Dec. 3rd, 2016

You are in a small, rectangular room—about ten paces long and six across. A fairly cramped classroom, with a heavy desk at the front of the room underneath a chalkboard that could use a thorough cleaning. There are four rows of student desks, with 19 desks total. A low set of bookshelves run along one wall, lined with books and binders, some school supplies, a globe.

The back of the room has a single door out, which appears to be firmly locked, and the three windows are heavily boarded over and marked with a line of red tape. The tiles under your feet are scuffed and unpleasant with a thin layer of slimy dust.

Hanging from a hook near the front of the room (was that once meant to be for a slide projector?) is a tied and knotted noose, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze. You can smell blood in the air.

Across the chalkboard is scrawled:
TB NFX NYVPR

As you take a look around, a bright red clock up on the wall starts to count down from 60 minutes. Underneath, you see the small bright pinprick of light on a camera and speaker.
You are in a small, square room—no more than five or six paces across in either direction. The décor is cramped, black, and gothic a darkened library jammed so full of books and antiquated furniture that you have to be careful moving around to avoid everything.

There is a single window on one wall—covered with heavy red curtains for ambiance, but you can see that it's boarded over on the other side.

The second wall has two large bookcases full of nicely bound books. Between them is an unlit fireplace with a lintel that has several figurines and candlesticks on it, and above that, an absurdly large portrait of a very unfamiliar and gothic-looking noblewoman. Displayed prominently on the fireplace is also an antique gun. For some reason, the painting and the gun have garishly orange pieces of tape stuck to them.

The third wall has a lamp, a liquor cabinet, and a music box on a stand. There is a small stairwell here that goes straight up to the ceiling and then abruptly stops. The outlet for the lamp also has tape on it.

The final wall has a door, which is heavily padlocked, a grandfather clock.

The center of the room has a squat, round coffee table with a ouija board on it. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, some sort of twisted monstrosity made from animal skulls.
You are in a small, square room—no more than five or six paces across in either direction. The floor is a sanded-over dry wood, and the walls appear to be mottled stone. There is one door, very clearly locked, and one window, which is painted over entirely in blues and greens, light filtering in from behind it as if shining through water. There is a piece of red tape stuck to the bottom edge of the window where it is sealed to the small wooden ledge. A variety of shells, sand, and other debris are on the window ledge and beneath it

There is a table in the middle of the room, and chairs around that, and it seems to be set up for tea? A captain's rolltop desk also sits down here, one leg broken so that it's tilted onto its side. There are what appears to be barnacles on all of these pieces of furniture.

One wall is a huge mural, depicting some sort of monstrous humanoid covered in tentacles rising from the ocean depths. The details of its face are missing, as is a piece of the sky, and what appears (from the legs) to be people facing it — there are three smooth disc-shaped cutouts missing from it.

Beyond that, the contents are even odder. There is one very large treasure chest resting against one wall, locked with a combination lock. A ship's wheel is propped up in one corner, balanced on a coil of rope. A scuba diver's helmet leans against another wall, next to an anchor. Several casks are in the corner.

The sound of waves rushing and flowing fills the room. Everything has a faint brackish smell.
You each exit your rooms and move into a narrow, brightly-lit hallway. There are thematically appropriate framed pictures on the walls: a sunken ship, a spooky ghost, a bloody murder, a creepy seance.

There's some sort of mild indie music being played on the radio, from the speakers embedded in the ceiling. In the small lobby, there's a big sign: BILL'S ADVENTURE EMPORIUM. There's several fancy-looking ferns, a table full of magazines, and red chairs for those waiting to enter. An empty blackboard is displayed, along with several rows of tiny lockers.

There is a receptionist typing disinterestedly at the front desk, and a fairly well-dressed guy leaning up against the wall, watching as you all filter in. He's in his late thirties, has tousled dark hair, an angularly handsome face edged with a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and is wearing a black suit and grey shirt—suit jacket unbuttoned, not bothering with a tie. His eyes are the only thing about him that seem put-together, sharp and alert under lazy lids.

"Hey, good job," he says. "I'll get you guys up on the blackboard, and we've got some 10% off tickets for the grilled cheese place downstairs."

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Ars Goetia

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