From MrsHavisham:

> A calm had decended over Arcadia. The good townspeople went about
> their daily business for a few days without the usual bustle and
> hustle. It had been quiet up at The Goth House lately, but this was
> different. There were no signs of life there. It was rumored to
> have been deserted and only the undead servants remained. Had they
> braved the very much alive Anpu, they would have noticed the signs.
> The signs were everywhere inside. Espically on the doors of the
> private rooms:
> "Gone to C7."
> "In NYC for the weekend."
> "Back in a week, recovery anticipated in a month"

While it was true that the private rooms bore placards suggesting
that they had, of late, been inhabited... and would be again in
short order. Yet the sparse handful of shadows who yet prowled the
corridors of the place sensed their shallowness. The chambers were
deserted, and had been for some time. It was the signs alone that
spoke... or hinted... or blustered, rather... to the presence of
inhabitants. Indeed, there was at least one who suspected that the
House had placed them there itself in an act of desperate self-
delusion... Rennyb the mage, come again from his wanderings to answer
the place's distress call.

He had not entered through the door, nor consulted the tarot
tapestry. He had not gone to console the inconsolably drunken Julian,
nor followed Zack and Lucas into the Laboratory (though he might
yet), and spared only a passing glance for the masked king who
crumbled to dust where he stood unanswered in the foyer... of
impassioned Unicorns, there was no longer any sign...

Rennyb moved silently through the deserted corridors, feeling about...
He opened a door onto a wide space open to the sky, or to a bright
mist which might have been the sky. Nondescript pillars, half-hidden
in the mist stretched away on either side bordering a patch of sere
earth... the Cloister, perhaps? He opened another portal onto an
empty hallway... the Gallery of Mirrors, perhaps? Onwards he
pressed... searching... and many were the marvellous chambers that
simply weren't anymore. Nowhere could he find the Hall of Fantastic
Carvings, nor Escher's Cellar, nor even the rungs which lead to the
Astrologer's Pinnacle, to say nothing of the Pinnacle itself...

Of angels and demons and wandering pariahs, there was no sign. Of
mischievious imps and sultry gypsy princesses, there was no wafting
echo. In all of the place, there was only stillness... save for the
quiet sobbing of one drunk, and the distinctively cryptic curiosity
of some cats...

Rennyb helped himself to a drink (there being no bartender in
evidence), and settled himself by the fireplace (in which he had to
kindle his own fire, the other having faded for lack of notice). The
ancient timbers of the great edifice groaned as through settling; a
tiny column of red dust filtered from the crumbling bricks above...
and Rennyb recognized the pain of the place...

The Goth House was starving to death...