... It has been almost 20 years...
All of your life was nonsense until you met her on that rainy moon, all of your life has been nonsense since she left on that rainy moon.
Night after night you have found refugee in your work, into the delving of the scrolls of Photius and Damascius, historians of Julius Caesar, in a myriad of inventions... useless inventions which cram your room and leave you with a thin passageway you can barely walk through.
It is been almost 20 years of sleeping over the ever-time more decrepit table and aging faster than the wood itself.
... the machine pinpoints to the town square... the noon sky is all painted in red, nobody seems to be home. Is this the signal you have been waiting for?
You rummage through your room, trying to find something respectable to wear and go out. You put on your clothes and walk out, carrying the clockwork device with you
The science fair seemed to be over, the town square was empty. You could have walked back to your house on the docks... yet, you couldn't. Your machine was pointing to her, it was pointing to that red-haired woman, shocking in beauty. She turns back and begins to walk.
With the plaza empty, you start walking. You run and then walk again. You turn your back... this is a non-sense. It grows darker, it rains harder.
How many hours have you been walking? The city disappears in black fog, the full moon lights the rainy night. A hideous old house stands on the steep hill and into the black forest. And unnamed horror runs through your body.
The woman awaits you, you hear her voice, the welcome of the dead. She walks down to the graveyard, descending into the earth
- A graphical adventure, in the style of Shadowgate.
- Walk around discovering the graveyard, the mansion, and the forest below.
- Read things, solve puzzles
46: Visitor from tomb—stranger at some publick concourse followed at midnight to graveyard where he descends into the earth. 98: Hideous old house on steep city hillside—Bowen St.—beckons in the night—black windows—horror unnam’d—cold touch and voice—the welcome of the dead. 121 Photius tells of a (lost) writer named Damascius, who wrote “Incredible Fictions” “Tales of Daemons” “Marvellous Stories of Appearances from the Dead”.