housexploration

config.footer.left: " " config.style.backdrop: "gray-6" config.style.page.color: "black" config.style.page.link.color: "black" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "gray-4" config.body.transition.duration: "400ms" ED: 0 LOOKSY: 0 MR: 0 WHISPER: 0 -- [align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/welcomemat.gif', alt: 'Image of a welcome mat, mostly desaturated with some red and blue lights faintly shining on it.'} [continue] [align center] Step into a pair of shoes: ~~[[> RED->RED]]~~ ~~[[> ASH->ASH]]~~

~~> please note that this is where someone once loved and was loved.~~ ~~> be polite in your exploration.~~ ~~> do not take anything with you when you leave.~~ [align center] ~~[[CONTINUE]]~~

[[SELECT]]

player: 1 config.style.backdrop: "black" config.style.page.color: "white" config.style.page.link.color: "blue-2" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "gray-6" -- [align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/ashhouse-2.jpg', alt: 'Image of a wooden door.'} [continue] You keep your shoes on, grimacing at the wet sand clinging to your soles. That's gonna be hell to clean later. The door in front of you is rotting and crumbling under it's own weight. When you tentatively knock on the wood, there's no response other than a noise so faint you wonder whether you'd only imagined it. [align center] ~~[[open the door->BEGIN]]~~

player: 2 config.style.backdrop: "white" config.style.page.link.color: "grape" -- [align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/redhouse.jpg', alt: 'Image of a partly open door. Light shines through the gap.'} [continue] Dirt and dust cling to your shoes, visible from the sides but you don't bother to wipe it off on the mat. You reach forward to twist the knoorknob, and— Hesitate. You think you want to do this one by yourself, actually. You take <s>your</s> ~~his~~ shoes off. He blinks, the world settling into focus. The door in front of him is dull and faded with age. There's a light coming out from under the door, though he can't hear anyone or anything from the other side. [align center] ~~[[open the door->BEGIN]]~~

A hallway stretches out in front of [if player === 1; append] you. It's too dark to make out any details, but when you raise your arms you can almost reach from one side of the wall to the other. The wallpaper is peeling; you can't even tell what color it originally was. You walk forward until you reach the end of the hallway. You take a turn to the {dropdown menu for: 'turn', choices: [' ', 'left.', 'right.']} [[> Continue->firstturn-1]] [if player === 2; append] him. The lights on the ceiling are obnoxiously bright, especially for this time of the day. He squints slightly as he starts walking towards the elevator at the end of the hallway — maybe Red has the right idea, wearing sunglasses all the time. There's no one else around. From 6B, he can hear faint noises - music, someone letting out a frustrated huff when a note pitches too high - and further down the hall, the noise of children laughing. It fades when he gets closer to the door, and starts up again when he walks past it. He steps into the elevator and lets his head thunk back against the metal with a sigh. The elevator shudders into motion with a low death rattle. With a soft _ding_, he reaches [[the fifth floor.]]

[if turn === 'right.'] The floorboards creak under your feet as you carefully make your way through the house. There's an odd buzzing noise you can't quite place; some electrical appliance still left plugged in? With the state that the house is in, it's not very likely. Your footsteps echo weirdly. The sound bounces back towards you faster than it should. At the end of this hall, there's another turn. To your right: a faint, flickering glow. To your left: you can barely make out a longer corridor twisting further into the house. You go to the {dropdown menu for: 'turnR2', choices: ['left.', 'right.']} [[> Continue->turnR]] [if turn === 'left.'] The corridor goes on for what seems like forever, a constant drip-drip echoing from somewhere you can't place. It's better lit at least, some of the broken tiles in the roof allowing faint patches of light to peek through and illuminate the framed photos on the walls. The photos are faded and clearly suffered through water damage, but you've seen these before. You remember enough to be able to still make out some of the details; two people with their arms slung around each other, too busy laughing at each other to look into the camera. [if turn === 'left.'] [align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/anigif.gif', alt: 'Two people hugging. The image is too blurry and darkened to clearly see any details.'} [continue] [if turn === 'left.'] Up ahead, there's another turn. You go to the {dropdown menu for: 'turnL2', choices: ['left.', 'right.']} [[> Continue->turnL]] [if turn === ' '] You think for a moment, considering your choices. It would be best to [[pick a direction->CONTINUE]] to go in.

[if turnR2 === 'right.'] You turn right, and walk only a few spaces before you reach what appears to be a kitchen. A lone lightbulb perseveres despite its gloomy surroundings. The kitchen is a wreck, much like the rest of the house. There's a layer of grimy water covering the floor — you grimace at the feeling of it seeping into your shoes — and most of the cabinets have been flung open, like someone had hastily cleared it out and forgot to close them afterwards. Anything left behind is waterlogged and utterly unusable. You lean against the table for just a second, to catch your breath. Even just walking around makes you feel worn out these days. You should probably go back to exercising regularly. A closer look at the drawers reveals rusted cutlery and some chipped mugs with the weird, incomprehensible designs Ash liked to cover them with. Towards the back of one, a small carving rolls back and forth - a totem of some kind, you think. [[> Take the totem.]] [[> Go further into the house.]] [if turnR2 === 'left.'] Whoever designed this house clearly was aiming to win an award for something like _'most convoluted house design'_, you think, because there's no other explanation for all the long winding corridors and lack of windows. It's almost claustrophobic, and you do your best to ignore the weird noises; something scuttling under the floorboards and the electrical buzz which you aren't entirely sure is electrical at all. ..There's another turn at the end of this corridor. You sigh. Lethargy seems to seep into your bones more often these days. You take a moment to consider — the left side had a door you could try to open, as opposed to the right that went even further in — then turn to the {dropdown menu for: 'turnR2L', choices: ['left.', 'right.']} [[> Continue->endingone]]

[if turnL2 === 'right.'] It just keeps _going,_ you grouse to yourself, annoyed with the cramped corridors and how it feels like it's gradually pressing closer around you. Even the light patches become further and further in between, obscured by debris and slanted planks and god knows what else has collapsed onto the roof. Nothing about this house is structurally sound, but here you are anyway. Something squishes under your shoes. When you recoil, there's a dark smudge on the floorboard. It's nothing out of the ordinary. There's bound to be some small creatures around — insects and worms attracted to the mold and decay, if nothing else. Still, it'll be a relief when you finally reach an [[exit.->LEAVELEAVE]] [if turnL2 === 'left.'] The dripping noise doesn't cease as you keep moving forward. It's relentless enough to become something close to white noise, and you have to rub your eyes more than once to shake away the beginning of sleep. God, you're so tired. You want to go home. It just keeps _going,_ you grouse to yourself, annoyed with the cramped corridors and how it feels like it's gradually pressing closer around you. At least the light is somewhat consistent, bright enough to stop you from walking straight into walls when you hadn't been expecting a turn. At the end of this hall is a staircase. It looks like it leads up to the attic. [[> Keep going.->endingtwo]]

ED: ED + 1 turnR2: 'left.' -- You hesitate for a moment, feeling the slight, almost pulsing warmth of the totem in your palm. ...It wouldn't hurt to take something so small, would it? It's not like anyone was around to miss it anyway. You pocket it and turn to leave the kitchen, heading back to the hallways and this time, [[to the left.->turnR]]

turnR2: 'left.' -- You hesitate for a moment, feeling the slight, almost pulsing warmth of the totem in your palm. ...Probably best to leave it here. You place it back in the drawer and turn to leave the kitchen, heading back to the hallways and this time, [[to the left.->turnR]]

[if turnR2L === 'left.'] _Creak._ You grunt as you push your entire weight against the wood, the hinges making an awful noise as the door opens slowly. It's as dark in here as the rest of the house. [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED > 0; append] You take the totem out of your pocket and hold it out in front of you. The little lights embedded in it barely function and don't really do much to give you a clear look of your surroundings, but it's enough to let you pick out the scratches on the floor and walls, and the stagnant water. This might've been a storage cupboard once, from the looks of it, but there's nothing left in it now. The buzzing reaches a higher pitch, though you still can't seen anything around that could be making that noise. You gingerly step down into the hollowed out area, water sloshing around your ankles. Something solid and cold floats on the surface. ...A lot of somethings, you realise, shuddering when your legs bump against another one, and another. The shape reminds you of worms, if worms were the size of house cats — or maybe a large rat, considering some of it are smaller. They're all lifeless, unmoving except for bobbing along with the ripples in the water you're making, but you can't help feeling unsettled out of nowhere, like a million different eyes are peering into you all at once. The totem slips out of your sweaty grasp and startles you out of your thoughts. You swear and reach down for it, doing your best to ignore the dead things around you — this entire house was basically a _dead thing,_ you'd think that by now you'd be used to it. Light refracts and vanishes under your hands as you blindly fumble around. Your glasses slipping down your nose doesn't help either, but you swear there's more light here than there was a moment ago. It's mesmerising, stinging your eyes but still welcome after so long spent in the dark. You plunge your face into the water — cold, warm, _bright_ — — and then you don't know much of anything else. [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED > 0; append] [align center] ~~[[sink->You'll wake up soon.]]~~ [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED === 0] This might've been a storage cupboard once, from the looks of it, but there's nothing left in it now. The buzzing reaches a higher pitch, though you still can't seen anything around that could be making that noise. You gingerly step down into the hollowed out area, water sloshing around your ankles. Something solid and cold floats on the surface. ...A lot of somethings, you realise, shuddering when your legs bump against another one, and another. The shape reminds you of worms, if worms were the size of house cats — or maybe a large rat, considering some of it are smaller. They're all lifeless, unmoving except for bobbing along with the ripples in the water you're making, but you can't help feeling unsettled out of nowhere, like a million different eyes are peering into you all at once. [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED === 0] [after 20 seconds] ~~leave~~ [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED === 0] [after 21 seconds] ~~leave~~ [if turnR2L === 'left.' && ED === 0] [after 22 seconds] ~~[[leave]]~~ [if turnR2L === 'right.'] Your shoes make a wet squelch as you make your way down the corridor, one hand placed against the wall to keep you from slipping and landing face first on the probably-moldy floor. You _really_ should've worn better shoes for this. At the end of the corridor is an open door, and a faint light past it. The hinges squeak when you push the door further open. A small lamp on a bedside table glows slightly, the light catching on the bedsheets and the still-glossy posters on the walls. Clothes are spilling out of the closet. Some kind of stain has spread on the floorboards near to it, but you can't quite make out what it is. The bed is unmade, blanket spilling onto the ground and almost covering the shoes that have been shoved under the bed frame. Whoever left here didn't have the time to pack up everything. The bed creaks when you place your weight on it fully, leaning back into a moth-eaten pillow. It would easy to fall asleep here, in the cold and the soft glows. You don't have much left to do here anyway; the house is rotted and gutted and there's nothing worth here coming back for. [if turnR2L === 'right.' && ED > 0] The smell of mold and seawater is almost overpowering here. You shuffle around a bit, burying your face further into the pillow. All you get for your troubles is a mouth full of cotton and the stench of wet fabric. It's harder to breath, but you don't want to move either. You're sinking into the mattress, sighing when your bones finally get the chance to relax. When you try to take in a deeper breath, more cotton fills your mouth, cutting off your airways. You're not very concerned. You don't think you can be. You're just _tired_, and the bed is comforting in the way an embrace would be. There's a pressure all around you, even though you're fairly sure you didn't actually get under the covers. It's not a big deal. You can figure it out later. Everything will be alright. [[You'll wake up soon.]] [if turnR2L === 'right.' && ED === 0] The smell of mold and seawater is almost overpowering here. For a moment you're _so_ tempted to just lie down here and sleep for a bit, but the smell is enough to remind you that the house isn't structurally sound in the slighest, and you have things to do and places to be anyway. You lift yourself up. You could either [[leave->LEAVELEAVE]], or take a [[look]] around the room first.

turnR2L: 'right.' -- The second you slam the door behind you, you're not sure anymore what freaked you out so badly. ..It was kind of stupid, wasn't it? Just a bunch of dead creatures. You've seen worse. Comparatively, this was nothing at all. You lean back against the door, running your fingers through your hair and just — taking a minute. You're very tired, you realise abruptly, not the physical kind but the type that makes your head heavy and all the emotion in your chest shrivel up and die like the first leaves of autumn. You [[keep going anyway.->endingone]] You're so close to an end, now.

The building has eight floors in total, if he doesn't count the terrace-roof, or whatever Red likes to call it. He knows this only because of the buttons in the elevator — he's never had reason to step outside of the sixth floor before. Red has lived on the sixth for as long as he has known him. They're strangers who've known each other for a _long_ time. If you asked Red, he'd say something about how they've known each other from birth. Nevermind the two year age difference, or that Red hadn't figured out the bus system until he was five and two quarters. The story changes every so often; they met because he'd stolen Red's glasses, or it was when he'd gotten lost in the city, or because Red broke into his house on a humid Monday afternoon — or a Tuesday night, and so on. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember the name of the pet fish Red used to keep around either, or what sort of thing Red might like to receive as a holiday gift. It feels like something he _should_ know. Shouldn't he? The fifth floor is as empty as the one above it, except that someone is playing heavy metal from somewhere, and a voice, despite being muffled, pitches up above it to yell, _"TURN THAT SHIT OFF,"_ with the kind of rage he's only heard before from teachers who've been pushed to their limits. It's like being surrounded by ghosts. He can hear them, and feel the vibrations of music through the floor. But there are no shadows, and the lights are off under each door. [[No one's home.]]

Sounds get distorted as he walks further down. His own footsteps echo back to him a beat too late. He clambers down to the fourth floor (nothing of note except the collection of dusty plants outside 3D) and almost trips over the jutted out piece of drywall next to the third floor landing. One of the breaker boxes is open next to it. That probably is against some kind of safety code, not that he'd know anything about it. He'd helped out Red with some of the wiring in the living room once. They had pulled together one large wire through two different sockets instead bringing in seperate wires for each one, and nothing about _that_ whole ordeal had been up to code. None of the switches are labelled, but at least two of them have been shut off. It doesn't seem to be making a difference, considering all the lights are off anyway. Unlike the floors above this one, even the lightbulbs are burnt out. Looks like maintanence got tired of keeping up a floor that doesn't appear to have anyone in it. He pokes his head down the stairwell and finds that there are no lights on further below either. He might as well be staring into an abyss. The term for it was _the call of the void_, or some shit like that. He hadn't really understood it up until this moment: he could let go of the rail and move just a little forward to jump, right now, and— You'd keep falling, you think. The stairwell below you is akin to a black hole. You could fall in and who knows where you'd drop back out. It'd be exhilarating. For a few seconds or for an eternity, you'd know exactly what it's like to be caught in <a href="https://strawpoll.com/embed/GPgV6rNzMga">free fall.</a>

config.style.backdrop: "red-7" config.footer.right: " " config.style.page.color: "black" config.style.page.link.color: "black" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "gray-4" -- [after 5 seconds] [align center] ~~[[wake->SELECT]]~~

There isn't much to see here. You decide to go over to the: * [[Mirror]] * [[Cupboard]] * [[Bedside table]] * [[Window]] ...or you could just [[leave.->LEAVELEAVE]]

[if WHISPER === 1] The second you leave the attic, sound rushes back in. You hadn't even noticed that the dripping noises had stopped, but now that it's back it rings in your head like a continuous chime. [continue] It takes a while for you to make it through the series of hallways. More than once you find yourself turned around, or back in a room you'd already entered — as though the house was actively trying to keep you from leaving. You have the thought that maybe it's not ready for you to go, then shake your head to yourself. You don't have anything left to do here. The sharp glare of the sun is both a relief and a burning pain when you finally make it out through the exit. You take a step forward into the sand and immediately stumble forward to collapse on your knees, suddenly weak with exhaustion and an odd sense of grief. You breathe shallowly through your nose. It's just a house. It's not like anyone even lives here, anymore. There's no reason for you to be upset. It does little to help you shake away the sense that you've lost something important. [align center] ~~[[GET UP->SELECT]]~~

LOOKSY: LOOKSY + 1 -- [if MR === 0] [align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/mirror.gif', alt: 'A mirror.'} [continue] [if MR === 0] You look in the mirror. [if MR === 0] It's just you. You're not wearing your glasses for once, so the bags under your eyes are clearly visible. Your face is dusty, ashen — you look like you came crawling out of the earth and clawed your way up in search of sunlight. [if MR === 0] You feel startlingly uncomfortable, all of a sudden. [if MR === 0] [[>Stop looking.->look]] [if MR === 1] It's broken. You press your finger to the edge of a broken piece and watch dully as blood wells up at the tip. [if MR === 1] [[>Stop looking.->look]]

LOOKSY: LOOKSY + 1 -- A bunch of clothes of varying size and level of comfort. Whoever lived here had a truly horrible sense of fashion; half the shirts have nonsensical sentences printed on them and the other half are printed with dizzying patterns in colors that do not go well together at all. It looks like the wardrobe of someone who would unironically wear a 'too cool for school' shirt. You smile to yourself, nostalgic prompting you to press the fabric between your fingers. It's a familiar feeling. You've done this a thousand times before, reaching forward to grasp the back of Ash's clothes. [[> Close the cupboard.->look]]

[if MR === 0] The table is clear except for the lamp and a pocket knife. All the drawers have been emptied. [[> Take the knife.]] [[> Leave it be.]] [continue] [if MR === 1] The table is clear except for a lamp. All the drawers have been emptied. [[> Go back->look]]

LOOKSY: LOOKSY + 1 -- The curtains had been shut tightly, but even if they hadn't been you don't think the windows would've been able to let much light in. It looks almost frosted over, even though that's impossible. The house is barely five minutes away from the ocean. A small worm crawls on the window sill slowly, creeping closer to the figurine placed against the window - some girl with long, faded blue hair. You watch it for a bit, then flick it off onto the ground. You rub your knuckles over the window pane. It only serves to smudge the glass even further. If you look carefully, you can just barely make out a thousand tiny reflections of yourself in the glass. [[> Stop looking.->look]]

You consider your options for a moment, then pick up the pocket knife. It's rusted, and the metal is so worn you can't even catch a glimpse of your reflection in it. You hum consideringly, then turn towards the mirror. [[> Break the mirror.]] [[> Put the knife down.->look]]

You consider your options for a moment. The metal doesn't look like it'll be much use to you, as dull as it is. [[You leave it behind.->look]]

MR:1 -- You swing your arm forward, fast enough that your muscles protest slightly. The mirror shatters, glass falling at your feet. The knife drops with it, landing on the floor with a thud. [[Step back.->look]]

You swear softly, yanking your hand back when the wood cracks under your fingers, near-immediately giving you at least half a dozen splinters. The stairs creak horribly under your weight. If you'd been aiming for stealth, you could kiss that goodbye with the first step you'd taken — the noise had been loud enough, you think, to wake up any ghosts left in the house. In the attic, you find a corpse. ...and Ash, but you think that's not as much of a concern. He likes to drag you up here sometimes, especially during autumn when the weather is on the precipice of tipping over into _too cold._ It's a hiding spot as much as you can have one. It's too cold now, even though it's not anywhere close to winter. You're not sure how you know that, except that you do. He's leaning over a body, sitting crosslegged on the ground with a head cradled in his lap. For a moment, you can't tell whether the head is attached to the rest of the body. Even as you step further into the room, the ring of dark fluid around the neck makes it difficult to truly tell. You're close enough to identify the face now. It's you. You should probably be more startled, but there's a kind of haze enveloping your mind, your head stuffed full of cotton like you're some kind of doll, or a cloth puppet. You sit next down to Ash, close enough that the warmth coming off his skin feels like the burn of an open oven, yet far enough that you don't accidentally touch — you. Yourself. You're looking pretty grimy there, if you're being honest. You want to look away, but you can't. Ash smooths away some of the hairs on your face. "Hey," he starts, voice raspy. He doesn't look at _you._ He's staring down directly at you, instead. "So, here's a thought exercise- no, shut up, I know what you're gonna say and that joke wasn't even funny the first time." You bite your tongue non-too gently and unsuccessfully smother a grin behind your palm. Atlas has got nothing on you and the restraint you're holding onto right now. You don't say anything, but he seems to hear the unspoken _I would never,_ anyway. "You would," he says, "So, thought exercise." "Do you think you'll ever escape [[your childhood home?"]]

It's an odd question. He's not usually one for sentimentalities. Could you, though? Maybe you never would. Maybe you will be twelve and nineteen and thirty-two and there will always be a part of you drowning inside a room that's equal parts a santuary and prison. No one tells you that there's no magical number where you start to _feel_ like you're capable of doing all the things people are expected to do - you write one stupid email and then you're abruptly twelve and being chewed out by your parents for having the audacity to do _anything_ without informing them; you trip on the sidewalk and you can almost hear the jeer of highschoolers because you'll never escape that prison either. Have you ever even managed to leave anywhere? There's always going to be an imprint of you — in the places you've lived, in the people you've cared about. How are you supposed to take those with you when you leave? You've never really managed to leave this house either, even though it's not even your own home. Some part of you will always be stuck wandering these halls. [[You wonder if Ash is stuck too.]]

WHISPER: 1 -- He doesn't say anything else, just keep staring at you like you'll disappear if he lapses in concentration for a second. His eye socket is dripping fluid and viscera onto your face, adding to the mess of gore covering your neck and his trousers. Neither of you move to brush it away. You stand up jerkily, willing your limbs to cooperate with you. The lone window in the attic is covered in dirt and dust, but when you swipe a hand over it you can make out the waves in the distance. You remember this: One day, the ocean rose up. Something came crawling out of it. It's calm now, but if you squint and press your face closer to the glass you think you can see the waves climbing up higher on the sand, restless and covering the rocks with foam. This morning, you'd been at the beach. That's not out of the ordinary. There's little else to do out here except shove each other into the water and lay back in the wet sand. This morning, or a thousand mornings ago, you'd been at the beach. You don't remember much after that, but you're here now, in a house that's been gutted like a fish and there's a _you_ on the floor and sometime between then and _now,_ Ash lost an eye. You grimace when a headache spikes near your temples. It doesn't abate until you stumble away from the window and sink back on the floor. Ash is still looking at you. He doesn't look at you when you slump over next to him, or even when you press your face to his shoulder, shaking all over. You want to yell, just to see whether he'll answer you or even acknowledge your existence. Does he even know you're here? Hell, you'd give anything to be able to whisper right now. There's nothing else you can do here. [[> Leave->LEAVELEAVE]] [[> Stay]]

[align center] {embed image: '/nbitm/img/leanon.jpg', alt: 'Image of a person leaning on someone. The image is too blurry to clearly see any details.'} [continue] You don't know how long you sit there, placid and restless all at once. It reminds you of being fifteen: of pacing in your room like a caged animal, unwilling and unable to leave and miserable over it. Of omitting all the 'I' and 'me's' from your speech because the thought of being an individual person with things like feelings and bodily functions was sometimes too much to handle. If you don't acknowledge yourself as a person, then you can't really be held responsible for the things you do, can you? No one looks at a _cat_ and think _'they should clean up the mess they've made.'_ No, they look at the cat and say _that's just what cats do, honey_ and then sweep the glass into a dustpan with irritation-fondness lining their voice. Nothing you do seems to be quite human to anyone except Ash anyway. If you were a cat, he'd look at you with irritation-fondness and press a broom handle to your skin till your palms curls around the wood. Nevermind that you don't know how to use it. Nevermind that you can't see the glass, or that you're not really a cat, or the fact that this metaphor is gradually losing all sense. He looks at you like you're a person and you've never known how to cope with that. He's not looking at you now. Does that still make you human? You keep breathing, or at least an imitation of it. Ash keeps holding you, and ignores you, and you don't know how you have any more blood to lose but its gotten to the point where it's seeping through the attic door. You can hear dripping noises, and the ocean alike, from very, very far away. There's nothing you can do here, or nothing you'll be able to do to stop this from happening. You close your eyes and [[listen to the ocean whisper.->You'll wake up soon.]]