FIREPLACE
The centerpiece of the home’s family room, a beautifully crafted fireplace. Between the clammy atmosphere of the house and the hellish storm outside, the idea of a roaring fire has never appealed to you more. The sturdy mantle above the firebox holds a handbag and a small book of matches. An eerie portrait hangs above.
You poke around inside of the firebox. There are a few pieces of half-burned wood, and a lot of smaller bits of furniture and junk, as though it’s been used more as a receptacle for refuse than as a fireplace. You also notice what appears to be an unscathed photo sticking out from under some of the garbage.
The fireplace has a few pieces of half-burned wood inside it already, as well as some trash. If you have something to light it with, you can input the ID here:
The fireplace has a few pieces of half-burned wood inside it already, as well as some trash. If you have something to light it with, you can input the ID here:
You pick up the matchbook. There are a few matches inside, but they appear damp.
You step back to study the portrait above the mantle. An imposing man stares past you, as if studying the house and its otherworldly occupants before him, yearning for an answer to the mysteries still held there. His eyes ache with the search for a solution, and his mouth appears to want to open, as if to shout an accusation and demand that justice be done. You instantly recognize the man as a young Charles McDermott, before his obsession had years to eat away at him.
Sat almost thoughtlessly on the edge of the mantlepiece is a stately old handbag, deep black with gold trimmings. You carefully remove the handbag to probe its contents, but it’s locked. You’ll need a key to open it. If you have it, you can enter the ID here:
As you study the handbag, something moves out of the corner of your eye. Ashes from the fireplace begin to swirl about, filling the air with a dusty haze before molding itself into the shape of an elderly woman.
“Excuse me, are you an officer of the law? A reporter? Oh… an educator? Hm. Well, that will do just as well, someone needs to be informed about the crimes that continue here!”
Ah, this must be the neighbor, Birdie.
“Crimes! Theft! Vandalism! And… MURDER!”
“Speaking of, I hope to learn more about what happened the night you were murdered.”
“Oh. Well in that case, however can I help?”
“Surely you’ve been made aware that the McDermott children were the worst of the neighborhood hellions? No? Well. They were. Constantly on my property, trampling through my beloved hydrangeas, damaging my trees by scrambling in the branches, and I believe they’ve even been in my house getting their sticky jam hands on my belongings. I had come over to have a few words with Charles and Vera about their little troublemakers, but no one was home. The storm had set in just as I reached the door, so I let myself into the kitchen with the key they kept under the flowerpot and decided I’d just wait until they returned so they couldn’t avoid me. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, the key? No, it’s fine, you see I grew up in this house, it’s where the key has been since my father built the place. Anyway, I had a bit of a chill from the weather, so I heated up the pot of cocoa on the stove while I waited. When the family got home, it was like a whirlwind! I could barely get anyone’s attention, and not only that, but there was some sleazy-looking stranger with them, like one of those used car lot swindlers with their butter-won’t-melt smiles. One of them must’ve murdered me, as everything past that is a blur!“
“Fraught? Hah! What a fancy word for saying they let their kids run amok and had no respect for family history! Those kids were always crawling all over my property, crushing my prized hydrangeas, tearing up my fruit trees, stealing, you name it. And then they have the nerve to act as if I’m the intruder, when I’m just concerned about the way those children acted, with the way they’re treating this house. Hmph.“
“That’s right, I certainly did! My father built this place originally. Then, when times got difficult, the McDermotts bought it. My life has been a nightmare ever since! You’d think they’d want to have an original owner’s opinion on the remodeling they’ve undertaken, but Vera wouldn’t hear a word of it. Not even the decency to invite their elderly neighbor, who loves this place so much, around for a cup of cocoa to see the changes or talk about their day. People these days…“
You pick up the matchbook. There are a few matches inside, but they appear damp.
You step back to study the portrait above the mantle. An imposing man stares past you, as if studying the house and its otherworldly occupants before him, yearning for an answer to the mysteries still held there. His eyes ache with the search for a solution, and his mouth appears to want to open, as if to shout an accusation and demand that justice be done. You instantly recognize the man as a young Charles McDermott, before his obsession had years to eat away at him.
Sat almost thoughtlessly on the edge of the mantlepiece is a stately old handbag, deep black with gold trimmings. You carefully remove the handbag to probe its contents, but it’s locked. You’ll need a key to open it. If you have it, you can enter the ID here:
As you study the handbag, something moves out of the corner of your eye. Ashes from the fireplace begin to swirl about, filling the air with a dusty haze before molding itself into the shape of an elderly woman.
“Excuse me, are you an officer of the law? A reporter? Oh… an educator? Hm. Well, that will do just as well, someone needs to be informed about the crimes that continue here!”
Ah, this must be the neighbor, Birdie.
“Crimes! Theft! Vandalism! And… MURDER!”
“Speaking of, I hope to learn more about what happened the night you were murdered.”
“Oh. Well in that case, however can I help?”
“Speaking of, I hope to learn more about what happened the night you were murdered.”
“Oh. Well in that case, however can I help?”
“Surely you’ve been made aware that the McDermott children were the worst of the neighborhood hellions? No? Well. They were. Constantly on my property, trampling through my beloved hydrangeas, damaging my trees by scrambling in the branches, and I believe they’ve even been in my house getting their sticky jam hands on my belongings. I had come over to have a few words with Charles and Vera about their little troublemakers, but no one was home. The storm had set in just as I reached the door, so I let myself into the kitchen with the key they kept under the flowerpot and decided I’d just wait until they returned so they couldn’t avoid me. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, the key? No, it’s fine, you see I grew up in this house, it’s where the key has been since my father built the place. Anyway, I had a bit of a chill from the weather, so I heated up the pot of cocoa on the stove while I waited. When the family got home, it was like a whirlwind! I could barely get anyone’s attention, and not only that, but there was some sleazy-looking stranger with them, like one of those used car lot swindlers with their butter-won’t-melt smiles. One of them must’ve murdered me, as everything past that is a blur!“
“Fraught? Hah! What a fancy word for saying they let their kids run amok and had no respect for family history! Those kids were always crawling all over my property, crushing my prized hydrangeas, tearing up my fruit trees, stealing, you name it. And then they have the nerve to act as if I’m the intruder, when I’m just concerned about the way those children acted, with the way they’re treating this house. Hmph.“
“That’s right, I certainly did! My father built this place originally. Then, when times got difficult, the McDermotts bought it. My life has been a nightmare ever since! You’d think they’d want to have an original owner’s opinion on the remodeling they’ve undertaken, but Vera wouldn’t hear a word of it. Not even the decency to invite their elderly neighbor, who loves this place so much, around for a cup of cocoa to see the changes or talk about their day. People these days…“