NINE FEET

Feed the house. Survive the nights. Get out.

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A house burned in October, 1994. Not everything in it finished leaving.

You wake nameless on the floor of a house rebuilt from smoke. The doors are locked. The pressure plates are hungry, and they will not open the way out until they are fed. The only thing you have to feed them is yourself.

Die on purpose. Your echoes replay every step you took, and where you let go matters. Learn the house's order, spend your bodies carefully, and get to the door before what walks the halls gets to you.

The Drill

The plates demand weight in a taught order: stone of the hall, wood of the doors, grass of the lawn, then the ember that waited.
The echoes are not enemies. Every one wears your face and walks a path you walked. The house is full of them. Ask yourself why.
The holes in the floor: the house keeps what falls, and the living may cross on it.
The house turns over when you die. Walls that were shut are open. Walls that were open are shut.
The walkers patrol the dark. They stop only to listen when a bell rings.
The dark is the smoke. Your light is small. On the deepest nights there is a lamp, and it burns on a clock of its own.

What the Dark Shows

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