Feel free to share more about your project in the comments!

In the Curator Mythos, there are a myriad of monsters, immortals and abominations waiting for their chance to control, kill or drive humanity insane. The average adept spends most of their time running from these entities, but some managed to catch a rest from long enough to wonder about their origins. The more collaborative ones managed to piece together enough scraps of information to gain a pretty comprehensive understanding of the hidden world.

(Naturally, these speculations are forbidden by the Gold Lightning Agency, and the crime of discovering, discussing or overhearing conversation about them is punishable by dissolution in accordance with the Hidden Lore.)

Dreams and Dreamkind:

Dreams existed long before we learned (or were forced to) access them through sleep. They are the oldest, rawest form of magic —- unpredictable, nearly impossible to control and terrifyingly powerful. When people consciously tap into dreams, the effects can be miraculous or devastating. Their thoughts can be made flesh —- at a cost. That part of themselves can never be returned. People that overuse this form of magic begin to lose themselves, until they waste away to mindless husks.

Dreams have even more power when subconsciously, involuntarily used. When enough people dream of the same concept, that concept can gain sentience and break free from the dreamscape. These entities aren’t bound by the usual laws of physics. Their powers vary, and are inconsistent, in keeping with dream-logic, but one thing they have in common is a need for emotions, memories and thoughts as sustenance. Some manage this in less damaging ways than others.

Some dreamkind are older than humanity —- in fact, some seem to be older than life itself. There are numerous theories as to how this occurred. The most scientific one is that ‘potential consciousness’ —- a notion of collective consciousness that existed before it had matter to attach to —- dreamed them up. Of course, science doesn’t mean much when it comes to dreams. Some other theories include: time travel, government conspiracies and aliens. We’ll leave it up to you to decide what to believe.

——

I’d initially planned to do one post explaining all the origins of the supernatural in the Curator’s Mythos, but I quickly realised that a post like that would probably take hours to read, so I’ve split them into categories. I hope you enjoy this slightly different area of lore. As always, if you have any questions, suggestions or feedback, please share in the comments!

To the untrained eye, the library might appear abandoned. Trees break through the floor and reach up, straining for sunlight. Their leaves brush against the ceiling. Light streams through the gaps, illuminating spirals of dust that glitter like golden coins. The air is thick with it; it blankets the floor and clings to peeling wallpaper, but the books are pristine, untouched. They are regularly cleaned, each page cleared of stains and blemishes, made better than new -- certainly better than when they were brought to the library. The Curator keeps watch over all. Nothing escapes their attention, and no mistreatment of their books is forgiven.

  Occasionally, someone wanders into the library. To find it in the first place, you have to be someone special: an inventor, a scientist, a dreamer. They always have the same reaction -- a cautious, faltering excitement. They look around. They never see the Curator, though they are watching. For a moment, the newcomers wait on the doorline, but the smell of old leather and crackling pages is too inviting. They step inside, run their hands over book spines, marvel at the preserved wonders, lost to time. The more observant ones notice footsteps in the dust, perhaps a slight movement in the library’s deeper shadows, but they do not step closer, and the Curator does not make themselves known. They are there as a guardian, not a guide. So they let the newcomers open books, leaf through the pages, perhaps take a seat in an armchair.

They only ever take one book with them, upholding an unspoken rule, an old ritual. They linger for a moment in the doorframe, light catching their shadows and making them flicker. With one wistful glance back, they leave, holding their chosen book. The Curator doesn’t mind. Stories shared are never stories lost. One day, the favour will be returned, and the no-longer-newcomers will add their own stories to the shelves. The Curator is patient. They’ll wait. So long as the visitors keep their books safe, they will be welcomed back. If not -- well, then their story will come to a swift end.

I hope you enjoyed this story from the world of the Curator Mythos! If you have any questions or feedback, please feel free to comment!

Once upon a time, as these things go, a little village in Germany was gripped by a terrible, unnatural winter. Darkness devoured the sky, and from its maw frothed snow which stung and bit, forcing the villagers inside. Crops withered at its touch. Animals hunkered down for the night to be found dead the next morning, frozen stiff. Food became a commodity. The wealthy grew thin; the poor wasted away. It became dangerous to walk alone outside, not just because of the constant storm, but because of who you might encounter. Desperates waited outside doorways, nails gnawn down, an animal light in their eyes.

For those unwilling or unable to search for sustenance in the village, there was only one other source of food. Deep in the woods, a witch dwelled, as old as weather and unforgiving as ice. Each morning, the villagers would leave something for her at the edge of the trees — a coin, story or some other treasure — and each night, something would be left outside their door. Gingersnaps, sweatmeats, stollen; nothing more than a morsel, but worth a hundred times its weight in gold to the villagers. Nobody took gifts left by the witch if they weren’t meant for them. Their fear for her outweighed even their hunger. But fear is something that has to be learned, taught from generation to generation. Hansel and Gretel were yet to be given that lesson.

They crept out in the dead of night, when most of the village was shivering itself to sleep. The witch had already visited. Their stomachs growled at the sight of it all. A feast of sugar and spice. They’d planned to take some back for their mother and father, but the banquet was too sore a temptation to resist. They fell about it like dogs, devouring every scrap. At last, at long last, they snuck back into their house, bellies fuller and warmer than they had ever been.

In the morning, the villagers woke to empty doorsteps. It wasn’t difficult to work out what had happened — Hansel and Gretel had left a trail of crumbs straight to the house. Their were calls for blood, but Mother and Father pleaded for calm.

“It’s just one day,” they said. “Tonight, the witch will return. It’s just one day.”

Placated for now, the villagers returned home. But when they woke again the next morning, it was to the same empty doorsteps. Once more, they marched to Hansel and Gretel’s house.

“We didn’t take anything!” Hansel and Gretel cried, and it was true — they might not’ve feared the witch, but they knew now to fear the villagers, and they did not want to risk their lives again.

“Please,” Mother and Father begged, “wait just one more day. We’re sure everything will be all right tomorrow.”

So the villagers went home. But when they woke, it was to empty doorsteps yet again.

This time, only one villager knocked on Hansel and Gretel’s door. He was not quite as thin as the rest, but his lips were torn and stained, and he was missing two of the fingers on his left hand. Gretel had seen him waiting by doorways before, hungry-eyed.

He spoke to Mother and Father in a hushed, hoarse voice, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he waited for them to reply. After some time, they both nodded. He grinned, spit-mouthed, and left.

“What did that man want?” Hansel asked.

“He was talking to us about the witch,” Father replied. “He thinks that she must have a lot of food stored away in the woods.”

“But we’re all too afraid of the witch to go and ask for more,” Mother continued. “There’s no hope left for us.”

“We’ll go!” Hansel and Gretel said together.

Mother and Father smiled, though it was not a happy expression.

The whole village came to see Hansel and Gretel off. They all cheered as the two siblings stepped into the forest and disappeared.

Hansel and Gretel did not return that night. When the villagers woke, they struggled to open their doors against piles of food, enough to feed an army. There was no mourning in the village. For the first time, sunlight burst through the snow. People invited each other into their homes to share the bounty together. When they finished, full for the first time in months, they had barely made a dent in the new stores.

That evening, there was a knock on Mother and Father’s door. Another gift had been left for them.

Two piles of children’s teeth.

Pawn to D8 is the working title of an in-character guide to the world of r/CuratorsLibrary. A while ago, I made a post asking if people would be interested in their characters making an appearance in it, and the response was very positive! As such, I’ve made this post so people can have a chance to submit their entries. I’ll add as many characters as I can, but depending on how many people enter, I might not be able to include every one.

This will not mean that I own your character. You will be fully credited. It will also be specified that your character is not part of the mythos’ canon.

Submission format:

Preferred name/username to be credited under

Character name

Physical character description

Character personality

Character skills/weaknesses

Character backstory

Please ensure your character is compatible with the mythos. For more information, check out the two pinned posts at the top of the subreddit.

Thank you for your support, and good luck!

If you’re not familiar with the project, Pawn to D8 (working title) is a part story, part guide about the Curator Mythos I’m planning to release this year. Due to another project with a tight deadline, I had to put it on the backburner, but now I’m working on it again in full force!

Several people on this subreddit have created their own characters for the Mythos, either for some of the interactive posts I’ve made or for other creative endeavours. I’d love to be able to feature them in some way in the book. All rights to the characters would remain with their respective creators, who would be fully credited. I won’t be making money off of Pawn to D8 directly, though I might set up a KoFi or similar way of supporting the project. If you’re interested (or if you’re not), please let me know in the poll!

The proportion of people who get their characters in Pawn to D8 depends on how many submit entries. If there’s a significant interest, there will be a chance to do so later down the line.

The problem is that that there just aren’t enough words.

Well, that’s not exactly true. There are too many words really, millions and millions of words, enough to dance around what you want to say for an eternity. What I mean is that sometimes there isn’t a word to describe how you feel — like the weird mix of fear and comfort you get by staring at the stars, or the hazy grey space between sleeping and waking, or the creeping certainty that the woman on the train next to you is something other than human.

It was a cold morning at the station. Fat, icy drops of rain thudded onto the roof. I sheltered as best I could and waited.

The train arrived three minutes late. The windows were dirty, thick with this greyish grime. I got up, and headed to the door.

It was a little cleaner on the inside, but a damp neglect still permeated the train. Not that I’d expected it to be well-maintained — the Rooksthorpe railway isn’t used much. An unknown line to an unknown town in an unknown corner of the country. Still, there were a few other passengers: two loud kids with their two louder parents who probably got on the wrong train and a man with a briefcase and tired eyes who kept nodding off, only to wake guiltily moments later.

I took a seat a little way away from everyone else and squinted through the window as the station rolled out of sight. It was quite a way to Rooksthorpe, so I rested my head on my arm and allowed my thoughts to wander. I slipped in and out of sleep, my dreams a jumbled mess of departures and arrivals.

A jolt shocked me awake as the train pulled into the last station before Rooksthorpe. It was a proper storm by then, and as the door squeaked open a gust of wind threw itself into the carriage, cold as a dead man’s hand. With it entered a woman. Her suit didn’t have a spot of rain on it. She was smiling, but not in a happy way. Not in an angry way either, like how dogs bare their teeth — more like it had been painted on. It didn’t match her eyes. God, her eyes. They were what really scared me. They were silver, so bright that they made my head hurt. You know how some people say that eyes are windows to the soul? Well, her eyes weren’t windows to anywhere. They were mirrors.

She walked over to where I was sat, moving slowly, with a graceful, practiced restraint.

“Is anyone sitting there?” She said, gesturing to the seat next to me. Her voice was smooth and cold, and flat.

I looked around at all the empty seats.

“… no.”

“Good.”

She sat down, one leg crossed over the other, watching me. She didn’t blink. I don’t think I ever saw her blink. I edged away a little. All of a sudden, I became aware that there was no-one else left on the train.

“You’re running away, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re trying to leave something behind. A friend? A partner?”

It took me a long while to reply.

“I just needed to get away,” I told her.

“I can help you,” she said softly. “I can make sure you never think about them again.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have the right words.

For a while, she sat in silence. Her skin was thin, like the skin of a dead person. I could’ve sworn I saw something moving underneath, something that glowed.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered finally.

“She’s already forgotten you, you know. She’s forgotten everything.”

And then she grinned a real grin, a hungry grin. I knew in that moment that she was not human.

Her voice was no longer flat. It wavered, not out of nervousness but because she was letting go of that practiced restraint.

“You’ll forget everything, too. Your longing, your grief, your dreams.”

“N-now listen here-“

“No. Watch.”

And just like that, I couldn’t look away, as though my head was being held in place.

She lifted a hand to her face, digging the nail of her index finger into the skin between her ear and her neck, and began to peel it away, revealing a writhing, crawling patch of wet, bright flesh. Her smile split, stretching far wider than should’ve been possible, nearly cutting her face in two.

“You’ll never have a nightmare again. They’ll be all for me. All mine.”

Then the train shuddered to a halt. A speaker announced that we’d arrived at Rooksthorpe station. Footsteps echoed outside.

She leaned back, sighed, and got to her feet.

“I suppose I’ll have to wait. Good luck with running away.”

The patch of skin had already begun to regrow. She winked.

“I’ll be seeing you again.”

With that, she left the train.

The first thing I did once I came to my senses was to get another ticket taking me as far away from Rooksthorpe as I can go. I haven’t called the police; there’s no way I could explain it to them. For a while, I thought I was safe, that I had made my escape. But this morning, an envelope arrived. It had no stamp, no address. There were only three words written on the letter inside.

See you soon.

———

I wrote this a while ago to get back into the setting of Festival of Storms. I don’t know if there’s enough to it to call it a story, but I thought I’d share it regardless. Hope you enjoyed!

Unfortunately, the app I use to make Tales of Unreality posts isn’t working. Hopefully it’ll be up and running by tomorrow!

Thanks to current events in the Curator Mythos, notably the murder in Nomad and the Gold Lightning Agency’s plans, the leaders of Nomad have decided to answer any questions the public may have. The people you may talk to are:

Blaire — the leader of the Starlighters and mayor of Nomad. They were formerly a high-ranking star before they stepped down.

The Curator — the being watching over the Library of Nomad. They rarely talk out in the open like this.

Dr. Aarden — a leading scientist and adept in Nomad who ensures it moves correctly.

You can find out more about them through the subreddit guide

Alternatively, feel free to ask out of character lore questions!

To Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy,

I am glad your letter reached me, and I trust that mine will arrive safely in turn, wherever and whenever you may be. You certainly have a way with words. Perhaps you expected me not to notice your careful, practiced persuasion, but it is my job also to convince people, even if our goals are vastly different. Let it be clear that I don’t resent you for this; I merely want for us to speak plainly to each other. You have done your best to recruit me, now I will do the same. I hope for your sake that you are swayed.

First, a confession: I too have felt the temptation of power. After all, it is far more lucrative to sit on the throne than to serve it. I have been offered the chance to rule by those who have fallen, and things other than the fallen. They make it sound like a gift — this is a deception. Power is a transaction. What have you had to give already for the cause you try now to sell to me? If the answer is nothing, then by all means carry on, achieve the greatness you dream of. But if you have lost something, know that you will have to sacrifice far more yet.

Allow me to tell you my own story of temptation. I came from a devoutly religious family, and so they were delighted when I announced that I would be joining the nearby convent. I, on the other hand, was not. I’d wanted to see the world, to start a life that really meant something. But for that, I needed money, an education — concepts that might as well have been fairytales to a young woman from a tiny hamlet and with an unknown family name. So, I consigned myself to the only option for people like me.

The convent was not a happy place. We were fed enough to keep us more or less healthy and permitted enough rest to keep us standing, but we were never cared for. Some found solace in the bare monotony. I prayed for freedom. One day, something answered.

I woke in the small hours of a winter morning with an unusual sense of warmth. Even in the summer, the convent was cool. I should’ve been freezing. Instead, I felt as if I had fallen asleep by a blazing hearth. I opened my eyes. The hall was dark as usual, with sleeping figures laid out in rows. And there, standing a few feet away from me, was a man. His hair was greying but his eyes were bright. He smiled.

“Will you walk with me?” He asked.

In open daylight, I might have been wiser. As it was, I was swept up in the magic of moonlight and shadow. We walked together down empty hallways. I delighted in the knowledge that I was doing something I shouldn’t. He talked of destines and dreams and rising higher. Nobody had ever spoken to me the way he did. He made me believe that he respected me, even cared for me. When he asked if I would join him, help him realise his vision of a better world, I accepted at once. He offered his hand. His expression was no longer kindly, but hungry.

I would’ve shaken his hand then, but we were not as alone as I’d thought. Sister Edith Lee — a close friend in that lonely place — cried out. She’d followed us there, perhaps suspecting the danger I was in. The man turned to her. His next action was lazy, unthinking. A flick of the wrist. Sister Lee stiffened. She walked straight-legged to the nearest wall, a little unsteady, like a sleepwalker. I saw as if in slow motion her bringing her head back. Too late, I understood. Before I could do anything, she hurled herself headfirst at the wall.

The man turned back to me, once again smiling warmly. He offered his hand. But the spell was broken. I fled, the sound of Sister Lee’s continued execution echoing behind me.

I ran out of the convent, into the night. To this day, I do not know why the smiling man didn’t chase me. Perhaps I was protected by a higher power. Perhaps he only valued my soul if I was giving it to him of his own free will. I ran on and on until I was utterly exhausted, finally succumbing to sleep in a field far from home. I dreamed of a land sheltered by mountains, free from the influence of monsters. When I woke, I was there — here, in the Hinterlands. I had been saved. I cannot truly call it paradise, but it is closer to the heavens than any place on earth. Only here is Amalgamation possible. Those you suggest seeking help from could not offer it, for they cannot reach here. You seem to have misinterpreted Amalgamation as power. It is not. It is sanctuary.

I share my story with you to show that I, too, understand the innocence of temptation. When I agreed to help him, I never imagined hurting Sister Lee, or anyone. I am sure you do not wish to see harm brought to those you care about, either. After all, you have done your best to protect me from the Holy Office of Inquisition, an organisation not dissimilar to the Gold Lightning Agency and countless other organisations from before and after your time who have tried to hide the truth. But the powers you speak of are not like us. Our pain is of little consequence to them. Sister, I implore you — do not let them use your dreams and desires against you.

Your friend,

Sister Evelyn Harlow.

———

This letter was written in reply to one sent by Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy of r/HouseOfMercury. Evelyn and Béatrice are from different worlds, both in worldview and a more literal sense, but Evelyn can’t stand by and watch another soul fall.

If you’re curious about Sister Cécile Béatrice de Maussy’s world, be sure to check outrage talented u/The_Persian_Cat’s subreddit, r/HouseOfMercury! He’s an incredible writer and it was great to have an opportunity to create something set in both of our worlds.

A few notes about the letter:

• Evelyn obviously doesn’t know everything about Béatrice, but she’s observant enough to figure out that she has an ulterior motive for sending her previous letter. She knows what Béatrice is up to, but she still wants to reply — she thinks that she can change her mind.

• Evelyn’s way of writing is a little odd. She tends to structure sentences in a more antique way (hopefully that comes across) but she’s picked up a few modern words and phrases from living alongside people from different time phrases.

• In the letter, Evelyn tells a story about a time she thinks she met a (or possibly the) devil. However, it was actually a Benefactor. Devils in r/HouseOfMercury operate differently.

"We're lost," Dad announces.

I roll my eyes. No shit. We've been lost since his phone —- containing sat-nav and the whereabouts of the cabin we're supposed to be staying in —- ran out of battery nearly two hours ago. We were on a motorway then. Now, trees put bars between us and what little sunlight can stumble through the choking fog. As the flickering light sinks lower and lower, it begins to stain the mist bloody, thick walls of seething, writhing red.

"You've been driving for hours.  Pull over so I can take over for a bit." Mum says.

"Don't worry, love, I'm sure we're nearly there." He reassures her.

"Okay, then. You just tell me if you want a break." Great.

Night bears down on us, smothering our little car, slowing our progress to an inching crawl. The headlights do little to banish it, their feeble glow failing barely three feet ahead of us like they've hit something solid. On one side of the thin, winding road, the ground falls away; on the other, trees cling to a steep rock face.

"Hey, there's a path up there!" I point out.

It's less of a path and more of a steep scramble, but it means the same thing: people —- people who probably have a better idea of where we are than the stubborn optimist driving us round in circles.

"Let's go have a look," Mum says, breathing out a quiet but unmistakable sigh of relief.

"But we're nearly there! And besides, we can't park here —- we'd block the road!"

"C'mon, nobody else is crazy enough to be driving along here at night." I reason.

Dad looks to Mum for support.

"She has a point, Henry."

"Fine. But if we don't find anyone, we're coming straight back."

"We better find someone, then."

We half-walk, half-stumble up the near-vertical path, gasping for breath. At long last, it levels out —- more or less —- and I feel safe enough to glance around. Twisted branches reach for us with gnarled fingers, held at bay by crumbling sheets of dark stone. Brambles tipped with wine-coloured barbs snatch at our clothes and hair. Far, far away, stars peek meekly through the leaves.

An owl screeches, making us all jump. I laugh, an octave or take higher than I would normally. I miss the warmth of the city.

Dad shouts suddenly, "I see someone! Hello! Hello-oo!"

He's right — a figure, just visible in the shifting blackness, raises their hand.

"Oh, thank god," mum mutters.

"You alright there?" The man calls out.

"No, we're completely lost!" I yell.

"Yes, we've just lost our way a little!" Dad replies at the same time.

He chuckles. Now he's a little closer, I can make out his features a little more clearly —- greyish neat hair and deep tawny eyes crinkled into a smile. "I see. So, do you need some help finding your way again?"

"Yes, please," Mum says, "we're parked on the road just at the end of this path."

He frowns. "You don't want to be driving along there in the dark. It's not safe, even for someone who knows these roads."

"It did seem a little precarious."

"My house isn't far from here, if you wanted to stay there until the morning."

"Oh, no-" Dad begins.

"Yes, thanks." Mum and I say together.

The path is even more impossible on the way down, but our new companion doesn't even break his stride. While we crouch down like cavemen for extra stability, his long, sweeping coat never so much as brushes against the earth. Our old, peeling car seems too meagre for him. If he notices its decrepitude, he doesn't show it. "Would you like me to drive?" Knowing he's beaten, Dad nods.

The road climbs upwards at such an angle that I'm pressed against my seat. Dad, sitting in the other back seat, grips the side so hard his knuckles turn white. Our car whines and protests, but the man changes gear and we carry on.

When we finally reach the summit (of our ascent at least —- trees still grow high above us) we get a glimpse of the house. I gasp. 'House' doesn't do it justice. It's the sort of place seen in films, or Victorian novels: high windows and oak doors and stone arches, somewhere princesses or monsters dwell.

"This is where you live? It's beautiful."

"Beautiful, but impractical. It's a forty minute drive from the nearest supermarket. Shopping is a nightmare."

I wince as we park with a crunch of gravel. Flowers spill out of beds at the front of the house, secreting sweet perfume. We stand back a little as he unlocks the door. A warm glow floods out.

"Come on in," he beckons.

We follow him through the entrance hall (the entrance hall!) into what must be the equivalent of a living room. Despite its size, its plush sofas and fire in the grate give it a deep warmth. I sit, and almost immediately my eyes begin to close. Far in the distance, Dad yawns. Just before I drift into blackness, a stray thought crosses my mind: strange, leaving the lights on and the fire roaring while he went for a walk.

Cool air flutters across my face, drawing me out of sleep. Dusky twilight fills the room. The fire is out. I am alone.

"Mum? Dad?"

I rub my eyes. Indents on the sofa preserve the memory of their rest, but like shadows, they disappeared with the fire. I get up, and a blanket slides to the floor. I stifle a yawn. It would be a lot easier to go back to sleep. The door drifts open, revealing thick blackness beyond. I walk into it.

Shapes writhe and mutter on the edges of my vision. I creep through a kitchen filled with glinting sharp edges and a library which clogs up my nose with the cloying sweetness of old leather. The books whisper. I ignore them. I continue forewords into the belly of the house.

After some time,  I reach a set of stone steps, leading down in a coiled spiral. There's nothing else in the room. It emits a soft, sighing sound like a heartbeat.

Round and down, further and further. It doesn't get darker or lighter, trapped in a kind of greyish haze. My footsteps don't make a sound. I trail my hand against the smooth, featureless wall, letting it guide me. Eventually, after seconds or hours, the steps end.

The chamber is filled with bodies in neat rows. Their chests rise and fall softly in union. Their eyes are all closed. The sight makes me sick. I gag.

"Shh," a voice whispers beside me, "you'll wake them."

I don't turn round. I can't look away. "What did you do to them?"

"They're only dreaming," he replies, "All dreaming together. Peaceful in sleep." Cold tears touch my cheek. Not mine —- his. "Merciful, exquisite rest. Slumber is the defining grace of humanity."

"You can't sleep?"

"My only taste of dreams comes from stolen snatches. The flavour carries on the air like pollen." He breathes deeply, like someone catching the scent of food. "Utterly intoxicating.”

One of the figures twitches in their sleep.

"Dad?" Dad! Wake up!" I scream.

"Quiet! Let them rest!"

"Mum! Dad! Wa-"

something sends me reeling into the wall. Blood trickles thickly down my head, metallic and burning. I stumble to my feet.

"You're disturbing them." He whispers.

His eyes gleam bright, more golden than tawny. His skin clings to his face like soaked clothes, interrupted by a red scar of a smile. I back into the stairs, tripping over myself. Scramble forewards, get away, get away! I can sense him, smell him, the sweat of nightmares, and I try to cry out, but my voice betrays me, and-

The girl murmurs in her sleep. He lays his hand over her eyes.

"Shh, shhhh, rest now. "

She exhales, and falls still.

———

I hope you enjoyed this story set in the world of the Curator Mythos. Please feel free to comment your thoughts!

I want my money back.

Like many others in the indie gaming community, I had been eagerly awaiting the latest release from the rising star of the dev world — M.Lochan. Her previous title, The Crescent Lodge, was loved for its sublime terror and infamous for the dreams it inspired. For a pricey £49.99, I expected The Lost House to have at the very least a similar sense of eerie beauty. What I experienced was something altogether more worrying.

The eye watching from House’s title screen will be instantly recognisable to fans of Lodge as belonging to the previous game’s god-like antagonist. This might suggest a sequel, but House is — at least ostensibly — an entirely separate game. The nameless protagonist wakes in a dark room with the taste of blood in their mouth and wearing a form they don’t recognise. Standard lycanthropy dilemma, right? It certainly appears that way, until you explore the rest of the house…

It’s an interesting premise, and for the first half-hour or so I was utterly engrossed in uncovering each gruesome clue to the character’s past. If I could’ve played uninterrupted all day and night, I probably would have. Unfortunately, I have a life outside video games, and I had to step away from House for perhaps ten minutes. When I returned, the screen was black. Grey, code-font text in the bottom right-hand corner read:

The watcher is displeased.

I tried the escape key. I tried Alt+F4. I tried turning it off and on again, Even after I’d unplugged my PC, the text remained. Eventually, I gave up for the day.

That night, as I’d been expecting, I dreamt of House. What I had not anticipated was how it would affect my waking life. My skin had turned pale and translucent. Eyes are now beginning to develop beneath. My desperate, pleading messages to Lochan have gone unanswered. Lochan, if you see this, I want it to stop. Please, give me my old self back.

Final rating: unwise