Rooms

[At the party. In a fine hand with a fine-inked fountain pen, the wood backing of the bar jostling texture into otherwise smooth letters and with a wetness ringing out from the top left corner by way of condensation and third glass of brandy.]

This is extraordinary. There is some science at work I cannot quite parse.

Who: Whoever wishes to attend!
What: Party at the Murray House
Where: Penny Dreadful(s)
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Please place locations and warnings in subject headers. Feel free to "dibs" threads. Simultaneous threads per character are allowed.

The Murray House was situated at the end of the street in the affluent part of London. Imposing, it was a structure built by a man determined to leave his mark on the world in every possible way.

The door was answered by two footmen, and carriages were directed around the back. Men and women awaited announcement, all agog to see the disreputable women who inhabited the home. One fair and disgraced. The other dark and possessed. Or so the rumors said.

The lights were dim for the evening, as was the fashion for parties with darker themes. On silver platters, champagne and sweets were served, and there was a bar in the sitting room with stronger drinks and cigars for the gentlemen.

Beyond the grand entrance hall, the parlor was a room for the telling of fortunes. The woman at the table was not Miss Ives, but a hired woman from town, her fortunes daring and decadent. Low lights, and chairs around the table, the woman prophesied the strangest things for all to hear.

Theatricals were held in in the study, on a platform before Sir Malcom's impressive map. The performances were Grand Guignol in nature, with faux vampires feasting on innocent girls, pretend werewolves eating young lads, and much fake blood to go around in a room deliberately darkened and filled with the delighted screams of London's elite.

The grand staircase led to the upstairs halls, and the finely appointed rooms beyond, where none of the doors were barred for the evening. And surely the basement, with its darkness and random shackles, should have been locked for the evening, but it was not.

Petit l'infant, one inside of another inside of another inside of another inside of another [This goes on for a good while, before stopping abruptly.]

Infinite trees in but one seed, is that not how it goes? The question is, I suppose without supposition, if the snake eats his tail? Regurgitation is another matter entirely.

[The book has been filling in with words for days now, too long for it to be a vision or a trick, too varied and strange to be anything less than important. The hand is spidery and long, with hardly a drop of ink out of place.]

Automatic writing in reverse. How charming. I've never had letters from spirits before.