INTRODUCTION
The following spoils a gamebook from 1984. Ooh, what a terrible threat that is.
A row of famous green spines adorn the top of one of my bookshelves. I inherited about half of these books from my dad, but the rest of them I slowly cobbled together myself over the years. It is not a complete collection – certainly nowhere close – but of the books I do have from the Fighting Fantasy gamebook series, there are a fewlandmark titles that in some way formed a part of my relationship with a variety of genres: fantasy, sci-fi, and, of course, horror.
House of Hell, published in 1984 and written by Steve Jackson, one of the two original creators of Fighting Fantasy alongside Ian Livingstone. House of Hell occupies an interesting place in the canon of Fighting Fantasy in that it is actually set in reality – or something approximating our own. Which makes its context around release more relevant.
America in the 80s was swept up in “Satanic Panic”. Sensationalized stories of Satanism proliferated everywhere there were concerned conservative Christians, including a particular focus around Dungeons and Dragons. Stories such as the one ran in the University of South Carolina’s student newspaper, the “Daily Trojan” as featured below, are interesting windows into that world. A good thing no-one gets into moral panics about anything nowadays, or gets defensive about anything to the point of harassing those who have less power than they do. A very good thing, indeed.
House of Hell was censored in some ways in the United States. It was referred to instead as House of Hades, and the final demon at the end was no longer a HELL DEMON but a HADES DEMON. I believe there was one illustration that was censored everywhere in future printings of the book, of goat-headed cultists about to sacrifice a nude woman. In the UK, the book was almost kept off shelves entirely by WHSmith who feared that the content inside would be too intense and frightening for the children that the series was marketed towards.
The American attempts at censorship seem particularly strange given that there was little else about the book that was changed. While it’s certainly nowhere approaching frightening reading it as an adult, when you are a small child, let me assure you that this book really does have the capacity to frighten or at least chill. It certainly kept me awake at night after I first read it!
So House of Hell is set in the real world, but also features a more regular, everyday person as the protagonist. YOU. Or at least, a version of YOU. YOU certainly aren’t the same sword-wielding warrior you are in other Fighting Fantasies. In fact, you don’t even start out with a weapon, and your assumption is that you are living in a totally normal world. Of course, House of Hell lays on the classic horror tropes pretty thick as the book starts. “The rain spatters the windscreen relentlessly,” the book begins, and the gloomy atmosphere is reinforced by your grumpiness towards the old man who gave you a wrong turn – despite the fact that “you noticed […] something vaguely sinister” in his manner, you seem more convinced the old man was just crazy or even a prankster. That’s when, in true horror film fashion, the old man reappears on the road just ahead of you and you swerve to avoid him. “WATCH OUT”, the book proclaims in all caps, and as you climb out of your car to see if the old man is okay (considering he somehow moved lightning-quick in front of your headlights anyway despite your efforts to WATCH OUT), but “there is no sign of a body!” oooooooo…
It is only afterwards that you recognize that it was probably the old man you just ran over – you know you couldn’t have missed him – but fortunately, you see “a light [appear] in the distance. Someone has switched on a bedroom light! What a stroke of luck!” I’m not sure if that’s exactly what I’d be thinking in that situation, given that I just ran someone over who vanished inexplicably, and that the person I just ran over was the man who gave me directions here in the first place. Surely you have to be thinking, something is seriously wrong here! But, regardless of what I think to do (GO SOMEWHERE ELSE!!!), “you button up your coat” and head up the drive to the house, about five minutes away.
Before we get into my revisited playthrough of House of Hell, we should probably see what kind of stats I roll. In Fighting Fantasy, there are three stats that feature in (to my knowledge) every gamebook, while some gamebooks add new and unique stats to keep track of. For House of Hell, we have STAMINA (Health), SKILL (combat prowess), LUCK (duh) and FEAR. If my total FEAR exceeds my FEAR MAXIMUM, I officially die of fright. That’s right, just keel over and die right there in front of whatever beastie decides to jump me I suppose. Below, I’ve got my character sheet all visible so you can see how I am all statted out – and how I got those stats in the first place.
SKILL: roll 1 die and add 6.
STAMINA: Roll 2 die and add 12.
LUCK: Roll 1 die and add 6.
FEAR: Roll 1 die and add 6.
HORROR GAME ANALYSIS
SKILL: 11 (5 + 6)
STAMINA: 18 (3 + 3 + 12)
LUCK: 10 (4 + 6)
FEAR: 8 (2 + 6)
Since I’m unarmed to start our adventure, I actually have a reduced skill until I can find something worth using. So my Skill is actually subtracted by three, so we have a score of 8. And I’m just playing the game through once, seeing how far I get after all these years apart from playing it, and revisiting one of the first works of fiction that ever scared me – no matter how silly it seems now.
Let’s begin, then!
HOW IT GOES: PART ONE
HORROR GAME ANALYSIS approaches the door to the cavernous old mansion, and is immediately given a choice – knock on the door, pull the cord for the doorbell, or go peer in the window like some kind of creep. Given that I have just run someone over and am kind of in a hurry to call for help, I elect to “rap the door with the knocker”. I imagine I do it in kind of a frantic way. Or maybe just an impatient, business kind of way. Apparently I was on the way to “tomorrow’s appointment”. Whatever that appointment was, it probably wasn’t worth it. Maybe a book publishing deal to finalize, or something like that. But the one stipulation for my book to be published is “survive the House of Hell”. Did I mention I’m writing a book I hope to release this year?
Regardless of how exactly I ended up here and what idiocy meant I was driving in the middle of the night in an atrocious storm, a man answers the door. The man remains calm even though I just tell him in breathless terms “I ran someone over out there honest to god he was the guy who gave me directions down the road now see I thought he was kind of a prankster but then I thought maybe he was crazy but then I thought – ” I heave a mighty breath – “then I thought he was actually pretty sinister and then he showed up on the road in front of me and I tried to swerve out of the way but he like teleported in front of my car and holy crap I am glad that you were just getting ready for bed or something because I saw a light come on at the exact time I needed somewhere to go because apparently I’m too good to sleep in my car.”
“The man’s face remains expressionless. ‘Come in,’ he orders.” Not one to turn down a roof over my head after making a complete fool of myself, I step into the foyer of the house. He seems to be a butler as he informs me his “master” will be along soon to meet me. I kind of just need a telephone but whatever. The book for some reason also informs me that there is no telephone wire to the house, but I don’t notice the fact that there’s no telephone wire running to the house. Kind of a strange set-up, but whatever.
I could look around the room a bit but instead I choose not to make a nuisance of myself and just sit and wait patiently in a comfy armchair, presumably still looking a bit shaken from the accident outside. Maybe elements of my lizard brain are whirring to life as the fact “I am in this really cursed looking house” is starting to slowly rise from my subconscious. But before I can register this fact, the master of the house and the butler have arrived.
“The tall man you met earlier walks in, opening the door for another tall man in a purple smoking-jacket.” Sterling stuff. “May I present Lord Kelnor, the Earl of Drumer,” the butler says. But I like to imagine there’s still no expression in his face or his voice, that he’s just so totally unimpressed by the Earl of Drumer that he provokes a twitch of irritation from Kelnor’s remarkably angular face.
The Earl shakes my hand and invites me in for tea. Apparently I “protest” – lizard brain coming online – but he won’t take no for an answer, and I have to enter the BANQUET GAUNTLET.
BANQUET GAUNTLET
THE EARL OF DRUMER narrows his eyes and crosses his legs genteely, but his knuckles whiten as he stares at you determinedly from his vantage point at the head of the dining table.
It’s on.
Do you a) drink the BRANDY or b) ask to use the TELEPHONE?
A) “BRANDY please,” I say, voice ringing with confidence (and not a little concern) as one of my own hands clutches an arm of the chair, my other taking the glass from the BUTLER’S hand, my eyes not breaking from the glare of THE EARL OF DRUMER.
ROUND TWO
I deduct one FEAR point because the warm fire and the BRANDY relaxes me. I’m not actually frightened yet for some reason (despite the fact I literally ran someone over outside and his body vanished).
THE EARL OF DRUMER, his eyes still not leaving your face, lifts a hairy hand and clicks his fingers. The butler swoops in from the back room, this time carrying more alcohol – in the form of two glasses of whine. A smile forms at the edge of THE EARL OF DRUMER’S lips. My gaze flickers slightly from him as I survey what the butler is offering.
Do you a) take the white wine, or b) the red wine?
B) “Give me the red,” I say, eyes flickering back to THE EARL’S face as he takes his own glass of red. The butler returns promptly with soup, which I am not given the choice to decline, but that’s when THE EARL ups the ante.
ROUND THREE
THE EARL, smelling strongly of cologne which wafts over even the overpowering smell of the soup I have been given, smiles more broadly. “How are you enjoying your drink, sir?”
“Oh, it’s grrrrand,” I slur my words, having (I figure) overindulged in the alcohol given the fact I JUST RAN SOMEONE OVER OUTSIDE(!!!).
“Well, there is more yet to come!” THE EARL announces grandly.
“More brandy?” I ask hopefully.
“Nooo…” he says. “What would you like for your main course?”
That’s when I notice he is licking his lips expectantly, and his gaze has become more sinister.
I’m still not really catching on.
Do you a) have the lamb or b) have the duck? OR c) say you’re not hungry.
B) “Duck *hiccup* please,” I request. I don’t eat lamb or sheep out of personal principle, given that I’ve looked after enough of them it would be uncomfortable to eat one of them to say the least.
THE EARL is having the same, and “[my] mouth waters as a whole roast duck is placed before me.” Not bad. THE EARL asks how I came to be out here in the middle of the night. In the corner of my eye, I see the butler roll his eyes as I take a deep breath – “I ran someone over -“.
When my spiel has finished, THE EARL grins widely. “Time for me to return the favour,” he says. My eyes dawn with a growing realization… he is about to become THE EARL OF EXPOSITION.
ROUND FOUR
“I am the last survivor of my family,” THE EARL says grandly, a piece of roast duck flying off of the end of his fork as he gestures overexcitedly, finally glad to have someone else to bore with his life’s story other than the butler. The butler, again, rolls his eyes. “My estate stretches for miles around the house, but at one time the estate was much more prosperous than it is now,” he says, puffing out his chest and displaying the fact that his purple smoking-jacket has several prominent stains on it. “Many tenant farmers cultivated my land and provided a healthy income for my family.”
“Hardly seems fair,” I mutter under my breath (and with a mouth full of roast duck).
THE EARL OF EXPOSITION doesn’t seem to hear me, and continues: “But things… started to change,” he says, with a clearly rehearsed air to his words. “My sister died at the age of thirty-two under mysterious… circumstances.” I am fairly certain he put the pause in the wrong place there, but whatever. “She was found,” he says, dabbing at his eye with a bit of the tablecloth, “dead! In a clearing with strange marks on her neck. News travelled fast, of course, and those ignorant peasants-!” he proclaims, sweeping his hand down. His palm hits the table hard. The candle in the middle of the table wobbles dangerously and the butler looks particularly perturbed that it will fall over and incinerate the whole room. But it miraculously steadies itself and THE EARL goes on.
“They started muttering about witchcraft, and ‘black magic'”, he says, screwing up his face and wiggling his fingers in the air. “In their eyes, the house was cursed. Pure superstitious nonsense, of course,” he says, shoving duck into his mouth, “but gradually the farmers elected to leave my property and leave it to fall into disrepair and disrepute.” He tries to take on a sad, brooding affect, but with a mouth full of duck it hardly works.
The butler clears his throat. “Would the gentlemen like to finish their meal with some supper?”
Do you take a) fruit, coffee, and brandy? b) cheese, coffee, and brandy? or c) just cheese and coffee?
Given that turning down brandy after hearing that terribly dull and melodramatic story would be an impossibility, I therefore must decide which appeals to my “after-dinner” more. Fruit, or cheese? Given that I’ve just eaten a whole roast duck, plus soup, plus more alcohol than I should safely consume, I think that the cheese feels like the slightly lighter option.
“Cheese, please,” I say, winking drunkenly at the butler. His face has settled back into nonchalant nonresponsiveness.
The cheese proves to be a fatal error.
THE EARL stands up, adjusts his suspiciously red-stained smoking jacket, and says, “Our conversation has been most enjoyable. But now you must be very tired. Franklins will show you to your room. Let us retire.” I stand up and realize he’s right. It’s well past midnight, and boy, I am tired. I try to walk after Franklins, the butler, but stumble instead, grabbing onto the edge of the table. That’s funny. I’m seeing two Franklins. I slip backwards and collapse on the floor, my vision fading. Oh crap, I think. I’ve been poisoned!
As the sneering face of THE EARL looms over me, one thought hurtles through my head as I slip into unconsciousness: how do you even poison cheese?
HOUSE OF HELL will continue NEXT WEEK!
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