The House On Smokey Hill stood in solitude, towering above the city below. From it's rooftop one could see the edges of the city, from the front gates that heralded many welcoming signs, to the back gates, which advised travelers to tell their friends and urged them to come back. The large buildings, the schools, the hotels and hospitals, everything could be seen from atop the hill. Everything and everyone.
The House had existed long before anyone left in town had been alive. It was always there, a scrutinizing eye, like the glare of a mother or some unhappy god, spewing smoke as black as night from the chimneys. While the House itself did not sport any features that would give it the appearance of a face, it's very presence seemed to guide people to a strange sense of morality. There was an unspoken agreement that, under the House's glare, everyone must live just and quiet lives.
And for a time, this worked. The House would stand above the city, it's glare still a reminder of what terrible accidents befall those who hide away and revel in their darkest lies. It stood, though, and never was there a case of disappearance or an outbreak of men and women claiming to hear strange noises from it.
It worked, for a time.
Years passed, decades wilted away. And everyone forgot about the pact.
People lied, betrayed one another, tormented each other, and themselves.
And then, one night, a group of seeming random strangers assembled, called to a party by an unseen host.
And they stood before the House, while black smoke poured from it's chimneys.
The House had existed long before anyone left in town had been alive. It was always there, a scrutinizing eye, like the glare of a mother or some unhappy god, spewing smoke as black as night from the chimneys. While the House itself did not sport any features that would give it the appearance of a face, it's very presence seemed to guide people to a strange sense of morality. There was an unspoken agreement that, under the House's glare, everyone must live just and quiet lives.
And for a time, this worked. The House would stand above the city, it's glare still a reminder of what terrible accidents befall those who hide away and revel in their darkest lies. It stood, though, and never was there a case of disappearance or an outbreak of men and women claiming to hear strange noises from it.
It worked, for a time.
Years passed, decades wilted away. And everyone forgot about the pact.
People lied, betrayed one another, tormented each other, and themselves.
And then, one night, a group of seeming random strangers assembled, called to a party by an unseen host.
And they stood before the House, while black smoke poured from it's chimneys.