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Formaldehyde's Video Game Preserve
You arrive before a quaint suburban home in an nondescript neighbourhood. The front lawn is mowed to perfection, in keeping with the Joneses. The shrubs and bushes and trimmed back, and a simple paved path leads to the front door. You walk forward, your intention dissonant from the sunny day. You ring the bell and wait patiently, unsure who will answer. You doubt yourself. Anxious, you check the business card that was delivered through your letterbox. It is blank, save for an address, but you already knew what you were expecting.
You hear a small shuffle. A closed curtain ruffles out of the corner of your eye. Suddenly the front door opens, beckoning you forward. You step into the normal looking hallway while the door closes behind. You look ahead once again, only this time a smartly dressed man wearing white gloves appears before you.
Ah, you must be the visitor I was expecting. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Formaldehyde... Oh? You look puzzled. You must have been expecting Formy. I'm afraid his interests do not align... with my own. For you see, as I'm sure you are aware, my interest is in the horrible, the ghoulish and the incomprehensible. My display is renowned for its blood-curdling terror. One sight upon my collection will send people into uncontrollable weeping. I understand if you are sceptical. Everyone is at first. Surely, it cannot be that bad, you say, but such words betray the honest truth of things. But I shall speak no more. Come, follow me. I shall be your guide. I will lead you through my preserve, and answer any questions you have therein.
He speaks politely, but it belies a certain zeal for his trade. His hands gesticulate wildly as he speaks to you, while you keep quiet, analysing the situation. Have you made a mistake coming here? It's too late now. The door is closed. And such a secretive man wouldn't care for sudden farewells. You decide it is best to follow him. He continues talking about his collection in vague terms as he leads the way further into the house. At least he seems happy and contented. The pretty hallway turns right at the end, where all illusions of normality are dropped. The walls are yellowed and the wallpaper has started to curl at the corners. The carpet in the hallway gives way to uneven wooden floors, with unusual stains best kept hidden from the imagination.
You must forgive the state of my museum. I so rarely get visitors. I keep the house and visible areas clean for neighbours and the occasional mailman, but my time is often spent on my craft. Speaking of which, we will be entering the first exhibit soon. I hope you are prepared.
He stops before staircase leading down to what appears to be a basement, or maybe a cellar. Like much of this part of the bungalow, the basement door looks worn, probably from overuse. The well-dressed man's immaculate white gloves wrap around the battered door handle, awaiting an affirmative response. Your body starts to tense at the uncertainty of what awaits beyond the door. It could be everything, or it could be nothing. Patience turns into impatience. You know a response is expected any moment now. You inhale sharply.
Enter the door?
