Tol-in-Gaurhoth LXIII: The Cottage of Lost Play

[Mnemosyne]

The envelope had no return address. It was written in a simple, elegant hand: black ink on ivory paper. And Feanor of the Peredhil had no idea how it had gotten to her.

For one thing, it was addressed to her Barrow-Downs name, a product of an adolescent mind who thought that “grandiose” meant adding “of the _________” to everything. And while she knew it wasn’t terribly difficult for people to find her on Facebook, it was still kind of creepy getting an unsolicited letter from someone on the internet. Hoping that whatever was inside would give some clue as to who sent it, she opened the envelope

* * *

and found an invitation. At first Eönwë thought it was to a Downer wedding and was inordinately pleased that he had received one (even though he almost certainly wouldn’t be able to attend it), but there weren’t any names he recognized.

It read,

* * *

You are cordially invited to a formal dinner at the Cottage of Lost Play. As a member of one of the foremost Tolkien discussion boards on the internet, it is hoped that you will have a particular appreciation for this one fan’s homage to the world he created. All expenses will be paid for; should you choose to accept, a private jet will be awaiting you at the nearest airport on Saturday 18 July. Guests will be accommodated overnight.

Attire is to be formal.

I hope that you are able to attend.

Very sincerely yours,
M.

How very James Bond, thought Pitchwife as he folded up the note. It looked too good to be true. Going over to his computer (one of the few things unpacked in this mess) he did a quick search on this “cottage of lost play.” But the only things that came up were to be expected: A few Tolkien wiki articles, something from SecondLife, generic fandom. Nothing that pointed to a specific location.

He couldn’t quite shake the odd feeling in his gut, but it wouldn’t hurt

* * *

to see if anything came of the invitation. After all, what was the chance of a private jet just for him showing up in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma? If whoever was doing this thing thought that Shastanis Althreduin would drive all the way to somewhere with an actual airport, they’d have to be out of their mind. And dress up for something no one had ever heard of. It was probably some stupid scam.

* * *

“Or,” said Nessa Telrunya, “it could be the chance of a lifetime! Why would a scammer spend that much money on a plane? And I’ve been itching to wear that dress…”

“All right,” said her father. “But don’t say we didn’t warn you. And keep your phone on and let us know what’s going on.”

* * *

“Of course,” said autume98. “You’re probably just jealous you didn’t get invited yourself.”

“Mnemo would say it’s because I haven’t read the books,” said sally, sticking out her tongue. “But you just joined! How would they know anything like that?”

“I dunno, but a free flight to somewhere weird

* * *

might be just what I need,” said Nogrod. “This house has been getting rather boring of late. And if other people are taking up the invitation, well, maybe I’ll get to see some members I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing before. I wonder where this Cottage place is, for it’s certainly not going to be

* * *

in the Midwest,” Boromir88 grumbled. “About the only good thing Tolkien we have here is some of the manuscripts. And that is not Ohio. Now, what to wear?”

* * *

“Black,” declared McCaber, in a rather unoriginal move. After all, black went with everything. Everything black, that is. He pulled a few more articles of clothing into his suitcase, threw on his overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, and loaded everything into his car. It was time to see if this invitation was good on its promise of a free flight.

* * *

Nerwen was impressed. Not only was the small plane well-apportioned; she didn’t even have to go through security. Which meant that there were no problems with camera film being x-rayed, no lithium batteries to be restricted to different parts of the plane, and no one giving her funny looks as if professional equipment equaled nefarious intent. Not that anyone would even be interested in a place like this…

She tried her best to make herself comfortable in her seat. It was sure to be a long flight. She pulled out a book and began

* * *

to pour herself a glass of red. It wasn’t the cheap airplane kind, either. Whoever was behind this, Lalaith mused, had a considerable amount of money.

And considerable taste, too, she decided after a sip. Perhaps this would be an enjoyable

* * *

flight after all, thought Inziladun as he drifted into sleep.

When he awoke the plane was already descending. He checked his watch; the flight must have been about six hours long. When it touched down there was a towncar waiting for him. The airport was small, in a place that must have taken some considerable landscaping to level out among the hills. But other than that he could not say where it was. The driver of the cab did not speak. And as they drove off the farms nearby grew

* * *

less and less, until the car drew to a stop and the driver opened the door for her. Rikae looked out—it seemed to be midmorning, but she was tired as if it were the dead of night. A glossy carriage pulled up, drawn by four black horses. The door opened and a white-gloved hand reached down to her. Since she seemed to have no other choice she took hold of it, and stepped inside. They turned up a winding cobblestone road and rode for a good ten or fifteen minutes. The stones gave way to dirt, and trees began to crop up until she got the impression that they were driving through a forest, ancient and mighty.

In a burst of sunlight they crested a hill, and the trees ended abruptly. A footman came to open the door and help her down. Peering out the window, Rikae saw before her

The Cottage of Lost Play

being an interactive tale of a macabre nature, consisting of eight acts encompassing eight days, featuring

Nessa Telrunya
Inziladun
Shastanis Athreduin
Pitchwife
McCaber
Nogrod
autume98
Boromir88
Lalaith
Nerwen
Rikae
Feanor of the Peredhil
Eönwë

and the narrative and modly talents of Mnemosyne and satansaloser2005,

with love and respect for
J.R.R. Tolkien
Ray Bradbury
Patrick McGoohan
and
The Barrow-Wight Himself,
without any of whom this would be quite impossible.

NIGHT ONE begins at 19:00 GMT, Sunday 19 July 2009.



Ignorance is fatal.

[Mnemosyne]

Inziladun was fairly certain it was not scientifically possible. But there the cottage had stood, right out of a younger Tolkien’s imagination, perfectly hobbit-sized (but for the lack of hobbits in the mythos at the time) until you stepped inside, at which point either it grew or you shrank. It was rather confusing.

But inside—ah, it already felt like being within a tale, and somehow that made up for the physical impossibilities. There was a small entryway for coats and such things, but then that opened up into a vast hall with a fire burning merrily in the hearth at the center. Whoever had made this had obviously put a lot of thought; any elf could be content here, to tell tales and sing songs until time’s gloaming.

“It is roughly based,” said his host, “on the Hall of Fire at Imladris, of course.” He was a rather short fellow with curly hair, but Inziladun was not quite ready to say he was a hobbit—the hardened, weathered look on his face was something he could never imagine a hobbit wearing, not to mention the shoes on his feet. “You should see some of the other rooms later; they are quite delightful.”

“Maybe when a few of the others show up,” said Inziladun. He smiled and nibbled at the refreshment that had been laid out at the sideboard. “I take it you stole the pantry from Bag End?”

“Both of them, sir,” said the—he realized with a sigh that he was already beginning to refer to the fellow as a hobbit. “And the cellar. Though I imagine they’re better stocked than the Shire could ever have been, what with modern refrigeration and all.”

“Tell, me, exactly—whose idea was this, and why?”

“Beg pardon?”

“This whole place? I’ve never heard of it before; no one as far as I know has heard of it, or if they have they’ve kept it secret from the internet. It must have taken a lot of time and dedication.”

“Believe me,” said the hobbit, “it did.” He nodded sagaciously. “But as for your other questions—well, they’ll have to wait until—”

Just then there came a knock on the door.

“Let me get that,” said the hobbit. “That may be—” he consulted a slip of paper. “Yes, I do believe that is Rikae at the door just now!”

* * *

“Hello?” said autume98 as she entered what very clearly appeared to be the common room of the Prancing Pony. “I’m new here; joined the board and got an invitation. Er… I know sally in real life…”

“Really?” A rather sturdy-looking man rose from one of the tables and extended his arm. “I’m Nogrod,” he said, in slightly accented English. “You must say hello to her for me when all this is done! Welcome! Strange place, isn’t it?”

“Strange indeed,” said a figure whom autume had not noticed before. He was lurking in the corner, his boots resting upon a table.

autume’s eyes widened.

“Sorry,” said the stranger, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He swung his feet off the table and got up. “McCaber at your service. And what is your name?”

* * *

The walk inside did not feel very inside-y, thought Boromir88. It almost reminded him of what he’d always thought heading into Narnia felt like, starting out indoors and ending up outside. And once the corridor of trees ended he could see why.

It was like stepping into ancientry. There were stars overhead, even though it was only noon outside, and timeless waters lapped at a sandy bank nearby. On the grass next the water there were trestle tables laden with food, for hundreds upon hundreds of guests—but he only saw three other people in the clearing.

“Hi!” said one of them, a young woman with auburn hair. “I’m Fea. And you are…”

“Boro,” said Boromir88.

“Huh. You look younger than I thought.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I’m kidding,” said Fea.

“And I,” said the other woman in the group, who had risen much more sedately, “am Lalaith. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance after all this time.”

“And who’s the final person?” said Boromir, looking at the blond-haired stranger in nautical garb.

“Oh, him?” said Fea. “He was there to greet me. He won’t tell us his name.”

* * *

“Wonderful,” said Nessa as she sat back on one of the chairs, sated. “This is eating.”

“I’d feel a lot better if this thing were working,” said Nerwen. She was prodding at her camera, but for some strange reason it wouldn’t even switch on. “I don’t understand.”

“Technology doesn’t always work the same here,” said the hobbit.

“I’ll say,” said Inziladun. His cell phone was switched on just fine, but he couldn’t get any signal.

“Well,” said Eönwë, coming from a nearby alcove, “I can tell you that the modern plumbing works. Even the toilets are themed!”

“I’m ready if everyone else is,” said Rikae. “I think our host said something about a tour?”

* * *

“Beautiful,” said Shasta as the strange elf led them through the marble hallway. “Is this supposed to be Minas Tirith?”

“No,” said McCaber. “It’s too golden.”

“Quite correct,” said the elf. “This is modeled after the palace at Armenelos. And through the alcove on the left is a stairwell leading to the inside of the pillar of Umbar and the great globe that was set up there in commemoration of the humiliation of Sauron.”

“I’m climbing it,” said Nogrod. And he began to do so, and the others had little choice but to follow suit.

The crystal ball at the top was distorting, but laid about around it was such a wide variety of lands that Nogrod knew it was impossible for them to really be inside the same cottage that his carriage had pulled up to.

“It is marvelous, is it not?” said the elf. “This is an excellent way to see all that we have under this roof. Where would you like to go next?”

* * *

“I hope there’s a set path here, and one that doesn’t involve death,” said Pitchwife. “I understand the appreciation for Tolkien’s use of horror, but really—”

There was a gasp from a few feet back. “There are dead things—dead faces—in the water!”

“Well, yeah,” said Fea, “it’s called the Dead Marshes for a reason.”

“No, look,” said Lalaith. “The faces themselves…”

Pitchwife traced a few precarious steps back. “Is that… Peter Jackson?”

“A joke,” said their guide from far ahead. “You’ll also find Philippa Boyens and Fran Walsh a few graves over, as well as just about every WETA geek who worked on the films.”

“It’s a very realistic joke,” muttered Pitchwife. “And creepy.”

“So,” said Fea, “how much do I have to pay you to get you to keel over face-first into the water, Boro?”

“A lot,” said Boromir.

* * *

“That,” said Inziladun, “is impressively obscure.” The hut had no identifying marks except for the stone lying nearby with smoke marks on its base.

“I’m also quite fond of the Mewlips,” said the hobbit. “Best not to go down there alone; last person who went exploring down there never came back.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Poor Mr. Sibley.”

“Wait, what?” said Eönwë.

The hobbit merely smiled.

* * *

“And this,” said the elf, “is Niggle’s Parish.”

“The tree!” cried Nogrod.

“Something’s wrong with it,” said autume. “I mean, unless Tolkien liked huge trees…”

“Sir, this isn’t Hirilorn, is it?” said McCaber.

“No,” said the elf. “It’s the Tree of Tales.”

Shasta nodded. But it did not look like a healthy tree. Up, it stretched, up into the sky, until everything growing was masked by the grey clouds that covered the area.

Nogrod picked up a few leaves from the ground—the only leaves from the tree that could be seen. They were brown, dry, and dead; and while they gave off a pleasant enough odor and crackled quite nicely in his hands, they were still dead and no living ones could be found.

* * *

“It is getting late,” said the mariner. “Let me show you your rooms so that you can prepare yourselves for the dinner.” And with that he led them down a pathway that turned into a hallway with thirteen doors set on one side. “If you continue down this hallway, a stairwell will lead you to the dining room. A bell will ring ten minutes before dinner is to be served.

“Your room will be here, Pitchwife.” He motioned to a room more or less in the middle of the cluster. “Your luggage should be inside.”

Pitchwife opened the door, expecting to see something very like a well-apportioned hotel room.

Instead what greeted his eyes was a jumble of boxes and odd parts of furniture, so familiar to him that it was striking.

It was his room from back home.

Pitchwife took two steps back. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said.

[Mnemosyne]

Rikae was still not sure what to make of having a room that looked almost exactly like her own. Even creepier was the fact that, when going through the large dresser up against the wall, she found clothing not only to her style and taste, but that also fit her perfectly.

The dinner bell sounded. Checking her outfit in the mirror above her dresser one last time, she stepped out of the room and into the hallway of the Cottage of Lost Play.

At almost the same time the door next to hers opened, and a young man, about university age, stepped out. Even though he was in a suit, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he would have done very well on the high seas around Umbar. The hoop in his ear probably didn’t help.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Rikae.”

“Rikae? Wonderful! I’m Shasta.” Shasta took a look at his appearance. “Hey—we match!” It was true, to an extent: the grey in his suit matched her silver skirt, and they were both wearing turquoise—though hers was bright and shiny and his was more of a teal.

Rikae smiled. “Shall we head down together?”

* * *

The dining room looked so grand that Lalaith almost expected there to be someone announcing her name as she swept down the staircase. It was unnecessarily long, and hugged the walls of the oval-shaped room as it descended from one side to the other. White marble laced with black and gold paved the floor, and the long, black table already had a few occupants.

When she reached the table she saw that placecards had been set forth, all with Downers’ names written on them. Only the head of the table was left unknown. There were fourteen chairs.

Looking around her, she saw some familiar faces as well as a few unknowns. Fea had changed into a silky black halter dress that looked as if it should have been lounging over a roulette table, and Boro had opted out of the classic suit in favor of a black sweater vest.

There was also a blondish man in a white dinner jacket, and a young woman in a dusky rose dress. Upon introducing herself she found that they were Inziladun and Nessa Telrunya. And turning around to the top of the stairway she saw Shasta and Rikae descending.

Lalaith shrugged out of her fur stole and sat down at her place. One by one the Downers made their way to the dining room, and awaited.

* * *

Ten minutes passed, and servers came out from side doors to begin pouring water and wine. The seat at the head of the table was unoccupied. Unsure of what to do, people began to talk about their various experiences on the way over, and about the unsettling nature of this place.

Nerwen began pontificating on the mysterious nature of the scar on her chest that was somewhat hidden by the pendant she wore. Eönwë, for some reason, had to explain to autume98 that his name was not actually “Steve.”

More time passed. Soup was served, then the main course. Given the creepy way these people seemed to know everything about them, Fea was not terribly surprised at this juncture that she was served fish rather than the beef filet everyone else was given. But if anyone cared about how long the steaks were grilled, the cook had not. By the time everyone was finished their plates were swirled with red juices. There was still no sign of their host.

An awkward silence had descended by the time the dessert course was finished. No one was willing to get up. The waiters cleared away the goblets that had held their raspberry sorbet.

A gong sounded.

At the top of the stairs appeared a lady in black. Slowly she descended them, and then smoothly moved to take her place at the head of the table. She pulled off her hat to reveal dark brown hair tightly pulled into a bun, and eyes that burned with a darker fire. Red-gloved fingers rested on an untouched plate.

“I’m sure,” she said, “you’re wondering why you’ve all been called here.”

Silence.

“There are a number of reasons. First of all, I’ve spent a lot of time and effort into this place and I thought it should be seen by those with the capacity to appreciate it.

“Second, I have a… quest, if you will—to perform.

“And third, I find that I like a little conflict in life. An interesting means to perform my quest. And, as such—tonight some of you will find yourselves in a very interesting situation.

“Tomorrow, all of you will. This entire house will be locked until you complete your task, whichever side wins.”

“Whichever side wins?” said Pitchwife. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Three of you will find yourselves filled with an insatiable bloodlust. You may recall the island Sauron ruled in the First Age, filled with, I believe, werewolves? The food you’ve just eaten contains a spell to make you one of them. Quite simple really.”

“But… this is scientifically impossible!” said McCaber. “All of this is!”

“You will find,” said the lady in black, “that many things that are scientifically impossible exist here.

“As I said, three of you will find yourselves becoming werewolves. You cannot survive the night without killing someone; it’s a simple fact of your nature.

“One of you will find yourself having unusually vivid dreams. If you so choose, you can focus them on one person and learn if he or she is one of the werewolves that will be killing you.”

“Killing?” said Nessa.

“Of course. It is everybody else’s role to kill the werewolves during the day, before they kill you. Whoever survives can escape the cottage alive.”

“This is sick!” said autume.

“I know; isn’t it lovely?” said the lady in black. “If you make the deaths entertaining enough, I may let some of you go free early. Oh, and if you don't kill anyone during the day, you all die. Have a pleasant night.”

“She’s joking, right?” said Eönwë.

IT IS NOW NIGHT ONE.

[Mnemosyne]

Lalaith woke up almost thinking she was back at home. The sun was shining in from under the curtains in her windows, and the dark shapes of the plush chairs in her room were quite comforting. But when she pushed the curtains open, the sight of the landscapes of Arda all cobbled together with little reason quickly reminded her of where she was.

Sighing, she walked over to her closet and pulled out a dress to wear. It was time to see what the day brought.

The room downstairs had a light breakfast set out on it. About half the guests were already seated and eating. Things were strangely silent. No one wanted to learn whether what the lady said was true or not.

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief when the last guest, Boromir88, sat down at the table. No one had died.

The meal was finished, but there was no sign of the lady in black, nor of anyone who had anything to do with the actual mansion.

“Well,” said Shasta, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I wouldn’t mind leaving this place. It gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah, but is anyone going to know the way out of here?” said McCaber.

“We can try,” said Nogrod. “This seems to be one of the more livable parts of the house. Maybe the exit’s nearby.”

Quietly the group walked out the main door to the dining room. A hallway led out from it, and as they walked along it things seemed to get lighter.

“The air smells better here,” said Nerwen.

At last they saw at the end of the hallway a door, with sunlight streaming in through a grille.

Pitchwife ran towards it. “Aha!” He pulled on the door. It was locked. He muttered an oath under his breath, then stepped back and looked away.

The door was covered in scratch marks. Some of them were red.

“Look!” cried autume from behind. To the side lay the lady in black on the floor with a large gash across her chest, her hair spilled out on the floor and matted in her own blood. There was a hole where her heart used to be, and her neck had clearly been crushed.

“I guess she wasn’t joking,” said Eönwë, “though I doubt she had this end in mind. Now what do we do?”

IT IS NOW DAY ONE.

The Living:
Nessa Telrunya
Inziladun
Shastanis Athreduin
Pitchwife
McCaber
Nogrod
autume98
Boromir88
Lalaith
Nerwen
Rikae
Feanor of the Peredhil
Eönwë

[Boromir88]

*looking down at the bloody mess, Boro decides to break the shock*

'So...How do you suppose she died?' (How do you suppose she died? Really, that's the best you can come up with!)

[Inziladun]

This rather reminds me of the movie Clue. Except we aren't being blackmailed. And Tim Curry isn't here.
How she met her end is, I think, immaterial at this point. We must now take thought for ourselves. It seems we must take her words as truth: we cannot leave this place until we succeed in destroying those among us who have been cursed by her.

x/d with Pitchwife and Fea

[Pitchwife]

Well, to quote Sam Gamgee: A nice pickle we've landed ourselves in, my dear fellow-Downers! I came here to admire the sub-subcreative efforts of our host, meet some Downers in real life for a change, and have some nice bookish discussions with you, like about immortality and the sons of Elrond or the question whether Orcs can be redeemed - in any case, not to play a weird game with our dear real lives at stake.
As it turns out, our late host - may Eru, or whoever, have more mercy on her black soul than I would - had other plans.
There may be another way to explain this mess, but I'm afraid we'll have to assume that what she told us last night was the truth. In this case, and unless the key to this door can be found on her corpse (has anybody searched?), we're going to need Sam's stubborn courage, Gandalf's wisdom and the discerning intellect of *insert fitting character who escapes me at the moment* to get out of this alive - or at least, get as many of us out of here alive as we possibly can.
*long sigh*
So much for rhetorics. Now, how do we go about this? Hate to admit it, but I'm lost - as most of you, I suppose, since we've been standing here for an hour without anybody saying anything. Any suggestions?

EDIT: x-ed with Boro

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Glancing around, I notice you all staring fixedly at your feet, at the walls, at the bloody scratches on the doorway, at thin air... Nobody will meet anybody else's eyes, and though you snatch hesitant glances toward the body, there is an incredibly awkward silence.

I can no longer take it. Knowing I'll have nightmares from this later, knowing I should probably be in therapy already, knowing I never should have went along with a crackpot Facebook invitation to an internet stranger's abode (my parents spent how many years warning me about this?), I feel myself slip into a state of almost zen-like calm, as I always do at times like this.

"It's too late to call a doctor. And we're trapped, so she said." I watch you all look up, seeing varying states of fear, nausea, and helplessness in your eyes. "We need volunteers to search the house for exits. Nobody should go anywhere alone. She said we would be safe during the Day... it should be okay to look around together. Also... We need volunteers to put the body in the freezer. I know you're not supposed to touch a crime scene, but I don't know how long we're going to be here, and in this case, it might be more important to preserve the body than to leave it to rot and bloat on the floor. Then..." I look around at the incredulous faces. "I need somebody to help me clean up the blood. It's a biohazard."

I know that the secret to leadership is to behave like it's natural for everyone to listen to you, so instead of waiting for responses, or begging for acquiescence, I begin to walk to where I think the kitchens are, hoping to find ammonia and towels, hoping someone will help me with the grisly mess on the floor, resigned to the fact that I might well be the only person in the room who can see something traumatizing and be sensible instead of melodramatic about it.

[McCaber]

Wait, there's a troop of bloodthirsty killers among us, and people are urging to wait and see what happens? The only thing I can foresee with that happening is more bloody deaths before someone decides that we just might have to consider taking action.

Ah well. I would propose we move away from this mess and discuss things like civilized people in the dining chambers.

[Nogrod]

I see this place is more haunted I thought in the beginning - so let's forget my last idea... Someone has changed the reality. Just a moment before what was yesterDay evening's reality the lady in black said:

Originally Posted by the previous yesterDay

“Oh, and if you don't kill anyone during the day, you all Have a pleasant night.”

But it seems the yesterDay has been changed...

Originally Posted by the current yesterDay

"Oh, and if you don't kill anyone during the day, you all die. Have a pleasant night.”

[Nogrod]

Originally Posted by McCaber

Ah well. I would propose we move away from this mess and discuss things like civilized people in the dining chambers.

Fully agreed. We've already past the second breakfast but could just make it for a late eleventies or an early supper...