It is a place of spirits, of goblins and ghosts, and of sorrow. Like a dampness, you can taste the air and know that somewhere, somewhere near is…an epicenter. You’ve passed into the region of a great travesty, and you can feel the depression in your own soul, a weight suddenly dragging you down. Something happened, something so terrible it’s riven the very æther, whatever the æther is. It is a wound in reality, and it’s infected, infected and spreading.
It started off in an old house on a hill, and then the hills, and now the nearby town too. It used to be just one room in the house, one room where something had happened, where blood had been shed. Some terrible crime that was never resolved, an injustice, but what that deed was is lost. The criminals are dead, though something remains of them, specters, crude impressions of their damned souls left like bloody fingerprints.
Tale Told 