Our Strange and Wonderful House by Goblin Studios

Table of Contents

Foreword from the Editor

Welcome!

Chapter 1: The Courtyard

Chapter 2: The Anteroom

Chapter 3: The Pleasure Pad of Federico Ruiz

Chapter 4: The Catamaran Loos of Oceania

Chapter 5: The Library

Appendix 5-I: The Other Side

Appendix 5-II: The Bathroom (of the Library)

Chapter 6: The Theater Room

Chapter 7: The Coat Room

Chapter 8: The Closet in the Sitting Room

Chapter 9: Hallway - PI3

Chapter 10: The Observatory

Chapter 11: Every House Needs One or More

Chapter 12: The Dining Room

Chapter 13: The Guardroom

Appendix 13-I: The Conservatory

Appendix 13-II: View From a Jungle

Appendix 13-III: Back to the Garden

Appendix 13-IV: The Madman

Appendix 13-V: The Saviour

Appendix 13-VI: The Gardener

Chapter 14: I Am An Athenaeum

Chapter 15: The Stairwell

Chapter 16: The Throne Room

Chapter 17: The Portal to Pandemonium

Chapter 18: The Jenny Everywhere Museum

Appendix 18-I: The Jenny Everywhere Museum (cont’d)

Table of Contents

Chapter 19: The Ruined Chapel

Appendix 19-I: The Right Wrong Questions

Chapter 20: The Stationery Room

Chapter 21: Elevator

Appendix 21-I: Very Small Assault

Appendix 21-II: A Very Pink Assault

Chapter 22: The Gallery

Chapter 23: The Rose Cottage

Chapter 24: The Cellar

Appendix 24-I: Montresor

Appendix 24-II: The First Step

Chapter 25: Mud Room

Chapter 26: The Airing Cupboard

Chapter 27: The Lab

Appendix 27-I: The Lab: The Alarum Goes Off

Appendix 27-II: The Lab: Setting The Alarum

Appendix 27-III: Heebie Jeebies

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 1)

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 2)

Chapter 28: A Veranda With A View

Chapter 29: The Zoo

Chapter 30: The Great South Gate

Chapter 31: The North West Attic

Chapter 32: The Foyer

Appendix 32-I: Foyer In nity

Appendix 32-II: Reiterate the Foyer

Chapter 33: The Painting

Chapter 34: The Ballroom

Chapter 35: Into the Gardens (Part 1)

Chapter 36: Into the Gardens (Part 2)

Chapter 37: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 1)

Chapter 38: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 2: Accursed Springs)

Appendix 38-I: A Return to Innocence

Appendix 38-II: The Pain of Rebirth

Chapter 39: The Bodhi Tree

Appendix 39-I: Wake to Dream Again

Appendix 39-II: The Will of the Creator

Appendix 39-III: The Bodhi Son

Chapter 40: The Cheshire (Part 1)

Appendix 40-I: The Cheshire (Part 2)

Appendix 40-II: The Cheshire Cat (Part 3)

Chapter 41: The ‘Rock Room’

Chapter 42: Zen Garden

Chapter 43: The Vault

Appendix 43-I: The Note

Chapter 44: The Basement

Appendix 44-I: Safety Catch

Chapter 45: The Cathedral

Chapter 46: The Maids

Chapter 47: The Fabulous Salon

Chapter 48: The Cotillion Cavern

100

Chapter 49: The Roof

101

Chapter 50: The Stage

102

Chapter 51: The Doorbell?

103

Chapter 52: The Guardian of the Ink Wells

104

Chapter 53: The Airing Cupboard of Despair

105

Chapter 54: The Empty Room

106

Chapter 55: Teleporting Beach

107

Appendix 55-I: There is No Dripping in the Library

108

Chapter 56: The Seven Hundred Nineteenth Airing Cupboard

110

Chapter 57: The Spinning Room.

111

Chapter 58: The Armory.

112

Chapter 59: Room of Renewal

113

Appendix 59-I: Remnants and Reminders

114

Chapter 60: The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House

115

Epilogue: Overgrown

116

Foreword from the Editor Our Strange and Wonderful House de ed easy categorisation from the very moment of its inception. Although it was a “Challenge” by the standards of the digital classi cation system of the collaborative ction-hosting website Ficly, the introduction written for the so-called Challenge by the writer known only by the colourfully meaningless handle of Zxvasdf welcomed readers and would-be writers with the following statement of intent: “Let me make one thing clear: this is not a challenge. It is your chance to become one of many architects of an impossible house. This challenge merely serves to keep our contributions in one place as to be more readily accessible than it normally would be.” Cunningly, yet frustratingly, it elided any literary terminology, casting the writers as “architects” of the titular House. When we set about the task of collecting all the shards of Our Strange and Wonderful House into one de nitive book, we were thus faced with the peculiar challenge of guring out what, precisely, kind of book it was that we had decided to bring into the world. What Our Strange and Wonderful House certainly is not, despite appearances, is a collection of short stories. To begin with, its ninety-odd fragments are not generally stories. Two of them, Sir Bic’s I Am An Athenaeum and McKennab’s The Spinning Room, are written in verse, and many others, were they to be published by themselves, could be termed prose poems without argument. Indeed, although many of the fragments happen to function as narratives in their own right, Our Strange and Wonderful House’s overall structure was never meant to be a narrative one. The original premise called for contributors to write vignettes focusing on the many rooms and areas of the House, not on its inhabitants.

Oftentimes the narrators and protagonists of the vignettes went unnamed, left to stand as avatars for the writer, reader, or both. Writers joining in late were, on a handful of occasions, lightly chided by their peers for dwelling too much on a character, and not enough on the setting. Yet the whole, in this instance, becomes more than the sum of its part: to read the collected Strange and Wonderful House is to embark on a fractured but transformative journey through mad rooms, biblical jungles, and dreamlike perspectives, which is also the journey of a community of writers feeling out the limits of the medium, slowly discovering what they are creating together. A novel was not, at any stage, what the creators of Our Strange and Wonderful House set out to write. Nevertheless, we can think of no better way to present the complete Strange and Wonderful House than in the form of what, a decade on, it has become in the eyes of a reader to whom the gaps of weeks, months, years between entries are so many empty dates: a novel, and more than that: a true experimental novel. For this reason, we have chosen to refer to the fty-seven ‘of cial’ entries in Our Strange and Wonderful House, presented in chronological order, as ‘Chapters’. In addition to these fty-seven pieces, we have reinserted the two halves of Into the Gardens, which were indistinguishable in form from the other Chapters despite not appearing on the hub page. We have also allowed The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House, where Jeanne Morningstar closed the book on the House two years after the project’s spark had given out, to stand as the nal chapter of the novel, bringing us to an even sixty. As was the nature of Ficly, a number of entries among the ftyseven also spawned ‘sequels’ and ‘prequels’. These were, in some cases almost indistinguishable from proper ‘chapters’; in others, avowed spin-offs, branching out from the main thrust of Our

The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House, which was so nal as to depict the destruction of the House itself, was written to mark the passing of Ficly as an active community. (Though Ficly remains online to this day, it is now a mere static archive.) However, one nal text, Kendal Reed’s ironically-titled Overgrown, inserted itself into the canon of Our Strange and Wonderful House a scant few days later, picking up the loose thread intentionally left dangling by Morningstar at the end of The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House. Alone among the works collected in this book, Overgrown was not released on the defunct Ficly but on Tumblr, although the nature of the CC-BY-SA license allows us to reproduce it here with the same ease as the actual Ficly material. We have chosen to dub Overgrown the Epilogue of the novel, though one could not be faulted for preferring to think of it as a short, but standalone, sequel. The Ficly website gave the opportunity for readers, and the authors themselves, to comment on any given entry. Some of the comments and discussions which took place under various Our Strange and Wonderful House entries can prove enlightening concerning the beliefs of the House’s creators on the House itself. We have reproduced in footnotes all such comments which we deemed to be of possible interest, although we did not endeavour to be exhaustive. Other footnotes will provide clarity on speci c editorial choices, point out important turning points in the development of Our Strange and Wonderful House, or, other times still, explicate varyingly obscure references and allusions.

Strange and Wonderful House to explore a loose thread from a given room in a more truly narrative way, deepening the setting or simply letting the writer’s imagination run wild. After much hesitation, we settled on uniformly referring to these texts as ‘Appendices’, placed between the Chapter that inspired them and the next, regardless of publication chronology.

The text of the stories has not received any editing liable to alter the meaning or artistic integrity of the material. However, we have freely uni ed formatting and punctuation, corrected typos, and obviously-unintentional grammatical lapses. Taking advantage of Ficly’s release of all its ction content under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License, this project has been undertaken without contact with the original Ficly team or the individual writers whose work is represented. As such, suppositions made in footnotes or this foreword concerning their intents and opinions may only re ect the views of the Editor. To avoid violations of privacy, no efforts have been made to credit or identify the writers using names other than their original screen handles, except in such cases where they already created a public link between their Ficly writing and either their legal name, or a pen name which we found more up-to-date or otherwise suitable. Among these: Jeanne Morningstar’s Ficly work was published under the handle ‘Garsecg’. The writer we identify as ‘32 Squared’ later changed their Ficly account to display the even more abstract ‘32 ^ 2’. The writer we identify as ‘McKennab’ had their Ficly account display the name ‘sky.castles’. Valen Lim’s contribution was done under the name ‘punpun’, though with a link in their bio to their Wordpress blog, where the ‘Valen Lim’ name is available. Shu Sam Chen’s Ficly account used the handle ‘HSAR’, though their gmail address, including their full name, appeared in their bio. Similarly, we have not attempted to guess the gender or pronouns of those writers who did not make either publically

available during their time as Ficly writer. Accordingly, this Foreword and our footnotes generally employ the singular ‘they’ to refer to writers. This should not be construed as active attribution of a nonbinary identity to any speci c individuals. Because it is our contention that Our Strange and Wonderful House, especially as presented in this edition, should be viewed as a complete work, we have not attempted to reproduce the ‘Jenny Everywhere License’ paragraph for every entry in which Jenny appears or is mentioned. Instead, we reproduce it below, with the understanding that it applies to this entire ebook. The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed This ebook, to the best of our knowledge, is in complete accordance with the licenses governing the texts and concepts collected therein. However, we elect not to commercialise it. Copies should be shared freely, much like the ction which inspired it. The copyright for the actual critical material included in this edition (including the Foreword) does, however, remain in the hands of Aristide Twain, and should not be reproduced without his consent in any format other than unaltered copies of the present ebook. The same goes for the cover design, which also makes use of assets generated using the wombo.art tool (who have our thanks) and of the original Ficly logo. Aristide Twain January 2022

(Zxvasdf, May 27th, 2011)

Welcome! Let me make one thing clear: this is not a challenge. It is your chance to become one of many architects of an impossible house. This challenge merely serves to keep our contributions in one place as to be more readily accessible than it normally would be. Come, come, look! Our blueprint, unscrolled upon the table, reveals a square of faded blue ink, its dimensions marked as ∞. In nity, signifying the limit of imagination. Each room is a portal to another. Each room is located in a place of your choosing. Remember, there are no boundaries to choice and idea. Now come, friends, and let us build our strange and wonderful house!

Welcome!

Chapter 1: The Courtyard (Zxvasdf, May 27th, 2011)

The portal shimmers like rain water sweeping along your esh and you step into a fragrant courtyard lled with softly surrsurring willows and languid will o wisps. It is always night here, the dome above lled with alien stars, and chimes always sing the pleasure of the wind. A wrought gate of some golden substance glows with an interior light (you peer close and nd it is inhabited by luminous insects tasked an incomprehensible function). You step through as it opens for you, trailing motes of buzzing light. The portal sings.

Chapter 2: The Anteroom (Zxvasdf, May 27th, 2011)

It is a circular space, its tiling a parody of the traditional black and white checkerboard pattern: a fern-shaped fractal curls towards the far end, stippling into in nity. A resonant warmth of light falls from the low chandelier of crystal. Fairies move from facet to facet in a langorous dance, creating a shifting ambience. The walls are of some dark wood, seamless in a way suggesting one is within a hollowed out tree. Along the walls are elaborate neo-Victorian sitting chairs and small couches that curl around elegant coffee tables. Were you a guest, you would be served tea and crumbs by soft-spoken servants who seem to materialize from thin air. Small groups of fairies detach to congregate above your conversation, sending down muted light. In the center of the room is a pillar of light, the cold re of falling fairy dust. Thick motes swirl and eddy and rise beyond the chandelier into the blackness like sparks. To go anywhere in the house, you need but a thought. Step through the light.

Chapter 3: The Pleasure Pad of Federico Ruiz1 (Zxvasdf, May 27th, 2011)

Like pearls upon the red rock of Mars, the domed community of Federico Ruiz is the go-to place of the glitterati. Inside the shimmering domes the decadent loll upon large cushions embroidered from the silk of mutated spiders, their hands clutching luxuriously-bubbling or curiously slow-shifting beverages boasting a bewildering variety of intoxicants. They bathe in the golden fountains that swim with miniscule sh who nuzzle your every pore. Their conversation is shallow and high brow, the banter of those who have nothing to talk about but others who have nothing to talk about. Their sound passes through the domes, even to the furthermost domes, the small jungles of primal lust. Knots of esh seethe, sending sighs awry amid the uttering candy coloured insects. Hands grasp smart tattoos that scatter and reform some place where they may be seen clearly. At the center of it all, Federico Ruiz may be found by the sickle of his white grin.

In comments: Wednesday: “The seedy underbelly of the house?” Zxvasdf: “No, that would be the illegal underground greenhouse…”

Chapter 4: The Catamaran Loos of Oceania (Zxvasdf, May 27th, 2011)

The portal is a song on your skin then you are breathing salt wind that frolicks through your hair. The momentum of the streaking ship is invisible, unfelt. The ocean heaves with silent, strange life engaged in calamari courtship rites, immense limbs curling in the sky, suckers palpitating, to momentarily obscure the sun. Nights are equally ethereal, the ianthine ignis fatuus rising from the midnight waves and the bioluminescent shrimp crawling after to seethe the surface into a riot of night colours. The sea carp troll their whiskers and snap down choice selections. And the soft salt wind and the silence. Always the wind and silence as you squat to shit and piss above the hole in the center of the boat, looking up at the massive moon taking up half of the horizon sending its laughing light frosting the wave tips.

Chapter 5: The Library (Elsha Hawk, May 30th, 2011)

We all thought the marble tunnel concealed in the library of Hawk Manor led to the mountain cave from which Krully met his fate2. But since its discovery and subsequent cleaning, those that needed it for sanctuary moved on, some arrested and some eeing in bursts of magic. Dust covered every shelf of Ficlets works and even the case and chains wrapping the Ficlinomicon. Elshanor had just returned from her stint in the ‘Institution’, sadly nding tea and baked goods petri ed on the table. She felt like Pip in Great Expectations, the shell of her home covered in cobwebs. She disturbed the dust on the stairs as she made her way noisily to the Library. The great double doors creaked, announcing her presence to the waiting tomes. A gust of musty air like a huge sigh of relief wafted from the tomb of books. Something shimmered in a corner. It was so out of place in the dulled gray colors that it was more visible now than when the library was clean. A portal. Through it, another library in an in nite house.

In comments: Elsha Hawk: “Ficlets, the original site, and those works stored there in the memorial, plus those references that only a few know about, will make this a bit confusing for readers. I apologize. Maybe in sequels, by those few who know, things will get clearer. (…) The tunnel and Krully’s cave, and the Ficlinomicon part, are from a previous series on Ficlets and a chat log from the good ol’days of role-play with Ficlets folk. Really, only a few ppl would get that, so I apologize for the confusion. The portal at the end was just my way of tying the mythical Hawk Manor to the challenge.”

Appendix 5-I: The Other Side (ALRO613, June 2nd, 2011)

The library was dark and musty. Tables, shelves and unused candles were dust-covered and forgotten. Skulking in the corner, Alastair crouched. “She’s supposed to be here,” he whispered to himself under his breath. He sniffed the air. Then gritted his teeth. Something wasn’t right. He pulled the knife from the sheathe on his belt, and held the blade in the palm of his hand at the ready. He hopped from shadow to shadow, careful not to knock over this pile of books, or that pile of ancient magazines with faces long forgotten gracing their covers; now dulled and yellowed with time. That is when the light caught his eye. Clear as day, yet dreamlike in its kaleidoscopic of swirls and colors. “What the…” he pressed on, closer than he usually dared; “Is that?…” He let the rest fall silent and the world about him spun, toppling head over feet. The library steadied, but he was not alone! “Elshanor?” Alastair asked. Same pretty face, but something… “Wait, you’re not my Elshanor?” Elshanor gawked, as shocked as he.

Appendix 5-II: The Bathroom (of the Library) (R3mix, June 4th, 2011)

As Elshanor stepped into the Library, the oor creaked with the same eerie noise the door had made. Across from the portal there is a door that is out of place in the library. This door stands out with its clean and metallic look. Elshanor lingers at the doorway, hand slowly reaching towards the round handle. She tentatively turns the handle, and is greeted with the near-blinding glow of industrial lighting. The rst thing she notices is the white light being re ected at her off the gleaming porcelain throne. The room sparkles with that same industrial glow that greeted her re ected off of its every surface. It is so unlike the previous room she has to stop and admire. The dust from the library is replace by a shine of cleanliness. A paperback copy of Les Misérables rests on the counter, beside the silver of the sink.3 Elshanor debates on taking the dogeared tome back into its rightful place, where she has just exited, but she is interrupted by that same creak of the double doors in the room behind her.4

As both the educated reader and Elshanor herself no doubt recall, a pivotal moment in the plot of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables rests on a pair of silver candlesticks. 3

In the comments: Elsha Hawk: “Oo, ominous! Who knows what or who could be creaking into the library! I like how you give her a moment to deliberate on replacing the book, for she is a fastidious librarian, though it seems she has been away a long time…”

Chapter 6: The Theater Room (Jay Dee, June 1st, 2011)

It is not uncommon for certain Victorian Manors to have a room set aside for theatrical presentations, especially when entertaining guests or if the house boasts many residents. This is one such room. When you walk into the room, you see the stage, where you may watch the players perform No, you are the stage and the players watch you.5 in a delightful variety of costumes and masks The only masks are the human faces, underneath them lies something alien and unspeakable…6 and put on masterfully choreographed displays of dancing and music. Or is it you who is dancing for them? And of course, there are performances of plays both classical and modern In comments: Jay Dee: “I was channeling Doctor Who with all my might, and I’m delighted that it came through!” Wednesday: “Ooh I love how this is written. Like the whispers of the Silence. Did someone say something? I don’t remember…” In Doctor Who, the Silence are a church of inhuman beings secretly sharing Earth with humanity, whose existence humans can only remember when they are looking at them. 5

In comments: Jeanne Mornignstar: “A wonderfully creepy piece. I wonder if they perform The King in Yellow?” Although R. L. Chamber’s ctional King in Yellow play, from the 1895 anthology of the same name, involves an eldritch entity believed to wear a mask, the dramatic reveal is actually that the ‘mask’ is its real face. The scenario devised by Dee is more reminiscent of H. P. Lovecraft’s The Whisperer in Darkness, where the inhuman entity Nyarlathotep, a dark emissary of alien gods, disguises himself as a human cultist by means of “the waxen mask and the robes that hide”. 6

Every story ends in tragedy and despair. always offered to all, free of charge! That’s because they have already taken what they need from you7 Better yet, you can join the show as a new member! After all, the troupe is always looking for fresh blood!

In contrast to the other interjections from the ‘voice’, this statement lacks nal punctuation in the text.

Chapter 7: The Coat Room (Zxvasdf, June 1st, 2011)

The coat room is warm and cloying, tended-to by irate dwarves8 who amble between rows of meticulously tagged articles of clothing. The coat room is also large and drafty and tended to by torpid titans. The coat room is what you need it to be. A bewildering array of clothing is herded by a coat tender who holds out his palm when he has snagged your choice ensemble. Very rarely has a coat gone wrong on a different set of shoulders upon whence it came. Sometimes one might decide not to use a coat valet and instead set out to discover their coat for themselves. Such prospects are for fools. Quite often they wander for days like travelers lost in parking garages, suffering meager sustenances from crumbs found in pockets and the roast of an occasional vermin using purloined lighters and scraps of paper and cash for fuel. Very few return, and on many occasions bleached bones of owners are found mere yards from their coats. But the coat room is an effective and necessary service for guests of our wonderful house.9

The plural ‘Dwarves’, though attested in scattered use “as early as 1818” according to scholarly sources, is most associated with the fantasy writing of J. R. R. Tolkien; in modern usage, it is sometimes used to clarify that one is referring to the mythical race of humanoid beings, and not to non-magical human beings of unusually short stature. 8

This is the rst use of the phrase “our wonderful house”, or indeed of a rst person plural in the narration, within the text of the novel, should one choose not to consider ‘Welcome!’ as being properly a part of the text. 9

(H. S. Wift, June 1st, 2011)

In closets, you nd Narnia. It’s true. Every closet is a gateway to Narnia10, and so when people clamber into the rst closet they nd in this most ludicrous of houses, they expect to nd that wonderful winter wonderland. But they don’t. They nd a wooden wall. It is the ultimate test. The test of their curiosity. They could nd Narnia in that closet if they really wanted to, they just don’t try hard enough. They meet a wooden barrier. It’s amazing what a sheet of mahogany can do. After all, every gateway must have a gate.

The rst book in C. S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950), features the Pevensie children travelling from their home universe to the parallel, magical world known as Narnia through a portal at the back of their guardian’s wardrobe, rst arriving in a whimsical snowy landscape. The wardrobe’s power is largely unexplained in this book, but in Lewis’s prequel, The Magician’s Nephew (1955), it is revealed that it derives its properties from having been carved from the wood of a unique, magical apple-tree. Ergo, either the Narnia to which all closets in Our Strange and Wonderful House’s universe connect is a different, parallel Narnia to Lewis’s canonical iteration, or the unseen narrator is lying to us. 10

Chapter 8: The Closet in the Sitting Room

Chapter 9: Hallway - PI3 (Robert Quick, June 2nd, 2011)

Stepping out of the lift and back on to the normal oor was a relief. At least there was a oor here. Riding gusts of air might be fun for some people but it just made me11 nervous. If something went wrong it was a sixteen-story fall. I shivered thinking about it. I’d never liked heights, falling was worse. My presence caused the lights to turn on, one section at a time. The ceiling lights ickered on rst, followed by blue lights at ankle level, revealing the entirety of what was called H-PI3 in the blueprints. My brother always called it ‘pie’. The hallway was polished and had countours rather than angles in Apple fashion. A single bonsai tree sent ripples of reds and browns bouncing up and down the corridor. Magni cent patterns emerged where the re ections of the bonsai tree met the blue light from the oor. At the end of the hall, next to an elegant door of dark wood, was a simple sign that read: OBSERVATORY. My shoes made reassuring echoes as I walked up to the door and gently tapped it.

First use of the personal singular in the narration, and therefore, the rst apparent change of narrator in Our Strange and Wonderful House. Previous chapters appeared to be a guided tour from a sanguine resident of the House, perhaps a member of staff; this is clearly a visitor, although one whose close family was involved with the construction of the House. 11

Chapter 10: The Observatory (Robert Quick, June 2nd, 2011)

There was the sound of heavy machinery operating- the ticking of gears rotating, the sliding of metal behind the wood and the locks disengaging. The door opened into a round room with a clear dome that looked out into the night sky. It didn’t feel any colder, but it looked like it should. Around the room were dozens of monitors built into consoles with buttons, keyboards, levers and toggles. In the middle sat an technologically-advanced recliner chair with joysticks on both armrests and a helmet on the seat. A disembodied female voice spoke. “Welcome to the Observatory.” “Glad to be here. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Though I knew it was an A.I., there was a de nite sense of girlish pleasure that answered me. She almost sounded bashful. “My name is ’Ana.12” Curiousity drove me to ask about the place and test Ana. “I’m new, what do we observe here?” “Space and time.” “This place looks amazing, but I’m a mite curious about that chair. Why is it there?” “To control the lasers, of course.” In the comments: Elsha Hawk: “Is this the disembodied voice of Ana Cristina?” However, the mirror-apostrophe placed by Quick before the name the rst time it occurs in the text implies that Ana is here short for something, whereas it is the American singer-songwriter’s legal rst name. 12

Chapter 11: Every House Needs One or More (THX 0477, June 2nd, 2011)

Rennik acknowledged with a grunt the man at the next urinal. The tile made the noise resound like that of a wild beast in its cave. The man teased with a grin, “Watch yer aim, sonny. Boys pee on the wall…and real men pee on the ceiling.” If not for being mad about missing the canape platter, Rennik would have laugued. Instead he cast a glance upwards to the two burly men standing inverted on the ceiling and trying to arc urine successfully into the urinals below. Amused as they were, they weren’t being very successful. Glad it was a spacious restroom, Rennik only shrugged as he unzipped, “I’m not here to show off—just wanna drain the main vein and get back to the party.” Now zipping up, his fellow patron perked up, “A party? Where’s that?” “Last Thursday,” he answered, trying not to sound peeved at being interrupted, “3rd oor basement.” “So up past the tennis courts?” “No, you’re thinking of the 2nd place.”

oor attic. Totally different

“Gads, I hate this place.” “Nah, you love it. We all do.”

Chapter 12: The Dining Room (Jay Dee, June 3rd, 2011)

The Dining Room blurs your perceptions somewhat. It does not change, for with so many occupants, how could it possibly decide what it should change to? But it appears to you differently than it appears to others. It is the viking halls of Valhalla, the ceiling thatched with golden shields. Or a festival held in a vast Byzantine palace. It’s that pub where you used to listen to Iron Maiden and drink lager with the lads. It’s the nightclub in which you had your rst kiss. Or rst… something else. But no occupant has ever complained of any discrepency. While you drink your microbrew and have your salt and vinegar crisps, your friend may quaff mead and eat suckling pig. The conversation may turn to stories of heroism or politically correct jokes. You may hear Whitesnake on the jukebox or a Skald13 reciting Grímnismál14. But it does not occur to you that this is a problem. You see only your friends, and that they eat, drink and make merry. You are happy, and that is all that matters.

A kind of Old Norse bard.

The Grímnismál, or “Lay of Grímnir”, is one of the mythological narrative poems included in the Poetic Edda. The titular Grímnir is in actuality one of the guises of Odin. As Valhalla is Odin’s domain, this line thus calls back to the fourth paragraph’s assertion that the Dining Room can appear as the halls of Valhalla. 14

Chapter 13: The Guardroom (Jay Dee, June 3rd, 2011)

You see many men, all of them sitting on chairs or playing cards at tables. Each of them is armed. They make no attempt at concealing their weapons; if anything, they are kept where they can be drawn quickly and easily. It is not mere bravado that prompts this casual display, but rather a wary caution. There are rows upon rows of additional weapons mounted upon the walls, all within easy reach. Only one door leads from this room into the Conservatory. It is large and covered in thick iron bars, not unlike something you would see in a prison. It all reminds you of something. You cannot remember what. A man built like a bull sees you and beckons you over. “You want to go in?” he asks you. His neck is as thick as your waist. There is nothing aggressive in his tone, in fact he seems (in a quiet, gruff kind of way) to be quite friendly. But you can tell that this is a man who is prepared for violence and skilled in its usage. You nod at him. He grunts in response. “Better you than me,” he says.

Appendix 13-I: The Conservatory (Jay Dee, June 5th, 2011)

You glance through the bars. You prepare yourself for something grand enough to be worthy of the House, and expect a lavishly, glass-wrapped eden that would eclipse all imagining. But you do not expect this. The House, of course, is in nite enough to contain other greenhouses. You wonder, for a moment, if it would not be better to visit them instead. “Do not stray off of the path,” the guardsman says. “Do not touch the plants. Some areas of the conservatory are sealed within glass. Do not touch the glass. Do not approach the glass.” “Ok,” you reply, shakily. Events are moving a tad too fast for comfort. “Raise your arms.” You oblige, and he begins to strap highly sophisticated and wellworn body armour to your torso. He tries several helmets on you until he nds one that ts. Then he hands you a steel garden rake. He presses a button and the iron bars slide open. “What’s this for?” you ask him, holding the rake. “Your protection,” he says, gently pushing you out. The door closes behind you.

Appendix 13-II: View From a Jungle (THX 0477, June 6th, 2011)

You proceed into a jungle you hesitate to consider ‘man-made’. Perfect sunlight streams through a little more than half of the innumerable panes of glass. The other panes seem to face into various parts of the House with the building’s trademark impossibility. A quiet gathering sways to unheard music in a roughly nished basement. A row of ornate chairs loom over a spacious hall. An elegant and studious woman strolls with melancholy through a tattered library. You almost lose yourself in the sight of a fantastical bacchanal led by a grinning imp. You stop. You refocus. The admonitions of the guard roll back through your mind, af rming your feet on the path and tightening your grip on the rake. Step by trepidatious step fear grows along with wonder. Your mind reels and contemplates how the sight of such a place would not drive a person… “Mad! Mad! Heehehe…” the laughter trails to a rustling in the contortion of vines up the path. “Ah cripes,” you mutter, much disheartened, “The gardener.”15

In the comments: Jay Dee: “Interesting, I had not planned to take the story in that direction. I was thinking more that it would be hideous, carnivorous, mutant trif ds that would be behind the glass, but you managed to tie the story in with other parts of the house instead. I like the sense of inter-linked mythology that this challenge is generating.” ‘Trif ds’ are the ctional ambulatory, carnivorous giant plants of John Wyndham’s novel The Day of the Trif ds (1951). Due to the popularity of the novel and its numerous adaptions, ‘Trif d’ has, according to the Collins English Dictionary, come to be used in British English as a generic term for “any species of ctional plants that supposedly grew to a gigantic size, were capable of moving about, and could kill humans”. 15

Appendix 13-III: Back to the Garden (Jeanne Morningstar, June 8th, 2011)

The garden is not the monstrous jungle you had been expecting, but a beautiful place where plant life of every kind imaginable and some you had never heard of grows together, seeming somehow both wild and ordered. Butter ies y around you as if in an eerie ballet. Even the light seems brighter here. It is a place of peace and contentment. Or it would be if it weren’t for the wizened old man, moving far faster than he should, who’s hacking away at you with a machete. You desperately dive for cover beneath some bushes, soon followed by the gardener’s blade. He then begins to sing, in a deep but strangely serene voice: “He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fe: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. ‘At length I realise,’ he said, ‘The bitterness of Life!’”16 You’re running for your life, but you are far more frightened by the glimpses you catch of him re ected in the glass. You see a creature with a great many wings, bearing a aming sword.17

In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “The song is, of course, ‘The Mad Gardener’s Song’ by Lewis Carroll. The poem appears in Volume 1 of Carroll’s two-part novel Sylvie and Bruno (1889).

This revelation con ates the Garden with the Bibilical Garden of Eden, and the murderous, insane Gardener with the aming-sword-wielding angel said to guard its entrance from any human intrusion following Adam and Eve’s banishment. The Book of Ezekiel describes Cherubim as having two pairs of wings, and Genesis 3:24 states th at Gods placed Cherubim (plural) with the aming sword to guard the eastern gate of the Garden of Eden. In the comments of Back to the Garden, however, THX 0477 identi es the angels guarding the Garden as “Seraphim”. 17

Appendix 13-IV: The Madman (Jay Dee, June 15th, 2011)

You run from your pursuer, looking desperately for the way out. But the conservatory confounds you, and the path forks and branches again and again until you are certain you have taken a wrong turning. You are right. The path abruptly ends. The only way forward would be to step off the path out into the garden. The sounds of the gibbering lunatic behind makes your decision for you, and you dart off into the foliage. Straight into a dead end. All you see are glass panels, and the images they show are of unimaginable horror. The madman emerges from the jungle behind you, his re ection changing from an angel to a cackling demon.18 He has you cornered, and he knows it. You turn to avoid him, ducking to the side, but his insanity grants him a feverish speed and the machete comes down on your chest. Winded, you hit the oor, the machete still stuck in your body armour. He puts his foot on your chest and yanks it out. Then he aims a nal slash at your exposed neck. The blade falls, and you close your eyes.

Although this is made explicit nowhere in the Bible, “early Christian exegetes” arrived at the conclusion that “fallen angels” and “demons” were the same type of being, with angels who sinned and fell from grace devolving into demons. 18

Appendix 13-V: The Saviour (Jay Dee, June 15th, 2011)

But the blow never lands. There is the scream of metal striking metal. You open your eyes, and like a miracle, a steel spade holds the machete from biting into your skin. The man holding the spade kicks the madman back. They circle each other like wildcats, and they slash and parry like swordsmen in a duel. The man who saved you wears body armour under a long coat, camou aged with paints in green and brown and various twigs and leaves. “So, have you come to kill me, Grigori19?” the madman spits at your saviour. One moment his face is calm, but in the next, one of his eyes twitches irratically and his face convulses in a cruel parody of a grin. “You have succumbed to the madness. I would hope you would do the same for me,” Grigori says. There is real regret in his voice. “Please, do not make this harder for me than it already is.” The maniac shrieks in something not unlike glee and bodily tackles Grigori to the ground, stabbing at him with rabid fury.

It is clear in The Saviour and The Gardener that “Grigori” is one of the Madman’s fellow angels, himself assigned to watching over the Garden of Eden (see Footnote 17). The term of Grigori is an often-used Anglicisation of the Greek term used for the angelic “Watchers” of the Book of Daniel and the Book of Enoch. As such, it is possible that the point-of-view character of The Saviour misunderstands the Madman’s words when he assumes “Grigori” to be the second angel’s name: the Madman may simply be calling him by his species or rank. The second angel’s own later statement “I am Grigori”, in The Gardener, is equally ambiguous. However, this interpretation is made explicit nowhere in Dee’s actual text. 19

Appendix 13-VI: The Gardener (Jay Dee, June 15th, 2011)

But Grigori has planned for this. As the maniac is about to land the nal deathstroke, Grigori rolls to the side, and in one uid, elegant movement, he brings his weapon around in a beutiful arc of silver. The madman’s head ies gracefully off of his shoulders, and the lifeless torso slumps forward, watering the garden with red. You stand, shakily, and attempt to ask him WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON. He ignores you and kneels, as if in prayer, his spade held like a Templar’s sword. “Let your body feed the garden, my brother,” he intones. “As in death, also in life.” He stands abruptly, handing you your steel garden rake. You must have dropped it in the chase. “Take your weapon. We must move. The scent of blood will only draw them to us,” he says, checking the throwing knives hanging from his belt. They look suspiciously like trowels. “Who are you?” you ask. “I am Grigori20,” he says, with the weight of a sacred warrior sworn to defend the world from unimaginable evil. “And I am a Gardener.”

See Footnote 19.

Chapter 14: I Am An Athenaeum (Sir Bic, June 3rd, 2011)

I am an athenaeum21; In the innermost area of every house. The place, Where eternity came from, Where eternity will one day return. A room lled with shadows. A room over owing, With unasked questions, With unthinkable thoughts. I am a space of limitless knowledge; A space for practicing patience, Where elucidation from ickering light Is cast from candled lamp stands. At night: Moonlight bleeds Through vaulted windows, Encased in coffered ceilings. In darkness: Moonbeams shine Through swirls of oating dust, On polished granite oors. I hear footsteps clatter 21

In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “What do you think the difference is between the Athenaeum and the Library? I’m writing a piece about a book, and I’m not sure where to put it.” Sir Bic: “I think of a Library as a personal place but an Athenaeum as more of social space; where a learning club might linger. I am very interested, however, in what others think. I enjoy learning from others.”

Toward towering bookcases, Stopping beneath Benches of opened books. They sit, They read, They wonder. Answers exist; In volumes of history, In tomes of science, In bibles of belief. They wonder, They read, They sit. Someday Unasked questions Will be answered. Somehow The mind will see Unthinkable thoughts. I exist outside the binds of time, In the innermost area of every house.22 I am an eternity of learning, Waiting forever to be found.

The suggestion that the Athenaeum of every house is connected to every other Athenaeum is reminiscent of Terry Pratchett’s conception of “L-Space”, whereby large concentrations of books warp space-time, meaning that any reasonably large library can connect to any other one across the Multiverse. However, Sir Bic’s emphasis on the difference between an Athaneaum and a Library suggests that Bic’s Athanaeum is a narrower “special case” of L-Space, if the two concepts are at all related, rather than a different name for the same principle. 22

Chapter 15: The Stairwell (Wednesday, June 3rd, 2011)

Spiralling upwards, through an in nite number of portals, spanning the width and depth of the house. The supports are built in the shapes of limbs of animals, gilded in gold leaf, leading up an iron rod, twisted upwards, leading from the front door to the attic and beyond. The stairwell was created for those guests of the house who enjoy a more linear way of life, built when the President of Zimbabwe complained of the lack of stairs and opened on the rst day of Spring. Doorways are seperated by four stone steps, equally seeded along the ley lines each step represents. And at the very top, beyond in nity, where the stairway ends, a golden gate, surrounded by dry ice tended to by the very highest of the goblins, stands closed. A sign abreast its lock reads: “If you have made it here, then you only deserve to fall, for a life wasted is not a life lived in Good.”

Chapter 16: The Throne Room (Wednesday, June 3rd, 2011)

Fifty thrones sit against three of the four stone walls, each in varied colour and style. Among them stand a silver set, royal blue velvet padded throne for the the Lady Elshanor, on which she sits having followed the portals to this room. As soon as her rear hits the cushioned seat a man is thrown through the grand double doors and dragged down the long red carpet that leads to the head throne, where Elsha’s throne now, inexplicably, nds itself. A voice booms, “This man has been found stealing water from the Fountain of Youth.” Two buttons — one white, one red — now apparate onto the arms of Elsha’s throne and she looks into the eyes of the shamed man, his head coated in rotton fruit. “Your verdict?” Closing her eyes, Elshanor hits the red button and listens to his pleadings as a portal forms beneath the criminal’s feet into Pandemonium23 below.

‘Pandæmonium’, a spelling later simpli ed in popular usage to Pandemonium, was coined by John Milton in Paradise Lost (1667) as the name for the capital city of Hell and residence of Lucifer himself. 23

Chapter 17: The Portal to Pandemonium (Wednesday, June 3rd, 2011)

The portal formed beneath Rohinder’s feet and he fell into what he knew was Hell. Heat swelled around him, and through the black re light, he saw another, higher, golden throne. Wrought from the resources the depths of the Earth brought, the palace was exactly as Milton had described it. Marvellously and lovingly crafted from the labour of angels, it kept him in awe. Rohinder was barely a speck of dust in the vastness of this great hall, and the gravity lended by the distance between Pandemonium and the centre of the Earth kept him plastered to the ground. Suddenly a voice echoed around the halls and Rohinder looked up to see the most beautiful and deadly angel anyone had ever cast eyes on24. “So your judgement has been placed?” he boomed. “Well, I suppose that now it is time for your punishment.”

Indubitably intended to be Lucifer, the Devil himself.

Chapter 18: The Jenny Everywhere Museum (Jeanne Morningstar, June 7th, 2011)

This wing of the In nite House25 was given by the Architect26 to Jenny Everywhere to store mementos from her adventures and dangerous artifacts. Only counterparts of Jenny and those they have chosen may enter it. Known contents include: Statues of friends, companions and family of Jenny from throughout the worlds. Three perpetual motion machines. A copy of the Voynich Manuscript with annotations written in a completely different alien language from the manuscript itself, neither of which are used in any known world. A miniature city preserved from a dead world. A key to the gate of Eromreven. A battlesuit from the Third War of Ascension on Earth-3327. This is the rst point in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House where the House is given a proper name other than simply “the House”. 25

The rst allusion in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House to the individual who designed or built the House, although “blueprints” were mentioned in Chapter 7. It is unclear how these relate to the suggestion in The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House and Overgrown that the House was grown, not built. 26

“Earth-33” and “Earth-274” mimick the naming scheme for parallel universes used for the superhero multiverses of Marvel Comics and DC. Notably, Marvel’s Earth-33 is a “meta ctional” universe, winkingly purported to be the numbering of the real world within the cosmology of the Marvel Multiverse (although non-superpowered versions of some Marvel characters are shown to actually exist within it). Grant Morrison would later use an “Earth 33” in his DC comic book Multiversity in a similar fashion. In contrast, in 2007, as part of their then-ongoing multiversal storyline, DC had introduced an “Earth-33” where magic reigned in place of science, which was strikingly different both from the real world and from their more conventional superhero settings. 27

A portrait of Jenny painted by Leonardo Da Vinci in the 19th century on Earth-27428 (where he is a vampire). A oating pirate ship29. A maze of twisty little passages, all alike. A zoo with various endangered species including unicorns, vegetable lambs and giant balloon animals. A lock of red hair.30 The skull of an Elder God. [REDACTED]

In contrast to the many uses of “Earth-33” (see Footnote 27), the designation Earth-274 has never been used by either Marvel or DC. 28

The speci cation that the ship is a pirate ship makes this passage reminiscent of the Jolly Roger after it is coated in “pixie-dust” at the end of Disney’s 1953 adaptation of Peter Pan. (In Barrie’s original narrative, the ship never actually ies.) However, the image of a hovering sailing ship is widely-used due to its inherent appeal of dreamlike adventure. 29

Laura Drake, Jenny Everywhere’s (in turns) best friend, archenemy and love interest in the writings of Jeanne Morningstar, is always depicted with red hair. A version of Laura later appeared in Overgrown. 30

Appendix 18-I: The Jenny Everywhere Museum (cont’d)31 (Zxvasdf, June 7th, 2011)

Somewhere in that collection of multiversal junk, there is a bottle lled with a miniature universe32 containing the story of Kal-el33. Jenny Everywhere has a computer console that is connected by clever multi-dimensional ITeching to our universe’s world wide web. Her homepage is cly.com34.

Atypically, Zxvasdf elected to make additions to the ction of Our Strange and Wonderful House in the comments of The Jenny Everywhere Museum itself, rather than posting these supplementary ideas under a heading of their own. As such, this short appendix has no individual title. 31

In the science-fantasy writings of Lawrence Miles, starting with Christmas on a Rational Planet (1996), “bottle universes” are arti cial universes contained in bottles, sometimes being simulations of the universe which created them, with various discrepancies. The concept is here superposed with “the story of Kal-El”, the birth name of Superman; one of Superman’s recurring nemeses, Brainiac, has the ability to create “Bottle Cities” by shrinking preexisting locations and trapping them in his cosmic bottles. 32

As mentioned in Footnote 26, Kal-El is the Kryptonian birth name of Superman, although he grew up under the human name “Clark Kent”. 33

The very website through which Our Strange and Wonderful House was written. Many short Jenny Everywhere stories not connected to Our Strange and Wonderful House were also released on Ficly. 34

Chapter 19: The Ruined Chapel (Jeanne Morningstar, June 7th, 2011)

Leave the House by the back door of the Conservatory35. Take the path that stands between the Dark Wood and the Tarn. You must go alone. Walk three miles and you will nd the Ruined Chapel. In the Chapel the stained glass windows are shattered. A statue of a woman stands at the altar, its head and hands cut off. Once people must have thronged to worship beneath these Gothic arches. Now there are only animals, save for a lone woman ever weeping, covered in a black veil to her feet. Some say she is the goddess who was once worshipped here. If you give her a simple gift to still her grief, such as a story or a song, she will answer any question you ask, except for her name. She is not wicked but many regret the answer she gives. At midnight the Lady in Mourning stands before the altar and removes her veil, crying out: “Woe unto they who once stood on high! Their temples are in ruins and their names are forgotten.” Do not look into her face in that moment, for the ashes before the altar were once those who did.

In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “I had forgotten that the Conservatory had already been established. That does add a new angle to things.” Indeed, reaching “the back door of the Conservatory” is a more perilous proposition than might rst appear, if one recalls what the Conservatory was shown to contain in The Guardroom and its appendices. 35

Appendix 19-I: The Right Wrong Questions (Zxvasdf, June 12th, 2011)

A wandering mendicant enters the narthex, shedding the dust of years. His tattered robes are evidence of a long and arduous journey. He looks up at the Lady of Mourning and begins a beautiful and haunting song of despair and decay. He kneels before the Lady of Mourning and asks, “Is your name Catherine?” “No.” He sings another song. “Is your name Osceola?” “No.” He sings another song. Thus towards the end of his life, his days were spent knelt at the altar to ask after a gift of song in his calm and inquisitive manner whether a name belonged to her. Always was her answer no, and always did he offer up a different song. At midnight he would depart the ruined chapel for the tarn to gather a meager sustenance of wild root and clear water. When the mendicant died, many years later, a smiling question shaping his lips, the Lady of Mourning looked towards the stars through the fractured roof at midnight and sang a song of hope and dreams. The next morning found a rich warm light falling upon a bare altar.

Chapter 20: The Stationery Room (Memento, June 7th, 2011)

As you wander through our strange and wonderful house, you will nd many rooms of interest, all of which are uid in their relative locations. All but the Stationary Room. It exists at the center of an imaginary line between the Master Bedroom and the Gatehouse, always maintaining equal distance from the two. So, to nd and enter the room, you must know where the others are. Its use is summarized in the Athenaeum records: “The word is not only a descriptor for the nature of the room, but an indicative for what it contains. The Stationary Room is also the Room of Stationery.” At the rst viewing, the room seems somewhat small. A single desk sits in the center, facing the door. At its back is a window covered by heavy curtains, and all the walls, save for a large cabinet in the corner, are bookshelves. Inside the desk is an in nite supply of papers, envelopes, inks, pens, and waxes. It is the room where letters are written. Only the Master of the House or those he gives permission can use it.36 The rst mention in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House of the House having an individual Master. The idea of certain rooms only being open to a speci c individuals or those this individual permits was previously seen in The Jenny Everywhere Museum; one assumes the restriction on unauthorised entry into the Stationery Room was granted in the same manner, likely by the selfsame Architect. 36

Chapter 21: Elevator (Elsha Hawk, June 7th, 2011)

The Great Glass Elevator37 was donated to the house, mysteriously crashing into the west garden one evening. Three panels were still intact. The lawn gnomes have been painstakingly attempting to piece together the others, being professionals at ceramic, glass, and polyurethane repair. We at the house are excited to have a working elevator, since the stairwell is impossible and the rooms like to change locations. The threats and warnings by the goblins of the stairs have become rather harsh, though. They are foretelling our doom if we zip up to the top too quickly. The house itself seems to be preparing for the addition38. Occasionally when a doorway is opened, nothing exists beyond it but a cavern of inky blackness. It makes the residents nervous to see the house like this, buzzing with excitement and creaking with worry, lurching, stretching, and then settling. There is a continuous seance on the 7th oor to keep spirits and demons out of closets and cupboards.

In the comments of The Stairwell, Elsha Hawk had commented that she would rather take the Elevator, “which no one [had] written yet”, than the Stairwell described there. She had added, “I vote it be glass like Willy Wonka’s”. This payoff on this promise, which heavily references the lore established in The Stairwell, seems to go one step further: the Elevator is referred to by the name of ‘the Great Glass Elevator’, as in Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1964) and Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator (1972), and apparently started out as foreign to the House before crashing in its yard and being incorporated into it. The implication is thus that it is indeed Wonka’s very own Elevator which has been absorbed into the Strange and Wonderful House. 37

Not the rst mention in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House of elements within the House changing of their own accord, but perhaps the rst hint of the House being in some sense a singular living thing; earlier references to rooms moving about seemed to assign the agency to the individual rooms instead. 38

Appendix 21-I: Very Small Assault39 (THX 0477, May 31st, 2011)

“Mum, the lawn gnomes are moving.” “What, Mika? We don’t…” The kettle’s impertenent blare interrupted her thought. More ritual than conscious effort, Hattie made tea, nothing exotic or fancy, just tea. Such was her lot in life, an inescapable rejoinder in her mind to most of daily life. “Mum,” the tiny voice reiterated, “the lawn gnomes are moving… closer.” “Oh Mika, don’t be…” She paused, then, “Sweetie, we don’t have lawn gnomes. Your father thought they’re a quaint but equally low class alternative to pink, plastic amingos.” “I wouldn’t say that to them. They look like angry gnomes.” “Honestly boy, you and that imagination…” Having approached the window, tea in hand, Hattie stopped mid-sentence at the sight of a half dozen tiny men in pointy hats traversing the lawn with small implements of destruction and a purposeful air. “You’ve dropped your tea, mum.” “I suppose I have.” “Mummy, are you scared?” “Little bit, sweetie. A little bit.” Very Small Assault was not originally written as either a part of Our Strange and Wonderful House, or even an appendix to a preexisting chapter thereof. However, after the incorporation of living lawn gnomes similar to THX 0477’s into Elevator, Zxvasdf wrote A Very Pink Assault as simultaneously an appendix to Elevator and a sequel to Very Small Assault, retroactively making Very Small Assault into a backdoor appendix to Our Strange and Wonderful House. 39

“Wishing dad was still about?” “Not really.”

Appendix 21-II: A Very Pink Assault (Zxvasdf, June 12th, 2011)

“What’s that?” “It’s a cellphone, mum.” “What is it saying?” “I don’t know. Let me listen.” He bent his ear against the window. “…” “…” “Mika—” “Shh!” “…” “…” “Look, they’re going away!” “It’s a job.” “Mika, I don’t understand.” “Me neither. Something about an elevator.” “Elevator?” “They’re a construction crew.”

“Construction crew?” “Seriously, mum, you make a lousy parrot.” “Mika!” “It’s just a job, that’s all. They’ve been contracted to repair an elevator.” “I suppose I should be relieved they’re gone.” She cleaned up the tea she dropped and poured another cup. “MUM!” “What, are they back?” “No. The neighbor’s amingos… they’re moving!” There was a crash as she dropped the tea again. “My God, Mika, this is too much. Now I wish dad was about.”

Chapter 22: The Gallery (Jeanne Morningstar, June 8th, 2011)

Pass through the ornate wooden doors beneath the stained glass window showing the birds from which the Seven Noble Houses take their names and you will nd yourself in the Gallery. Here works of art from every time and place are brought together with little rhyme or reason. Photographs of poor children in a city that is almost but not quite Victorian London hang beside pages from a medieval manuscript portraying impossible beasts. A Cubist painting showing the depths of Hell stands next to a painting Van Gogh never made in this world. Armed statues in every style imaginable adorn the hallways. These are the guards of the Gallery, and they bring swift death to any who attempt to steal from it. If you go deep enough into the Gallery you will nd a room with paintings based on your own life. There you will see the key moments in your past as they really happened, not as you remember them, and all your future as well. At the end is a painting of your death. Few have the courage to venture this far.

Chapter 23: The Rose Cottage (Robert Quick, June 9th, 2011)

Malthus waited in his room until someone needed his expertise. It was a cold and lonely existence for Malthus. Malthus wasn’t his real name, in fact he wasn’t even a real person40, but the room he waited in wasn’t really his either, so he supposed it all evened out. Everything always evened out in the end. Frost crept along the edges of the room, dancing across stainless steel, perching on dark woods that suggested solemnity, and coming to rest on the numerous beds in the middle of the room, beds that none ever wished to sleep on. Malthus kept the room cold. Two degrees Celsius was his chosen temperature, partly as a self-in icted punishment and partly because it created the ideal environment for the job. He idly rubbed his nger over the face of his favorite ring. The worn silver depicted a stork in ight. That was always a sign that company was on its way. Somehow he always knew. Malthus loved meeting people but he was also aware of the fact that no one ever found their way to the morgue by accident.

In the comments: Elsha Hawk: “The Rose Cottage is a morgue, and he is borrowing the space, and he is not real.. perhaps a ghost keeping watch?”

Chapter 24: The Cellar (ALRO613, June 9th, 2011)

“It’s very dark, Mandy. We shouldn’t be down here!” 9 year old Chris said to his 11 year old sister. “I don’t like the smell,” “Don’t be a chicken, Christopher, Uncle Jack will never know!” Mandy admonished, pulling him into the cellar. It was a huge room, with rows upon rows of shelves; each row housing hundreds of bottles. The air here was sickly-sweet; grapes and strawberries with a hint of rotten plums. The only light came from the entrance door, from the sunlight that eeted about the basement through a stained glass window. There was a creak. “What wassat?” Chris spun about on a heel. “Nothing, you baby,” Mandy laughed nervously, “Look at this,” she plucked a bottle from one of the shelves. “Maybe you should leave it alone,” “It’s French or something,” she blew the dust off with a puff. “Put it back!” Chris tried to grab the bottle from her, and in the struggle the bottle crashed to the oor. The red contents from the bottle splattered everywhere. Mandy said, “That’s not wine!” The door slammed shut.

Appendix 24-I: Montresor (Jeanne Morningstar, June 10th, 2011)

The fumes of the wine made Chris dizzy. He was no longer a bookish child but a bold and bloodthirsty pirate, sailing the ocean and cutting down his foes with a cutlass. It was thrilling and horrible at the same time… “What are you doing!” A harsh voice brought him out of his reverie. It belonged to a shriveled old man in a mouldering suit with sharp yellow teeth. “That was some of my best wine!” “Who are you?” said Mandy, barely managing not to seem afraid. “I am Montresor41, Keeper of the Cellar. This is no ordinary wine — it is distilled from from memories. The Master of the House himself requested that bottle to serve the Goblin King for their negotiations. Without it we are lost! Unless…” An unpleasant smile crawled up his face. “You must bring me the memories of a legendary pirate and then take them to Father Time’s attic to be aged.” “Or else?” “Or else I shall introduce you to the rats.” Chris saw something scuttling in the shadows of the room. It was far larger than a rat had any right to be.

In the comments: Cthulhuburger: “Great name for the keeper of the cellar. (…) Folks who don’t get the reference should check out Poe’s ‘The Cask of Amontillado’.”

(Jeanne Morningstar, June 16th, 2011)

“But how are we supposed to nd a pirate?” asked Mandy. “You can’t just go out and get one.” “Hrm.” Montresor bent over Chris and sniffed. “You smell of magic. Come here.” He gripped Chris with his hard, skeletal ngers and hurried him off toward a distant shelf. The withered old man moved far faster than one would expect, but with her purposeful stride Mandy was soon neck in neck with him. Rushing through the cellar, Chris caught the scents of other lives — knights and warriors, erce and bold and energetic, together with the more subtle scents of lives which seemed little on the outside but were lived deeply. Montresor jerked to a halt and pulled out a bottle of wine with an ornate picture of a wizard on its label. It had a deep, dark, pungent aroma with hints of book dust. “Drink this.” He uncorked the bottle and poured a sip of midnight blue liquid into a glass he’d pulled out of his pocket. Chris took hold of the cup and drank, his hands shaking. And his mind was ooded with magic.

Appendix 24-II: The First Step

Chapter 25: Mud Room (32 Squared, June 20th, 2011)

This is the part I hate; stripping out of these tight wet coverings and boots. I can see my re ection in the back door’s window as I watch steam billow out the unzipped gash in my yellow rain coat. I ran pretty far this time and fell down three or four times; I can’t remember. There’s mud and blood all over me, I should have hosed off before I came in. Never mind, they haven’t found out about me yet, even after all the stupid mistakes I made when I began this strange hobby many years ago. I snap things, I like the sound…SNAP! It started with the sound of her jean’s snap-buttons; she lost her virginity to that sound, and I lost my mind. She ran screaming and shoeless from the car; her feet breaking frozen twigs in the winters thaw. A couple years later I started snapping photos, then twigs snapped while I followed lonely women jogging on lonely paths in lonely parks. My snapping noises make them run faster; I love a good chase. My feet are bare and I’m dry and warm; let’s see if her shoes t.

Chapter 26: The Airing Cupboard (Cecilia Harper, June 25th, 2011)

On the fourth oor, down the east wing, behind a painting, is a cupboard. It was rst an airing cupboard and vestiges of that function remained in the husks of cotton bedsheets and dust furred towels that lined the shelves. After a parlor maid discovered its true nature it went into an immediate and steady decline that ended after the Master of the House at that time42 installed a lifesized painting of his mistress over it. It is said that his wife left the next day for the continent and died of jealousy a mere fortnight after. The airing cupboard was rediscovered a century or so afterwards when several halls were rearranged in preparation for the coming of the elevator. When the rst visitor spotted the ancient door and cautiously pulled it open he was greeted with the unexpected scents of lavender and lye soap laid over a base tang of copper. The gure seated in the corner wore a peculiar Victorian nightdress. “Darling! You’ve been so long!” Its arms closed tightly around him, locking him in place.

This further reference to “the Master of the House” seemingly con rms that there have been several Masters over the House’s history, which now spans at least a century. 42

(MultiversalInk, July 5th, 2011)

Somewhere dangerously close to the Kitchen lies the Laboratory. Here, great minds spend their days thinking up new ways to make life for the residents of the Mansion43 easier (or harder, if they feel like it). So many strange and wonderful things have (or have almost) seen the light of day here. In a corner is a prototype for an innovative bee-based mode of transport. Several different implementations of time travel can be found around the lab, as can equipment for measuring luck, rubber band elasticity and sense of humour. The Shiny Object Locator has unfortunately been lost. There are blueprints for an anti-procrastination device as well, but those aren’t nished yet. And nobody ever remembers to work on the memory improvement machine. Thinking caps, however, are standard issue. Space expanders to increase the size of what was once a cupboard were one of the rst things to be nished, for once out of need. There’s a little corner dedicated to non-mad science as well, but it’s very dusty.

Although the House was referred to as a “Victorian Manor” in The Theater Room, this is the rst and last time in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House that the House is referred to as “the Mansion”. 43

Chapter 27: The Lab

Appendix 27-I: The Lab: The Alarum Goes Off (August 2nd, July 5th, 2011)

On one side of the room, amid the clutter of discarded pieces of metal and wood and glass and paper, stood a large, handsome cabinet, crafted from ne lignea. The cabinet’s single door opened and a young woman stepped into the room. Shyly, she said, “Where have they all gone?” Spamblodgett looked up from the notebook in which he was designing a new invention for the burning of toast. “Who are you?” he squeaked, it having been some time since he last used his voice. “Lally. From housekeeping?” Spamblodgett harrumphed to himself, chucked a bezoar at his nearest compatriot, raising a small cloud of dust and awakening him. “Renderblat! You’re the youngest: see to the door. They’re on their way.” Renderblat stood, tottered to the door, shot the bolts and set the bar. As the timeline changed over, Lally was shocked to nd herself dissipating. Moments later, the door knob rattled. A gaggle of women could be heard in the hallway. There was a loud bang at the door, and an announcement: “Housekeeping!”

Appendix 27-II: The Lab: Setting The Alarum (August 2nd, July 6th, 2011)

The door was ung open, crashing into the wall with a bang. A large, charwomanly gure entered, followed by a bevy of less imposing women armed with rags, mops, and pails. “Gentlemen, housekeeping has arrived!” The denizens of the room (those who had woken up) protested. Gravitcher, the lead artifector (inasmuch as they could be said to have one), approached the battleaxe and lied, “Madam, we have important experiments underway that cannot be disturbed. Pray be gone.” “Sir, I am tasked by the Masters of this abode with cleaning each and every room at least once a year. I will execute my charge, and for this room today is that day.” She gestured. The women spread through the room, cleaning and (gasp!) moving things. It was intolerable and the artifectors were appalled to a man. Spamblodgett beckoned to one buxom young woman. “Would you clean the interior of this cabinet, please?” She smiled and entered. He muttered to himself as he twiddled some dials, “Five minutes ago… ” He pressed a button.

Appendix 27-III: Heebie Jeebies (Elsha Hawk, July 6th, 2011)

Elshanor’s old fashioned pager went off. It was from the lab: S.O.S. Now what?! She nished her business in the bathroom off the library and decided against going back that way toward the ominous creaking. 44Climbing atop the counter, she removed a ceiling tile and hoisted herself over the edge. This was the sideways room, so she ended up sliding down the wall. Unfortunately, she disrupted a meeting of the Hares In Charge of All Vegetation, whose giant, glaring red eyes gave her the heebie-jeebies.45 Curtsying low and backing towards the wooden door instead of the rabbit hole in the adjoining wall, which was much faster and preferable, she turned the knob behind her back and scurried out as quickly as possible. She ran smack into a group of ladies and gentlemen in bright pink rubber gloves and long black rubber coats carrying baskets of toilet wands and spray bottles. “Ah! Housekeeping! You’re early.” “They won’t let us in!” “Perhaps the library is better suited to your talents?” Last heard by Elsha in The Bathroom (of the Library). This seems to belatedly resolve this story’s cliffhanger with an implication that Elsha simply ran off without turning round to check what had caused the creaking noise, recognising it as “ominous”. 44

What relationships these Hares may have to the Gardening Angels is, seemingly, left as an exercise to the reader. 45

“But…” “It’s really dusty.”

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 1) (August 2nd, July 20th, 2011)

The low hum of the Perpetual Motion Machine competed with the buzzing of bees constructing a hive beneath a shelf beside a propped-open window. Beside the hive was a machine that went ping-whoomp every eight minutes and had been happily doing so for as long as anyone could remember. Since its function was a mystery and it caused no trouble and at least did something, the artifectors were not inclined to turn it off. They doddered, but they were not fools46. The PPM had not been commissioned by the House47. This was quite usual as the House had long since learned that requests were fastidiously ignored and trying to guide the artifectors was akin to shearing a ock of cats. The PPM had been built on a whim and a dare. The prototype was built during a rare episode of collaboration and the honour of switching the device on was given to the lead artifector at the time, Agrontus. Once they had all been located, his remains were decently cremated at a brief ceremony presided by his successor, Gravitcher.

The word “doddering” is rarely seen outside of the stock phrase “doddering old fool(s)”; in fact, MerriamWebster does not recognise the verb “to dodder”, treating “doddering” as an adjective. The Oxford English Dictionary de nes doddering as the act of “moving in a feeble or unsteady way, especially because of old age”. This unsteadiness of the artifectors’ movements may explain why so many of their inventions don’t work in the way they’d want. 46

This seems to be the House at its most intellectually anthropomorphic: not only sentient, but capable of reasoning, and of making articulate requests of its inhabitants. It is conceivable, however, that “the House” here refers not to the Strange and Wonderful House itself, but to the noble family of the Master of the House, as the idea of the House “commissioning” work from the gaggle of mad engineers may call to mind feudal notions of noble houses acting as patrons to guilds of craftsmen and artists. 47

(August 2nd, July 20th, 2011)

The artifectors were encouraged by the devastating success of the prototype. The problem was no longer Can it be done? but rather How do we do it without blowing ourselves up?[1]48 Drawing boards were drawn upon and formulae were formulated. Rare materials were worked into arcane shapes. Two entirely new branches of arti ce were created. They tried running a network of wires around the House, the rst time in many years that any of them had seen any part of the House except for their own exclusive corner of it.[2] It wasn’t enough. They created a number of devices which could siphon the energy from the network.[3] It still wasn’t enough. The tower, and the permanent lightning storm that resulted, solved the problem. ———————————————— [1] The issue of Should we? never came up. [2] Several artifectors never returned and were feared lost. Lost, not dead. [3] The one that they found the most useful was a kettle that they used for boiling the water for their tea, a vast improvement over the replace. The comments contain arecord of the fact that, after receiving underwhelming reviews for a now-lost rst draft of The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 2), August 2nd decided to inject more humour into the vignette by what August 2nd themself described as “trying Pratchett’s ‘footnote’ style”, referring to Terry Pratchett’s frequent use of humourous footnotes in his Discworld series. 48

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 2)

Chapter 28: A Veranda With A View (32 Squared, July 14th, 2011)

I can hear the clatter and clanking of glass jars, tin rings, kettles, slamming ovens and busy women coming from behind the back door. They’re all there, generations dressed in aprons and kitchen sweat. And they’re having fun, listening to A.M. stations that crackle and shout the late noon hours. I’m me, and one of those women belongs to me, and I belong to all of them. Every now and then, the back door opens and hot jars are set in front of me. It’s my job to stay put, I have to watch for exploders; rising lids ghting science. The setting sun passes behind the porch’s windows, lined with glass shelves holding clear jars. Its light shines through swimming pears, apricots, plums, applesauces, cherries, peaches, gooseberry preserves, watermelon rinds, pickled vegetables, tomato sauce, mincemeat and blackberry jelly. As the smell of hot fruit, autumn leaves, and tractor oil wraps around my daydreams, I see sunbeams shooting through jars and pouring out like rainbows and exploding stained glass.

Chapter 29: The Zoo (Robert Quick, July 15th, 2011)

“Where are the bars?” I asked apprehensively. The old zookeeper smiled, stretching leathery skin to reveal perfect teeth. “It’s not that kind of zoo, Miss,” he said politely. “It’s more of a preserve.” I looked for walls and found none. Clouds budded on the horizon, tinted a rosy color by the rising sun. “I don’t understand.” “I didn’t either when I rst got here, but you’ll catch on.” He clasped me on the shoulder and walked me over to the jeep. On the back seat towered a stack of books. “What’s this?” I asked. “Homework for the rest of your life. You do read, right?” “Of course I read, it was a requirement for working here. I just don’t get what fantasy novels have to do with my job.” “How else could you tell the difference between a Boojum and a Snark49? Or know where to tickle a Cthonian50? Or what to do to keep Grues51 away?” He got in and patted the seat next to him.

Snarks and Boojums feature in Lewis Carroll’s narrative nonsense poem The Hunting of the Snark (1876), where the protagonists are trying to capture the Snark, but end up nding a much more dangerous Boojum instead. The Boojum successfully erases the main character from existence at the end of the poem. 49

Chthonian can generally refer to any supernatural underground entity, but in this context, likely refers to the Chthonians of the Cthulhu Mythos, as introduced by Brian Lumley in The Burrowers Beneath (1974), giant rock-burrowing worm-like creatures. Not, in short, creatures one would expect to want to tickle. 50

Human-bat hybrids from Jack Vance’s Dying Earth book series, also well-known for their role in the 1977 text adventure game Zork. 51

“Come on, it’s feeding time and we have a long journey ahead of us.” “How big is this place?” The zoo keeper smiled. “Wait and see.”

Chapter 30: The Great South Gate (August 2nd, July 16th, 2011)

Rondel52 sat beside his father, his 12-year-old eyes wide with wonder as they approached the Great South Gate. His father had become Master of the Fields only a few months previously and here they were, leading the Harvest Procession! On Harvest Day, the outlying towns delivered the House’s winter provisions. Each of the hundreds of carts in the train was loaded with produce, live animals, wood or any of dozens of other types of goods. The carts would be used for their materials as well. The drivers would return to town on foot. This year, the House had asked for children between the ages of 6 and 12 to be surrendered for service in the Household Staff. Many of the children who accompanied their fathers would be selected. The portcullis ascended, and the vast ebony doors of the Great South Gate creaked open. The lead cart with its team of eight unblemished jet black oxen, decked in multicolored ribbons, entered and Rondel had his rst view of the House. Rondel never saw the world outside the Walls again.

In the comments: August 2nd: “The “Our Strange and Wonderful House” challenge has so far been answered by a lot of descriptions of what it found within the House, but less so with what goes on there. My intention with this story is to introduce a character, the boy Rondel, who will eventually visit most parts of the House. I see the House as an expansive place, that probably exists in every place and in every time. The closest thing that I can compare it to is Gormenghast Castle in Mervyn Peake’s books. I recommend the rst two books in the series, Titus Groan and Gormenghast very highly.”

Chapter 31: The North West Attic (Robert Quick, July 20th, 2011)

Our arrival into the attic sent mice squeaking and scurrrying across the wooden oor and out of sight. It could have been a trick of the light but they looked like a family of blue mice accompanied by a large pink one. Fresh air from the stairs below us pushed dust sluggishly through the air. Moonlight, dulled by the lth that covered the half-circle windows, penetrated the room, making the slow moving particles twinkle like stars. Piles of sheet covered objects, adorned with spiderwebs, made peculiar-looking ghosts. Nearby a mannequin with six blue numbers scrawled onto its left arm stood, head down, defeated. Above it sat a majestic coat of arms for something called the League53. “Okay, let’s split up. We have a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time,” Oggie said. “What about the mice?” Mila asked fervently. “Ignore them, they won’t hurt you.” Mila shuddered and muttered something about not letting the mice lay eggs in her ears. She yelped as I grabbed her hand and pulled her into the darkness.

Several Ficly writers had declared themselves member of the imaginary “League of Awesomeness” in their author bios or indeed screen-handles, including Elsha Hawk, Wednesday, ALRO613 and Binky Lemontwist. 53

(Ludmila Yevgenovicha, July 21st, 2011)

“Oh, this place again!” Luda said, hanging up her hat. The coat rack was consumed so completely, she wondered if there was one under there at all. What material could hold up so many coats and hats and scarves? “Oh, hello! Do you know the way in?” Luda jumped, as the coats parted and a young woman emerged. “Well, you are in!” Luda exclaimed. “No, no, I’m on my way out!” The girl reached for the door, twisted the handle, and stepped out. “I don’t know how to start a visit, only how to end it.” “Really?” Luda asked. “Oh yes, really. Say, could you hand me my hat and my coat. Those two, there!” the mystery girl directed. Luda complied, happily. “I only know the rst line, you know. The rst and the nish.” “Oh?” Luda sat on the bench, looking out the door way, untying her shoes. “How does it start?” “Why, like this!” and the girl shut the door. After a moment, there was a knock. Luda stood, and answered it. “Hello!” the girl said. “I’m Seven. May I come in?”

Chapter 32: The Foyer

Appendix 32-I: Foyer In nity (Sir Bic, July 22nd, 2011)

Seven followed Six so that Six came right before Seven. Seven’s tummy rumbled, making Six a nervous wreck. “Oh, this place again!” she said, hanging up her hat. “Oh, hello! Do you know the way in?” She jumped, as the coats parted and a young man emerged. “Well, you are in!” she exclaimed. “No, no, I’m on my way out and on my way in!” The boy reached for the door, twisted the handle, and stepped out. “I know how to start a visit, and how to end it.” “Really?” she asked. “Oh yes, really. Say, could you hand me my hat and coat and put them up. These two, here!” the mystery boy directed. She complied, happily. “I don’t only know the rst line, you know. I know the rst and the nish.” “Oh?” She sat on the bench, looking out the door way, tying her shoes. “How does it end?” “Why, like this!” and the boy shut the door. After a moment, there was a knock. She stood, and answered it. “Hello!” the boy said. “I’m Eight. May I come in?” “Sure,” said Seven. “Where’s Six?”

“Six?” Seven asked with a grin.

(Zxvasdf, July 22nd, 2011)

When there was nothing but silence and dust motes, she expressed her exasperation. “Oh, this place again!” she said, hanging up her hat. “Oh, hello! Do you know the way in?” She jumped, as the coats parted and a young woman emerged. “Well, you are in!” she exclaimed. “No, no, I’m on my way out!” The girl reached for the door, twisted the handle, and stepped out.“I don’t know how to start a visit, only how to end it.” “Really?” she asked. “Oh yes, really. Say, could you hand me my hat and my coat. Those two, there!” the mystery girl directed. She complied, happily. “I only know the rst line, you know. The rst and the nish.” “Oh?” She sat on the bench, looking out the door way, untying her shoes. “How does it start?” “Why, like this!” and the girl shut the door. After a moment, there was a knock. She stood, and answered it. “Hello!” the girl said. “I’m Six. May I come in?”

Appendix 32-II: Reiterate the Foyer

Chapter 33: The Painting (Jeanne Morningstar, July 23rd, 2011)

It is the most famous work of art in the Gallery: a painting of a woman dressed in blue standing by the seashore, staring into the distance as the sun rises or perhaps sets. Its beauty makes even the marvels of the House seem drab beside it. It seems more real than reality itself. It cannot be photographed, nor can it be fully described. No two who have seen the Painting give the same description of the woman, but all agree she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived. No one knows who painted it or what it is supposed to mean. Some say it was made by the Architect for the woman he loved, but she scorned him, and so he drowned himself in the Tarn, cursing it.54 But those who study the House’s history say this is a mere legend, and the curse is far older than the House. All who behold the Painting are lled with a deep longing that will haunt them to their graves. Some go mad from that longing and take their own lives. But others who have been consumed by despair nd it lifted, healed by a deeper wound.

This legend, if it were true, would put forward the woman in the Painting as a candidate for the identity of the Lady in Mourning of The Ruined Chapel and its appendix, given her proximity to the Tarn. 54

(Jeanne Morningstar, July 23rd, 2011)

Once every month, a silent man in a crimson cloak walks the hallways of the House, delivering invitations to the Ball. He brings it to those of all classes and groups: rich and poor, natives and visitors, human and otherwise. If you are invited, you may choose from a wide variety of costumes in the nearby storage room. You can be anything you want: a knight, a gentleman, a harlequin, a monster. (Or if you are already a monster, you can be an ordinary human being55.) As long as you wear them, your true nature is unknown to all around you. The Ballroom is a beautiful and elegant place. Globes of light oat in the air. Eerie music comes from a distance and no one can see those who make it. But if you go to the Ball, take care not to stay too long. For the longer you wear the mask, the more you begin to forget who you truly are. And some masks are not so easy to remove.

Monsters wearing human masks appeared in The Theater Room.See Footnote 6.

Chapter 34: The Ballroom

Chapter 35: Into the Gardens (Part 1)56 (Robert Quick, August 6th, 2011)

I was feeling irritated and wanted to be alone. Rooms lled with raucous laughter owed past me as I quickened my steps, hurrying through the Sun Room to the outside before I could snap at anyone else. My feet moved as if of their own accord, following some internal need that I wasn’t quite aware of. I passed the signs for the Tree House and the Southern Veranda, and followed the sign marked Gardens. Underneath was a secondary wooden sign nailed to the bottom of the rst that read: Domain of the Werepanda — Beware! It was contrariness more than anything else that persuaded me to step boldly off the brown tile and into the gardens. No one told me what to do, certainly not some shoddily made sign. Someone cleared their throat nearby. A thick, solidly-built asian man appeared. I don’t mean that he came from somewhere else or out of the bushes. One second he wasn’t there and the next he was. He wore one of those prototypical pointy, round hats with a wide base, and a simple brown robe. “Be welcome.”

Curiously, neither Into the Gardens (Part 1) nor Into the Gardens (Part 2) were of cially listed as part of Our Strange and Wonderful House. However, comments from the day of their release make it clear that they were intended, and always perceived, as furthering Our Strange and Wonderful House’s narrative. We have elected to reinstate them as true Chapters — given that they are not spun off from any preexisting entries, they cannot in good conscience be termed Appendices, and their lack of insertion into the of cial list of Our Strange and Wonderful House entries should be understood to be a mere oversight. 56

Chapter 36: Into the Gardens (Part 2)57 (Robert Quick, August 6th, 2011)

I returned the man’s friendly bow. Even though he was holding a old-fashioned broom he radiated calmness and respect. He leaned the broom against the twisting trunk of a great tree and dusted off his hands. “I thought you would be more comfortable at the dojo.” “Dojo?” I said stupidly. “What dojo?” “Oh, maybe it hasn’t been thought of yet.” “If it hasn’t been thought of then how do you know about it?” I countered. “Time is exible here. Never mind that now. Would you like a tour? Before you say no, let me say that the tour ends with drinking tea in the shade of the Bhodi tree.” A white shape dashed past me, making almost no noise at all. “What was that?” I asked. “Oh, just a parkour enthusiast. There’s a shortcut through the Gardens that leads to the Warrens and they love the Warrens — all of those tight spaces, I suspect.” The man’s tone was that of an amused father. “Don’t worry, they won’t bother us. Are you ready?” I found that my irritation had melted away, replaced with curiosity. “I am.” 57

See Footnote 56.

Chapter 37: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 1) (Robert Quick, August 6th, 2011)

The old man’s name was Sid and he set a pace that reminded me of Tai Chi — insidiously easy. We weren’t moving very fast but after only a few steps I was sweating like I’d run a marathon. Sid chattered happily as we moved through the Gardens, detailing facts and teasing me with what else we could expect. “The orchards and vegetable gardens are nearest to the House, though a determined person could appear anywhere in the garden if they so desired. Now on the left there is a path that leads to the Topiary Veranda.” A blue and white checkered tile path lead to a small open space with a few wrought-iron tables and a dozen matching chairs. It was surrounded on three sides by bushes shaped into dragons, unicorns, and less immediately identi able things. We moved onward and followed the path up a small rise that led to a wall of foliage about ve feet tall, cropped uniformly. “This is the legendary hedge maze designed by I.T. Haze. No one grows them quite like she does, each one unique and everchanging.”

(Robert Quick, August 7th, 2011)

We continued following the dirt path which had leveled out nicely, until Sid stopped us again. “From here you can see the training ground of accursed springs.” I looked at Sid. “Why would we have that here?” “I think you are under the mistaken impression that the House is essentially good.58 Worse, like many new writers, you think you’re in control of every part of the story.” “Isn’t that true? I mean, we made the House.”59 “Did you?” I didn’t answer, unnerved by the discussion and instead surveyed the thick stalks of bamboo, each one standing without uniformity, in a pool of stagnant water. “I thought that was in China. Or Japan.” I said absently. I wasn’t really sure on how other works of ction interacted with the House. 58

In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “Some interesting re ections. My take on the House is that it’s all dangerous, even the “good” parts. Maybe especially the “good” parts. It was built, after all, on ground that once belonged to Faerie and made from their wood, and something of Faerie still remains with it. I would still love to visit there, though. As long as I manage to avoid being eaten by the topiary minotaurs that periodically infest the hedge mazes. Or going insane from learning the secret of the universe after gazing too long at the patterns of light cast by the stained glass windows. Or falling into the Spring of Drowned Zombie. I do wonder whether the Asian master is a little on the stereotypical side, though. But perhaps ‘he’ might be a crossdressing Jenny Everywhere.”

In an apparent straightforward acknowledgement of Welcome! as a canonical part of the narrative of Our Strange and Wonderful House, Robert Quick here treats his hitherto-unnamed point-of-view character and narrator as an avatar of himself, a writer who contributed to inventing the House, which somehow becomes real (or at least able to be visited) as a result of being written about. 59

Chapter 38: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 2: Accursed Springs)

“All three are correct, depending on your perspective.” Sid said cheerfully. “Oh. Good.” I wasn’t sure what I was glad about but I was glad. The world was still spinning and everything was all right. Everything would be all right. Ahead lay the towering form of the Bodhi tree.

Appendix 38-I: A Return to Innocence (Robert Quick, August 7th, 2011)

Sid stopped and his voice became solemn. “I will wait for you. These last steps are your own.” “I thought you were my guide?” I asked in puzzlement. “I am, that I am.” he replied. I felt a muted suspicion rise within me, battling against the peaceful nature around me. Any other time I would have balked, letting stubbornness guide me. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly- and serenity won out. “Is it dangerous?” Sid gave a slight shrug. “No more or less than any other part of the world. I once spent a week in its shade just thinking.” I understood. The world was a dangerous place, more by my interpretation than by design. Any danger that rose would come from inside me, and that knowledge was good enough to get me moving. Blades of grass bobbed in laughter around me, tickled by the cool feathery touch of a breeze that rolled playfully through the vale like a child or a puppy — touching everything and then moving on, memories forgotten. Kicking off my shoes, I nished the rest of the journey barefoot.

Appendix 38-II: The Pain of Rebirth (Robert Quick, August 8th, 2011)

There was a stillness at the center, not just a stillness, a calmness, and a kind of loving certainty that prompts poets to try to de ne True Love; a love without limit. Overwhelmed by the utter pureness of the emotion, I stumbled and fell to my knees at the base of the Bodhi Tree, tears in my eyes. I let the feelings of unworthiness, self-hate, and guilt, wash over me as I remembered the pain I’d caused over the course of my life. Tears poured down like a spring shower and I wailed like a baby until I was hoarse. I don’t know how long I lay there, but nally there were no more tears to be shed, and nothing left inside — I was empty. “Is — is it always like that?” I asked, scrubbing my face with both hands, my voice raw. There was no answer but I was sure I was right. Nothing could prepare a person for that kind of intense self-magni cation. I felt ne now. It slowly dawned on me that I didn’t just feel good, I felt great — fully rested, at peace, and ready for anything. I could change the world.

Chapter 39: The Bodhi Tree (Robert Quick, August 9th, 2011)

I rolled over onto my back and nally really saw the Bodhi tree. It was immense with giant gnarled roots that made natural benches. The trunk stood straight and tall as true virtue, with wide branches that split into smaller ones tipped with giant leathery leaves that turned the sunlight into a kaleidoscope of patterns on the soft green. Though blocked by the direct rays of the sun, everything appeared to be bathed in a soft glow usually reserved for dreamsand nostalgia. Reaching out with hesitant ngertips I touched the bark. It was soft and exible, reminding me of the fake dinosaur skin at the Museum. Underneath was a hardness, a refusal to be broken, that I associated with strength of will. A tentative, feathery presence brushed against my mind. Ageless, in nite, immortal. Stars swirled around in time-lapsed nights. Continents drift apart and crash together in soundless fury. Billions of blades of grass push up against the soft earth, live, wither and die. To the Bodhi Tree time was nothing.

Appendix 39-I: Wake to Dream Again (Robert Quick, August 9th, 2011)

Sid was waiting for me where I’d left him. Our eyes met and he said. “It’s time to go back.” I knew he wasn’t just talking about returning to the house and I became afraid. “You mean I have to go back to the way I was?” I protested. “You won’t be able to help it. The rest of the worlds are wormy with details. You will have to forget all of this to deal with them. In time you will explain away everything.” “Then why even bring me here?” “I didn’t bring you here — you brought yourself here.” Sid reminded me. “But was it not worth it? You were in need of cleansing and perspective and here you found both.” “But I’m going to forget it!” “Not entirely. It will come to you in the quiet moments and it will come to you in dreams. There are other alternatives.” “Like?” “You can stay here. It is a simple life, but ful lling.” “Those are my options?” I asked bitterly. “You have in nite options.” Sid said dif dently. “You can only see two of them.”

“That isn’t fair.” I muttered. “No, but what is fairness?”

Appendix 39-II: The Will of the Creator60 (Zxvasdf, September 18th, 2011)

“How many times?” I asked. When there was no answer I screamed, “How many times?!” I stared miserably at the scene ahead of us. It was of me and Sid. For the hundredth time now. Each time I always chose to stay. He shrugged. “How many stars in the sky? The grains of sand on a thousand worlds?” He looked at me. “Sometimes numbers just fall apart in the sheer attempt of de nition.” “You have the patience of an angel.” “I am but the will of my Creator.” I saw his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. “Are you ready to go home?” “Isn’t home where the heart is?” “It is.” Sid smiled.“Where is your heart at?” I sighed. “I’m ready.” “Good.” Sid extended a hand. “The Manor awaits its Lord.” I took his hand. Memories the size of a million eternally propagating multiverses came crashing in like a vicious tide, and instead of receding, became relentless. I was on the in nity kick again. “Thank you, Sid.” I grinned. “I guess the end of my vacation’s just the beginning of yours!” 60

In the comments: Zxvasf: “I was getting caught up, only to nd I’m nowhere close to being ve percent caught up, so if this story seems outside continuity, let’s pretend it’s a stray multiverse, huh, compadre? Sheesh, be gone one summer and everyone’s writer’s block’s gone away!”

Appendix 39-III: The Bodhi Son (Zxvasdf, September 18th, 2011)

He was found against the Bodhi Tree’s trunk, nestled between roots that radiated outwards like the arms of an organic throne. A beard of many months’ growth curled in his lap. His eyes, piercing blue, were open. The rst person to place a candle prayer at the foot of the Bodhi Son (what they were calling him now) was a superstitious loom weaver and grandmother of three. Soon a constellation of prayers illuminated the Bodhi Tree, unburdening the sun of the holy task of warming its mystic trunk. The Bodhi Son never moved. A cathedral of stone and wood was built carefully against the contours of the Bodhi Tree. Acolytes guarded the narthex through which supplicants passed to gaze upon the Bodhi Son and light a candle of prayer. The Bodhi Son never moved. The cathedral was gutted, the Bodhi Tree scorched. A black blaze for a sky. The Bodhi Son sat as he had always done, his sooty face struck with tears. When the Bodhi Tree died, he blinked, and saw the world through eyes as green as the Tree’s leaves.

Chapter 40: The Cheshire (Part 1) (Robert Quick, September 6th, 2011)

The elevator’s doors were the strangest I’d ever seen — covered in blue fur with a jagged purple stripe across the middle61. I reached out, hesitantly, to touch them, wondering what door fur felt like. As my ngertips were tantalizingly close, the doors slid open, revealing an empty, normal looking, elevator: three walls with hand rails and wooden paneling, a carpeted oor, and a ceiling with orescent62 lights. I sighed in relief and stepped inside. I had been afraid that perhaps the inside would have been viscera or something. Absently, I tried to press the button for the third oor — and missed. Instead of a double column of buttons for every oor, there was a grid of them that protruded from the panel that were in constant motion. New ones appeared as if by magic and others disappeared into nothingness, leaving behind a blank space. The buttons weren’t simply retracting — they were vanishing entirely as if they were never there. As I studied the controls, a chime dinged and the doors began to slide shut.

The title The Cheshire primes one to think of Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat, as made explicit in Part 3’s title. The Cat was de ned by its ability to appear and reappear at will, or make only some parts of its body disappear — much as this elevator here seems to do with its internal controls. With this in mind, it is interesting that the version of the Cheshire Cat in the 1951 Disney Alice in Wonderland had purple stripes on his pink fur, while the version voiced by Stephen Fry in the 2010 live-action Alice in Wonderland pseudo-sequel directed by Tim Burton had blue fur. 61

It is fairly probable that Robert Quick intended to write “ uorescent”. However, the image of orescent (“ ower-like”) lights is not without poetry, and it is not so far a eld from the unlikely imagery often employed in Our Strange and Wonderful House for us to feel comfortable “correcting” the text in this instance. 62

Appendix 40-I: The Cheshire (Part 2) (Robert Quick, September 6th, 2011)

“Hold the doors please!” cried a voice. I stuck my hand in the narrowing crevice. The doors stopped and then receded away revealing a dark-haired young woman in a long red coat and matching hat. She smiled brightly, “Thanks!” “Sure, which oor?” I asked. “Anywhere will be ne,” she said and then gave a small laugh. “I don’t much care where, as long as I get somewhere.” I shrugged and tried to push another button which vanished just before I sank my nger into it. Irritated, I aimed for a button that was just coming in and stabbed at it. It too disappeared before I touched it. “Cheshire.” the woman said in admonishment. “Pardon me?” “It’s a mystic elevator — it can go anywhere in the house, but since it does more than just lift, I call it the Cheshire. Now it’s also messing with you.” “Are you telling me that the elevator has a sense of humor?” “Would you rather it was malicious?” “Good point.” I reached out and stroked the wall. “Good, err, elevator.” A contented purr erupted around us in reply.

(Robert Quick, September 6th, 2011)

The woman laughed and stuck out a slender hand. I found it to be surprisingly rm. “I’m Carmen, an international and temporal thief.”63 Her smile was dazzling. “With this baby here I guess I’ll have to add multidimensional to the list.” Her laugh was so full and hearty I was compelled to join in. Her, a thief ? Ha ha. A secretary late to work, more likely. I liked her. She had a ne sense of humor. Carmen stroked the wall and I was astonished to see purple fur sprouting wherever she touched. “What oor was it you wanted?” she asked. “You can try again. I think Cheshire’s done playing for the moment, aren’t you?” The purring intensi ed. I swallowed the knot in my throat and made to stab the button before Cheshire changed its mind but the doors slid open to admit a nervous youth. The kid twitched. A bag lled with a leafy substance fell to the oor. Carmen went to her knees. “Catnip.” Carmen looked up at me. “I believe we’re in a world of trouble now.” I instantly regretted waking up this morning.

Lady thief Carmen, with her red coat and hat and her dark hair, is instantly identi able as a variation on Carmen Sandiego, the central protagonist of the video game series of the same name and its adaptations. Though starting out as a conventional lady thief and head of the generic criminal organisation V.I.L.E., she was depicted as having time-travel capabilities in Where In Time Is Carmen Sandiego? (1989) and its TV series spin-off of the same name. 63

Appendix 40-II: The Cheshire Cat (Part 3)

Chapter 41: The ‘Rock Room’ (Robert Quick, December 30th, 2011)

A spotlight came on, centering on a smartly dressed woman sitting on a stool at the front of the stage. Delicate ngers tuned an acoustic guitar. Her vibrant red hair and sharp facial features gave her a fox-like appearance. I had tagged her as ‘Le Fox’ long ago. “I swear that this was a different room last night,” a voice next to me said softly. Even though it sounded rhetorical, I turned to answer and found myself looking into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I was trans xed. Tearing my eyes from her took a supreme amount of effort and almost physically hurt. By the time I managed it, I could feel the hot ush of embarassment on my face. “Uh, yeah. The Rock Room is much like the rest of the house. It is, ummm, mercurial, adapting to our needs. It can be an opera stage or more like this,” I said gesturing to the small domed room we were standing in. “Or anything in between.” “The Rock Room?” “That’s what I call it. I don’t know if it has a proper name.” We fell silent with the sound of the rst notes.

Chapter 42: Zen Garden (Robert Quick, May 3rd, 2012)

It was 3 a.m. and I lay awake, too many thoughts circling my mind. I needed focus. Slipping on a robe, not for modesty, but to save anyone else who might still be up, I wandered aimlessly, ending at an unfamiliar sliding door. Several rakes of differing sizes leaned against the wall. I grabbed one and entered. The room housed two large sandboxes, one at a slightly lower elevation. The closest square to the door was nothing but sand and a small walkway leading to the next square. Long lines in the sand indicated where previous rakes had been used. I walked the path. Soft light illuminated the area, bathing everything in simulated moon glow. The next area had tiny bridges connecting pools of moss. A brass plaque reading strength leaned up against a pile of curiously stacked rocks. As I continued on I saw another plaque on the other side. That one read This space left intentionally blank. A small bonsai tree, brethren of Walter from the look of it, grew in the center. It was there that I began to rake.

(Nhrn, May 22nd, 2012)

The Vault usually had what he needed — so Frank had climbed the sound of chimes in the Courtyard to pluck a leaf from the Bhodi Tree, he had collected his certi cate of sanity from the nonmad-science corner in the Lab and plucked the key from underneath the 32nd seashell in the Painting of the woman. He had consumed his leaf and then handed the certi cate to the personi cation of February to enter the hallway to nowhere, he’d turned left at Thursday and then chucked the key into a vase on the ceiling above the painting of in nite sparrow hawks to unlock the door of the Vault. After gambolling through the door he found himself in an airily oppressive room, the walls were glass windows to nowhere and the oor a rather pleasant green and red marble. In the centre stood a wooden plinth with a note on top, surrounded by a stream of re ective water; Frank frowned and hopped twice on his right foot before jumping over the stream to land on his left foot. He picked up the note with a sigh, and read.

Chapter 43: The Vault

Appendix 43-I: The Note (Nhrn, May 22nd, 2012)

The note crinkled and shuddered in his hands as if trying to decide from what perspective it was being read, after a moment words that might be considered legible scrawled themselves across the page. My apologies, I had to borrow the vacuum to clear up the mess made by the gardener in the North West attic under the reverse Koi pond next Saturday. — Frank the Janitor Frank muttered angrily. “Oh bollocks, I turned left at Thursday instead of right.” He looked at the eight arched windows that were the walls of the room and frowned. “Now what was the rhyme for getting out of here, seven laps clockwise from the north, six counter from your new location, now keep stepping left and enter the fourth? That’s a bloody awful rhyme, and poor directions to boot.” He moved about the room and nally turned his back on a window. Closing his eyes, he stepped backwards, and hoped he had the right window.

Chapter 44: The Basement (Brokkoli, May 26th, 2012)

You enter the basement over a small staircase you did not see before. It is colder than in the rest of the house. Like a wave of sound, you hear the clicking and stomping of hundreds of machines that worked already one thousand years ago. The staircase ends on a big copper bridge that hovers over a sea of gears and metal pieces. The sound, which is now so loud nobody could hear you speak, is like a magic music, not of this world. You are pulled into it, every thought wiped away and… wait, stop! But it’s too late! You stumble one step forward, nothing is under your feet and… You fall down.64

In the comments: Elsha Hawk: “A steampunk nightmare! Don’t worry, I’m sure a glass elevator will save you, or a column of hot air, or a portal to another room…”

Appendix 44-I: Safety Catch (Zxvasdf, May 26th, 2012)

The whole place is run on valves. Along a cosmic camshaft, seeming to rotate into the misty, mildewy distance. You see this much, as you hurtle towards the gnashing teeth of cogs ashing in the dim light. The shudder grows louder, you feel it in your marrow. Each ber of your being is being assaulted by the enormous reverberations of unthinkable expenditures of kinetic energy. Something clamps your torso, cold and hard yet gentle. You are rotated to peer into a metallic head. It’s quite expressive for its limited armatures — Cold War era bulbs blink in place of eyes, and the green waves of an oscilloscope makes up its mouth. It seems to indulgently smile at you. You consider the human need to anthropomorphize as the machine carries you to safety.65 At the door to the basement, the machine salutes and winks before disappearing so fast you see the re ection along its metal carapace as a single line stretching into the distance.

In the comments: Elsha Hawk: “Giant robot in the basement. Cool. Who is operating it?” Zxvasdf: “I believe it’s very capable of operating itself, thankyouverymuch.”

Chapter 45: The Cathedral (Memento, June 2nd, 2012)

I walk through the door. Silence greets me, but for the sounds of my footfalls echoing across the dusty stone oor. No one comes here anymore. The stigma is too great. Too many memories linger between the shafts of colored light that glaze the pews. The cathedral surrounds me, encompasses me in the quiet solitude it brings. I look at the oor. Inlaid into the stones are old words, words which bear frightening implications on all who view them. Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, Your old men shall dream dreams, Your young men shall see visions. That’s why I’m here. I’m tired. Questioning. Unable to muster any conclusions or answers about what I should do. At the altar, bathed in the stained-glass glow, dozens of pencils, pens, quills, anything used to write, have been laid. All signify a single thing: for every tool is a person who has forsaken writing, permanently. Never has anyone come here and made the wrong decision. I nger my fountain pen, and step forward.66

Memento reassured the readers in the comments that the narrator of this chapter was not quite so much of an author avatar as to signify that Memento themself intended to quit writing. However, while by no means their last Ficly story, this was their last contribution to Our Strange and Wonderful House. 66

Chapter 46: The Maids67 (Jeanne Morningstar, June 5th, 2012)

The aged, dried-up Maid looked at Jenny with a gaze no less piercing for her many years. “Do you wish to join our number?” Jenny gave her most charming smile, which had little effect. “Sure!” “Your reputation has preceded you.” “Not this ‘me’.” “Technically speaking, yes. Nevertheless, your unique nature could be both an asset and a burden to the House.” “Why don’t you ask Her what She thinks?” “In due time. If you truly wish to join Her Servants, you must understand what that entails. You will answer directly to the House, not those who claim to rule Her.68 Your old life and any of 67

In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “So I wound up combining two venerable memes I’ve written about a lot: the Strange and Wonderful House and Jenny Everywhere. Also, I’d been reading about Maid: The RPG, so that shares some blame as well. I’ll probably be writing more about this particular Jenny later. For those coming in late, Jenny is an open source character, who can travel to other dimensions, exists in every universe and has the memories of all her counterparts. Also, I completely forgot somehow about the Museum. (http:// cly.com/stories/25465) That adds another interesting angle to things.” Zxvasdf: “Pleased to see you returning to the House. A Bene Gesserit Maidhood, in which no curtain goes undusted (except for the ne placement of of dust molecule in some purposefully-atmospheric ancient “abandoned” chamber or another), no cloth unfolded, no duty shirked.”

These lines are the rst to establish the gender of the sentient House as decidedly female. This chapter also clari es that direct communication between House and staff is possible, and that the ‘Master of the House’ is in truth more of a custodian, despite apparently trying to pretend otherwise. 68

your sins will be forgotten by all. But you will not be able to leave the House, though this is not a problem for most, as it is larger than most universes. You will only be able to marry among the other Servants. Do you accept this?” She’d weighed these questions many times before. “Yes.” “Then if you survive the Test, you shall become a Maid. You will watch the House while the Master is away.”

Chapter 47: The Fabulous Salon (Binky Lemontwist, June 5th, 2012)

When you walk in you are immediately rinsed, lathered, dried, and perfumed by the wonderful hands that grow out of the doorway. The room is rather moody and changes its colors depending on what is going on. It was once known to change into a black room with hundreds of roses when a troll somehow got stuck in the Elevator. The room is long with thousands of swivel chairs, smocks, elixers, hair dryers, sinks, pink gnomes, scissors, brushes, devices of mass destruction, the latest gossip magazines of the House, nail polishes, and sour candies — and it’s rumored that it hosts a dragon or two in the hair dye closet. The Triplets are the mangers of the salon, giving you fabulous makeovers and charging you hundreds of cupcakes in exchange. A freak accident in the Lab made the Triplets get cloned & thus all the Triplets work in the Salon. Bridgets specialize in hair, Xa ras are nail experts, and Valeries are miracle workers with cosmetic surgery. Emergencies, parties, weddings, etc. get discounted rates at the Salon.

Chapter 48: The Cotillion Cavern (Binky Lemontwist, June 5th, 2012)

This place in the House is not to be tri ed with. It is not for the faint-hearted, or the weak, or the cowardly, or the clumsy. This cavernous room is the embodiment of danger. The oor has trapdoors opening at the end of every third waltz. The drinks are randomly tainted with any of the following: Alcohol, cranberry juice, dragon spit, paralyzing poison, truth serum, sleep syrup, pure caffeine, and other additives. The chandeliers are decorated with daggers hanging by slowlydisintegrating threads. The music may sometimes cause your eardrums to burst. The air conditioning vents occasionally expell laughing gas. On the bright side, those who survive the cotillion are given a treasure chest full of any combination of the following along with a map of the secret tunnels and shortcuts of the House: discounts for the Salon, rubies, an egg of a giant sea rooster, ropes of diamond, jet packs, a TARDIS69, hallucination inducers, a cryogenics manual, golden daggers, a pair of silver earrings, and/ or a portal to Mars.

TARDISes are advanced, intelligent, dimensionally-transcendental space-time vessels featured primarily in the Doctor Who series. 69

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Chapter 49: The Roof (Binky Lemontwist, June 5th, 2012)

The Roof is not easy to get to by accident. You have to take the Elevator to the Theater Room, then backstage you will nd a portal that takes you to the hair dye closet in the Salon. Give a dragon there a sky lantern fueled with hydrogen and he will beam you up to the Roof. Be sure to take a jacket because the Roof is subject to ferocious winds. The Roof stretches for as far as the eye can see, and is covered in lines, dashes, squares, and circles of paint to help guide the many airborn creatures and machines that call the Roof home. On the roof you will nd a variety of airships, jumbo jets, hot air balloons, ornithopters, jet-proppelled wings, dragons of all shapes and sizes, zero gravity vests, zeppelins, starships, UFOs, and other ying creatures. The ight attendants that are constantly scurrying about can help you nd, borrow, rent, buy, steal, or otherwise obtain a ying thing to suit your needs. The Roof will guide you in taking off and landing and will require ID if you are to use it.

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Chapter 50: The Stage (Binky Lemontwist, June 7th, 2012)

The Stage. Many have lived their whole lives on one. But not this stage, for this is the Stage of the House. It is one that only the bravest of entertainers go on. Story-tellers with many great (and most likely illegal) adventures under their belt — singers and musicians who have sung to pirates, princes, dragons, peasants, and spies and lived to sing the tale — actors who are not really acting, and other fearless ones. The Stage is a beautiful and magnetic combination of reality, entertainment, and danger. The Stage is stained with dye (or so they say) and its purple heavy velvet curtains have been known to swallow whole people up from time to time. The Stage has trapdoors that accidentally open, lights that sometimes catch on re, and on occasion a rubber knife is replaced with metal. But oh, the tales you can hear and see on that stage. Pirate adventures, tragedies from the Gardeners, romances told by dragons, space voyages told by aliens and astronauts, and so much more. Beware if you go on the Stage.70

In the comments: Robert Quick: “It’s always safer to be in the audience. Except in the House, sometimes the audience becomes the stage, for are we not all entertainers?”

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Chapter 51: The Doorbell? (Binky Lemontwist, June 8th, 2012)

A guest stumbled through the portal into the courtyard and worked her way to the giant, ominous blue doors that seemed to lead to nowhere since she couldn’t see any of the outside walls of the House that her friend Jenny Everywhere had told her all about.71 All she could see was the thirty foot tall TARDIS-blue double doors, hundreds of seemingly oating windows that showed the wonders of the House, and a curious-looking, seemingly Japanese bell with a matching stone mallet at its side. She walked up to the doors and bravely tried to knock since she needed a place to stay for the night after she had been knocked out and robbed of all her possession. This, of course, included her pair of ruby chopsticks, which a space marauder had kindly given her during the rst trip she had taken to Mars. The doors were too thick to be knocked on so she shrugged and picked up the stone mallet. She braced herself and gave a mighty swing against the metal bell. She jumped from the sound it made. It was a baby’s laughter.

In the comments: Zxvasdh: “I suspect the House is a piece of the Kefahuchi Tract fallen to Earth.” The Kefahuchi Tract is an artefact from M. John Harrison’s 2002 award-winning science- ction novel Light, described as “a singularity without an event horizon”. 71

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Chapter 52: The Guardian of the Ink Wells (Binky Lemontwist, August 23rd, 2012)

Oliver stumbled through the twisting, whispering hallways with a stack of paper in his stained hands and his pockets bulging with pens, quills, paintbrushes, and other tools. He heard some eerily chanting song oating to him, a woman singing in a dead language with strange and stretched syllables. A warning. He was getting close. Finally, he found a giant gate in the wall made of golden pens. It seemed to glow as he put a hand on it and tried peering through the pitch darkness behind the gates. The music was louder. “I’m looking for the Guardian,” Oliver called out shakily. The gate suddenly whooshed open, letting him fall in. He landed with a thump. “State your business,” came a woman’s voice from nowhere. “I am in need of ink. I don’t have a drop left.” The lights suddenly ashed on and a small teenaged girl came forward dressed in a robe and aviator goggles. She gestured to the giant holes in the cement oor behind her. “Help yourself to any of the uncovered wells. I have all colors and liquids.”

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Chapter 53: The Airing Cupboard of Despair (Fox Amongst Wolves, August 29th, 2012)

A swirling mass of inky blackness buffets the glass of a long, glass tunnel. Deep in the shadows a light ickers, and then another. Now, as you advance through the Tunnel’s roaring silence, with the sound of every breath sucked from the audible world by the oppressive darkness, you see the hatch. Glass, with brass ttings. It leads into the darkness outside, which seems so intent on getting in. You twist the handle. wait! WHY?! the darkness will ood in, drown us all in silence and obscurity. The hatchway creaks. You inch, and then look. The inky obscurity is gone. Well, you did let the light out.72

In the comments: Zxvasdf: “Genesis 1:3 in a nutshell. Shame on you, Jehovah.”

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Chapter 54: The Empty Room (Valen Lim, August 30th, 2012)

Most peculiarly, this room is the hardest to access. It’s peculiar, because this room is famous for having absolutely nothing in it. It makes guests wonder when they hear of it. However, it’s dif cult to access the Empty Room because no-one wants to enter it. When you open the door, all you see is white. Expanding in nitely, a room devoid of shapes and colours and absolutely everything. You can’t seem to tell how low the oor is, how high the ceiling is, or how far the facing walls are. Step inside, however, and you would nd that you would no longer see yourself or the door. You could try and look for it, but you would never nd it. You could try and touch yourself, touch anything at all, but it will be like grasping at air. Eternal, suspended, deathless. That is the fate of anyone who enters the Empty Room. Some say the Architect likes to spend its73 afternoons in the Empty Room, thinking and drawing up blueprints for new rooms for the In nite Wing. How it exits the room afterwards, nobody knows.74

This is the rst time in the text of Our Strange and Wonderful House that the occasionally-mentioned Architect is referred to by a pronoun — which turns out to be “it”. 73

In the comments: Zxvasdf: “When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar. The Architect carries it around in his pocket and smiles when he opens it, because each time he’s thinking about what misnomer the Empty Room is; nothing ever really exists in a vacuum.” Valen Lim: “I wish I could like that comment, or place it in…”

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Chapter 55: Teleporting Beach (Binky Lemontwist, September 12th, 2012)

A pair of short girls, one with red hair and freckles and the other with a mane of long brown hair and tell-tale smudges of ink and nail-polish covering her arms and legs. No one would have guessed this was the athletic Treefrog and the newly returned Guardian of the Ink Wells since they were in bright neon bathing suits. “You sure it’s in the backyard?” Treefrog asked. “I wrote a report on it! Trust me, it’s there!” “What if we get teleported somewhere bad? or somewhere we can’t get out?” “Can’t be too bad, I guess.” They nally made their way to the backyard, past the Gardens and a gigantic tree. And suddenly they were at the beach. It was complete with black sand and almost glowing, blue water. The two girls ran for the water and plunged into it head rst. After swimming for about an hour under the breathable water, they gathered enough courage to resurface. Suddenly, they were standing, dripping wet, in the Library.

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Appendix 55-I: There is No Dripping in the Library (Zxvasdf, September 16th, 2012)

Bookcases receded to the horizon in all directions. They stood dripping in the library. drip, drip, drip Their neon swimsuits made them stand out in the dim lighting. Dark spots spread on the plush red carpeting as they stood dripping in the library. drip, drip, drip The temperature seemed to drop. Goosebumps crawled along the pair’s exposed esh. Their hackles rose and their ears popped. The lights ickered as they stood dripping in the Library. drip, drip, drip A shadow appeared in the corridor, seeming to stretch across a vast distance. The girls stood petri ed as its length shortened. A pinched face lled their vision. It wore horn rimmed glasses and had its iron-grey hair in a bun.75 “Shh! There is no dripping in the library!” The girls gulped. The Librarian looked pointedly at the Guardian. “And you, Inkstain, you know better!” “Inkstain? Your name’s Inkstain?” It is not clear that this Librarian is the same individual as Lady Elshanor, as seen in The Library.

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“No, it isn’t, Treefrog!” “And all this time I’ve been calling you Guardian!” “SILENCE!” the Librarian roared in a whisper.

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Chapter 56: The Seven Hundred Nineteenth Airing Cupboard (Zxvasdf, September 16th, 2012)

A water heater occupies one corner of the cramped airing cupboard, next to a slightly damp mop leaning against the wall. The water heater is a plain white that appears yellowish in the weak light. Rust streaks shows through its enameling. A pilot light is an ethereal blue glimmer within its con nes. You shudder to think of the gas bill. Check. From the beginning of your career to this point, you’ve inspected exactly seven hundred and nineteen airing cupboards, with no end in sight. After the rst hundred, you’ve gured out that it was impossible to map a return route to those cupboards, and could only hope you didn’t inspect the same one twice. There’d be hell from above. The water heater bothers you, though. A forty gallon job, quite possibly the cheapest one on the market, and it’s the only water heater you’ve seen76. And you’ve been all over the house. You’re happy showering isn’t exactly one of your favorite things to do.

In the comments: Lighty: “Oh man, I love how this works even better when put with the rest of the house /and/ the comments on the house page. Water shortage may be a problem with the house, you’re right, or perhaps you just haven’t found the boiler room yet…” Zxvasdf: “If it hasn’t been found, it has to be written into existence! Quite personally, I think we will discover the boiler has been hijacked for use as a hot tub by leprechauns wooing mermaids playing hooky from the volume on the second bookcase to the right and straight on until morning in the House Library.”

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Chapter 57: The Spinning Room. (McKennab, September 16th, 2012)

The Spinning Room Is hard to get to Because the door is never in the same place As it was a second ago The chandelier is just a shimmer And there’s not much else for furniture But a device To keep the room from spinning away, away away There is a man, the Room Keeper, And if you ask him, He never spins, but Is the only thing in the room that stays the same.77

In the comments: Zxvasdf: “It’s a weird feeling, to be pinned to the wall while the room’s custodian faces you always, so that it feels like the room isn’t spinning. That would mean he’s spinning, but it doesn’t. It merely means he exists on a plane separate from the spinning room which allows him to intimidate, intrigue, and a bunch of other ‘i’ words the spinning room’s latest visitor.”

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Chapter 58: The Armory. (Shu Sam Chen, September 16th, 2012)

Just off the corridor to the Guardroom, you spot two tall guardsmen holding tall halberds. They snap to attention as you approach, pulling open the huge double doors behind them. “Watch yourself, sir,” is all they say to you. You walk past, spotting out of the corner of your eye that they now hold oversized, elongated fountain pens. Through the doors is a vast space, lled by racks of pens of every description. There must be millions — billions — of them. An aproned gure with a hawk on his shoulder appears from a hidden door and beckons at you. “What’re you after today, sir?” he asks, welcoming you warmly. You glance around in wonderment. Surely every writing implement in history has a place here. “Are there any,” you hesitate, “actual weapons here?” He smiles tolerantly, pulls a nondescript ballpoint pen from his pocket and pulls. It transforms before your eyes into a large automatic ri e. “You know the saying about the pen and the sword — why not have both?”78

In the comments: Robert Quick: “I think James Bond would agree. Is that our Q? (The inventor, not the Star Trek godling). I like that our house is fairly defensible, in case any of our personal demons released by the pen can be put down by the pen.”

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Chapter 59: Room of Renewal (Robert Quick, December 27th, 2012)

The area was vast and open, though I could still see walls in the distance, and not nearly as foggy on this side. The air was comfortably warm but not hot and smelled of fresh owers. Dotting the scene were several nearly round pools carved out of smooth brown stone. Some waters bubbled like fountains, others were serene and still. A pair of stylized wooden bridges arched over a squiggly closed-loop river. Paths cut through the dense foliage that covered the ground with thick vines and broad fanshaped leaves. Stacked next to a wicker barrel were uffy white towels. Mounted along the wall were a row of shower heads. The middle was much brighter than the area around it. Looking up, I saw that an enormous skylight had been rolled back, revealing uffy clouds and a clear sky so blue it almost hurt to look at it. I didn’t see any people but I did see a tray heaped with food. Above a half a dozen croissants, a spiral of vegetables, and a mix of cold cuts and cheese was a sign that read EAT ME!79

Many edibles are labeled as such in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and its miscellaneous adaptions and reimaginings. The food so marked has a tendency to cause whoever eats it to shift size. 79

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Appendix 59-I: Remnants and Reminders (Robert Quick, December 27th, 2012)

The sound of echoed laughter stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t heard any other voices than my own in a long time. Honestly, I had thought the House was empty but it was connected to so many realities that I wasn’t ever sure. We often thought about the good that did us but it also meant that there were always dangers beyond our borders. It was a wonder that any of us were still alive at all. I hoped the Observatory was keeping the ‘bad guys’ at bay, whether they were Lovecraftian nightmare gods, steam-punk pirates, zombies, or things that we hadn’t dreamed up yet. A section of the cream-colored hallway had been replaced with a set of glass double doors, the insides opaque. I shrugged at the alteration. This wouldn’t even make the top ten strangest features of the House. Presumably the laughter had come from inside. Hesitantly, I touched my palm to the glass. It was warm. I cracked the door open. Steam escaped into the cool air, disintegrating into nothing. Applying a little more pressure, I stepped inside.

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Chapter 60: The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House (Jeanne Morningstar, September 10th, 2014)

And so it was over: all the artifacts had been auctioned off, the ghosts had all found other places to haunt, the alchemists had moved their Great Work elsewhere, and the only two people were left. One was a dragon and the other was Jenny Everywhere. “It’s strange,” said Jenny, “I haven’t been to this House in ages and I’ll still miss it.”80 Then a bolt of lightning shot down from the lead-colored sky and struck the House. A blue ame roared up and consumed the House’s vast bulk. In a moment it was a ruin, its remains crumbling into the Tarn. “So it goes,” said the dragon after a long silence. “All things must have their time. I trust you have taken everything you need?” “Yeah. Just came back for one last thing.” With a ourish of her hand and a wide grin, Jenny revealed a tiny House the size of a Christmas ornament. “It’s a House seed. I’m sure I’ll nd some use for it.” She tucked it into her capacious pocket. And so they walked off elsewhere, leaving behind the silent shore of the Tarn. In the comments: Jeanne Morningstar: “I haven’t been involved in this site in a while — lots of other projects and things going on in my life — but I still had to stop by to mark its passing for a bit.” This highlights the highly meta ctional nature of the story, marking, as it did, the closing of the Ficly website itself to the posting of any new stories, from a Jeanne Morningstar who had not written a Ficly story in over two years. This last story before The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House was a standalone piece called Facing the Dragon, which did in fact feature a dragon — presumably explaining why a (different) dragon is Jenny’s conversation partner in The Fall of the Strange and Wonderful House. In an in-universe sense, Jenny’s statement is hard to reconcile with the fact that another one of her incarnations had made a lifetime commitment to the House in The Maids, unless one presumes that the House’s Fall comes so far in the future of previous entries that the Maid Jenny in question is long-dead. 80

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Epilogue: Overgrown (Kendal Reed, September 18th, 2014)

Thump. That was strange, thought the bishop. The temple shifted, certainly — more than most places, in fact, and for good reason. But she was used to that, and to the noises it made. This wasn’t one of them. She lowered her goggles, lifted a lantern, and headed deeper inside, toward the source of the sound. “Is anyone there?” The junior acolytes should all be at home for the night, and so should the maids. Older acolytes would be asleep or guarding those who were — the temple was open to anyone seeking peace and sanctuary — but the sleeping quarters were in another wing entirely. This hallway only led to the well, and the chambers of the scriptures, and the catacombs — the oldest parts of the building. Even if by some twist of fate there were anyone interested in intruding, surely they wouldn’t value anything here… She turned a corner, and her thought process was interrupted by a sharp clicking sound far too close to her head. “One chance,” the stranger said from the far end of the humming, pointed thing that the bishop recognized as a weapon only from context. “I try to be nice, even to sensers, but I am hungry and tired and I’ve seen too many good people die today. So you get one chance. What have you done with Lora Dar-Ek?” The question hung in the air a moment while the bishop hesitated. She knew the name, but… it didn’t make any sense…

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The stranger’s head tilted, looking the aging bishop up and down. The silhouette was lumpy and indistinct, obscured by the weapon, but all at once it resolved into a grouping of shapes the bishop recognized — indeed, couldn’t have forgotten if she tried. Goggles there, and scarf there, and bag over one shoulder… “Shifter?” she asked rst, almost to herself — and then remembered the stranger’s question, and suddenly recalled her scripture. The oldest parts of the building… of course… “Oh no. Unanchored Shifter, container of multitudes, all-people, allplaces —” She patted her pockets frantically and nally retrieved the offering, holding it out in one hand. “Your disciple is honored by your attention. Please accept this token of my esteem.” The goddess inspected the slice of lightly singed bread thoughtfully before carefully reaching out to take it. She took a rst bite and chewed thoughtfully. Only after swallowing did she nally lower her weapon and grace the bishop with a smile. “Thanks, I really needed that.” She stuffed the weapon back into the messenger bag slung over her shoulder and relaxed her posture, leaning against the wall as if she’d lived her whole life in this place. “So. Time, right? Space is easy. Time… not so much. Like, I’m guessing I’ve been here before, and I was older then?” The bishop nodded, but didn’t elaborate further. “And I told you not to tell me about that unless I asked. Awesome. So…” Her gaze wandered around the hall, lingering on spots whose signi cance the bishop couldn’t guess. “I left something with Lora, before. A little —” She gestured with both hands, indicating a size small

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“The First Disciple?” she ventured hopefully. “My deepest apologies, traveler. You must have come a very long way. Lora Dar-Ek is long passed.” The stranger tensed and she prepared for the worst, but after a moment she was still standing, so she continued. “If it helps, I’m told it was peaceful. Old age. My mother was with her when it happened.”

enough to t in one palm. “Like a… like a model house. Any idea what happened to that?” The bishop pursed her lips and thought on how best to explain. To her credit, her guest waited quietly and showed no sign of impatience. “As you say, Shifter, time plays tricks with us all. And what seems small can, in its way, contain multitudes. Lora’s scriptures refer to the artifact as a seed, and as one might expect…” She waved her lantern hand slightly, suggesting the space in which they stood. “It grew.” Jenny Everywhere nodded slowly, then lowered her eyes and took another bite of the offering. She stared into the middle distance and chewed several moments before she spoke. “Yeah… I was afraid you’d say that.”

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The End?

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The House. She is larger than most universes. Older than most religions. Smarter than most of you. She is strange, in nite – and wonderful. Won’t you come in? The rst collected edition of the 2010s’ most unique collaborative literary creation, with brand new critical material by Aristide Twain.

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Our Strange and Wonderful House

Articles inside

Appendix 59-I: Remnants and Reminders

Chapter 59: Room of Renewal

Chapter 57: The Spinning Room

Chapter 58: The Armory

Chapter 54: The Empty Room

Chapter 56: The Seven Hundred Nineteenth Airing Cupboard

Chapter 52: The Guardian of the Ink Wells

Chapter 51: The Doorbell?

Chapter 50: The Stage

Chapter 49: The Roof

Chapter 47: The Fabulous Salon

Chapter 48: The Cotillion Cavern

Appendix 44-I: Safety Catch

Chapter 45: The Cathedral

Chapter 44: The Basement

Appendix 43-I: The Note

Chapter 42: Zen Garden

Chapter 43: The Vault

Appendix 40-II: The Cheshire Cat (Part 3

Chapter 41: The ‘Rock Room’

Appendix 39-III: The Bodhi Son

Chapter 40: The Cheshire (Part 1

Appendix 39-II: The Will of the Creator

Appendix 39-I: Wake to Dream Again

Appendix 38-II: The Pain of Rebirth

Chapter 39: The Bodhi Tree

Chapter 38: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 2: Accursed Springs

Appendix 38-I: A Return to Innocence

Chapter 37: The Secrets of Our Gardens (Part 1

Chapter 36: Into the Gardens (Part 2

Chapter 35: Into the Gardens (Part 1

Chapter 34: The Ballroom

Chapter 33: The Painting

Appendix 32-II: Reiterate the Foyer

Chapter 31: The North West Attic

Chapter 32: The Foyer

Chapter 29: The Zoo

Chapter 28: A Veranda With A View

Chapter 30: The Great South Gate

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 2

Appendix 27-IV: The Lab: The Perpetual Motion Machine (Part 1

Appendix 27-II: The Lab: Setting The Alarum

Chapter 27: The Lab

Appendix 27-I: The Lab: The Alarum Goes Off

Appendix 24-II: The First Step

Chapter 25: Mud Room

Chapter 24: The Cellar

Appendix 24-I: Montresor

Chapter 22: The Gallery

Chapter 23: The Rose Cottage

Chapter 20: The Stationery Room

Chapter 21: Elevator

Chapter 19: The Ruined Chapel

Appendix 18-I: The Jenny Everywhere Museum (cont’d

Appendix 19-I: The Right Wrong Questions

Chapter 17: The Portal to Pandemonium

Chapter 15: The Stairwell

Chapter 16: The Throne Room

Chapter 14: I Am An Athenaeum

Appendix 13-IV: The Madman

Appendix 13-III: Back to the Garden

Appendix 13-VI: The Gardener

Appendix 13-V: The Saviour

Appendix 13-II: View From a Jungle

Chapter 13: The Guardroom

Chapter 12: The Dining Room

Chapter 10: The Observatory

Chapter 11: Every House Needs One or More

Chapter 7: The Coat Room

Chapter 8: The Closet in the Sitting Room

Chapter 9: Hallway - PI3

Chapter 6: The Theater Room

Appendix 5-II: The Bathroom (of the Library

Appendix 5-I: The Other Side

Chapter 1: The Courtyard

Chapter 2: The Anteroom

Chapter 4: The Catamaran Loos of Oceania

Welcome