Outside was murky and wet and dark. And even though the inside was dimly lit, it promised to be better than the outside. A soft glow penetrated the windows, looking warm and promising respite from the rain that kept on falling in the woods. I didn't know where I was, and I didn't know how I had gotten here, but I know I was somewhere I didn't want to be. Maybe this house would offer a respite from my hardships. Maybe it would solve some of my problems. It was an old Victorian house, three stories tall, with blistered white paint on the window sills. The porch was large, and had a few wicker benches on it, but the pillows were mottled with specks of green and black mold. It looked like they hadn't been sat on recently, unless the people who sat on them didn't give a shit about the seat about the seat about the seat of their pants. The door was tall and alone. But I was tall, and I wasn't always alone. There were people behind me, and I had to let them in. I didn't want them to get cold. I knocked on the door and it slowly swung open, creaking so loudly that I suspected someone had oxidized the hinges on purpose. We all went in, and it was warm and glowing with a freshly lit fire and the smell of pot-roast. That meant it was time to explore, get our bearings straight. I immediately knew I had to go to the basement. That's where you are supposed to go first. As I walked through the living room, with the fire freshly lit, there was no furniture. This was not a house for living in. I kept going and found the kitchen, which contained nothing but a humming white fridge, next to an entrance to a cellar door. The door's frame was warped and I thought I glimpsed a photographers red light emanating from the gaps between door, so I turned the handle and went down to meet the documentarian. But as I went down the stairs towards the warmth of the red glowing embrace, I heard the people who had followed me start to scream, like they were upset for some reason. I went back up, through the kitchen, only to find them huddled in the living room, all together. Some other people who I did not know were there too. The other people were not black, but mostly women who wore clothing. They smelled like smoke, like the woods after a rain, like the mud you fall in after slipping in wet grass. The women told me it wasn't an accident that I had found this place, and it wasn't an accident that I had led those people here. They were needlessly dramatic and told me that I had erred in my way, and they spoke of how all these innocent people who had listened and followed me would soon follow me somewhere deeper. They chanted and screamed and raved in pain, saying that their Master would soon be here, and so he was. He entered through a ceiling hatch, and told me many things I did not want to know. He told me about human sacrifice. He told why you have to take innocents. But also why sacrificing innocents is pointless. He told me that human sacrifice is often done all wrong. You have to take an innocent human being. And you have to convince them to go to Hell. They have to agree. They have to choose their path. Sacrificing an innocent just means they will go to Heaven. Making an innocent choose to go to Hell, that is the way. So he looked at the crowd, cowardly and huddled. And the wicked Magician snapped his fingers, and their skin disappeared. Screaming and writhing in agony, they fell to the floor, only to scream more. He turned to me, and asked me if I would be willing to go to Hell, if he could end their torment. And I turned to him, and strangled him to death.