Party in Hell House.

Good evening.

The reason I have gathered you all here tonight is due to an unsettling mishap.

Mr. DeWinter, an associate of all in this room, has passed away.

Why is this an unsettling mishap?

Because of the circumstances in which he died.

As you all know, Donovan, I'm sure he won't mind if I call him by his first name, was a bit... Eccentric. He had a flair from the dramatic in both style and substance.

This flair was the reason for his downfall.

What I hold in my hands is his last will and testement, along with a letter dating back to a week ago. On his instructions, the will may only be read to one of you. The one will be determined by a "Trail by fire". Yes, Trail, not the usual "Trial" - Though I assure you it will be both.

The letter however is addressed to all of you, and I thought it appropriate to summon you all to hear it's contents.

Ahem.

To Adam Witney Esq.
Darrius Kovine Esq.
Lady Florence Gray.
Rvd. Paul Rutter.
Jerry Fine Esq.
And my dear Marion Alldrich.

As I write this letter, I feel the reaper at the gates of my house.

For some time now, as you will all be aware, I have exiled myself into a state of hermitage, keeping myself away from the common man. For reason I shall now reveal, this was done for good reason, and to prevent dire consequences.

Back in 1962, I was a part of a society. A dark and secretive society. I can now safely reveal the name of said group - The Novella Front. I realise to the ill educated that may seem like some snooty book club, and in a way, it was. We were all authors in some way - I was a writer of great fiction, just breaking my teeth unto the art at the time, before discovering my latent acting talent. Amongst us were some of the truly great and unknown - Byron Hayes, the poet, now departed. Cynthia Stromm, the Pulp, now departed. And we were fortunate enough to have had one Job Hughes, the travel writer, as a part of our kindred before his unfortunate illness and subsequent venture to find Lemuria.

All of those in the company have now passed from this earth, save for myself. This is not a coincidence.

What we did was unforgivable.

The front was just that - the front itself was a high-society book club, which garnered its own rumours of drugs, orgies and a "happening sound". But our true intentions were to mine the darkest areas of our own souls to... grow inspiration. All artists go through dry spells, and it's torturous. It's worse than death, but not by much.

We pooled our resources to gain the very mansion in which you stand. And with them help of some aspiring archetects, who would also join our brigade, we made the deadliest house in England (Of Scotland and the other principalities of the Crown, I cannot be sure.).

We had everything - Saw blades, Axes, Animate suits of Armour - All the cliches. And with every drop of spilt blood, we made more conversions upon the original design.

We used to get the unemployed, the homeless, immigrants, whoever we could and whoever wanted a quick bit of cash - telling them that whatever they wanted lay at the top of the house.

None made it through.

We were squeamish at first, but soon enjoyed seeing how far they got. Some of us even "Got off" on the thrill of seeing a disemboweling, though I assure you I never did so.

But, like most drugs of the time, the thrill soon wore off. We became bored of the deathtraps. It was human nature to be consistantly unsatisfied back then. Plus, we didn't have any room to improve upon the designs short of gutting the house itself.

So we went in ourselves.

We were slow, slothful types. There were accidents. The spiked wall on the second floor is how Bonny Mallow, the child starlet from Mississippi got that awful scar upon her face, which also ended her career.
The swinging blade in the eastern hallway is what ended her life, however.

But we grew agile and lithe. We could have given Houdini a run for his money in terms of lucky escapes, if he hadn't already done it himself and shamed us all.

But, with agillity comes knowledge of every pitfall.

We couldn't decide what to do next. Some decided to try it with blindfolds. Poor buggers.

The logical amongst us decided to dip into the occult for a solution.

Minster Fosswood, a black faith healer, famous at the time for his exorcisms, lead our research into the devilish machinations of the eternal flame.

We soon decided to call upon the gates of Pandemonium itself, the city at the center of Hell. Within it lay such beautiful devices we couldn't begin to imagine.

The rites and rituals began and ended. We sacrificed and slew those who the gatekeepers demanded. And they, in turn, gave us a portion of the city for ourselves, which we named Philisopholes - a witty pun from the tongue of Gunther Handech, the musician.

Everything comes with a price, we soon learnt. Damn our arrogance for not realising before.

We all were visited by darkness, be it misfortune, daemons or just plain death. I was plagued with oozing sores for a while, then stalked my gargoyles. The ones that litter the gounds as a matter of fact - Thank you Minister Fosswood. Our own personal hell was neither ironic or entertaining.

We all found ourselves drawn back into the house for long periods of time. We could never remember what we did there, but our numbers began to dwindle. It didn't take a genius to put it all together.

My own exile, is just what I owe to the bargain. God knows I wasn't doing any better out there than I was in here.

I'm the last. The final monster in the chain of misery. I find myself unable to take my own life.

I'm sorry. I love you all.

But I need your blood. The crimson miasma. The viscera flowing over my withered skin.

I'm afraid you won't be able to leave now.

It's already too late.

The one who remains will recieve everything owed to them. The house and all of the weight it places upon your shoulders.

Donovan DeWinter.

...

Has anyone tried the door?