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H.P. Lovecraft posted:

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

Anchorhead posted:

November, 1997.

You take a deep breath of salty air as the first raindrops begin to spatter the pavement, and the swollen, slate-colored clouds that blanket the sky mutter ominous portents amongst themselves over the little coastal town of Anchorhead.

Squinting up into the glowering storm, you wonder how everything managed to happen so fast. The strange phone call over a month ago, from a lawyer claiming to represent the estate of some distant branch of Michael's family, was bewildering enough in itself... but then the sudden whirlwind of planning and decisions, legal details and travel arrangements, the packing up and shipping away of your entire home, your entire life...

Now suddenly here you are, after driving for the past two days straight, over a thousand miles away from the familiar warmth of Texas, getting ready to move into the ancestral mansion of a clan of relatives so far removed that not even Michael has ever heard of them. And you've only been married since June and none of this was any of your idea in the first place, and already it's starting to rain.

These days, you often find yourself feeling confused and uprooted.

You shake yourself and force the melancholy thoughts from your head, trying to focus on the errand at hand. You're to meet with the real estate agent and pick up the keys to your new house while Michael runs across town to take care of some paperwork at the university. He'll be back to pick you up in a few minutes, and then the two of you can begin the long, precarious process of settling in.

A sullen belch emanates from the clouds, and the rain starts coming down harder -- fat, cold drops smacking loudly against the cobblestones. Shouldn't it be snowing in New England at this time of year? With a sigh, you open your umbrella.

Welcome to Anchorhead…

H.P. Lovecraft posted:

I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me.

The First Day posted:

ANCHORHEAD
An interactive gothic by Michael S. Gentry

(Type HELP or ABOUT for some useful information.)

Release 5 / Serial number 990206 / Inform v6.15 Library 6/7

Outside the Real Estate Office
A grim little cul-de-sac, tucked away in a corner of the claustrophobic tangle of narrow, twisting avenues that largely constitute the older portion of Anchorhead. Like most of the streets in this city, it is ancient, shadowy, and leads essentially nowhere. The lane ends here at the real estate agent's office, which lies to the east, and winds its way back toward the center of town to the west. A narrow, garbage-choked alley opens to the southeast.

The door has a glass front with the name of the real estate company -- Benson & Brackhurst -- stenciled across it. The blinds are drawn, the lights are off inside, and no one appears to be home. Odd, since the agent knew you were coming today.

The clouds overhead mutter restlessly to themselves.

You rap on the glass sharply, peering through it into the dark room inside. Nobody answers. Strange; you just talked to the real estate agent -- Miss Benson, you think it was -- yesterday. She was going to meet you here.

The door has a glass front with the name of the real estate company -- Benson & Brackhurst -- stenciled across it. The blinds are drawn, the lights are off inside, and no one appears to be home. Odd, since the agent knew you were coming today.

In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.

Alley posted:

This narrow aperture between two buildings is nearly blocked with piles of rotting cardboard boxes and overstuffed garbage cans. Ugly, half-crumbling brick walls to either side totter oppressively over you. The alley ends here at a tall, wooden fence.

High up on the wall of the northern building there is a narrow, transom-style window. It's about eighteen inches wide and a foot tall, with hinges along the top that allow it to swing out. It's currently closed. The window is too high.

The metal garbage cans are stuffed to overflowing with slowly decomposing refuse.

Grunting and holding your breath, you manhandle one of the filthy cans under the window. You clamber onto the wobbling garbage can, precariously balanced. You can just reach the lower edge of the window from here.

You open the transom window. (closing the umbrella first) It's a tight squeeze, but you just manage to wriggle through, dropping quietly to the floor inside.

File Room posted:

Peering through the murk, you can make out the blocky outlines of filing cabinets lining the walls and a doorway to the west. A window high up on the south wall lets in a very faint illumination.

File Room posted:

There must be hundreds of files here, too many to browse through. You'll have to look up something specific if you want to find anything.

Office posted:

Pallid gray light trickles in through the drawn blinds. The office is deserted, papers still scattered across the top of the desk. The front door lies west, and the file room lies east.

Sitting on the corner of the paper-strewn desk are a telephone and an answering machine.

Someone seems to have left a cup of coffee sitting out, half-finished and cold. Muddy-looking and unappetizing. Who knows how long it's been sitting out?

Office posted:

(first taking the styrofoam cup)
You take one sip and nearly gag. Awful stuff!

Office posted:

Sifting through the paperwork, you find nothing that catches your attention.

It's just an ordinary-looking telephone.

A simple answering machine, with a small display indicating messages received, a button labeled "PLAY", and a button labeled "DELETE".

You can hear a fly buzzing around, hovering over the back of your neck.

Office posted:

You can't see where the fly is. You're not even sure where the buzzing is coming from.

Office posted:

For a while there is nothing but a quiet hiss, followed by intermittent skirls of strange-sounding static. It sounds like one of those annoying glitches where the caller hangs up but the machine keeps recording anyway. Then, barely audible through the static, you detect what sounds like a human voice whispering a single word:

"Verlac."

The machine beeps.

A brief shudder ripples up your back. You remember now, "Verlac" is the name of this branch of Michael's family.