Mansion of Maleficence by Per Jorner - Introduction - Rules - Start - Sections

The story begins...

How could you miss that badly? The wind must have grabbed your disc, carrying it over the shrubs to one side of the golf course and into no man's land. You raise your hands to your forehead and moan as you catch one final glimpse of yellow as the frisbee sails sidelong out of your field of vision. Not only do you face a penalty for throwing out of bounds, but that's assuming you even find the damn thing! Assuring your fellow players it'll only be a moment, you start off over a slumping chain-link fence, across a small ditch hidden by tall, dry grass, and up to the edge of the shrubbery. There doesn't seem to be any obvious way through. You've dodged up and down along the side of the undergrowth for a minute when you come across a small metal gate you hadn't noticed before. It creaks as you push it open, a few creepers offering some mild resistance. Beyond, a largely overgrown path of cracked flagstones, invisible from only a few feet away, leads away among the bushes. Peering ahead, you think you can make out the roof of a building beyond the brushwood. It's never crossed your mind that someone might be living over in that direction, but then again, why not? If there's a garden, finding your lost disc may suddenly have got a lot easier. You wave to your friends and shout at them to continue with the game - you'll catch up with them soon enough.

Sure enough, the path leads you - after trying to cut you and trip you up with a tangle of thorny branches - to the outskirts of a large garden, but one which has been long neglected. Grasses and weeds run rampant in the flower-beds, a nearby shed looks half collapsed, and the tall, dark yew hedge on your right is in dire need of trimming. As your eyes fall on the house itself, everything falls into place. Its cracked and broken windows are boarded up, old paint is busily flaking all over, and several roof tiles have fallen onto the ground below. The place is in such a state of disrepair that you cannot imagine anyone living here, or having done so for the last ten years, for that matter. At least you won't have to explain to anyone why your bright yellow golf disc came crashing in and slew their favourite garden gnome. Still, glancing at those dark, barred windows you cannot help but feel a slight tremor of apprehension - as if a sudden evening chill had intruded on this sunny September afternoon...

NOW TURN OVER (metaphorically speaking)