Doors

I would like to take a moment to invite everyone to a party to be held at my Parisian estate, next weekend, to celebrate the upcoming wedding between myself and Miss Christine Daae. Formal attire is, of course, expected, and everyone is expected to remain on their best behaviour.

Let's not have a repeat of the darker events of the Masquerade, yes?

[Locked to Cimmerian anon, from Ruler anon]
[A link to a confirmation page for an indoor pool rental at The Bathhouse. Sunday night, midnight.] Lights off. You've my word.

[Locked to Cory H]
You've been entirely too quiet as of late.

[Immediately after this.]

[LOCKED to Sherlock H.]
Dinner.

[From, simply, M]

[Locked to Irene A]
We must speak.

The more I read these journals, the more I wonder if I am totally unsafe now. I mean, I grew up in the trailer park, I've seen a lot of brawls, but like... it seems like there is so much violence and danger.

[. . . ]

It's frightening. I don't like it. I hate looking over my shoulder all the time.

I don't expect anything is a universal experience, but I'm curious. How is it, through the door? Is it worth it?

[Posted anonymously.]

[Locked to the Cimmerian Anon]
Are you there?

[Public, posted anonymously]
I'm looking for someone from the party the other evening. A rather lovely girl in a white dress, with dark hair. We shared a dance and a kiss. I said I would find her, and I am attempting to. If you're there, please do respond.

[Locked to Micah C]
It's quite possible you're not speaking to me, but I wanted to check on you after the affair the other evening.

[Locked to Elias M & Sherlock Holmes]
I'm to ask after the blood.

[His handwriting is scratchy and thin and messy and so very boyish. Posted by Andrew M.]

I leave Vegas for one weekend and you guys decide to throw a party without me? Not on, but at least some of you learned your lesson. There ain't no real shindig unless a Mumford's involved.

[call to maren w.]
Ring!

[Posted public from John W., the page contains nothing more than a partial hand-print in a dark red.]

[As Dorian G. (marvelously cheeky without even a surname, he loves that), and in his distinctive handwriting.]

I must have someone to tea that does not insist upon discussing the false weather of false fake lives in our false London. It is getting positively tedious, and I only have eighteen more hours to be horribly bored.

[Texts to Noah B., three consecutively.]

As part of an attempt to keep Arthur from making me either insane or insane and gay, I am going to get drunk at home and text you all the essential knowledge of guy geekdom. Star Wars facts and quotes, mostly.

[Public.]

Resumes are so much easier when you're drunk and lying.

So, the riddle of the voice in my head keeps growing stronger. I have to admit, I am a bit jealous of those who know just who they are dealing with.

So, this is what I know for sure from my dreams:

This person is female.

She lived (or her world? Still not clear on that one) is some time in the past when women wore horribly uncomfortable corsets, heavy dresses and they way they talk sounds just like my Meemaw's King James Bible.

She has a husband whom she both loves and hates who had her killed.

She has a redheaded daughter.

She distrust men, especially her father - and mine.

She looks like me, but has dark hair.

I am stumped. I tried googling it at work today, but there isn't really a term that I can search that isn't incredibly vague, and it's not like I can go ask our research librarian to help me find the possibly fictional woman who is possessing my dreams and making me crave roast duck and apples.

Written in a girly, bubbly script

I don't think I've written a lick that wasn't on an order pad since I took my GED. Workin' a double tonight. Hope the tips are worth it, because I broke a heel on my good work shoes earlier in the evening.

[Sloppy writing. Indication of being a little boozed up.]

Late night 5 dollar black jack at that casino near the hoover dam. let's do this. bus leaving in 10. play till dawn and then throw the winner into the lake.

I bloody hate daylight savings time. Not enough time in the day as it is and you have to go and bloody steal another hour from me.

[Post by Sherlock H.]

[Handwritten. Right after John's departure.]

Has anyone died yet?

[Molly H.]

Molly? [Obviously to no reply.]

[MH]

What did you find on the roof, Mycroft?

[Text to Irene A.]

Watch out for Richard Brook - SH

[Public]

Thursday might just be my favorite day of the week. Too bad it's tomorrow.

[Text to Kate R]

Ready for the weekend crowd?

[Locked to Raegan H.]

Hey. How're you doing?

[The number was taken from a passing banker on Baker Street, at random.]

[Same text to all parties. Irene A., at her original number. Mycroft H., at the number no one is supposed to know except someone he has cuppa with weekly. John W., expecting his number to be the same.]

Alive. - SH

[Written in black ink, fairly neat letters but with no flourish at all. From John W.]

So these are my choices. Trapped in the brain of a girl that's too daft to realize I'm there, though at least I got her to go through the damn door. Or trapped in a city in a flat that is nothing but bad, and that I frankly can't afford any longer. Reenlisting is beginning to look better and better. Someone talk to me before the boredom drives me mad.