Victorian Nocturne

( This scene takes place on the second day of the house occupation )

Even demons from otherworldly realms had upper limits to their patience. While the inhabitants of the house engaged in plenty of speculation on the 'spirit' and its reasons for keeping them trapped, they were rarely correct, especially as time, exhaustion, hunger, and fear wore on them. Indeed, it did seek to provoke reactions from them, but not for amusement's sake. All it wanted were a few simple words to be spoken in the upstairs corridor... And a host body for its incorporeal form, of course. Quite reasonable expectations, these! Or so it thought.

One day became two. Two became three. Hallucinations, disembodied voices, bangs and screetches, spinning religious artifacts, even scratchings on the walls did nothing to evoke the proper response. Perhaps it overlooked the obvious answer. Rather than expecting frightened people to hold one-sided conversations with a spirit, it could cause ordinary interruptions in the environment... Make a person think a fellow occupant was near. After all, it was not necessary for the words to be spoken to the demon itself, merely aloud and within sight of the mirror.

In the end, the solution was simple. It waited for a person to step onto the threadbare rug that stretched from staircase to bedrooms, then it slammed a door behind them, just as a person might do...

( Unlucky Soul )

[Thread: Open to Participating House Plot Characters. Refer to OOC for Instructions:]

Fox had managed to find an old-fashioned walking stick in the sitting room of the Taylor house, and she looked at it critically after wiping the dust off of it with one of the sheets covering the furniture. It wasn't what she was used to, but it would suit. If she was to be shut behind these walls for however long, she preferred to have something to defend herself with.

"I should imagine this is a bit of an inconveinence for ye, Father," she said to Verdoux as she got ready for this scavenging trip of theirs. "Tis certainly not how I expected to spend my own day." She felt a little guilty at once again trying to deceive a man of the cloth, but there was no help for it just now. There never seemed to be any help for it ever, really. "Guess a man never knows what's goin' to happen when he rises for work in the morning."

( Read more... )

The Study
Early Evening



( This is why when Simon Alexander sidles over to John Abbott, it is unwise to listen to his proposal )


A Secluded Upstairs Room
The Present.




( If you insist on listening however, this kind of thing really is inevitable. )

Verdoux decided to remain in the study. As the others left, he found himself lost in thought. Even for a discerning man such as himself the situation was utterly bizarre. Was there, he wondered, a veiled connection between all of the parties involved, or was it sheer coincidence? Why did the house choose them, if indeed the house was sentient at all.

He paced to and fro, examining his environs to the most minute of details. The positioning of the chair at the secretoire, the number and titles of the books on the shelves, the choice of decor, including the paintings and prints which lined the walls. The way in which the rug puckered at one edge, not quite smoothed. The various accounts and ledgers kept in the secretoire, the letters, the notes, the bills. But none of this, he thought, was helpful. Something was indeed far more sinister, though he doubted it had anything to do with the choice of furnishings.

( And will not know. )

In a neighborhood to the northwest of Whitechapel, there sat a two-story home, quite ordinary among its company, a row of homes owned by families of moderate wealth. It was brick and boasted dozens of windows that looked out on the street. Four chimneys jutted towards the sky. A row of low trees lined the property, as well as a wall at waist height. It was a stately place, but a few details kept it from being the envy of its neighbors. Only a rickety gate gave access to its yard, and inside, the house was well-appointed with sturdy furnishings and a piano, but little artwork covered its walls.

The Taylors once owned the property, but they had gone out of country on family-related matters and become gravely ill while away. After their deaths, the house stood empty of inhabitants. Dust cloths draped the furniture and the curtains were drawn tight. A demon, attempting to pass into this world from another, became trapped in the home. Forced to take up residence there, it dwelt in the physical structures of the house, unable to leave without a human host. Unfortunately, the original owners of the house could not return, and the conditions of the demon's release were so specific that brief visits to the house would not do.

Faced with an indefinite wait, the demon, a being eager to escape and wreak its brand of havoc upon London, decided to lure people to the property and keep them there. On one particular Saturday, passersby began to experience hallucinations. Some heard children crying. Others, screams for help, the scent of a delicious meal, or a familiar face calling their name from the front door.

Once inside, the door slammed shut and they were caught in the confines of a house that had become impervious to harm. The windows wouldn't shatter. People on the street heard no cries for help. Nothing burned in the fireplaces. The doors wouldn't open or be torn down.

Upstairs in the hallway, an oval mirror hung on a wall. Since the demon inhabited the entirety of the house, the mirror was no particular point of suspicion, and no one had reason to guess at the danger it represented. The mirror was the demon's portal out of the physical realm of the house and into a host, if a victim could be goaded into saying a particular string of words within sight of the mirror: 'Is anybody there? Make yourself known.' It was a simple phrase, but surprisingly difficult to match in its entirety.

Of course, the demon would do its best to inspire it from the guests...



[Thread: Open to All Characters. Click here for details before joining.]

5 October 1891
The Royal Oak

The Royal Oak was a public assembly hall, often used for dances and gatherings. On this occasion, a private room had been reserved for the Inquisition's special use. Situated in the rear of the building, the stately room boasted a separate entrance, a fully stocked sideboard, and an oval table with chairs. The walls were wooden and hung with oil paintings. The air smelled of tobacco. Such meetings traditionally took place aboard the Whitechapel, unless Apprentices or informants were in attendance. Tonight, a small group of Inquisitors would gather, speak amongst themselves of recent occult developments, and then invite two recruits to enter. It was hoped that they could determine how the gentlemen might fit within the organisation. They also hoped to give Mr. Jack Doyle and Mr. Alistair Musgrave a better idea of the colleagues they would join, should they allign themselves with this arm of the Crown.

[Thread: Open immediately to Michael West, Sir Henry Armitage, Elspeth Fry, and Fr Verdoux. Open later to Jack Doyle and Alistair Musgrave]

The courier had stood outside the servant's entrance of Mrs. Daugney's house for about two and a half hours, refusing to speak to anyone aside from a Mr. Israel Alderdice. Unfortunately, Mr. Alderdice happened to be working at the moment, and would not be for another couple of hours, would you like to come in and have some tea, mister? The courier had answered no and had seemed somewhat arrogant about the whole process so that the kitchen staff hadn't felt too bad about leaving him out in the rain. He had an umbrella, anyway.

It would have been foolish to say that Izzy hadn't been expecting anything for the past week, but he still had no idea what the courier was about, no matter how many times he was asked, even by Mrs. Daugney herself. Mostly, he wondered what all the fuss was about. It was only when he took the letter that he got really, really excited but refused to show anyone.

His head had been buzzing all week. A contract. He might not have been getting paid much for it, but he was getting paid and more than that it meant that they knew his name. He was officially getting jobs as a hunter now, and from The Crown no less. He'd hardly been able to focus all week, much less all day, and had been quite surprised he'd slept at all last night. Even though he didn't know how it was going to go, he'd written home even though he had no idea how it was going to go.

( Trimming the Verge )

( In the Rectory )

( The Hunt Begins )

( Death and a New Acquaintance )

The street was empty and silent. Silent but for the leathery thud of neatly polished boots. Night fell in a blinding blanket, the fog of the earliest morning hours obscuring the gaslights that had been lit many hours before. It was amazing that the figure--just one shade blacker than the black of the night and several shades less pale than the fog--could even maintain its footing. But oh the silence! It was unreal, unholy, almost. Even at this hour there were generally signs of life in this part of London. Squalor bred the most unpleasant nocturnal activities, and usually the brawl of those who had had too much to drink or the sound of coupling paid for in pence might near the ear. But this was not the case. It was not possible even to hear the early morning hunger screams of the wage earner's infant.

The steps approached a small apartment building squashed hastily between two others of a similar design--if design one could call it. For there was nothing for the eye to gaze at with pleasure even in the bright noon sun. The brick walls were caked in soot and the contents of chamber pot--likely worse things than these, if one really thought about it. The doors consisted of little more than hastily constructed boards of wood, nailed together and hinged by some miracle of God. And the windows peered at one like dark, thoughtless eyes, void of all expression. Some of the panes were broken, some cracked, most caked with dirt, soot and general grime. What could be seen was often concealed with whatever bit of fabric or newspaper the tenant could procure. This was meant to give a pretense of privacy to those who lived in penury with ten or more other occupants, or to obscure and hide the misdeeds of the less productive of the tenement's inhabitants.

A gloved hand turned the knob of the entrance, letting the door shut behind with a creak and a resounding thud. Up two flights of stairs. Third door to the right, if memory served--and it inevitably did. Three knocks, short, quick raps. This was all that was needed. The sallow face of a careworn woman peered out as the door squealed on its hinges. She was clutching something in her hand. as she opened the door to the stranger, her heretofore tense face relaxing in visible relief. Few things adorned the room but a few sparse pieces of furniture and a cheap print of the Blessed Mother. In another room five other people were standing by a mattress. On the mattress lay in a tight ball a young woman no older than eighteen. Her dark hair hung in stringy locks over her sleeping face, greased by sweat and exertion. The covers had been tossed aside and she wore nothing else but a dirty shift, her feet bare, the blue veins in them visible like indigo cobwebs.

( I Will Fear No Evil )