West of House . . .
You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door.
There is a small mailbox here.
They’re getting rare, but every now and then you come across one: A Zork house.
Some of you know what I’m talking about. You climbed through that window, got locked in the pitch black cellar (time and again), and were likely eaten by a grue. You cursed the Thief and the twisty little passages, admired the view from atop Flood Control Dam #3, and your blood ran cold at the Entrance to Hades…
“The bell suddenly becomes red hot and falls to the ground. The wraiths, as if paralyzed, stop their jeering and slowly turn to face you. On their ashen faces, the expression of a long-forgotten terror takes shape.”
There are volumes of Zork lore and trivia out there on the internets, and this would normally be the paragraph that would sum it all up, but I hear in the distance the chirping of a sound bird, so …
Sancho Panza: “Many a man has gone to bed feeling well, only to wake up the next morning and find himself dead.”
Don Quixote: “That’s a proverb.”
Sancho Panza: “Yes, Your Grace.”
Don Quixote: “I don’t approve of them.”