It looks like a dining room of some sort, a long mahogany table covered with a pristine white tablecloth sits in the centre of the room, set with various styles of Western cutlery, as well as a small pot of something that I can’t recognize.

The pot is shaped like a skull.

I am feeling parched; so I have the idea that perhaps I should drink from the pot to calm my nerves. However, the pot’s shape is ominous, and it could be dangerous.

I don’t trust this house.

I chuck a glance around the room, noticing a small fireplace against the wall. I can see embers still shifting over the remnants of burnt logs, however for the most part they appear cooled and sooty.

There are small shelves that line the walls, each covered with what must be fine wine, tall glasses filled with red liquid.

At least, I hope its wine.

I see a small note on the side of the wall, and I pull it off, reading through it in my head.

The cook is busy…
Lend a hand?

I spot a door on the left hand side of the room, and I push it open. It leads into a small kitchen area, with white tiled floors that, with wear, are more brown and grey-stained than white. I shiver as I see the familiar black legs of cockroaches scuffle across the floor.

Disgusting.

There’s a door to the side, and I try it but it’s locked. A small bench sits off the side of the wall, and to my surprise a strange repetitive tapping sound reverberates off the brick walls.

A knife seems to be chopping into something, though I cannot see what is using it. I also cannot see what is getting chopped. I jump as I hear a voice in my ear.

“Lend a hand?” it asks.

I don’t know where it’s coming from, so I shake my head, walking away from the bench. That was too creepy. I feel something grab my arm, and I slink back in surprise, trying my best to move away.

“A hand is all I need,” the deep voice whispers in my ear ominously. I shriek as I feel my arm come into contact with the chopping board in front of me.  Something invisible feels its way across my arms, pulling and clenching my skin until I’m screaming in pain.

I can barely move as I try and push the invisible figure away from me. I can feel its breath on my ear, and it sends shivers down my spine.

“No, don’t!” I scream. I can see the glint of the knife out of the corner of my eye, and it hovers closer and closer until its suspended in the air, just above my wrist.

“Please, wait!” I yell. I hold out my other hand, placing the remains of the teddy bear onto the bench beside my arm.

“Take this instead!”

There is hesitation.

The chopping stops.

The invisible figure lets me go, and I grab my arm, rubbing my wrist repeatedly as I walk backwards, pressing my back against the wall.

That was too close.

“Why thank you, I was in need of a hand or two,” the voice echoes through the room.

“Please, let me show you my appreciation.”

There’s a glint, and I notice that whatever attacked me has placed a silver key on the table on the opposite side of the room, right next to a thick book with tightly bound pages. It’s open to a random page.

Once the chopping begins again by the kitchen bench, I stalk over to the table, taking the silver key in my hand. I tilt my head to the side as I examine the book.






People of ruling and wealthy classes have long enjoyed dining with silverware. By using such hard-to-clean cutlery, they could hire servants to demonstrate their wealth.

In addition, silver utensils change colour upon contact with poison, making them quite useful.






I think I understand this next riddle. I know there is a door on the opposite side of this kitchen area, but something tells me that this key will not fit in the keyhole.

Instead, I take the key back into the previous room, walking across to the head of the dining room table.

I let my fingers run across the edge of the pot that is shaped like a skull, thinking that indeed, if the book is right, by dropping the key into it I can determine whether or not it is poison.

My eyes widen as the key slowly turns from its brilliant, shimmering silver into a deathly, midnight black. I jump as I hear an all-too familiar click.

A door must have unlocked somewhere…

I return to the small kitchen, and note immediately that the scraping sounds of the knife on the chopping board have stopped. There’s not a sound in the room, aside from the shuffling of cockroaches on the floor and in the walls.

The book on the table is closed.

I press the palm of my hand to the door, the one that was unlocked before. As I push it open, I can’t help but let out a shrill shriek as a wall of cockroaches fall from the ceiling, out of the doorframe.

I am quick to find myself in a new corridor, one that seems to lead to a small staircase that heads up to the floor above.

There’s someone there!

Someone with dark hair walks up the stairs, barely metres from myself, and I feel myself shiver. I see the flicker of that person’s eye in the dim light, but just as quickly as I suspect its presence, the figure is gone.

I shake my head, thinking it must be something I had imagined. The lighting is bad, after all, and I may just be seeing things.

I find myself in a new passage, a small hallway that leads to the left as my only option.

There’s a doorway laced with spider webs to the side, and beyond the brick wall a nook, a vase of black roses on a table, a suit of armour shining at attention, surveying the hallways silent, still.

The cat is there too.

“So you’ve made it this far,” it tells me.

“Only just,” I say.

“You’re crying,” it notes.

I look at it in surprise, holding a hand to my face. My cheeks are wet. I never realised I had even started crying. I pull my hand away from my face, letting out a shrill squeak as I examine my fingers.

Is that… blood?

“Well, you’ve come this far. You might as well keep going!” The cat exclaims, its paws.

I nod, running my hand along the wall as I go. The fact that I was crying tears of blood unnerves me, and I want to get out of this strange place as quickly as possible. I follow the path along, noticing there are three directions for me to take.

A door right ahead, a door to the left, and of course, one to the right. I take the one to my right, deciding it will be best to tackle this corridor in an anticlockwise fashion.

I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m here, but I do know I don’t want to be here.