Start of a transcript of Dark and Deep An Interactive Fiction by Amanda Walker Release 1 / Serial number 241102 / Inform 7 build 6M62 (I6/v6.34 lib 6/12N) Identification number: //19DD397C-7DEB-4D52-ABF4-3312A6654786// Interpreter version 2.1.7 / VM 3.1.2 / Library serial number 080126 Standard Rules version 3/120430 by Graham Nelson >e Barn Your little horse is here where you stabled him when you arrived, his harness bells jingling softly. Rustling noises come from the low thatch ceiling. In the dim light, you can see a rusted buzz saw in one corner. A spiderweb gleams white above it. The yard is back east. >x spiderweb A spiderweb above the saw. It should be too cold for spiders, but here one is, fat and white. It should be too cold for moths, but the spider is busy wrapping up a white moth. The white web, the white spider, the white moth, all glowing softly in the dim of the barn, here when all these things should be dead or sleeping through the winter cold. They are as out of place as you are, the design of your life having brought you here despite your lack of fitness for the job, for any job, really. It seems in its unnatural presence a design of darkness clothed in white, appalling, inevitable. >x self You miss your formal reverend's clothing, but it's too cold for it and you're dressed warmly in woolens against the cold. The doctor sent you to sit with the dying woman-- Mrs. Lajway-- who lives here. She's hours or days from her end, and he has a birth to attend tonight and doesn't want her to be alone. So despite the fact that she reportedly hasn't set foot in a church in decades, and despite her unsavory reputation, you will do your duty and guide her, help her find God and peace before her death, free her of sin. But hidden under your clothes, under your skin, beating a slow rhythm out of tune with your heart, is a flower of doubt. >x horse Your little dappled gray horse. He'll be safe here in the barn while you sit with old Mrs. Lajway. He chuffs gently, his harness bells seeming to question you. You question yourself: what are you doing here? How can you comfort a dying woman when you cannot even comfort yourself? >w Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >w You knock on the front door of the cottage, calling out, "Mrs. Lajway? It's Reverend Odlin. The doctor asked me to come see you." After a long pause, you shivering on the doorstep, you hear a woman say, "Come in, Reverend." Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. The old woman strains to see you and says, "It's Reverend Odlin, is it? I've heard of you. They told you I was dying, yes? That my soul needs saving. Perhaps it does, and perhaps it can't be, or perhaps I have no soul, Father." >sit You get onto the armchair. >ask woman about death "Not long now. I'm glad it's you here with me, though I've no use for church. But there's something in your face that tells me you know about pain." >tell woman about pain "Which kind of pain? My old body hurts something awful. But it's not as bad as the torment of my secrets, my sins. Nothing compared to how the bones torment me." >ask woman about secrets "Bones. So many of them, where they should be, where they were, where they are not. A life made of bones rattling and seeking, their fingers still clutching at me." >ask woman about doubt "I haven't got time for any more doubts. I'll find out soon enough whether I'll be judged, or whether I'll just be bones. You though, Reverend. I can see that you live with heavy doubt. No doubt you keep it well-hidden, but they do say I'm a witch, and an old woman, witch or no, can see many things others can't." >ask woman about sight "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about future "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about witchcraft "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about god "That's your business here, I know." She peers into your eyes, a hard gaze for such cloudy eyes, and says, "But maybe not. Maybe you don't know your business. My heart runs out, and I still don't know. Neither will you. There's something there, but how it can be good I do not know." >ask woman about spider "Spiders love barns, and mine is a favorite of white spiders. Horrible they look, and they last throughout the winter. It isn't natural." >ask woman about moth "Spiders love barns, and mine is a favorite of white spiders. Horrible they look, and they last throughout the winter. It isn't natural." >ask woman about nature "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about sin "Bones. So many of them, where they should be, where they were, where they are not. A life made of bones rattling and seeking, their fingers still clutching at me." >ask woman about odlin "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about reverend You say, "I'm Reverend Odlin, ma'am. The doctor asked me to come attend to you this evening." She peers at you and says, "I know who you are, Reverend." >x woman About eighty years old, her pink scalp showing through her sparse white hair, liver-spotted hands plucking at the crocheted afghan on her lap, the deep lines of her face shadowing in the flickering firelight. Yet you can see that she was once a beauty, her fine bones still there under the sagging skin and milky eyes. The doctor told you that she's lived alone here forever. Her husband died twenty years ago and she has been tough enough to make it in this isolated house until now. "She's dying," said the doctor. "Everyone thinks she's a witch, but I think she's just a lonely old woman who needs comfort at the end. Go sit with her, Father." >ask woman about husband "Toffile. I married him when I was seventeen, my first baby less than a year later. The grief he brought me until he died twenty years ago." >ask woman about children "I had two, long ago. You'll find them under the big tree in the graveyard if you care to look around outside." >stand You get off the armchair. >look Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >e You say, "Will you excuse me for a moment, ma'am?" and Mrs. Lajway replies, " Do what you need to do, Reverend. I'll be here." Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >n Graveyard At the end of a path through the trees, a ruined stone fence tangled with dead vines surrounds a semi-cleared area in the trees. A huge low limbed sycamore tree spreads its bare branches over two moss covered stones. An unseen woodpecker clatters in the trees, the sharp sound intruding on the quiet of this space. You can go back south to the yard. The forest grows thick and dark in every other direction. >x graves Two graves with old headstones, one small and one large. >read headstones Which do you mean, the small headstone or the large headstone? >read small headstone A small headstone, overgrown with lichen turning brittle in the cold. The lichen obscures the writing on the stone. >scrape lichen You scrape the lichen away from the stone and it crumbles tonothing. Now you can read the stone: June Lajway 1862 She died sixty years ago. The single year on the stone tells you that little June didn't live even a year. >read large headstone A large headstone, overgrown with moss turning brown in the cold. The moss obscures the writing on the stone. >scrape moss You scrape the moss away from the stone and it crumbles to nothing. Now you can read the stone: William Lajway 1863-1875 He died nearly fifty years ago, only 12 years old. >s Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >w Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >sit You get onto the armchair. >ask woman about william "His death was the last time I could say I had a heart. There was a shred left after the first grave was dug, but it withered when the accident happened. I had it moved to the barn, that thing of evil." She reaches out and touches your forehead with a wizened finger and a shock courses through you, a feeling of opening. She says, "You have an eye now to see, to sense. Go you out to the barn and sense what you find there. You'll see what happened." You feel something like an eye pulsing inside you and know that you can SENSE objects now. >ask woman about heart "Almost out of time, the doctor says. Normally I'd ignore him, the pipsqueak. But I know he's right. I can feel it, have felt it slowing and slowing, the weight of secrets pulling it to a stop. You're the last man I'll ever share an evening with, and I've shared evenings-- and nights!-- with many. Oh, don't look so shocked. Those sins are old, if they're sins at all. I've committed much greater ones." >ask woman about june "That was the beginning of it all. The hate and the death and the witch growing under my skin. The first death of myself, at the stone wall by the graves under the tree. Sense it and you'll know what happened." She touches your forehead and a shock courses through you. She says, "Go you out and sense the stone wall now." >e You say, "Will you excuse me for a moment, ma'am?" and Mrs. Lajway replies, " Do what you need to do, Reverend. I'll be here." (first getting off the armchair) Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >n Graveyard At the end of a path through the trees, a ruined stone fence tangled with dead vines surrounds a semi-cleared area in the trees. A huge low limbed sycamore tree spreads its bare branches over two moss covered stones. An unseen woodpecker clatters in the trees, the sharp sound intruding on the quiet of this space. You can go back south to the yard. The forest grows thick and dark in every other direction. >x wall The ruin of a stacked-stone wall, waist height, surrounding the giant tree. The forest crowds in close on the other side, the stones tumbling to the ground in places. Something there is that doesn't love a wall and brings it down each year. From experience you know that a wall like this requires repair every year, neighbors on either side to walk the line and set the wall between them once again, to each the boulders that have fallen to each. But this one has not been repaired in many years.The wall seems very bright, more real than anything else here. The eye inside you throbs. >sense wall Your vision blurs and shifts, and a digging sound fills your ears. You close your eyes, the eye inside you opening wide, and see something else, become someone else... PRESS ANY KEYI sit on the cold stone wall, wringing my skirt in my hands, my heart a stone, and watch Toffile dig. With his own hand, he digs the grave, making the gravel leap and leap in air. Leap up like that and land so lightly and roll back down the mound beside the hole. I think, "Who is this man? I don't know him." He leans the spade against the wall and talks of something, of fences and walls, of how stacked stone is better than birch, how birch fences will rot. He talks of rotting fences and the stones under me shift and the word rot hangs in the air and I hate him, his rumbling voice talking of rot with the stains on his shoes of fresh earth from his baby's grave. What has anything he says-- save rot-- to do with what lies in the darkened house? Everyone else makes pretense of following love to the grave, but before they are in it their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people, and things they understand. When hate and sorrow poison your heart you are alone, and you die more alone. I stand and run and run, the hatred in my heart and the seed in my belly growing even now until he catches me, holds me down, carries me back, and I lie alone grieving my baby in the earth, and for the one growing in me now, growing in poisoned earth. And then the new baby comes and things heal a little, a tender scab over the wound for twelve years, before ripping open in a gout of blood. You blink and stagger, the eye inside closing, your heart stuttering, and you are yourself again, a haunted minister in a neglected graveyard at twilight in winter. >s Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >e Barn Your little horse is here where you stabled him when you arrived, his harness bells jingling softly. Rustling noises come from the low thatch ceiling. In the dim light, you can see a rusted buzz saw in one corner. A spiderweb gleams white above it. The yard is back east. >sense barn The eye in you pulses, but this shows you nothing. Mrs. Lajway has told you what you can sense with it. >sense heart You can't see any such thing. >sense spider You don't want to get near it. Surely spiders are God's creatures, too, but this one is so out of place, out of time, its whiteness so terrible, that you don't want anything to do with it. > I beg your pardon? >sense ceiling The eye in you pulses, but this shows you nothing. Mrs. Lajway has told you what you can sense with it. >sense saw Your vision blurs and shifts, and a snarling sound fills your ears. You close your eyes, the eye inside you opening wide, and see something else, becoming someone else... PRESS ANY KEYI step out of the house into the yard, wiping my flour-covered hands on my apron. Willy is in the yard. Toffile is there, and the hired man Engelo, feeding logs into the buzz saw, which rattles and drops stove-length sticks of wood. The tractor chugs nearby, powering the saw with its engine. The day is nearly done, and the buzz saw snarls and rattles as I come out and call, "Supper!" Just that one word, but the rattling saw is made hungry by the word. Willy is standing by it, and he sees me and holds a hand out as if to salute me. Toffile feeds in a log, and the saw jitters and rattles and leaps at Willy's hand; it seems his hand reaches out to it as well. And Willy makes a sound like a laugh and holds up his arm, half in appeal, but half as if to keep the life from spilling. He is old enough, a boy doing a man's work, to know all is spoiled. Then he crumples, falls, the whole scene suddenly red. He begs, "Don't let him cut my hand off, the doctor, when he comes! Don't let him!" But the hand is gone already. The doctor comes and puts him in the dark of ether. His lips puff out his breath and then, watching his pulse, I take fright. I listen at his heart: Little-- less-- nothing! And that ended it. No more to build on there. The ones who are not the one dead turn to their affairs. If they had only called it day a little earlier, given my Willy a half hour, the time that a boy counts so much when saved from work. But they did not, and Toffile and I are poisoned. I blame him for the work, for that last log. He blames me for the distraction, the announcement of supper that whetted the saw's hunger. Willy had held us together after the first death, but nothing could hold us together now, and I seek to be a witch indeed, with all the power of hate and hurt I can muster. You blink and stagger, the eye inside closing, your heart stuttering, and you are yourself again, a haunted minister in a cold barn at twilight in winter. >w Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >w Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >up You needn't wander in this lady's house without her permission. You're here to help prepare her soul for death, not to snoop. >sit You get onto the armchair. >ask woman about supper "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about poison "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about toffile "I have one photograph of my husband Toffile. I keep it in the cellar." She points at the door. "To remind me of how we died, long before our deaths. Please get it for me." >open door You open the door and look down into the gloomy cellar below. >down It's too dark down there. You'd break your neck on the stairs. >ask woman about light "There's a candle in the kitchen cabinet, lad." >look Cottage (on the armchair) A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >open cabinet You open the cabinets, revealing a candle. >take candle Taken. >light candle What do you want to light the candle with? >light candle with fire You light the candle on the fire. >down (first getting off the armchair) Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods and a photograph. >x toffile grave I only understood you as far as wanting to examine the photograph. >x depression A rectangular depression in the hard-packed stone floor. >sense depression You can feel the eye inside you, but it's closed, sleeping. Like the one that used to see God. >x toolchest A small rusted toolchest. >open toolchest You open the toolchest, revealing a claw hammer. >x hammer A claw hammer. One end of the head is split and curved for pulling nails. >sense hammer You can feel the eye inside you, but it's closed, sleeping. Like the one that used to see God. >take hammer You have no business taking this lady's things, so you leave it. >*can't help myself from antisocial parser behavior apparently lol That's not a verb I recognise. >x shelves Sagging shelves. On the shelves are some canned goods and a photograph. >x photograph A faded sepia photograph of a severe-looking man. >take photograph Taken. >up Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >show photograph to woman You give the old woman the photograph and she traces her fingers along its lines for a moment and says, "Ill-fated, we were. I was wild with anger and grief after June's death, his coldness. And we were ruined after Willy died. I hated him and he hated me and I ran to another man. I didn't try very hard to keep it a secret; I wanted to punish Toffile." She touches your forehead with a finger and a spark flares through you, the eye inside you opens further. She says, "Go you to the yard out back behind the house, through the cellar and sense the tree there." She throws the photograph into the fire and it shrivels and turns to ash. >ask woman about hammer "That old thing. I should have given it away. I thought about killing Toffile with it many times. But it was better for me that he live a terrible long life with my hatred." >ask woman about depression "We'll get to it in time, when you're ready." >*oh no! That's not a verb I recognise. >e You say, "Will you excuse me for a moment, ma'am?" and Mrs. Lajway replies, " Do what you need to do, Reverend. I'll be here." Yard White capped mountain ranges surround these woods on all sides. Tall pines tower over this clearing in the woods, laced with snow. The bare dirt here is scraggled with dead weeds and frozen puddles. Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the darkening sky as twilight deepens. The old woman's little house is to the west, the thatched barn is to the east, the path back to the road is south, and the path narrows as it disappears into the snowy woods to the north. >x cellar You can't see any such thing. >w Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >down Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods. >n Back yard Behind the house, a brick-walled garden area with a large leafless apple tree and a coating of snow on the ground. It must be beautiful in summer. The bulkhead double doors lead back south into the cellar. >x apple tree A large gnarled apple tree, barren and coated with the falling snow. The tree seems very bright, more real than anything else here. The eye inside you throbs. >sense tree Your vision blurs and shifts, and a panting sound fills your ears. You close your eyes, the eye inside you opening wide, and see something else, become someone else... PRESS ANY KEYThe high brick wall all around, the apple tree in flower, my back against the rough wood, thighs slick with sweat. I was a flower in a windowsill, the cold breeze blowing at the glass, and the pain and hatred shattered it, let the breeze in to mark me with teeth and nails. Engelo sighs and groans on my shoulder, heaving me against the tree, my skirts up around my waist, my blouse open as my back arches and my legs grip him tighter. He was fleeing the jaws of the war, saw the roses of sorrow in my cheeks, his heart not averse to being beguiled by a witch. To being a slave to a springtime passion, my soft petals that hide something dark. My heart is locked in a gold case of malice, pinned with a silver pin, harboring woe in the bridal house and I bite him and pull him and he's under my spell, the snare I set for my husband. I make noise, too much, not secret, and his hand comes up, gentle, to shush me, fear in his eyes. I push his hand away and clasp him hard, my hips moving so that he can't escape, screaming out my pleasure and pain and hatred, and he holds his hand outstretched, maybe to cover my mouth, maybe to grasp some sanity from the air but he can't stop moving in me his hand is rough over my mouth and I bite him and scream. And my ruinous witchery is satisfied-- there is Toffile behind him and I see him take in my nakedness, the grunting man with his hand outstretched, and I see the violence rise in Toffile and I smile and wait for him to end me. You blink and stagger, the eye inside closing, your heart stuttering, and you are yourself again, a haunted minister in a neglected yard at twilight in winter. >look Back yard Behind the house, a brick-walled garden area with a large leafless apple tree and a coating of snow on the ground. It must be beautiful in summer. The bulkhead double doors lead back south into the cellar. >x tree A large gnarled apple tree, barren and coated with the falling snow. >s Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods. >up Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >ask woman about engelo "There's another grave. Or it was a grave, though it isn't now. Or maybe once a grave, always so, even when the bones have left it. I never meant to make him into bones. I thought it would be my death, or Toffile's or us both. He didn't deserve it. Toffile said he killed him for me, but truly he killed him instead of me. Then the least I could do was help dig the grave. We were about it that night in the cellar. The grave itself is still there, although... well, you'll see. Go sense it." She touches your forehead and you feel the eye inside you widen. >down Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods. >sense depression Your vision blurs and shifts, and a digging sound sound fills your ears. You close your eyes and the eye inside you opens wide and you see something else, become someone else... PRESS ANY KEYI stand over Engelo's body, still slick with sweat from our coupling, newly slick with sweat from digging. He lies pale and cold on the cellar floor, the man my husband killed for me. I mean the man he killed instead of me. The least I can do is help dig the grave. We've been digging in the hard-packed floor for hours. No one will miss such a man, who might leave a job at the slightest whim and go singing down the open road, who is always after an open door, an easy way out. Toffile wipes grave-grime from his sweaty face and nods: the hole is deep enough. Together we push him into his grave and I remember how he heaved that same body, stiffening, against me just hours ago, his body stiffening now as we push it into the hole in the cellar. We fill in the hole, the two of us with the spade all night, and it seems I can still hear him singing Wild Colonial Boy, the ghost of the song getting fainter as the dirt fills his mouth and presses him down. You blink and stagger, the eye inside closing, your heart stuttering, and you are yourself again, a haunted minister in a dank, cold cellar by an empty grave. >up Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >sit You get onto the armchair. >ask woman about engelo She says, "His bones stayed in the cellar for nearly twenty years as I punished Toffile and he punished me. Until the night they came up the stairs, carrying themselves like a pile of dishes, bones clacking. I was here exactly when I heard them below. Go upstairs, if you would be so kind, and find my button box. Bring it here to me. I've something to show you." >up (first getting off the armchair) Bedroom A snug little room, the heat from the fire below rising through the floorboards to warm it. A brass bed is against one wall, pushed against a door. Under a window stands a dressing table cluttered with bottles and boxes. A dark pine tree is just outside the window, tapping on the glass as if trying to open the window and come in. Stairs lead back down. >x pine A dark pine tree just outside the window, the wind blowing it so that its branches tap against the glass. When you were a child, you had an oft-repeated dream about a tree outside your own window, trying to get into your room at night, a dread of what it might do if it came inside. >x boxes A sewing box, a button box, a jewelry box, a sundries box, a stationery box. >x sewing box A box full of sewing supplies. >x jewelry box A box full of small, inexpensive pieces of jewelry. >x sundries box A box full of odds and ends. >x stationery box A box full of yellowed stationery. >x button box A box full of buttons of all kinds. >take button box Taken. >x bed A brass bed, brightly polished, made up with warm patchwork quilts. It has been pushed against a door. >x quilts A brass bed, brightly polished, made up with warm patchwork quilts. It has been pushed against a door. >listen The tree tapping against the window. A faint scraping behind the door. >*uhhhhhhhhh That's not a verb I recognise. >x scraping You can't see any such thing. >down Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >sit You get onto the armchair. >ask woman about scraping "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about bed "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >ask woman about zombie "Talk to me about something else," the old woman says. >show button box to woman You hand the box to the old woman and she opens it and roots around in it, saying, "I kept the finger bones, of course. I hear them moving in this box in the dark, sometimes. Trying to find their way back to the rest of the bones. It wouldn't have been right at all to let any of those wretched bones be lost, be on their own. After that night, the night the bones came up the stairs, I gathered them." She continues rooting through the box, peering with filmy eyes at each small button. Mrs. Lajway holds up a button, peers at it, and then puts it back. >ask woman about bones She looks at you and holds her withered hand out to you. "Take my hand and see," she says. "I am still that much a witch, that I can take you there. So someone can know, before I die. So that the unsuspecting don't find out what this house holds, snooping around here while I lie in my own grave." >ask woman about fingers She holds her hand out and says, "Take my hand, Reverend, so I can show you." >take hand Your vision blurs and shifts, and a pulsing sound fills your ears. You close open your eyes, the eye inside you opening wide, and see something else... PRESS ANY KEY Cottage (on the armchair) I pull the afghan tighter to me, snuggling into the chair by the fireplace, fire crackling in it. It's warm here in my flannel nightgown, covered by the afghan I crocheted with my own hands. And it's sweet to punish Toffile with my absence; every night I go to sleep here before going to bed, waiting until Toffile is asleep. >wait Time passes. >look Cottage (on the armchair) A dim, cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, with a rough wooden table separating the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. Stairs lead up and there is a closed door to the west. >up It's too snug here and I try to deprive Toffile of my warm presence in bed as long as I can. I hear something, like someone walking around. It's Toffile up in the bedroom? No, it's below me, in the cellar. Someone begins climbing the cellar stairs, two footsteps for each step, the way a man with one leg and a crutch, or a little child, comes up. It isn't Toffile; it isn't anyone who could be there. The bulkhead doors in the cellar are latched and swollen tight and buried under snow, so no one could have come in that way. It's the bones. The bones halt, helpless on the landing behind the door, waiting for things to happen in their favor. The faintest rustling runs all through them, a clicking behind that door. >open door I fling the door wide, the bones there in front of me. A moment they stand balancing with emotion, and all but lose themselves, nearly tumbling down again. A tongue of fire flashes out and licks along the upper teeth. Smoke rolls inside the sockets of his eyes. His hand comes up, outstretched, the way he did in life once, reaching toward me. In supplication or in anger, I don't know. I strike the hand off, the small bones brittle on the floor, and dart away. The bones pause briefly and then continue climbing, going every which way in the joints so that it looks like lightning or a scribble, up toward the bedroom, toward Toffile who struck the killing blow, sleeping upstairs. >wait Time passes. The skeleton shuffles out of view, up to the bedroom where Toffile is sleeping. >wait Time passes. It's up there, with Toffile. You wait for his scream as the bones descend on him, but all is quiet. You can't stay down here and do nothing. >up Bedroom I run up the stairs, exploding into the dark bedroom, screaming Toffile's name. It's dark, the only light in the room coming from the faint moonlight through the window, filtered through the pine tree outside. Toffile's feet hit the floor and he's saying, "What's happening? Why are you screaming?" >tell toffile about bones I say, "It's with us in the room. It's the bones." "What bones?" he snaps. "The cellar bones-- out of the grave," I answer. I hear a slight rattling noise and spy a shifting movement out of the corner of my eye and strike out to bring it down, but nothing is there. Toffile says, "Amy, I don't see anything." "It's here!" I insist. "It keeps going up. He's after an open door. Let's trap him in the attic." Toffile says, "Sure," with a careful, alert edge in his voice, but doesn't move from the bed. >open door I open the door and feel movement beside me. I cringe away and hear the steps begin to climb the attic stairs. "It's going!" I say, but Toffile isn't there. I slam the door behind it. "It's trapped!" I say, and suddenly there's light in the room as Toffile comes up the stairs with a lit candle and a strange expression on his face. Frightened. I say, "Let the bones have the attic. Let them stay there," and plead with Toffile to nail the door shut. He does this, and then I make him push the bed up against the door. He does all I say, quietly, without questions, with that fearful look on his face. I shut my eyes and feel a strange sensation... and suddenly you are back in the living room's cottage, yourself again, the old woman sitting in her chair. She has let go of your hand, which tingles from holding hers, and folded her hands under the afghan. You are shaking. You did not just see that. You fell asleep. The old witch magicked you. Your crisis of faith is actually a problem with your brain. That could not have actually happened. Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >x door A open door leading down to the dark cellar below. >*is it open or closed? That's not a verb I recognise. >ask woman about attic She nods at the button box in her lap and says, "I can't find those finger bones. Strange, because I gathered them myself after Toffile went back to bed. The man said he never saw or heard anything that night. He was afraid, all right, but he was afraid of me, afraid I'd lost my mind. I punished him for twenty years more before his heart finally gave out, and in all that time the bones have been up there, in the attic. You can hear them at night-- they sometimes come down the attic stairs and stand perplexed behind the door, brushing its chalky skull with chalky fingers, with sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter. "That's what I sit up in the dark to say to no one anymore since Toffile died. Too late, I forgive him. "But they cannot stay there after I die. Someone must see to them." She turns her gaze on you and you nod. She says, "Good. Put them somewhere terrible. I wish you to be cruel to them, for they-- and I-- were so cruel to Toffile. Go you and see to them. Perhaps your God will keep you safe from them." Her voice is slurring, her eyes closing. >ask woman about fingers The old woman mutters something, her eyes closed. Poor thing, it's late and she's worn out from the night. You'll stay with her until the doctor gets here in the morning. >up Bedroom A snug little room, the heat from the fire below rising through the floorboards to warm it. A brass bed is against one wall, pushed against a door. Under a window stands a dressing table cluttered with bottles and boxes. A dark pine tree is just outside the window, tapping on the glass as if trying to open the window and come in. Stairs lead back down. >open window The dark pine tree on the other side taps and scrapes at the glass as if it's trying to get in. You're suddenly struck by a childish, irrational certainty that if you opened the window, something bad would come in. Of course, it's also freezing and snowing outside, so there's a more practical reason not to. >open door The bed is pushed up against the door. >push bed You push the brass bed to the side, leaving the door available. >open door Nails hold it firmly to the frame. >down Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >down Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods. >take hammer Taken. >up Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman sits nodding in one of the chairs, peering at you from a wrinkled face. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. >up Bedroom A snug little room, the heat from the fire below rising through the floorboards to warm it. A brass bed is against one wall, pushed against a door. Under a window stands a dressing table cluttered with bottles and boxes. A dark pine tree is just outside the window, tapping on the glass as if trying to open the window and come in. Stairs lead back down. >pry nails with hammer You pull the nails free of the door using the claw end of the hammer and they clink onto the floor. >take nails Taken. >x nails Nails holding the attic door to the door frame. >open door You open the door, revealing the dark stairs beyond. >up Attic You come into a small, cramped attic space, the ceiling sloping down sharply on either side. You shine the light from your candle around and see a few dusty old trunks and boxes, but nothing else. >listen Wind whispers in the eaves and trees tap on the house. >x trunks Dusty trunks that have clearly been sitting up here, untouched, for a very long time. >x boxes Dusty boxes that have clearly been sitting up here, untouched, for a very long time. >open trunks You open the lids of the trunks and sift through the contents of each briefly, but find nothing but moth-eaten clothes, tattered old books, and old-fashioned junk. You close each one after you search it. >open boxes You open each box and sift through the its contents briefly, but find nothing but ancient, faded newspapers and photographs, yellowed and holey linens, and old-fashioned junk. You close each one after you search it. >down As you start down the stairs, the candlelight gleams on something in the corner of the attic. You bend to look at it: it's a piece of bone, like a finger bone. >x bone A small, thin, yellowish-white piece of bone, like a man's finger bone. >take bone Taken. >ask skeleton about finger There's no one here to talk to, although you used to feel God everywhere. Now you feel a presence that seems to be only the eyes of your own conscience, following you, always judging. >down Bedroom A snug little room, the heat from the fire below rising through the floorboards to warm it. A brass bed is against one wall, pushed against a door. Under a window stands a dressing table cluttered with bottles and boxes. A dark pine tree is just outside the window, tapping on the glass as if trying to open the window and come in. Stairs lead back down. >listen The tree tapping against the window. A faint scraping behind the door. >x door An open door. >down Cottage You come down the stairs, shaking your head in bemusement. You half believed there would be a skeleton in the attic. You'll tell the poor lady that you've taken care of it, that everything is in hand, that she doesn't need to worry about anything regarding those bones. You open your mouth to tell her, but shut it because of Mrs. Lajway's stillness in the chair. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes half open, slumped in the chair as no living thing should do. The box tumbles from her lap, spilling buttons to the ground. You can see some buttons and a button box here. >listen The crackling of the fire and the low sound of wind in the eaves. There's little reason for you to stay any longer. You should get word to the doctor of Mrs. Lajway's death. >x buttons Buttons of every size and shape spilled on the floor. >down Cellar A dark, dank earth-floored cellar. There's a long rectangular depression in the middle of the dirt floor. Sagging shelves line the walls and a toolchest lies beneath them. Bulkhead double doors are closed over a short flight of steps to the north. A rickety stairway leads back up. On the shelves are some canned goods. >x depression A rectangular depression in the hard-packed stone floor. >bury finger That's not a verb I recognise. >up Cottage A cozy room with a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. Kitchen counters and cabinets line one wall, and a rough wooden table separates the kitchen area from the living area. Two soft chairs are placed near the fire. An old woman is still and stiff in one of them. Stairs lead up, there is a closed door to the west, and the yard is back east. You can see some buttons and a button box here. There's little reason for you to stay any longer. You should get word to the doctor of Mrs. Lajway's death. >e You go to check on the old woman before leaving and she's so still. No breath. Face slack and dead. You make the sign of the cross on her brow. There's no reason to stay. You say a prayer for the dead woman's soul and step out of the house into the night. You'll stop by the doctor's house and leave word that Mrs. Lajway has passed on. You shake your head, thinking of the strange hallucinations you had here. Was Mrs. Lajway a witch? Did she cause you to see those things by magic? Or was this a quiet breakdown, the death throes of your faith? The hole of doubt in you feels bigger yet shallower, as if something is there to believe in, but it's monstrous. You'll never tell anyone about what passed here. What would you say? What would people think? PRESS ANY KEYYou go into the yard, which is bright with moonlight. The snow has stopped falling and the clouds have cleared. Quite enough light to ride back to the village. You retrieve your horse, mount him, and ride out to the road back to the village, between the woods and frozen lake. You pause for a moment, looking at the lovely, dark, deep woods, filling up with snow. The frozen lake sparkles. The moonlight is bright, but somehow it seems the darkest evening of the year. Your little horse shakes his head and jingles his harness bells in a questioning fashion and you pat his neck. The only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and-- wait. From the treeline, a whispering like dry bones moving. You scan the trees, but nothing's there. The fragment of bone in your pocket burns cold. From behind you, a slight rattling, a scraping as of bony fingers on a chalky skull. You turn and see downy flakes brushing the branches, a white figure flickering in the woods, keeping pace with you. You close your eyes, open them again, and you're alone. You nudge the horse into a trot back onto the well-travelled road to the village. You have promises to keep and miles to go before you sleep. ***** The End ***** Would you like to read the author's notes? >yes This game was written in Inform 7 for the 2024 Ectocomp, and is based on multiple poems by Robert Frost (American, 1874-1963). The main story comes from The Witch of Coös, although I have altered the scenario significantly. I have mixed feelings about this poem, which isn't very good on multiple levels, but which is undeniably creepy and had some interesting subtext in it. For instance, it's heavily implied that the old woman in the poem had an affair with the dead man and this is why he's dead, which is about as close as Frost comes to frank sexuality except in his his poem Wind and Window Flower. I always felt the end of The Witch of Coös was one of the biggest letdowns in poetic denouements, so I hope I gave this story a better ending. The deaths of June and Willy Lajway were drawn almost word-for-word from two terribly depressing poems: Out, Out, which details a boy's accidental death by a buzz saw, and Home Burial, which dramatizes a marital breakdown in communication after the death of a baby. Frost's poems generally have a pretty nice reputation, but that's a veneer over a lot of really dark stuff. The game begins with snippets of The Road Not Taken and ends with snippets from Stopping by Woods On Snowy Evening, which are his two best-known poems. It made me really happy to twist these sweet poems into something darker. I stole lines here and there from many, many other poems: Ghost House, Love and a Question, Revelation, Mending Wall, Design, Putting In the Seed, The Hill Wife, Bereft, The Thatch, and others I just stole moods and themes from. I encourage you to read through Frost's poems Thanks to my testers: AM Ruf, Drew Cook, Zed Lopez, Manonamora, and Tabitha. If any game is ever any good at all, it's because of playtesters who are so generous with their time and thoughts. Thanks always to everyone at the intfiction.org forums, who so patiently answer questions. The most love and thanks to my sweetheart Tom, who is always the best person I know. And thanks to Robert Frost, who I hope would approve. Amanda Walker October 2024 PS-- If you find a bug or want to give me feedback, feel free to email me at beachwalkera@gmail.com *** The End *** Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, QUIT or UNDO the last command? > undo Cottage [Previous turn undone.] >script off End of transcript.