ll upset him, but he won’t do anything.
6. In the kitchen, there’s a bowl. Put food in it—anything, really. Then close the door. You must leave the kitchen when he’s eating. If you don’t, he’ll knock you out and eat you for disrespecting his privacy. You must feed him three times a day. You may leave the house only to buy food.
7. If you feel someone touching you while you’re asleep, don’t open your eyes. He’s just curious. Let him explore.
8. He’s not an animal. He’s intelligent, sentient.
9. Every morning, next to the radio, you’ll find an envelope. That’s your payment. Use the money to buy food for both him and yourself.
10. Try running now, and he’ll catch you. You will die.
You’re officially employed now. Don’t break the rules.
When do you stop working?
You don’t. Not until you die.
Warm regards,
Agatha
And try not to die too quickly. I really don’t want to go back into that house.
</div>
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</style><<set $rules to "on">>[[What the hell did I just read?]]What the hell did you just read?
[[React in fear.]]
[[React calmly.]]
[[Laugh nervously—this has to be a joke, right?]]What the hell did you just read?
[[React in fear.|react in fear 2]]
[[React calmly.|react calmly 2]]
[[Laugh nervously—this has to be a joke, right?|this has to ne a joke 2]]You can't help yourself.
The way the yellowed paper just sits there... doing nothing... Agatha nowhere to be seen.
It must be a note for you.
You pick up the coffee-stained piece of paper, and on it, in a typewriter's neat but uneven font, is written [[the following|the following 2]]...<div class="letter">Hello, employee.
Congratulations on securing the job—this is your first day.
Now, taking care of this house shouldn’t be difficult.
Or... is it? I’ve lost track of how to form sentences properly. Anyway.
Follow these rules, and you’ll be fine. Disregard them, and you’ll die. If that happens, I’ll have to return, clean up your mess, and find a replacement. Worst of all? I’ll be the one left living here.
So, do as you’re told. Don’t ignore the rules.
And just so you know, there’s no turning back. You’re stuck here. For life.
1. Always keep the front door locked unless absolutely necessary. He doesn’t like it when it’s open.
2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is.
3. The same applies to the radio. Turn it on after 5 A.M., even if the volume’s low. Turn it off after 6 P.M.
4. If you feel watched, you are. Don’t try to look for him. He’s shy. When he’s ready, he’ll show himself.
5. If you’re doing something... inappropriate and feel watched, feel free to stop. It’ll upset him, but he won’t do anything.
6. In the kitchen, there’s a bowl. Put food in it—anything, really. Then close the door. You must leave the kitchen when he’s eating. If you don’t, he’ll knock you out and eat you for disrespecting his privacy. You must feed him three times a day. You may leave the house only to buy food.
7. If you feel someone touching you while you’re asleep, don’t open your eyes. He’s just curious. Let him explore.
8. He’s not an animal. He’s intelligent, sentient.
9. Every morning, next to the radio, you’ll find an envelope. That’s your payment. Use the money to buy food for both him and yourself.
10. Try running now, and he’ll catch you. You will die.
You’re officially employed now. Don’t break the rules.
When do you stop working?
You don’t. Not until you die.
Warm regards,
Agatha
And try not to die too quickly. I really don’t want to go back into that house.
</div>
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</style><<set $rules to "on">>[[What the hell did I just read?|what the hell did i just read 2]]Your breath catches.
No—no, this can’t be right. Your hands are trembling. The words from that note won’t stop echoing in your head.
You glance at the radio, heart pounding in your ears. There it is—an envelope, just like it said.
Is that your payment?
Your stomach turns.
[[Open the envelope.|open the envelope2]]
[[Leave the house.]]You take a slow breath.
Steady now. You’ve seen worse. And this? This is just another oddity.
Your eyes drift to the radio. And there it is—an envelope, just as the note said.
Your first payment, maybe?
[[Open the envelope.|open the envelope2]]
[[Leave the house.]]You let out a nervous laugh.
This has to be a joke. There’s no way any of this is real… right?
But then you turn your head—towards the radio.
And there it is.
An envelope.
Your supposed first payment?
[[Open the envelope.|open the envelope2]]
[[Leave the house.]]Your breath catches.
No—no, this can’t be right. Your hands are trembling. The words from that note won’t stop echoing in your head.
You glance at the radio, heart pounding in your ears. There it is—an envelope, just like it said.
Is that your payment?
Your stomach turns.
[[Open the envelope.]]
[[Leave the house.]]You let out a nervous laugh.
This has to be a joke. There’s no way any of this is real… right?
But then you turn your head—towards the radio.
And there it is.
An envelope.
Your supposed first payment?
[[Open the envelope.]]
[[Leave the house.]]You take a slow breath.
Steady now. You’ve seen worse. And this? This is just another oddity.
Your eyes drift to the radio. And there it is—an envelope, just as the note said.
Your first payment, maybe?
[[Open the envelope.]]
[[Leave the house.]]You reach for the envelope and open it—it’s not even sealed, just looks like an envelope from a utility bill.
Nonetheless, you tear it open and peer inside—and there it is: 504 shillings.
Your eyes widen.
This is payment for an entire week.
This Agatha woman, despite living in this crumbling house, seems to be loaded.
Where does she get her money from?
Probably not anywhere legal.
Tucked inside the envelope is also a small, crumpled note.
<i>(Below is your payment for the first week. I forgot to mention it in the other note, but you may leave the house for groceries between 9 AM and 11 AM. You must intend to return, though. If you think about escaping, he will know. And he will kill you.)</i>
—Agatha.
[[...]]You get up from the couch, hurrying down the old hallway, and try to yank the door open. But just as you do—
Your breath vanishes.
You clutch your neck, gasping, desperate for air, struggling to force the door open—but it won't budge.
Your knees buckle, and you collapse to the floor. Darkness creeps in at the edges of your vision, but before it fully takes you, you catch a glimpse of something.
A black outline.
Human-like.
Hovering above you.
You really shouldn't have tried to escape.
Ending Four
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>You reach for the envelope and open it—it’s not even sealed, just looks like an envelope from a utility bill.
Nonetheless, you tear it open and peer inside—and there it is: 504 shillings.
Your eyes widen.
This is payment for an entire week.
This Agatha woman, despite living in this crumbling house, seems to be loaded.
Where does she get her money from?
Probably not anywhere legal.
Tucked inside the envelope is also a small, crumpled note.
<i>(Below is your payment for the first week. I forgot to mention it in the other note, but you may leave the house for groceries between 9 AM and 11 AM. You must intend to return, though. If you think about escaping, he will know. And he will kill you.)</i>
—Agatha.
[[Go close the door!]]Remembering you left the door open, you hurry back and shut it, sliding the chain into place and wedging the stool in front for good measure.
Only once that's done do you return to the couch and sit down, heart still beating a little too fast.
[[...]]You can't help but wonder—what the hell are these rules?
Who is //he//?
What is //he//?
A person?
Something... else?
A ghost? A spirit? Some kind of entity?
A... monster?
[[You believe it's a monster.]]
[[You don't believe it's a monster.]]You don’t believe it’s a monster. Sure, there are the stories, the rumours, the people who’ve come before you, but you’ve never had any paranormal experiences yourself. It all seems far-fetched, like something out of a creepy urban legend.
But by taking this job, you’ve still stepped right into whatever this place holds. And you don't intend to tempt fate by ignoring the rules.
You decide it’s better to just follow them—no need to test the waters.
But for how long? Are you going to be stuck here forever?
Will you ever leave this wretched place?
You regret deeply taking this job—the streets would have been better than whatever this place is.
But it's too late now. You’ll remain here, probably until the day you die, and hopefully, that won’t be anytime soon.
Or maybe... there’s a way out. What if you could find someone else to take your place?
Not now. Not until you’ve lived here a little longer.
Maybe it’s not a monster. Maybe it’s just the house itself. Or something else.
You glance at the second rule again.
"2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is."
[[Look at the time.]]You believe it's a monster. You haven’t had a paranormal experience yourself, but with all the stories, all the rumours circulating... you can't help but wonder if there's some truth to it.
And clearly, by taking this job, you've stepped right into the heart of it.
You don’t want to test it for more proof.
Better to follow the rules and stay safe.
But for how long? Are you going to be stuck here forever?
Will you ever leave this wretched place?
You regret deeply taking this job—the streets would have been better than whatever hell you’re stuck in.
But it’s too late now. You’ll remain here, probably until the day you die, which, hopefully, won’t be anytime soon.
Or maybe... there’s a way out. What if you could find a new employee to take your place?
Not now. Not until you've lived a little longer in this place.
Maybe the monster needs to allow you access to the outside world.
Is the monster the house itself? Or something else?
Both?
You glance at the second rule again.
//"2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is."//
[[Look at the time.]]You glance at your watch. 5:55 PM.
A few minutes might not hurt, right? It’s just a rule after all.
But what if it’s more than that? What if breaking the rule now means you’ll regret it later?
The weight of the decision settles on your shoulders, and despite your doubts, the thought of angering whatever—or whoever—is watching you is enough to push you into action.
[[Close the curtains now.]]
[[Wait until exactly 6 PM.]]
[[Don’t close the curtains.]]You stand in the now dimly lit room, the thick curtains blocking out any remaining light. The weight of the paper still feels heavy in your hand, as though it’s pulling you into some kind of trap, even though you don’t fully believe in all this nonsense.
You glance back at the radio, your mind racing. The rules were clear about the radio—turn it on after 5 AM, and off after 6 PM. But it wasn’t on when you arrived. Does this count as breaking the rule? Will it anger him? Will it—
No. You stop yourself, taking a deep breath. It's probably fine.
Still, you hesitate. It’s just one more rule. Just one more thing to follow.
[[Don't turn it on.]]
[[Turn it on.]]What's the worst that could happen if you... don't follow the rules to the letter?
It's not like your life depends on it.
Oh, wait, it does.
You glance at your watch. It's 5:55 PM. You stand there for a moment, biting your lip, watching the seconds tick by.
You wait until the clock strikes 6 PM.
When the time comes, you walk over to the window, your fingers trembling as you pull the dark green curtains shut. They’re heavy, thick—good at keeping the light out. As the room grows darker, the weight of the situation presses on you. You glance back at the paper still in your hand.
It says the radio should be turned off after 6 PM, but it was never turned on when you arrived.
What does this mean?
Do you start the radio to make up for the missed hours of silence for... 'him'?
Or do you abide by the rules and turn it on tomorrow when you get up?
[[Don't turn it on.]]
[[Turn it on.]]You decide not to close the curtains.
There isn’t much to do, and you're hungry, so you head into the kitchen.
The linoleum floor creaks underfoot, and the sink is worn, with a small kettle resting on the stove. An old fridge hums in the corner, its enamel finish chipped and faded. The counters are cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few dried herbs hanging from hooks above the sink.
You open the fridge and pull out some sausages, setting them on the counter. With a quick sizzle, you fry them up, the smell filling the small space. You grab a loaf of bread from the breadbox and slice a few pieces to accompany the sausages.
Once ready, you sit down to eat, the warm food comforting in the otherwise cold, quiet kitchen.
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You decide not to turn the radio on, which is probably for the best.
There isn’t much to do, and you're hungry, so you head into the kitchen.
The linoleum floor creaks underfoot, and the sink is worn, with a small kettle resting on the stove. An old fridge hums in the corner, its enamel finish chipped and faded. The counters are cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few dried herbs hanging from hooks above the sink.
You open the fridge and pull out some sausages, setting them on the counter. With a quick sizzle, you fry them up, the smell filling the small space. You grab a loaf of bread from the breadbox and slice a few pieces to accompany the sausages.
Once ready, you sit down to eat, the warm food comforting in the otherwise cold, quiet kitchen.
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]You decide to turn the radio on. The volume is set very low. It's playing some faint classical music, the kind you can barely hear unless you're standing right in front of it.
If you walked away from the radio, you wouldn’t even notice it was on.
You guess //he// must have some sort of supernatural hearing—and probably prefers this particular station—so it's best not to mess with it.
[[Turn up the volume.]]
[[Leave the volume as it is.]]You step into the living room. The atmosphere feels empty, almost cold, with a sense of neglect hanging in the air. The bookshelf stands against the far wall, filled with a mix of well-worn novels, non-fiction books, and a few new, unread ones, their spines still crisp.
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You walk into the bedroom. It's a small, bare room with only the essentials. A metal bed frame stands against the far wall, the iron footboard at the end of the bed giving it a utilitarian look. The bed itself is neatly made, the quilt faded from age but still functional. To the left of the bed is a desk, cluttered with a few papers and an old typewriter. The typewriter is dusty but still in good condition, its keys worn down from use.
Next to the desk is a closet.
Paper is expensive, but... maybe you could write for a while? It might help take your mind off the unsettling situation. Or maybe it's better to go to sleep and forget about the rules for the night.
On the bed is a note that says, <i>"Sheets have been changed. Feel free to sleep here."</i>
[[Go to sleep.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]
[[Write.]]You walk over to the bookshelf.
[[Grab a psychology book.]]
[[Grab a romance book.]]
[[Grab a horror book.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You find your way to the bathroom.
It's a very tight space with only a sink, a toilet, and a bath. The tiles on the floor are chipped and cracked, the faucet on the sink has a slight drip, but everything is functional.
[[Take a bath.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You decide to go to sleep.
You change into your sleepwear and slide under the covers.
You close your eyes, and after struggling to process what is happening, thinking about breaking rule number 2 on the list for a while, you finally manage to fall asleep.
But just as you do, the outline of a humanoid shadow appears in front of you.
You panic. But you can't move. You can't open your eyes.
...
You never open your eyes again.
The void takes you. Forever.
Ending Five
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><style>
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You sit down at the desk and push the typewriter toward you, making yourself comfortable.
<<link "Write">>
<<set _writing to prompt("What do you want to write?")>>
<<replace "#letterOutput">>
<<if _writing>>
<div id="letterOutput" class="letter"><<= _writing >></div>
<<else>>
<div id="letterOutput">You stare at the blank page, unable to think of anything.</div>
<</if>>
<</replace>>
<</link>>
<div id="letterOutput"></div>
[[Go to sleep.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You take your clothes off before turning on the faucet, testing the flow with your hand until the water runs lukewarm.
Once it's warmed up enough, you slip into the bath, letting the water rise around you.
The warmth is comforting. Almost too comforting. You could easily drift off like this.
When the water reaches a level you’re happy with, you turn the faucet off.
[[Take a nap in the bath.]]
[[Clean yourself and get out.]]You turn up the volume, the classical music becoming much more audible now, filling the room with a soft, a bit eerie melody.
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You leave the volume as it is, the classical music remaining a faint, almost ghostly presence in the background.
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You decide to take a nap in the bath.
You close your eyes, and after struggling to process everything that's happening, the weight of the rules, and the unsettling feeling that something's watching, you finally manage to fall asleep.
But just as you do, you feel a presence. A cold, heavy sensation—something hovering above you.
The outline of a humanoid shadow forms in front of you, its shape becoming clearer. You try to move, to fight, but you can't. Your body won’t obey. You can't open your eyes.
A hand, cold and firm, wraps around your throat, pushing you under the water. You gasp for breath, but the water fills your lungs.
You try to scream, but nothing escapes.
...
You never open your eyes again.
The void takes you. Forever.
Ending Six
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>You clean yourself, scrubbing your body with the unfamiliar soap before rinsing off the lather. Afterward, you shampoo your hair, working the suds through before rinsing it out thoroughly. You finish up and step out of the bath, feeling the cool air on your skin.
You're naked.
[[Walk naked to the living room, and put on clothes from your suitcase.]]
[[Don't put on clothes.]]You pull Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche from the shelf, its cover rough beneath your fingers, and sink into the couch, the heavy words pulling you into a darker frame of mind.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER I. PREJUDICES OF PHILOSOPHERS
1. The Will to Truth, which is to tempt us to many a hazardous
enterprise, the famous Truthfulness of which all philosophers have
hitherto spoken with respect, what questions has this Will to Truth not
laid before us! What strange, perplexing, questionable questions! It is
already a long story; yet it seems as if it were hardly commenced. Is
it any wonder if we at last grow distrustful, lose patience, and turn
impatiently away? That this Sphinx teaches us at last to ask questions
ourselves? WHO is it really that puts questions to us here? WHAT really
is this "Will to Truth" in us? In fact we made a long halt at the
question as to the origin of this Will--until at last we came to an
absolute standstill before a yet more fundamental question. We inquired
about the VALUE of this Will. Granted that we want the truth: WHY NOT
RATHER untruth? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the
value of truth presented itself before us--or was it we who presented
ourselves before the problem? Which of us is the Oedipus here? Which
the Sphinx? It would seem to be a rendezvous of questions and notes of
interrogation. And could it be believed that it at last seems to us as
if the problem had never been propounded before, as if we were the first
to discern it, get a sight of it, and RISK RAISING it? For there is risk
in raising it, perhaps there is no greater risk.
2. "HOW COULD anything originate out of its opposite? For example, truth
out of error? or the Will to Truth out of the will to deception? or the
generous deed out of selfishness? or the pure sun-bright vision of the
wise man out of covetousness? Such genesis is impossible; whoever dreams
of it is a fool, nay, worse than a fool; things of the highest
value must have a different origin, an origin of THEIR own--in this
transitory, seductive, illusory, paltry world, in this turmoil of
delusion and cupidity, they cannot have their source. But rather in
the lap of Being, in the intransitory, in the concealed God, in the
'Thing-in-itself--THERE must be their source, and nowhere else!"--This
mode of reasoning discloses the typical prejudice by which
metaphysicians of all times can be recognized, this mode of valuation
is at the back of all their logical procedure; through this "belief" of
theirs, they exert themselves for their "knowledge," for something that
is in the end solemnly christened "the Truth." The fundamental belief of
metaphysicians is THE BELIEF IN ANTITHESES OF VALUES. It never occurred
even to the wariest of them to doubt here on the very threshold (where
doubt, however, was most necessary); though they had made a solemn
vow, "DE OMNIBUS DUBITANDUM." For it may be doubted, firstly, whether
antitheses exist at all; and secondly, whether the popular valuations
and antitheses of value upon which metaphysicians have set their
seal, are not perhaps merely superficial estimates, merely provisional
perspectives, besides being probably made from some corner, perhaps from
below--"frog perspectives," as it were, to borrow an expression current
among painters. In spite of all the value which may belong to the true,
the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher
and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to
pretence, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It
might even be possible that WHAT constitutes the value of those good and
respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously
related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed
things--perhaps even in being essentially identical with them. Perhaps!
But who wishes to concern himself with such dangerous "Perhapses"!
For that investigation one must await the advent of a new order of
philosophers, such as will have other tastes and inclinations, the
reverse of those hitherto prevalent--philosophers of the dangerous
"Perhaps" in every sense of the term. And to speak in all seriousness, I
see such new philosophers beginning to appear...</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a romance book.]]
[[Grab a horror book.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You pick up a romance novel — Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen — and walk over to the couch. Settling in, you open the book and begin to read.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER III.
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,”
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten
minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard
much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper
window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had
Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to
accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a
report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and
seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a
number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing
that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London,
his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the
assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his
two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man...
</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a psychology book.]]
[[Grab a horror book.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You pick up a worn copy of Dracula by Bram Stoker and make your way to the couch. Settling in, you open the creaking pages and begin to read, a chill creeping up your spine.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER III
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL, continued:
When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me.
I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of
every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my
helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a
few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much
as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me
that I was helpless I sat down quietly--as quietly as I have ever done
anything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done. I
am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to
the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it
himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive
me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only
plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes
open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,
or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and
shall need, all my brains to get through.
I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below
shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into
the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making
the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought--that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him
through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the
dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these
menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them.
This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it
must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it
mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his
hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the
coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the
crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless
that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing
which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous
should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there
is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium,
a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some
time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my
mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count
Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of
himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.
* * * * *
Midnight: I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,”
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put
down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He
grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great
white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of
his race...</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a psychology book.]]
[[Grab a romance book.]]
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You step into the living room and open your suitcase, pulling out fresh, clean clothes to change into. The room feels empty, almost cold, with a sense of neglect lingering in the air.
The bookshelf against the far wall holds a mix of well-worn novels, non-fiction books, and a few new, unread ones, their spines still crisp.
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]
[[Go into the bathroom.]]You decide not to put on clothes.<<set $clothes to "off">>
[[Go into the living room.]]
[[Go into the bedroom.]]You step into the living room. The atmosphere feels empty, almost cold, with a sense of neglect hanging in the air. The bookshelf stands against the far wall, filled with a mix of well-worn novels, non-fiction books, and a few new, unread ones, their spines still crisp.
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.|bookshelf alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]You walk into the bedroom. It's a small, bare room with only the essentials. A metal bed frame stands against the far wall, the iron footboard at the end of the bed giving it a utilitarian look. The bed itself is neatly made, the quilt faded from age but still functional. To the left of the bed is a desk, cluttered with a few papers and an old typewriter. The typewriter is dusty but still in good condition, its keys worn down from use.
Next to the desk is a closet.
Paper is expensive, but... maybe you could write for a while? It might help take your mind off the unsettling situation. Or maybe it's better to go to sleep and forget about the rules for the night.
On the bed is a note that says, <i>"Sheets have been changed. Feel free to sleep here."</i>
[[Go to sleep.|go to sleep CONTINUE GAME]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]
[[Write.|wr ALV]]You find your way to the bathroom.
It's a very tight space with only a sink, a toilet, and a bath. The tiles on the floor are chipped and cracked, the faucet on the sink has a slight drip, but everything is functional.
[[Take a bath.|bath alive]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]You walk over to the bookshelf.
[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2]]
[[Grab a romance book.|rom 2]]
[[Grab a horror book.|hor 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]You take your clothes off before turning on the faucet, testing the flow with your hand until the water runs lukewarm.
Once it's warmed up enough, you slip into the bath, letting the water rise around you.
The warmth is comforting. Almost too comforting. You could easily drift off like this.
When the water reaches a level you’re happy with, you turn the faucet off.
[[Take a nap in the bath.|nap bath alive]]
[[Clean yourself and get out.|clean get out alive]]You decide to go to bed.
<<if $clothes is "off">>[[Go to bed naked.]]
[[Put on clothes before going to bed.]]<<else>>[[Sleep naked.]]
[[Sleep in pajamas.]]<</if>><style>
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You sit down at the desk and push the typewriter toward you, making yourself comfortable.
<<link "Write">>
<<set _writing to prompt("What do you want to write?")>>
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<div id="letterOutput" class="letter"><<= _writing >></div>
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[[Go to sleep.|go to sleep CONTINUE GAME]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]You decide to take a nap in the bath.
You close your eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The rules, the strange sense that something's watching—it all feels too much. Eventually, exhaustion overcomes you, and you fall into a restless sleep.
But just as you're about to drift off, you feel it—a presence. Cold, heavy, like something is looming above you.
A shadow forms in front of you, its outline shifting and sharpening. You try to move, to fight back, but your body betrays you. You can’t open your eyes.
You fall asleep...
...
Your eyes snap open. What was that? Was it a hallucination?<<set $first_time to 'on'>>
You clean yourself, scrubbing with unfamiliar soap before rinsing it off. You shampoo your hair, working the suds through before thoroughly rinsing. Afterward, you step out of the bath, the cool air brushing your bare skin.
You're naked.
[[Walk naked to the living room and put on clothes from your suitcase.|put on clothes after bath alive]]
[[Don't put on clothes.|dont put on clothes alive]]You clean yourself, scrubbing your body with the unfamiliar soap before rinsing off the lather. Afterward, you shampoo your hair, working the suds through before rinsing it out thoroughly. You finish up and step out of the bath, feeling the cool air on your skin.
You're naked.
[[Walk naked to the living room, and put on clothes from your suitcase.|put on clothes after bath alive]]
[[Don't put on clothes.|dont put on clothes alive]]You pull Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche from the shelf, its cover rough beneath your fingers, and sink into the couch, the heavy words pulling you into a darker frame of mind.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER I. PREJUDICES OF PHILOSOPHERS
1. The Will to Truth, which is to tempt us to many a hazardous
enterprise, the famous Truthfulness of which all philosophers have
hitherto spoken with respect, what questions has this Will to Truth not
laid before us! What strange, perplexing, questionable questions! It is
already a long story; yet it seems as if it were hardly commenced. Is
it any wonder if we at last grow distrustful, lose patience, and turn
impatiently away? That this Sphinx teaches us at last to ask questions
ourselves? WHO is it really that puts questions to us here? WHAT really
is this "Will to Truth" in us? In fact we made a long halt at the
question as to the origin of this Will--until at last we came to an
absolute standstill before a yet more fundamental question. We inquired
about the VALUE of this Will. Granted that we want the truth: WHY NOT
RATHER untruth? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the
value of truth presented itself before us--or was it we who presented
ourselves before the problem? Which of us is the Oedipus here? Which
the Sphinx? It would seem to be a rendezvous of questions and notes of
interrogation. And could it be believed that it at last seems to us as
if the problem had never been propounded before, as if we were the first
to discern it, get a sight of it, and RISK RAISING it? For there is risk
in raising it, perhaps there is no greater risk.
2. "HOW COULD anything originate out of its opposite? For example, truth
out of error? or the Will to Truth out of the will to deception? or the
generous deed out of selfishness? or the pure sun-bright vision of the
wise man out of covetousness? Such genesis is impossible; whoever dreams
of it is a fool, nay, worse than a fool; things of the highest
value must have a different origin, an origin of THEIR own--in this
transitory, seductive, illusory, paltry world, in this turmoil of
delusion and cupidity, they cannot have their source. But rather in
the lap of Being, in the intransitory, in the concealed God, in the
'Thing-in-itself--THERE must be their source, and nowhere else!"--This
mode of reasoning discloses the typical prejudice by which
metaphysicians of all times can be recognized, this mode of valuation
is at the back of all their logical procedure; through this "belief" of
theirs, they exert themselves for their "knowledge," for something that
is in the end solemnly christened "the Truth." The fundamental belief of
metaphysicians is THE BELIEF IN ANTITHESES OF VALUES. It never occurred
even to the wariest of them to doubt here on the very threshold (where
doubt, however, was most necessary); though they had made a solemn
vow, "DE OMNIBUS DUBITANDUM." For it may be doubted, firstly, whether
antitheses exist at all; and secondly, whether the popular valuations
and antitheses of value upon which metaphysicians have set their
seal, are not perhaps merely superficial estimates, merely provisional
perspectives, besides being probably made from some corner, perhaps from
below--"frog perspectives," as it were, to borrow an expression current
among painters. In spite of all the value which may belong to the true,
the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher
and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to
pretence, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It
might even be possible that WHAT constitutes the value of those good and
respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously
related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed
things--perhaps even in being essentially identical with them. Perhaps!
But who wishes to concern himself with such dangerous "Perhapses"!
For that investigation one must await the advent of a new order of
philosophers, such as will have other tastes and inclinations, the
reverse of those hitherto prevalent--philosophers of the dangerous
"Perhaps" in every sense of the term. And to speak in all seriousness, I
see such new philosophers beginning to appear...</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a romance book.|rom 2]]
[[Grab a horror book.|hor 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]You pick up a romance novel — Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen — and walk over to the couch. Settling in, you open the book and begin to read.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER III.
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,”
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten
minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard
much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper
window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had
Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to
accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a
report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and
seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a
number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing
that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London,
his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the
assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his
two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man...
</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2]]
[[Grab a horror book.|hor 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]You pick up a worn copy of Dracula by Bram Stoker and make your way to the couch. Settling in, you open the creaking pages and begin to read, a chill creeping up your spine.
<div class="letter">CHAPTER III
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL, continued:
When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me.
I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of
every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my
helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a
few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much
as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me
that I was helpless I sat down quietly--as quietly as I have ever done
anything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done. I
am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to
the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it
himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive
me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only
plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes
open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,
or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and
shall need, all my brains to get through.
I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below
shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into
the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making
the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought--that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him
through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the
dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these
menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them.
This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it
must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it
mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his
hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the
coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the
crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless
that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing
which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous
should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there
is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium,
a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some
time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my
mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count
Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of
himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.
* * * * *
Midnight: I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,”
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put
down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He
grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great
white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of
his race...</div>
<style>
@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Special+Elite&display=swap');
.letter {
background-color: #fffaf0;
padding: 30px;
border: 1px solid #d6c9a4;
border-radius: 8px;
font-family: 'Special Elite', monospace;
color: #2c2c2c;
font-size: 1rem;
line-height: 1.3;
max-width: 700px;
margin: 0 auto;
white-space: pre-wrap;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
position: relative;
text-shadow: none;
}
.letter::before {
content: "";
position: absolute;
width: 100px;
height: 100px;
background-image: url('https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/09/26/13/41/coffee-2787964_1280.png');
background-repeat: no-repeat;
background-size: contain;
opacity: 0.25;
top: 20px;
left: 20px;
pointer-events: none;
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2]]
[[Grab a romance book.|rom 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]You step into the living room and open your suitcase, pulling out fresh, clean clothes to change into. The room feels empty, almost cold, with a sense of neglect lingering in the air.
The bookshelf against the far wall holds a mix of well-worn novels, non-fiction books, and a few new, unread ones, their spines still crisp.
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.|bookshelf alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|go into the bathroom alive]]You decide not to put on clothes.<<set $clothes to 'off'>>
[[Go into the living room.|go into the living room alive]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|go into the bedroom alive]]The alarm next to the bed pierces your ears, a shrill, unforgiving sound that yanks you out of sleep. You groan, stretching your arms stiffly before reaching out to shut the damn thing off.
It's 4:30 AM.
Next to the alarm is another list—same creased edges, same fading ink. You glance at it and realise it's just a copy of the first one. That woman really wants you to follow the rules, doesn't she?
[[Take a look at the rules again.]]
[[Don't.]]You decide to take a look at the rules again. You can also access the rules by clicking on "The Rules" button on the left side of the screen.
<div class="letter">...
1. Always keep the front door locked unless absolutely necessary. He doesn’t like it when it’s open.
2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is.
3. The same applies to the radio. Turn it on after 5 A.M., even if the volume’s low. Turn it off after 6 P.M.
4. If you feel watched, you are. Don’t try to look for him. He’s shy. When he’s ready, he’ll show himself.
5. If you’re doing something... inappropriate and feel watched, feel free to stop. It’ll upset him, but he won’t do anything.
6. In the kitchen, there’s a bowl. Put food in it—anything, really. Then close the door. You must leave the kitchen when he’s eating. If you don’t, he’ll knock you out and eat you for disrespecting his privacy. You must feed him three times a day. You may leave the house only to buy food.
7. If you feel someone touching you while you’re asleep, don’t open your eyes. He’s just curious. Let him explore.
8. He’s not an animal. He’s intelligent, sentient.
9. Every morning, next to the radio, you’ll find an envelope. That’s your payment. Use the money to buy food for both him and yourself.
10. Try running now, and he’ll catch you. You will die.
...</div>
<style>
@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Special+Elite&display=swap');
.letter {
background-color: #fffaf0;
padding: 30px;
border: 1px solid #d6c9a4;
border-radius: 8px;
font-family: 'Special Elite', monospace;
color: #2c2c2c;
font-size: 1rem;
line-height: 1.3;
max-width: 700px;
margin: 0 auto;
white-space: pre-wrap;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
position: relative;
text-shadow: none;
}
.letter::before {
content: "";
position: absolute;
width: 100px;
height: 100px;
background-image: url('https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/09/26/13/41/coffee-2787964_1280.png');
background-repeat: no-repeat;
background-size: contain;
opacity: 0.25;
top: 20px;
left: 20px;
pointer-events: none;
z-index: 0;
}
</style>[[...|after reading the rules]]You decide to not check them out. Either way, you can access them by clicking on "The Rules" button on the left side of the screen.
You get up from the bed.[[Report a Bug|TargetPassage]]
[[Change Font Size->FONTSIZESETTINGS]]
[[Dark/Light Mode]]
[[Donate]]
<<if $rules is "on">>[[The Rules]]<</if>><h2>Report a Mistake</h2><form action="https://formspree.io/f/mzzevpzr" method="POST" onsubmit="return (function(){const email=document.getElementById('email').value;const emailRegex=/^[a-zA-Z0-9._-]+@[a-zA-Z0-9.-]+\.[a-zA-Z]{2,4}$/;if(!emailRegex.test(email)){alert('Please enter a valid email address format.');return false;}return true;})()"><label for="email">Your Email:</label><input type="email" id="email" name="email" required style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;"><label style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;"><input type="checkbox" id="noGameCheckbox" onchange="(function(){const checkbox=document.getElementById('noGameCheckbox');const emailField=document.getElementById('email');const gameRequestField=document.getElementById('gameRequest');if(checkbox.checked){emailField.value='noemail@noemail.com';emailField.readOnly=true;emailField.required=false;gameRequestField.value='N/A';gameRequestField.readOnly=true;gameRequestField.required=false;}else{emailField.value='';emailField.readOnly=false;emailField.required=true;gameRequestField.value='';gameRequestField.readOnly=false;gameRequestField.required=true;}})()"> I don't want a game</label><label for="gameTitle">Game Title:</label><input type="text" id="gameTitle" name="gameTitle" value="A Monster Under Your Bed" readonly style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;"><label for="gameRequest">What game do you want a copy of?</label><input type="text" id="gameRequest" name="gameRequest" required style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;"><label for="mistake">Describe the Mistake:</label><textarea id="mistake" name="mistake" rows="4" required style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;"></textarea><label for="location">Where did you find it?</label><textarea id="location" name="location" rows="1" required readonly style="display:block; margin-bottom:10px;">Mistake is in passage "<<print previous()>>"</textarea><p><strong>Warning:</strong> If you provide an incorrect email address, I will not be able to send you the game. If you make a mistake, feel free to contact me personally at <a href="mailto:octiwriter@gmail.com">octiwriter@gmail.com</a> for any corrections or inquiries.</p><p><strong>Privacy Policy:</strong> After the game update and key email is sent, your email will be deleted, and I will have no further access to it. Your email will not be used for marketing purposes or shared with third parties.</p><button type="submit">Submit</button></form>
<<return "Go back.">><div class="letter">Hello, employee.
Congratulations on securing the job—this is your first day.
Now, taking care of this house shouldn’t be difficult.
Or... is it? I’ve lost track of how to form sentences properly. Anyway.
Follow these rules, and you’ll be fine. Disregard them, and you’ll die. If that happens, I’ll have to return, clean up your mess, and find a replacement. Worst of all? I’ll be the one left living here.
So, do as you’re told. Don’t ignore the rules.
And just so you know, there’s no turning back. You’re stuck here. For life.
1. Always keep the front door locked unless absolutely necessary. He doesn’t like it when it’s open.
2. After 6 P.M., close the curtains. At 5 A.M., open them. Meaning you’ll have to wake up before 5 and sleep after 6. If you want to live, that is.
3. The same applies to the radio. Turn it on after 5 A.M., even if the volume’s low. Turn it off after 6 P.M.
4. If you feel watched, you are. Don’t try to look for him. He’s shy. When he’s ready, he’ll show himself.
5. If you’re doing something... inappropriate and feel watched, feel free to stop. It’ll upset him, but he won’t do anything.
6. In the kitchen, there’s a bowl. Put food in it—anything, really. Then close the door. You must leave the kitchen when he’s eating. If you don’t, he’ll knock you out and eat you for disrespecting his privacy. You must feed him three times a day. You may leave the house only to buy food.
7. If you feel someone touching you while you’re asleep, don’t open your eyes. He’s just curious. Let him explore.
8. He’s not an animal. He’s intelligent, sentient.
9. Every morning, next to the radio, you’ll find an envelope. That’s your payment. Use the money to buy food for both him and yourself.
10. Try running now, and he’ll catch you. You will die.
You’re officially employed now. Don’t break the rules.
When do you stop working?
You don’t. Not until you die.
Warm regards,
Agatha
And try not to die too quickly. I really don’t want to go back into that house.
</div>
<style>
@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Special+Elite&display=swap');
.letter {
background-color: #fffaf0;
padding: 30px;
border: 1px solid #d6c9a4;
border-radius: 8px;
font-family: 'Special Elite', monospace;
color: #2c2c2c;
font-size: 1rem;
line-height: 1.3;
max-width: 700px;
margin: 0 auto;
white-space: pre-wrap;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
position: relative;
text-shadow: none;
}
.letter::before {
content: "";
position: absolute;
width: 100px;
height: 100px;
background-image: url('https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/09/26/13/41/coffee-2787964_1280.png');
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</style><<return "Go Back">><<if $clothes is "off">>You put on your clothes before tucking the paper into your pocket.<<else>>You change out of your pyjamas and into your everyday clothes before putting the piece of paper in your pocket.<</if>><<set $clothes to "on">>
[[A new day begins—Day Two.]]Before going to bed, you strip off your clothes and drape them over the chair in front of the typewriter.<<set $clothes to 'off'>>
[[Get under the blankets.]]
[[Stay out of the blankets.]]You decide not to sleep naked. You change into your pyjamas and slip beneath the blankets, settling into the quiet. Eyes closed, you let the void take you—second by second.<<set $clothes to 'on'>>
Maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.
[[...|wake up 1]]You decide to sleep naked.<<set $clothes to 'off'>>
[[Get under the blankets.]]
[[Stay out of the blankets.]]You change into your pyjamas and slip beneath the blankets, settling into the quiet. Eyes closed, you let the void take you—second by second.<<set $clothes to 'on'>>
Maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.
[[...|wake up 1]]You slip beneath the blankets, close your eyes, and let the void pull you in, second by second.
Maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.
[[...|wake up 1]]You lie on top of the bed, nestling into the mattress.
But something feels... off.
There’s a strange sense—like you’re not alone. Like you’re being watched.
A presence lingers in the room, unseen and phantom-like, just beyond your grasp.
Then again, maybe it’s all in your head.
[[Fall asleep.]]
[[Have a little fun to relax.]]
[[Slip under the blankets.]]Though your mind protests, whispering that you should get under the blankets, you resist. Instead, you let sleep take you, the darkness creeping in, bit by bit.
[[...|wake up 1]]You decide to have a little fun before sleep—anything to take your mind off things.
Your hand slides down to your cock, fingers wrapping around it as you begin to stroke, slow and deliberate. It stiffens under your touch, heat rising with every pass.
Your breathing quickens. But oddly, so does that unsettling sensation—that you're not alone. The shadows feel heavier now, the presence in the room almost watching... curious.
Still, you're hard. And if—insane as it sounds—someone is out there... maybe it's time to give him a show.
[[Keep going.]]
[[Stop.]]You slip beneath the blankets, close your eyes, and let the void pull you in, second by second. The feeling of being watched quickly disperses.
Was coming here a mistake?
[[...|wake up 1]]Day Two
Where do you want to go?
You’ve only got time for <b>one activity</b> before it’s too late; any more and you’ll be breaking the rules.<<set $early to 0>>
[[Go to the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go to the kitchen.|kitchen d 2]]
[[Go to the living room.|living room d 2]]You decide to carry on. Your heart's pounding like mad, and your breathing grows heavier with every passing second.
You’re rock hard now, each stroke sending waves of heat surging through your whole body. The room feels warmer—no, hotter—and you know it’s not just you. It was much cooler earlier, and sheer lust alone couldn’t have heated the place up like this.
[[Play with your nipples too.]]
[[Finger yourself.]]
[[Keep going as you are.]]You decide to stop.
Though your mind protests, whispering that you should get under the blankets, you resist. Instead, you let sleep take you, the darkness creeping in, bit by bit.
[[...|wake up 1]]You move your free hand to your right nipple, eyes squeezing shut as you pinch it, a fresh jolt of pleasure ripping through your entire body.
You tease it—pinching, squeezing, twisting…
[[Gently.]]
[[With more force.]]Your hand is gentle on your nipples, applying just enough pressure to spark pleasure without tipping into pain. The sensation—combined with the steady rhythm of your hand on your cock—is driving you absolutely mad.
You feel your own precum slicking your fingers, making every stroke smoother, wetter, better. The glide of your hand is effortless now, almost obscene in how good it feels.
The temperature in the room still isn’t dropping. Probably won’t until you stop. And you’re not going to stop. You don’t want to. Even if you <i>tried</i> to pull your hand away from your cock, you doubt you could. It’s like your body’s on autopilot, completely consumed.
[[Try to stop.]]
[[Stroke your cock faster.]]Your fingers tug and twist at your nipples with real force now; enough to sting, enough to make you wince. But the pain only sharpens the pleasure.
Paired with the relentless rhythm of your hand on your cock, playing with your nipple is overwhelming in the best way—almost too much to bear.
You feel your own precum slicking your fingers, making every stroke smoother, wetter, better. The glide of your hand is effortless now, almost obscene in how good it feels.
The temperature in the room still isn’t dropping. Probably won’t until you stop. And you’re not going to stop. You don’t want to. Even if you <i>tried</i> to pull your hand away from your cock, you doubt you could. It’s like your body’s on autopilot, completely consumed.
[[Try to stop.]]
[[Stroke your cock faster.]]You stroke yourself faster, fingers slick and sure, as your other hand drifts to your nipple. You circle it gently, then switch to the other side, savouring the sharp, delicious prickling that shoots through your chest.
You can’t help but wonder why more blokes don’t do this, because it feels absolutely bloody brilliant.
Before you realise it, your balls begin to draw tight, the familiar coil of tension winding deep inside you. Your breath quickens, skin tingling, every nerve alight with that maddening, building heat.
[[Cum.]]
[[Slow down.]]You try to will your hand away from your cock, but it won’t budge. Your pace only quickens, as if something else has taken control of your body.
“Fuck…” you gasp, as more precum dribbles from your tip.
[[Try to resist whatever’s making you wank.]]
[[Give in.]]You give in. There’s no point fighting it. And really—what’s so awful about possibly being watched by some supernatural entity while you’re wanking? Sounds like total bollocks, mad as anything… but still.
If it is real, for all you know, it might be having a tug itself—<i>if</i> it’s got one—while it watches you. Bloody freaky little fella. You let out a laugh at your own thoughts, realising how ludicrous they sound. But the fact you can’t stop, like you’re off your face on something, is definitely… odd, to say the least.
You switch hands, toying with your other nipple now, while you pump your cock harder, faster, precum dripping steadily as the pleasure builds and builds until...
[[You can’t take it anymore.]]You bite down on your lower lip, doing your best to stay silent as you fight to stop your hand from moving.
You let go of your nipple, and there’s a brief flicker of relief, but your other hand, the one wrapped around your length, refuses to stop. No matter how hard you try to move it, it won’t respond. You’ve completely lost control of your arm.
You clutch the sheets beneath you, digging your fingers in, desperately trying to reclaim control over your own body. It’s taking every ounce of strength you’ve got.
If this carries on, you <i>will</i> cum.
[[Keep trying to resist.]]
[[Give in and let it happen.]]You keep trying to resist, jaw clenched, body tense. After what feels like a drawn-out battle of willpower, you let out a strained groan, the sort that escapes when you're pushing yourself far too hard. Your fingers finally peel away from your cock, trembling slightly.
With a sudden, almost violent jerk, you fling your hand aside, tearing it away from your length like it’s something poisonous.
Eyes squeezed shut, you sink back into the pillow, chest rising and falling.
“What the fuck was that...” you mutter.
It was like being drugged. Or like trying to move a paralysed limb—you simply can’t. Only this time, it wasn’t about being unable to move... it was the opposite. You couldn’t stop. Every fibre of your body had fought to keep going, and it had taken everything you had just to stop.
Is this what sex addiction feels like? But surely sex addicts don’t feel like they’re being controlled by something external... right?
The temperature in the room fades into irrelevance. That prickling sense of being watched? Gone.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper, eyes still closed. You’re spent. Whatever energy you had left in the day went into not wanking, and now there’s nothing left.
[[Fall asleep.]]You give in. There’s no point fighting it. And really—what’s so awful about possibly being watched by some supernatural entity while you’re wanking? Sounds like total bollocks, mad as anything… but still.
If it is real, for all you know, it might be having a tug itself—<i>if</i> it’s got one—while it watches you. Bloody freaky little fella. You let out a laugh at your own thoughts, realising how ludicrous they sound. But the fact you can’t stop, like you’re off your face on something, is definitely… odd, to say the least.
You pump your cock harder, faster, precum dripping steadily as the pleasure builds and builds until...
[[You can’t take it anymore.]]You can't take it anymore.
“Fuck...” you gasp, as more precum leaks from the tip of your cock.
Your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]<span class="font-button" onclick="fontSize(2)">🔎➕</span>
<span class="font-button" onclick="fontSize(-2)">🔎➖</span>
This is what the font looks like currently.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
<<return "Go back.">><<button "Toggle Theme">>
<<run settings.Theme = !settings.Theme>>
<<run setup.settingTheme()>>
<</button>>
This is what the game looks like currently.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet consectetur adipiscing elit. Quisque faucibus ex sapien vitae pellentesque sem placerat. In id cursus mi pretium tellus duis convallis. Tempus leo eu aenean sed diam urna tempor. Pulvinar vivamus fringilla lacus nec metus bibendum egestas. Iaculis massa nisl malesuada lacinia integer nunc posuere. Ut hendrerit semper vel class aptent taciti sociosqu. Ad litora torquent per conubia nostra inceptos himenaeos.
<<return "Go back.">>You grab a pillow and wedge it beneath your lower back, adjusting until your hips tilt just right. Knees bent, legs parted, you settle into place with a shaky breath. With your free hand, you spit onto your fingers—warm and wet—and bring them to your arse, smearing the slickness over that tight, sensitive ring.
The moment your fingers touch, you jolt. The sensation is electric, hot and slightly filthy in the best way. You rub slow circles around your hole, the nerves sparking with each motion, while your other hand strokes your cock, precum already making your grip slippery.
You're already close to losing it. Your hips twitch, your breath catches, and you can feel that low heat building fast. But you know you can take it further.
[[Push a finger inside.]]
[[Keep stroking your cock and teasing your hole.]]You decide to keep going as upu are, biting your bottom lip to prevent yourself from making any loud noises. Unless you want to stop doing that.
[[Moan freely.]]
[[Keep biting your lips.]]You push a finger inside, feeling your body resist before slowly yielding. Inch by inch, it slides in, stretching you in a way that makes you wince. A quiet whimper escapes your lips as you try to grow accustomed to the pressure.
Once it’s in, you pause. Your chest rises and falls as you try to settle, to relax, to give your body a moment to adjust. It’s more uncomfortable than you expected, and you can’t help but wish you’d had some proper lubricant on hand. But spit will have to do.
The thought of getting up and heading to the kitchen for the olive oil doesn’t sound terribly appealing.
Then again…
[[Go to the kitchen.]]
[[Begin moving your finger in and out.]]You keep stroking your cock and teasing your hole, careful not to push a finger inside. You might not be hitting your prostate this way, but it feels far better than just jerking off on your own, no matter what your sexual orientation happens to be.
Before you realise it, your balls begin to draw tight, the familiar coil of tension winding deep inside you. Your breath quickens, skin tingling, every nerve alight with that maddening, building heat.
[[Slow down.|slow down rub hole]]
[[Cum.|cum rub hole]]You have to stop and get up.
You slide your finger out, but your hand on your cock... you can't stop stroking it. You try to will your hand away from your cock, but it won’t budge. Your pace only quickens, as if something else has taken control of your body.
“Fuck…” you gasp, as more precum dribbles from your tip.
[[Try to resist whatever’s making you wank.|try to resist whatever is making you wank FINGERING]]
[[Give in.|give in FINGERING]]Despite the discomfort, you begin to move your finger slowly in and out. You know you’ll soon get used to it. Soon the pain will fade, replaced by pure pleasure.
After a while of stroking your cock and fingering yourself, the ache finally eases. You start searching more deliberately for your G-spot, and after a few moments, you find it: your precious prostate.
Sudden waves of intense pleasure ripple through your body. The combined sensation of your hand on your cock and your finger pressing that sensitive spot is enough to drive even the sanest person wild with lust.
[[Put another finger in.]]
[[Your index is enough.]]You keep trying to resist, jaw clenched, body tense. After what feels like a drawn-out battle of willpower, you let out a strained groan, the sort that escapes when you're pushing yourself far too hard. Your fingers finally peel away from your cock, trembling slightly.
With a sudden, almost violent jerk, you fling your hand aside, tearing it away from your length like it’s something poisonous.
Eyes squeezed shut, you sink back into the pillow, chest rising and falling.
“What the fuck was that...” you mutter.
It was like being drugged. Or like trying to move a paralysed limb—you simply can’t. Only this time, it wasn’t about being unable to move... it was the opposite. You couldn’t stop. Every fibre of your body had fought to keep going, and it had taken everything you had just to stop.
Is this what sex addiction feels like? But surely sex addicts don’t feel like they’re being controlled by something external... right?
The temperature in the room fades into irrelevance. That prickling sense of being watched? Gone.
You remove the pillow from underneath you, tossing it to the side.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper, eyes still closed. You’re spent. Whatever energy you had left in the day went into not wanking, and now there’s nothing left.
[[Fall asleep.]]You give in. There’s no point fighting it. There's no point trying to get out of this bed now.
And really—what’s so awful about possibly being watched by some supernatural entity while you’re wanking? Sounds like total bollocks, mad as anything… but still.
If it is real, for all you know, it might be having a tug itself—<i>if</i> it’s got one—while it watches you. Bloody freaky little fella. You let out a laugh at your own thoughts, realising how ludicrous they sound. But the fact you can’t stop, like you’re off your face on something, is definitely… odd, to say the least.
????? EDIT THIS -- Your finger cotnies sliding in and out of you, and then it hits your prostate, sending bolds of pure pleasure through you while you pump your cock harder, faster, precum dripping steadily as the pleasure builds and builds until... (i need much more details for this part)
[[You can’t take it anymore.]]“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You try to slow down, desperate to make it last longer, but it’s no use. Your pace only quickens, like something else has taken over your body entirely.
“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your hand refuses to listen. No matter how hard you try to ease off, it just won’t obey. You’ve lost control of your own arm.
And then it happens: your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You rise to fetch a towel.
There’s a closet beside the desk.
You open it and pull out a fresh towel, patterned with delicate flowers. With it, you carefully wipe your hands and your stomach clean.
[[Sleep naked.|sleep naked after beating your meat]]
[[Sleep in pajamas.|sleep in pajamas after beating your meat]]With the hand you'd used to stroke yourself, you bring it to your mouth, tasting the musky mess left upon your fingers. You lick thoroughly, not wasting a drop. Your cum is salty, with a subtle sweetness, and thick above all else.
It clings to your tongue and throat like a stubborn stain. The texture strangely enjoyable, and you dare not lose a single drop.
But you're not finished yet.
You gather the remainder from your stomach, eagerly licking it clean. Your fingers click softly between your lips and tongue as they slide in, coated with your salty release. You savour every last bit from your belly.
A soft hum escapes you as you finish consuming your own release. "Fuck..." you whisper, breathless, because that was a bloody brilliant session.
The temperature in the room becomes irrelevant. That prickling feeling of being watched has vanished.
[[Get up and wash your hands.]]
[[Fall asleep.]]You try to slow down, desperate to make it last longer, but it’s no use. Your pace only quickens, like something else has taken over your body entirely.
“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your hand refuses to listen. No matter how hard you try to ease off, it just won’t obey. You’ve lost control of your own arm.
And then it happens: your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
You move your hand away from your hole.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
You move your hand away from your arse.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You slide your middle finger in alongside the first, feeling your hole stretch even more, but this time, it hardly hurts at all. In fact, it feels good, being opened up like that. And when your middle finger starts pressing against your prostate too, the pleasure only intensifies.
Before you know it, your balls begin to tighten, that familiar coil of tension winding deep in your gut. Your breathing quickens, skin flushed, every nerve on edge from the maddening build-up of heat.
[[Cum.|cum_fingering_2_finger]]
[[Try to slow down.|try to slow down fingering 2 fingers]]Your index finger is enough. You feel like your whole body is on fire enough.
Before you know it, your balls begin to tighten, that familiar coil of tension winding deep in your gut. Your breathing quickens, skin flushed, every nerve on edge from the maddening build-up of heat.
[[Cum.|cum_fingering_1_finger]]
[[Try to slow down.|try to slow down fingering 1 fingers]]“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock as your finger continues to stimulate your prostate.
???? NO EDIT ????? Your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
/ ??????????Aftetr taking a breather, you pull your fingers out, slowly, feeling your hole go empty and unstretched as you remove them.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You try to slow down, desperate to make it last longer, but it’s no use. Your pace only quickens, like something else has taken over your body entirely.
“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your hand refuses to listen. No matter how hard you try to ease off, it just won’t obey. You’ve lost control of your own arm.
And then it happens: your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
You slowly pull your fingers out of your hole.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock as your finger continues to stimulate your prostate.
???? NO EDIT ????? Your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
/ ??????????Aftetr taking a breather, you pull your finger out, slowly, feeling your hole go empty and unstretched as you remove it.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You try to slow down, desperate to make it last longer, but it’s no use. Your pace only quickens, like something else has taken over your body entirely.
“Fuck...” you gasp, more precum leaking from the tip of your cock.
Your hand refuses to listen. No matter how hard you try to ease off, it just won’t obey. You’ve lost control of your own arm.
And then it happens: your cock twitches in your grip, and thick, hot ropes of white cum shoot out, splattering messily over your stomach. After a few spurts, it slows, dripping down your hand, leaving a sticky mess there too.
You slowly pull your finger out of your hole.
[[Get up and find a towel.]]
[[Eat your cum.]]You get out of the bed.
[[Go to the kitchen.|go to the kitchen to wash hands after jerking off]]
[[Go to the bathroom.|go to the bathroom to wash hands after jerking off]]Despite everything, you decide to sleep naked.<<set $clothes to 'off'>>
[[Get under the blankets.|get under the blankets after mast]]
[[Stay out of the blankets.|stay out of the blankets after mast]]You change your mind about sleeping starkers. Slipping into your pyjamas, you climb beneath the blankets and settle into the hush. Eyes shut, you let the void take you, second by second.<<set $clothes to 'on'>>
Maybe living here won’t be so dreadful after all.
[[...|wake up 1]]You stop biting your nbottom liop, the rpoom echpoing yoiur moans as your keep moving your hand up and down your cock.
/ * NO EDIT * /You stroke yourself faster, and before you realise it, your balls begin to draw tight, the familiar coil of tension winding deep inside you. Your breath quickens, skin tingling, every nerve alight with that maddening, building heat.
[[Cum.]]
[[Slow down.]]You keep biting your lips, trying to surpress the sounds of pleasure that are yrying gtpo escpae from y oru lips, so much so it hurts a tiny but, but its a good feeling type of pain.
/ * NO EDIT * /You stroke yourself faster, and before you realise it, your balls begin to draw tight, the familiar coil of tension winding deep inside you. Your breath quickens, skin tingling, every nerve alight with that maddening, building heat.
[[Cum.]]
[[Slow down.]]You slip beneath the blankets, close your eyes, and let the void pull you in, second by second.
Jerking off before trying to fall asleep was a great idea.
Maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.
[[...|wake up 1]]You lie on top of the bed, nestling into the mattress.
[[Fall asleep.]]
[[Slip under the blankets.|slip under the blankets after jerking]]You slip beneath the blankets, close your eyes, and let the void pull you in, second by second.
Jerking off was a great idea.
[[...|wake up 1]]You walk into the kitchen.
The linoleum floor creaks underfoot, and the sink is worn, with a small kettle resting on the stove. An old fridge hums in the corner, its enamel finish chipped and faded. The counters are cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few dried herbs hanging from hooks above the sink.
You go to the worn sink and turn on the tap, washing your hands before [[heading back to the bedroom]].You find your way to the bathroom.
It's a very tight space with only a sink, a toilet, and a bath. The tiles on the floor are chipped and cracked, the faucet on the sink has a slight drip, but everything is functional.
You turn on the tap, washing your hands before [[heading back to the bedroom]].You walk back to the bedroom.
[[Sleep naked.|sleep naked after beating your meat]]
[[Sleep in pajamas.|sleep in pajamas after beating your meat]]You find your way to the bathroom.
It's a very tight space with only a sink, a toilet, and a bath. The tiles on the floor are chipped and cracked, the faucet on the sink has a slight drip, but everything is functional.
[[Take a bath.|take a bath d 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]
[[Go into the kitchen.|kitchen d 2]]You step into the living room. The atmosphere feels empty, almost cold, with a sense of neglect hanging in the air. The bookshelf stands against the far wall, filled with a mix of well-worn novels, non-fiction books, and a few new, unread ones, their spines still crisp.
<<if $early is 0>>You glance at your watch. It's 4:35 AM. Maybe take a bath or have some breakfast to pass the time. You could try reading too.<<elseif $early is 1>>You glance at your watch. It’s 4:55 AM.<<elseif $early > 1>>It's 5:55 AM. You've broken the rules.<</if>>
[[Turn the radio on.]]
[[Pull the curtains open.]]
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.|bookshelf 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]You take your clothes off before turning on the faucet, testing the flow with your hand until the water runs lukewarm.
Once it's warmed up enough, you slip into the bath, letting the water rise around you.
The warmth is comforting. Almost too comforting. You could easily drift off like this.
When the water reaches a level you’re happy with, you turn the faucet off.
[[Take a nap in the bath.]]
[[Clean yourself and get out.|clean yourself and get out d 2]]You walk into the bedroom. It's a small, bare room with only the essentials. A metal bed frame stands against the far wall, the iron footboard at the end of the bed giving it a utilitarian look. The bed itself is neatly made, the quilt faded from age but still functional. To the left of the bed is a desk, cluttered with a few papers and an old typewriter. The typewriter is dusty but still in good condition, its keys worn down from use.
Next to the desk is a closet.
Paper is expensive, but... maybe you could write for a while? It might help take your mind off the unsettling situation. Or maybe it's better to go to sleep and forget about the rules for the night.
[[Go back to sleep.|back to sleep d 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Write.|write d 2]]You head into the kitchen.
The linoleum floor creaks underfoot, and the sink is worn, with a small kettle resting on the stove. An old fridge hums in the corner, its enamel finish chipped and faded. The counters are cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few dried herbs hanging from hooks above the sink.
[[Put food in the bowl for 'him'.]]
[[Eat something.]]<<if $early is 'true'>><<set $early to 'false'>><<else>><<set $early to 'late'>><</if>><style>
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You sit down at the desk and push the typewriter toward you, making yourself comfortable.
<<link "Write">>
<<set _writing to prompt("What do you want to write?")>>
<<replace "#letterOutput">>
<<if _writing>>
<div id="letterOutput" class="letter"><<= _writing >></div>
<<else>>
<div id="letterOutput">You stare at the blank page, unable to think of anything.</div>
<</if>>
<</replace>>
<</link>>
<div id="letterOutput"></div>
<<if $early is 'late'>>After you finish writing, you get up and collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
It was too late to abide by the rules.
Ending Nine
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><<else>>[[Go back to sleep.|back to sleep d 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]<</if>>You decide to head back to sleep — which, as it turns out, is a mistake. One that costs you your life.
As you drift off, a shadowy figure emerges above you. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
Ending Ten
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>You decide to turn the radio on. The volume is set very low. It's playing some faint classical music, the kind you can barely hear unless you're standing right in front of it.
<<if $early is 0>>A sudden wave of dread washes over you. It’s too early for the radio or the curtains, so best to turn the radio off.
[[Turn it off while you can.]]
[[Let it stay on.]]<<else>>You should also [[pull the curtains open]].<</if>>You decide to pull the curtains open. The sky outside is dark, touched only slightly by sunlight.
<<if $early is 'true'>>A sudden wave of dread washes over you. It’s too early for the radio or the curtains, so best to pull them shut.
[[Close the curtains.]]
[[Leave them open.]]<<else>>You should also [[turn the radio on]].<</if>>You walk over to the bookshelf.
[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2.1]]
[[Grab a romance book.|romance 2]]
[[Grab a horror book.|horror 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]Not wanting to tempt fate, you switch the radio off. The dread ebbs away almost instantly, leaving you to catch your breath.
[[Turn the radio on.]]
[[Pull the curtains open.]]
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.|bookshelf 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]You decide to leave it as it is. And that’s when the room seems to darken. It might still be night, but... it’s far darker now. Or is it just you?
You collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
Ending Seven
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>Not wanting to tempt fate, you close the curtains. The dread ebbs away almost instantly, leaving you to catch your breath.
[[Turn the radio on.]]
[[Pull the curtains open.]]
[[Walk over to the bookshelf.|bookshelf 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]You decide to leave them as it is. And that’s when the room seems to darken. It might still be night, but... it’s far darker now. Or is it just you?
You collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
Ending Eight
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>You pick up a worn copy of Dracula by Bram Stoker and make your way to the couch. Settling in, you open the creaking pages and begin to read, a chill creeping up your spine.<<set $early += 1>>
<div class="letter">Mina Harker’s Journal.
22 September.—In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.
It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between them, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand—see what unexpected prosperity does for us—so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow....
The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....
We came back to town quietly, taking a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who saw us—and we didn’t care if they did—so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cartwheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Giuliano’s when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: “My God!” I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.
He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was so disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew as much about it as he did: “Do you see who it is?”
“No, dear,” I said; “I don’t know him; who is it?” His answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:—
“It is the man himself!”
The poor dear was evidently terrified at something—very greatly terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him, he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:—
“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!” He was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:—
“Why, Mina, have I been asleep? Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.” He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open that parcel and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong but it is for your own dear sake.
Later.—A sad home-coming in every way—the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be:—
“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day.”
Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his life...</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
<<if $early > 1>>You collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
It was too late to abide by the rules.
Ending Nine
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><<else>>[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2.1]]
[[Grab a romance book.|romance 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]<</if>>You pick up a romance novel — Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen — and walk over to the couch. Settling in, you open the book and begin to read.<<set $early += 1>>
<div class="letter">CHAPTER VII.
MR. BENNET’S property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an{37} attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-quarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.{38}
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed,—
“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own, however.”
“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”
“Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his regimentals.{39}”
“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke’s library.”
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,—
“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
“My dear friend,
“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives; for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever...
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
<<if $early > 1>>You collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
It was too late to abide by the rules.
Ending Nine
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><<else>>[[Grab a psychology book.|psy 2.1]]
[[Grab a horror book.|horror 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]<</if>>You pull Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche from the shelf, its cover rough beneath your fingers, and sink into the couch, the heavy words pulling you into a darker frame of mind.<<set $early += 1>>
<div class="letter">CHAPTER II. THE FREE SPIRIT
24. O sancta simplicitas! In what strange simplification and falsification man lives! One can never cease wondering when once one has got eyes for beholding this marvel! How we have made everything around us clear and free and easy and simple! how we have been able to give our senses a passport to everything superficial, our thoughts a godlike desire for wanton pranks and wrong inferences!—how from the beginning, we have contrived to retain our ignorance in order to enjoy an almost inconceivable freedom, thoughtlessness, imprudence, heartiness, and gaiety—in order to enjoy life! And only on this solidified, granite-like foundation of ignorance could knowledge rear itself hitherto, the will to knowledge on the foundation of a far more powerful will, the will to ignorance, to the uncertain, to the untrue! Not as its opposite, but—as its refinement! It is to be hoped, indeed, that LANGUAGE, here as elsewhere, will not get over its awkwardness, and that it will continue to talk of opposites where there are only degrees and many refinements of gradation; it is equally to be hoped that the incarnated Tartuffery of morals, which now belongs to our unconquerable "flesh and blood," will turn the words round in the mouths of us discerning ones. Here and there we understand it, and laugh at the way in which precisely the best knowledge seeks most to retain us in this SIMPLIFIED, thoroughly artificial, suitably imagined, and suitably falsified world: at the way in which, whether it will or not, it loves error, because, as living itself, it loves life!
25. After such a cheerful commencement, a serious word would fain be heard; it appeals to the most serious minds. Take care, ye philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! even in your own defense! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes, when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of enmity, ye have at last to play your last card as protectors of truth upon earth—as though "the Truth" were such an innocent and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, ye knights of the sorrowful countenance, Messrs Loafers and Cobweb-spinners of the spirit! Finally, ye know sufficiently well that it cannot be of any consequence if YE just carry your point; ye know that hitherto no philosopher has carried his point, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little interrogative mark which you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn pantomime and trumping games before accusers and law-courts! Rather go out of the way! Flee into concealment! And have your masks and your ruses, that ye may be mistaken for what you are, or somewhat feared! And pray, don't forget the garden, the garden with golden trellis-work! And have people around you who are as a garden—or as music on the waters at eventide, when already the day becomes a memory. Choose the GOOD solitude, the free, wanton, lightsome solitude, which also gives you the right still to remain good in any sense whatsoever! How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, which cannot be waged openly by means of force! How PERSONAL does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These pariahs of society, these long-pursued, badly-persecuted ones—also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos—always become in the end, even under the most intellectual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, refined vengeance-seekers and poison-Brewers (just lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics and theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that the sense of philosophical humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, his "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator and actor lurks in him; and if one has hitherto contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his deterioration (deteriorated into a "martyr," into a stage-and-tribune-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear WHAT spectacle one will see in any case—merely a satyric play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy IS AT AN END, supposing that every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origin.
26. Every select man strives instinctively for a citadel and a privacy, where he is FREE from the crowd, the many, the majority—where he may forget "men who are the rule," as their exception;—exclusive only of the case in which he is pushed straight to such men by a still stronger instinct, as a discerner in the great and exceptional sense. Whoever, in intercourse with men, does not occasionally glisten in all the green and grey colours of distress, owing to disgust, satiety, sympathy, gloominess, and solitariness, is assuredly not a man of elevated tastes; supposing, however, that he does not voluntarily take all this burden and disgust upon himself, that he persistently avoids it, and remains, as I said, quietly and proudly hidden in his citadel, one thing is then certain: he was not made, he was not predestined for knowledge. For as such, he would one day have to say to himself: "The devil take my good taste! but 'the rule' is more interesting than the exception—than myself, the exception!" And he would go DOWN, and above all, he would go "inside." The long and serious study of the AVERAGE man—and consequently much disguise, self-overcoming, familiarity, and bad intercourse (all intercourse is bad intercourse except with one's equals):—that constitutes a necessary part of the life-history of every philosopher; perhaps the most disagreeable, odious, and disappointing part. If he is fortunate, however, as a favourite child of knowledge should be, he will meet with suitable auxiliaries who will shorten and lighten his task; I mean so-called cynics, those who simply recognize the animal, the commonplace and "the rule" in themselves, and at the same time have so much spirituality and ticklishness as to make them talk of themselves and their like BEFORE WITNESSES—sometimes they wallow, even in books, as on their own dung-hill. Cynicism is the only form in which base souls approach what is called honesty; and the higher man must open his ears to all the coarser or finer cynicism, and congratulate himself when the clown becomes shameless right before him, or the scientific satyr speaks out. There are even cases where enchantment mixes with the disgust—namely, where by a freak of nature, genius is bound to some such indiscreet billy-goat and ape, as in the case of the Abbe Galiani, the profoundest, acutest, and perhaps also filthiest man of his century—he was far profounder than Voltaire, and consequently also, a good deal more silent. It happens more frequently, as has been hinted, that a scientific head is placed on an ape's body, a fine exceptional understanding in a base soul, an occurrence by no means rare, especially among doctors and moral physiologists. And whenever anyone speaks without bitterness, or rather quite innocently, of man as a belly with two requirements, and a head with one; whenever any one sees, seeks, and WANTS to see only hunger, sexual instinct, and vanity as the real and only motives of human actions; in short, when any one speaks "badly"—and not even "ill"—of man, then ought the lover of knowledge to hearken attentively and diligently; he ought, in general, to have an open ear wherever there is talk without indignation. For the indignant man, and he who perpetually tears and lacerates himself with his own teeth (or, in place of himself, the world, God, or society), may indeed, morally speaking, stand higher than the laughing and self-satisfied satyr, but in every other sense he is the more ordinary, more indifferent, and less instructive case. And no one is such a LIAR as the indignant man...</div>
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</style>You walk over to the bookshelf and slide the book back into its place between the others.
<<if $early > 1>>You collapse to the floor, and above you, a shadowy figure appears. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
It was too late to abide by the rules.
Ending Nine
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">><<else>>[[Grab a romance book.|romance 2]]
[[Grab a horror book.|horror 2]]
[[Go into the living room.|living room d 2]]
[[Go into the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go into the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]<</if>>The game has come this far! If you’d like to help it grow even further, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>The game has come this far! If you’d like to help it grow even further, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>You clean yourself, scrubbing your body with the unfamiliar soap before rinsing off the lather. Afterward, you shampoo your hair, working the suds through before rinsing it out thoroughly. You finish up and step out of the bath, feeling the cool air on your skin.
You're naked.<<set $clothes to 'off'>><<set $early += 1>>
[[Walk naked to the living room, and put on clothes from your suitcase.|walk naked to the living room, and put on clothes from your suitcase d 2]]
[[Don't put on clothes.|don't put on clothes d 2]]You walk into the living room and take some clothes from your suitcase, getting dressed. You could unpack the rest and put them in the wardrobe now, or leave it for later.
[[Put your clothes in the wardrobe.]]
[[Do something else.]]You decide not to put on clothes.
You walk to the fridge and open it. There's hardly any food.
If you want to eat, or feed 'him', you'll have to go out, buy something, bring it back, open the curtains and turn on the radio. By then, it'll be around five AM.
[[Go outside.]]
[[Go somewhere else.]]The game has come this far! If you’d like to help it grow even further, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>You leave the kitchen and step into the narrow hallway, its faded wallpaper peeling like old scabs. The floorboards creak beneath your weight. But before you go, you glance over by the wireless set — and there it is: a yellowed envelope, tucked just beside it. Inside, precisely seventy-two shillings. Enough, perhaps, to last a day or two.
You make your way to the front door — a rotting thing barely hanging on its hinges, secured only by a rusting chain lock that looks ready to give way with a sharp tug. You unhook it carefully and step out into the stale night air.
The streets are quiet. You walk a few blocks, past rows of boarded-up buildings and crumbling brickwork, each one more derelict than the last. This town was dying when you arrived — now it feels long dead.
But then, one building catches your eye. Lights flicker weakly behind grimy windows. Inside, a gaunt, weathered man sits behind a counter, his back hunched like the structure around him. It's a shop, somehow.
A shop still running in this godforsaken place.
You wonder: who could he possibly be selling to? And why stay open at all?
[[Go to the shop.]]
[[Try to run away.]]You decide to leave the kitchen.
[[Go to the bathroom.|bathroom d 2]]
[[Go to the bedroom.|bedroom d 2]]
[[Go to the living room.|living room d 2]]If you’re going to run, now’s the time. You’ve had enough of this wretched town.
You turn towards the train station — the same one that brought you to this miserable place — but before you can take a step, something shoves you backwards. Hard. You hit the ground, breath knocked out of you. Above, a shadowy figure looms.
You want to panic, scream, do something — but it’s as if every ounce of strength has been drained from your body. You’re too tired to even move.
Your eyelids grow heavy. Then — pain. A sharp, stabbing agony tears through your chest, again and again, each strike driving straight into your heart.
Warm blood fills your mouth. You choke on it, gasping, drowning. It spills over your lips and soaks your shirt, cutting you short of your final breath.
Ending Eleven
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>The game has come this far! If you’d like to help it grow even further, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>The game has come this far! If you’d like to help it grow even further, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>You take your suitcase and head to the bedroom. You walk over to the wardrobe, open the case, and begin placing your clothes inside.
After a few minutes, a wave of dizziness washes over you. Your vision blurs, and you stumble backwards.
You collapse onto the floor. The room spins. Above you, a shadowy figure comes into view. You’d panic, but it’s as if every ounce of energy has been drained from your body. You’re too exhausted to even react.
As your eyes begin to close, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your chest, again and again. Straight to the heart.
You choke on your own blood as it fills your mouth, spilling out and cutting you short of your final breath.
Ending Twelve
[[Start over?]]
<<return "Go back.">>This game is still under development. Right now, it has 38,596 words.
All rights reserved.
[[Start->Start over?]]If you’d like to help in the development of this game, feel free to leave a donation on <a href="https://payhip.com/b/51XN3" target="_blank">PayHip</a>.
<<return "Go back.">>