The Creeping Dollhouse

Type: Drift

If places like Bulgone, Narosec and The Spiral are "Boutique" hells and vast swaths like Lonely-Wood are "Big-Box" or "Warehouse" hells, The Creeping Dollhouse is another animal entirely, a free-roaming blot on the landscape that is neither Pit nor Transit, neither Hell nor Home, but a horror all its own.

Occasionally called the "Creepy Dollhouse" by those who have never truly laid eyes on it, this strange cog in the Wheel of Punishment is not famous merely because it is creepy - it is famous because it Creeps. A sweeping mansion of Victorian Era design and oversized construction, the Creeping Dollhouse is a baroque monstrosity that slides between Hells seemingly at random - it bleeds between layers by some manner not understood by crashers, or even by the Screws that give it distance when it arrives and departs. The grounds of the mansion are held together by a substance akin to thick, mucous Astroturf, and the whole of the place slides along the earth like a great snail, pulling unmoving terrain below the edges of the yard and coughing it back up on the other side as it inches along.

crashers who make their way onto the grounds of the Creeping Dollhouse, where many Screws will not follow, are often surprised by the sheer size of the place - while the place is surely artificial, it was crafted at an incredible scale; the very tallest of crashers must stand on tippy-toe even to reach doorknobs or climb into chairs. Those who enter into the front doors are dwarfed by the immensity of the place - within the well-appointed chambers, you are little more than a doll, a plaything.

Within, nothing is authentic - while cunningly wrought, objects in the house are simple props. The pianos cannot play music, utilities do not produce water, mirrors reflect only the barest of colored shapes, beds are wooden-hard and sewn shut, and the cabinets hold only plastic likenesses of food and firmly sealed boxes of air. It is conceivably possible to starve to death within the confines of the house, surrounded by the false hope of life. That is not say that there are no treasures to be found here - artifacts of previous crashers can be located in many parts of the house, some of them quite valuable.

The Creeping Dollhouse has both days and nights - during the days, the many doors are unlocked and the house slides quietly across whatever Hell it dwells upon, disturbing little and being disturbed by less. The Dollhouse will not hop layers until a night has passed, but night comes quickly once the house has visitors. When night falls, the Nether beyond fades to darkness, the many doors to the outside lock, and all of the little ones within the house have reason to be afraid.

While the Creeping Dollhouse holds no damned (except, perhaps, those crashers who use it), it does have what might be called Screws – a pair of giant beings that dwell in the Upstairs, simply called Aunt and Uncle. Only the beast called Uncle ever emerges into the Dollhouse below, and he hates to interact with crashers - he will wait until all those within the house have gone to sleep, or feigned sleep, before he emerges. In a horrible reminder of childhood terrors, night will NOT pass until Uncle has arrived. Those who stay alert, wandering the house and keeping Uncle at bay will find that night stretches into days, weeks, even months of darkness and starvation.

Only after all the of little ones in the house have gone to bed, or at the very least pretended to, will the vast stinking horror of Uncle descend into the shadowy halls - a hulking form moving slowly between the toy rooms, he is terrified of discovery and will retreat if confronted, yet is more than capable of breaking into pieces those who fight him openly. Corpulent, deformed and grey, he can crush a ribcage the way a human can smash an empty pack of cigarettes – while fingernails and teeth will leave pink scratches in his hairy, acne-riddled skin, shotgun blasts do little more than raise a shriek from the bloated mass, followed by shocking & fatal violence.

Assuming that crashers do not confront Uncle, he will choose one member of the "sleeping" crew, throw them over a shoulder, and take them Upstairs to the scrawny, hag-like Aunt - what follows for the crasher is an hour-long nightmare involving sexual violation of the worst kind, of unimaginable monstrosity and bestiality. The crasher is then quietly returned downstairs by Uncle, sickened and stinking like low tide, their ripped clothing stuck them with fluids and semi-fluids best not described - usually with broken fingers or toes, missing hair and teeth, afflicted with rashes and covered head to toe with rug-burns, welts and small shallow cuts.

Daybreak finds the Creeping Dollhouse in a new Hell, the front doors unlocked. Staying within the house for a few more hours will see night begin to fall once more - Uncle will choose a new victim for himself and Aunt, and the agony begins for someone else. Those who use the house to traverse Hells often leave one member of their 'Crew bound, naked and occasionally oiled, but Uncle chooses his victims according to some strange pattern that cannot be guessed.

The Basement: Aunt & Uncle never go out of their way to totally 'break' any of the dolls in the Dollhouse, because they'd like to use the doll again. Still, sometimes the two DO get carried away during their fun, and if all the rest of the team is dead (after facing Uncle in combat) or fled, Uncle just tosses whatever's left into the basement for later, during those long stretches where no one comes to visit.
"Is he coming?"

"Shut the fuck up, Kit."

"How long do we -"

"I said 'shut the fuck up', Kit."

"But where … holy shit."

And there it was - swaying drunkenly and huge in the suddenly small doorway, the reek of chewing tobacco and old sweat running off of it, grey and lumpy and gnarled and deformed and wheezing quietly,
something that could only be a winking, erect penis stabbed violently forward before it.

Ten yards away, the unlucky Ethan lay, breathing with the slow, shallow rhythm of morphine dreams, his pale body shining and coated thick with KY.

Jonestown turned bright-white eyes towards the frozen-still shape of the gape-mouthed Kit and hissed "You say one word or make one sound, and I'll kill you myself."

The massive, thick thing staggered forward, a terrible parody of stealth, the room creaking as his weight settled around them. Jonestown shot a look to Xun, her head shaved after her experiences of the horrible night before, who clutched her long straw like a dagger in both hands.

The beast stopped above the tight circle, huddled in sleeping bags on the floor. The thing bent down and licked the side of Xun's head, and she went stiff as a board, holding back a scream and possibly a torrent of tears.

Uncle straightened up, surveying the landscape. Within a minute, someone was going to be on their way Upstairs. As quietly as he could, Jonestown whispered to Kit, "Not. One. Peep."

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