TEXT: 1
  HAUNTED SITES
  A Ravenloft Netbook
  Compiled by the Kargatane
  Joe Bardales
  Charles Brown
  Andrew Hackard
  John W. Mangrum
  Christopher D. Nichols
  Stuart Turner
  Cartography by
  Pierre van Rooden
  Welcome to the second of our compilation netbooks, this time presenting all the entries in the Haunted Sites contest,
  announced in DRAGON® Magazine #252 (October 1998).  The premise was simple enough: Create a haunted abode
  or location for the Ravenloft campaign setting, in a thousand words or less.  As with the Terror From Above
  contest, the results were wildly creative.  While some entries are specifically tied to either
  Ravenloft or Gothic Earth, nearly all can be easily adapted to any setting.
  Many thanks to all those who entered the contest, the fans who asked for this book, and specific thanks to Cindi Rice
  (TSR RAVENLOFT® editor) and David Gross (DRAGON® Magazine editor), without whose cooperation this
  netbook could not have been possible.  Lastly, a final congratulations to the contest winners!
  Contest Winners
  Joseph Dunn
  Columbus, Ohio
  Margaret L. Carter
  Annapolis, Maryland
  Jaleigh Johnson
  Arthur, Illinois
  for
  “The Phantom Oracle”
  for
  “Children in the Attic”
  for
  “Rose Garden”
  Legal Notice:
  AD&D®, RAVENLOFT® and MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH® are registered trademarks of TSR, Inc.  This book does not represent
  a challenge to any TSR-held trademarks.  All entries remain the property of TSR, Inc., and are used here with permission.
  The map on page 39 was created using Campaign Cartographer 2, ©1998 by ProFantasy Software.
  This netbook may be reproduced for personal use, but may not be used to generate revenue.
  HAUNTED SITES Release Date: April 30, 1999
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTENTS
  2
  INTRODUCTION
  3.
  THE SITES
  The Abbey of Kyldiss
    5.
  By Jay Paladino
  Almadrask’s Lighthouse
    6.
  By Joseph P. Laycock
  Ansrick’s Prison
    8.
  By Jeremy Whitt
  The Story of Bateman House
    8.
  By Robert Chaney
  Blackshadow’s Study
  10.
  By Montsho Shelby
  The Horror of Castle Vania
  11.
  By Alexander “Warlock” Bennet
  The Cathedral of the Damned
  13.
  By François Mathieu
  Cell Number 4
  15.
  By Pierre van Rooden
  Chateau de Marius-Eibenal
  16.
  By Matthew L. Martin
  The Church in the Mists
  17.
  By Chris Montgomery
  The City of Lost Hope
  19.
  By Andy Schiller
  The Clock
  20.
  Anonymous
  The Crescent Moon
  22.
  By James Wyatt
  Darkblood Tower
  23.
  By Chad M. Paxton
  Dead End
  24.
  By Jennifer Murray
  The Devil’s Pit
  25.
  By Pierre van Rooden
  Fear
  26.
  By Andrew Polewarczyk
  The Gates of Dusk
  28.
  By Geoff Gabriel Sinclair
  The Glass House
  29.
  By Marco Torres
  The Grotto
  31.
  By Robert VandeVeegaete
  The Hanging Tree
  32.
  By Jason Taylor
  The Ipswich Brewery
  33.
  By W. Jason Peck
  The Legend of William Tor
  35.
  By Dan Olson
  The Little Fellow
  36.
  By Jon Stacey
  Lochart Lake
  37.
  By Jason Schultz
  Mirrors to the Soul
  38.
  By Lazarus Smith
  The Moorlan’ Stones
  40.
  By Michael Abell
  The Manor at New Corinth
  40.
  By Tricia Newbre
  Old Odgen Abbey
  41.
  By James Wyatt
  Plight at the End of the Tunnel
  43.
  By Conor Trouw
  The Red Carpet Hall
  44.
  By Pierre van Rooden
  The Riverside Wall
  45.
  By Nick Pabon
  The Shadowed Church
  47.
  By Kathleen Ervin
  The Statue
  47.
  By Aaron Swanson
  The Swamp
  48.
  By Tim Roberts
  The Haunted of Valcon Forest
  49.
  By Robert Baker
  The Specter of Villsmith
  51.
  By Rogan R. Hamby
  The Haunting of Waterlook Manor
  53.
  By Jason & Belinda Asbell
  The Wellspring
  54.
  By Derek Ash
  Where Are We?
  56.
  By Martin Morris
  The Wreck of the Tenebrae
  57.
  By William J. Walton
  Contest Winners
  Children in the Attic
  59.
  By Margaret L. Carter
  The Phantom Oracle
  60.
  By Joseph Dunn
  Rose Garden
  62.
  By Jaleigh Johnson
  INDEX BY AUTHOR
  64.
  INDEX BY SETTING
  65.
  
  HAUNTED SITES: INTRODUCTION
  3
  oung Bartleby stood before the aged, drooping
  house on the secluded country lane, clutching the
  letter in a trembling hand.
  The reclusive Grimsdyke was one of society’s
  greatest authors, a celebrated master of the ghost story.
  However, even as Grimsdyke’s fame had spread, the man
  himself had retreated from the world.  Countless young
  writers had sought to study under his tutelage, but their
  letters had all been returned unopened.  All their letters,
  save one.
  Bartleby stopped at the front step to reread the
  invitation he had received, and to gather his courage.
  Out of all the young writers vying for Grimsdyke’s
  attention, for some unknowable reason the famed author
  had chosen to reply to Bartleby, and to Bartleby only,
  inviting the young man to his home.
  Holding his breath in anticipation, Bartleby raised
  the door’s heavy brass knocker and rapped once, twice,
  thrice.
  There was no answer from within.  After several
  more knocks upon the door, and several minutes of
  waiting, Bartleby’s anxiety returned.  Now, however, he
  pondered the fate of the aged hermit Grimsdyke, fearing
  the worst.  Cautiously, he tried the handle on the heavy
  front door, and found it unlocked.
  Slowly, the door swung open, and Bartleby took a
  tentative step inside the home.  Thick tomes were stacked
  on every surface and all along the walls of the room that
  greeted him, and the air was thick with dust.
  “Excuse me,” called out the young man.  “Mister
  Grimsdyke?”  Bartleby slowly moved deeper into the
  darkened house.  “Are you here, Mister Grimsdyke?  Are
  you well?”  Bartleby’s calls were muffled in the musty
  air, and they brought no reply.
  As Bartleby stepped into the next room, he finally
  found some sign of life.  A wide staircase, illuminated by
  a golden beam of summer sun streaming in through a
  high window, ascended into the shadows of the second
  floor.  Though the posts of the heavy banister, Bartleby
  spied a young and joyous boy, silently playing on the
  steps, shining in the sunbeam.
  “Pardon me,” offered Bartleby, approaching the
  stairs to better greet the child, “but could you tell me if a
  mister—”  Bartleby’s introduction died in his throat, for
  as he rounded the banister, the “child” faded from view.
  A trick of the light; the boy had been nothing more than
  motes of dust, dancing in the light of the sun.
  Bartleby stood rooted to the spot for several minutes,
  his mind swimming and quite unable to grasp how his
  eyes could have been so thoroughly fooled.
  When Bartleby heard the voice, it startled him so
  terribly he gasped, and only then did he realize how dry
  his throat had become.
  “Well?” the whiskeyed voice called out again.
  “Who goes there?”
  Bartleby collected his wits and finally replied.
  “I’m Bartleby, sir!  I… I’m sorry to intrude, but
  there was no answer at the door…  I-I have an
  invitation…” Bartleby paused a moment to think.
  “Excuse me, sir, but are you Mister Grimsdyke?”
  The shadows at the top of the stairs were silent for a
  moment before responding.
  “I am.  And I’ve been waiting for you.  Come
  upstairs.”
  To finally hear the voice of the idol he had come to
  meet did much to steady Bartleby’s nerves, so that by the
  time he reached the second floor, the illusory child had
  been all but forgotten.  At the top of the stairs, Bartleby
  found the landing marked the middle of a long hallway,
  each side lined with several doors.  Unsure where to go,
  he peered first one way, then the other.  As he peered off
  to his left, a woman stepped into view at the end of the
  hall.  She was about Bartleby’s age, her features
  beautiful even in the shadows.  She took in Bartleby with
  kind eyes and the hint of a smile upon her lips, but as she
  stepped forward to greet him, the young man’s attention
  was stolen by the return of the rasping voice.
  “In here, Bartleby.”  Grimsdyke’s voice came from
  the door just to Bartleby’s right, so close that it startled
  him.  Bartleby stepped towards the door.  His mind then
  jumping back to the lady, he turned back towards her to
  make a proper introduction.
  She was gone.  She had never been there.  Where
  she had stood, where Bartleby had seen a lovely young
  woman, there was now nothing more than a dark shadow,
  distorted by imperfections in the plastered wall.  Bartleby
  felt a chill run through his veins as he began to
  understand the nature of his surroundings.
  His thoughts churning, Bartleby followed
  Grimsdyke’s voice into a study, choked with even more
  books than the rooms before.  It was there that Bartleby
  finally found himself facing the great author.
  Grimsdyke sat at a heavy desk, cluttered by papers
  and folios, even more tomes piled up on the floor around
  him.  His legs wrapped in a blanket, Grimsdyke seemed
  not so much to be sitting as his desk as cocooned within
  it.  His sixty years weighed heavily upon every feature of
  his face, and he peered up at Bartleby with passionless
  eyes.
  “Have a seat,” offered Grimsdyke, gesturing to one
  of the less cluttered chairs.  After clearing the seat of its
  books, Bartleby accepted the invitation.
  “So,” continued Grimsdyke at last, “I understand
  you wish to know the secret of my inspiration.”
  “I did, and do,” replied Bartleby, the excitement in
  his voice battling with his need for decorum.  “But after
  Y
  
  HAUNTED SITES: INTRODUCTION
  4
  what I’ve seen in this house, I suspect I’ve learned half
  your secret already.”
  Grimsdyke frowned.  “In what sense?”
  Bartleby could not help a nervous grin.  “The child
  on the stairs, and the woman in the hall.”—Bartleby
  noticed a hint of pain slip behind Grimsdyke’s gaze—
  ”They are spirits, are they not?”
  “One might say.”  Grimsdyke’s voice sounded tired.
  “This home is haunted, is it not?”
  “One might say.”
  Bartleby stopped to consider his next question.
  “I fear that I go too far, but I must ask—do you
  know who these ghosts were in life?”
  A slow and pained smile crept across Grimsdyke’s
  face, and he too seemed to consider his words before
  replying.
  “They were my family,” Grimsdyke said, the smile
  draining from him.  “One might say.”
  Bartleby’s gaze slipped to the dusty floor.  “I’m very
  sorry.  I can only imagine what it must be like for you,
  first to lose your loved ones, and then to be haunted
  by…”
  Bartleby’s rambling trailed off as waves of
  confusion washed his face.  His mouth still lightly ajar,
  he looked at Grimsdyke again, his eyes searching.
  Grimsdyke grimaced.
  “Ask it,” said the aged author.
  “Well,” Bartleby stammered.  “It’s just that… Well,
  I’ve studied everything you’ve ever written, and
  everything ever written about you.  But…”
  “Do go on,” urged Grimsdyke, grim amusement in
  his voice.
  “Well, sir, in all my studies I never found any
  mention that you had married, or had a child, much less
  lost them.”
  Grimsdyke smiled once again, but his eyes squeezed
  shut in pain.  “Your studies were not incorrect.  I never
  married.  The woman you saw in the hall was a damsel I
  loved from afar in my youth.  I rose from my bed each
  morning merely for the hope of seeing her pass me by in
  the street.  She could have been the passion of my life,
  but I never had the courage to so much as speak to her.”
  Bartleby’s eyes betrayed his deepening confusion.
  “The woman you saw is the beautiful wife I never
  wed, and the boy you saw is the beloved child we never
  had.”
  “Never had?”  The words trickled from Bartleby’s
  lips, almost before the thought had been formed.  “But if
  you never had a son, then what did I encounter on the
  steps?”
  “Or in the hall, for that matter,” continued
  Grimsdyke.  “The woman I adored is very much so still
  alive, as is her husband, as are their children and their
  grandchildren.”
  Grimsdyke released an anguished chuckle.  “In my
  stories, I write about ghosts of the dead, so perhaps that’s
  what you expected here.  But it is not so.  At night, these
  halls echo with the laughter of the love I never knew.  I
  am haunted by the choices I have made, by those things I
  left undone.  I am an old man, haunted not by death, but
  by the life I never led.”
  “Ghosts of the living?” replied Bartleby, still trying
  to understand.
  “No, not of the living.  I am surrounded by the
  ghosts of life.”  Grimsdyke leaned forward, speaking to
  Bartleby in a conspiratorial tone.  “I have not lived my
  life, young man, I merely haunted it.  Now it haunts me in
  turn.  In that light, the ghosts of death hold no fear for
  me, for the choices I have made in life marked me as one
  of them despite my beating heart.”
  Grimsdyke leaned back in his chair again.  “That is
  the secret of my inspiration, young man.”
  Bartleby frowned, comprehending at last.  “But if
  you regret your life so very much, is it not too late to
  change it?  You have many admirers, sir!  Why do you
  remain in this old house, surrounded by these
  phantoms?”
  Grimsdyke touched a finger to the corner of his eye,
  then gazed out into the hall as he replied.
  “One cannot build a house upon a foundation of
  cobwebs, my boy.  When I turn away from my
  phantoms,”—Grimsdyke continued as his gaze turned
  back to Bartleby—”I see nothing else to keep me warm
  at night.  My ghosts and my regrets are all that I have.
  All, other than this…”
  Reaching into the stacks of papers on his desk,
  Grimsdyke produced a thick folio, stuffed full of
  manuscripts, and tossed it to the wide-eyed Bartleby.
  “Here.  All my unpublished notes and manuscripts.
  Enough ghost stories to fill an author’s career.  They’re
  yours, to do with as you wish.”
  “But why give them to me?  Why not publish these
  tales yourself?”
  “Because I tire of the life I made for myself.  I made
  this house so empty that the void had to fill itself with the
  whispers of life.  I read your letter, and saw that you were
  following my path.  Take these stories.  Use these ghosts
  to fill your pages, but keep your life for yourself.  Now
  go. It is time for me to join my phantoms.  In this house,
  you are the unwanted spirit.”
  Bartleby stood and walked to the door in awed
  silence.  At the door he paused, thinking better of his
  manners, and turned to thank his idol.
  In Grimsdyke’s chair sat only a stack of yellowed
  books, with a moth-eaten blanket to cover them.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
  5
  THE ABBEY
  OF KYLDISS
  by Jay Paladino
  Rolla, Missouri
  ucked away frighteningly near where mortal man
  dwells, the odd sandstone abbey of Kyldiss lies in a
  shallow grassy bowl, surrounded on three sides by
  towering peaks of wet, basalt rock, the dark heights
  wine-dark with the heavy moisture that drifts inland from
  the distant sea.  A narrow, rutted dirt path winds down
  from the upper plains to the ancient wrought iron gates
  that pierce the long black fence that surrounds the abbey
  grounds.  And, on this day, I found myself wandering
  down the path, drawn by the curiosity of the strange,
  compelled by the self-destructive search for knowledge
  that has damned more than one unquiet mind.
  The Guardians of the Gate, a Vistani man and
  women, watched me pass with dark, shadowed eyes, and
  drawn faces.  Every year, on the day after the winter
  solstice, a new pair of gypsies would arrive to guard the
  gates for a year.  No one knew why the transient gypsies
  would consent to standing sentinel over the gates for a
  year, but it was rumored that it was one of the final trials
  to becoming an Elder amongst the clannish Vistani; a
  trial that left the couple with the strange otherworldly
  compassion, and knowledge of eldritch horrors that leant
  their wandering packs the necessary edge for survival in
  the dark realms.
  I drifted down the well-worn dirt path to the
  towering orange-yellow walls of the dark-stained abbey.
  Passing through the giant-size double doors of swollen,
  dark wood, I entered a vast and shadowed chamber.  The
  slate flagstones of the abbey floor were of irregular
  shape, and the maze of spidery, dark lines suggestively
  tugged at the back of my mind, almost as if the
  wandering lines were a sinister pattern hidden beneath
  my feet, spelling out some elder words in a forgotten
  tongue.  I quickly paced to the center of the chamber,
  where beneath the lofted crystal dome a large well rested
  in the shaft of sunlight.
  The well was walled with the quarried basalt blocks
  from the nearby mountains, and gazing over the waist-
  height barrier, I beheld the oddest sight: a viscous black
  fluid that absorbed the falling shafts of sunlight without
  glimmer, or reflection.  I stepped back to ponder this
  tantalizing puzzle of jumbled oddities, when I beheld the
  Guardians coming down the path to begin shepherding
  the pilgrims out of the abbey grounds.  Every evening,
  the guardians would expel everyone from the abbey, by
  force if necessary, and return to their posts as the sun
  vanished behind the wall of dark basalt.
  In an instant, I made my horrible decision.  I raced
  back to the gate, and turned sharply and ran down the
  length of the black, iron fence.  I hid in a low cluster of
  scraggly bushes, pulling my dark cloak tight about my
  body, so that I became one with the growing shadows.  I
  watched as the Vistani harried the last visitors beyond
  the barrier, as the sky purpled and blackened.
  I watched in rising fear, as a wall of grey mist began
  to flow down the mountains and settle over the deep
  hollow of the abbey.  The creeping mists ended at the
  iron fence, and swirled in agitation at being balked by
  such a paltry, tangible obstruction.  The full moon began
  its rapid ascent into the sky, shedding silvery
  luminescence over the surging shadows of the heavy
  mist.
  Distantly, from the now-hidden abbey, I began to
  hear, almost feel, a faint trilling of a flute.  With faltering
  steps, I arose from my concealment and began to shuffle
  down to the abbey, drawn by the unseen call of the
  strange, ethereal music.  Abruptly, yawning from the
  mists like the maw of a giant beast, the dark portal of the
  abbey appeared.  Without a glance backwards, I quietly
  eased inside the ancient walls.
  The gibbous moon, high over the crystal dome, was
  blurred into obscurity by the gently surging mists.  The
  silvery light muted and diffuse, the fog began to glow
  with the pearlescent light.  Echoing oddly in the vaulted
  chamber, the haunting notes of the ghostly flute made my
  heart beat in a wild, halting rhythm.  A new sound crept
  slowly into my awareness, and I turned slightly to view
  the doorway, and was struck dumb with horror!
  A wave of surging bodies crashed soundlessly
  through the abbey.  The mindless undead stalked with a
  terrible purpose toward the center of the abbey, and the
  dark well.  I watched in mounting fear, as the decaying
  remains of men and women shuffled past me, the stench
  of decay causing my guts to heave and rumble in
  rejection of that which should not be.  In the midst of the
  shuffling undead, a few wavering, incorporeal forms
  drifted through the ranks, and a chill settled about my
  heart, slowing the beat, all the while the mad piping
  began swelling to a horrible crescendo of madness and
  ecstasy.
  Watching with numb fascination, I observed the
  creatures approach the well, and lean over to gaze into
  the depths of the dark liquid.  After gazing for a few
  moments, the undead would turn and vanish into the
  mists beyond the abbey door.  A dread fascination crept
  over me, displacing my caution and wits, I joined the
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  HAUNTED SITES
  6
  shuffling lines of undead, my mind screaming at brushing
  shoulders with ghouls, and breathing the foul fumes of
  wraiths.  As I approached the well, I beheld a sight that
  mortal man could never have imagined.  The undead
  wept.
  Tears of putrescent decay coursed their way down
  faces ravaged by time.  Wavering droplets of midnight
  essence fell from incorporeal eyes.  The dark fluid of the
  well swallowed each offering silently.
  Trembling, I approached the well, so different in the
  shimmering luminosity of the unseen moon than in the
  calm light of the rational day.  Drawing a shuddering
  breath, I stared into the regrets of the undead.  I saw that
  which would make the undead weep, and my mind
  shattered into fragments of madness, my world was
  plunged into darkness.
  The Guardians of the Gate found me, or rather, I was
  told that a silent zombie laid me at their feet.  I have
  remained with the Guardians now for three score years,
  and soon I too will join the shuffling masses that visit the
  dread abbey of Kyldiss.
  I beheld in that one fleeting glimpse, that which
  would make the undead weep, and would drive a mortal
  man to madness.  I am now forever caught between the
  two worlds, unable to live in one, and unwilling to
  journey to the other.  For in the moment, I saw my life,
  my death, and the eternity beyond.  For a man, to be
  confronted by the brevity of his life in comparison to the
  eternity of death, to come face to face with the knowledge
  of his own insignificance, his own finitude, this is
  madness.  Life is an exercise in futility.
  For the undead, they see that which is lost, the one
  brief moment when they too held life, the candle flame
  against the dark ocean of eternity.  And so they weep, in
  the abbey of Kyldiss, the dread conscience of the
  Undead, and they join their sorrows with those who have
  come before, and add to the pool of the tears, the regrets
  of the undead.
  �
  ALMADRASK’S
  LIGHTHOUSE
  by Joseph P. Laycock
  Amherst, Massachusetts
  his dreary, decaying lighthouse can keep grim
  countenance over the rocky, storm-blasted coast of
  almost any campaign world.  It stands atop a
  crumbling hill and is over a hundred feet tall.  The tower
  has six sides and was built by strong dwarven hands of
  fine granite designed to last for centuries.  Now, with no
  one to look after it, its walls have become dingy and
  covered with gray-white lichen, especially on the sides
  facing the sea.  At the top, where the wind is fiercest,
  whole chunks of granite have fallen as the elements
  decay the mortar.  The ground around the tower is
  littered with such fragments that could kill passersby had
  the lighthouse not long since been abandoned.
  The only entrance to the tower is a rat-gnawed door
  of heavy oak that can no longer keep out the icy winter
  blasts.  The delicately-carved sea nymphs that once
  graced its wooden face have become gnarled and twisted
  with age.  The door leads to a rickety iron spiral staircase
  that has rusted badly in the salty air.  At the top is a
  chamber where Almadrask once lived.  The room smells
  of damp and vermin.  The furnishings have long since
  rotted away, except for a cob-webbed rocking chair
  sitting in the corner that creaks away the centuries even
  in the doldrums when the wind is completely still.  There
  was once a fireplace, and the wind that blows in through
  the crumbling chimney makes an eerie wail.  The holes
  in the wooden floor stand as a reminder of the grizzly fall
  that awaits anyone standing on them when they finally rot
  through.
  On top of the tower with its dilapidated merlins and
  eroded gargoyles is the great beacon that has lured
  countless ships to its doom.  From here, one can see the
  white waves furiously clash with the black rocks as they
  will for aeons to come.  This was the last sight
  Almadrask saw before he leapt to his death.
  For the story of the lighthouse is the story of
  Almadrask.  Almadrask was the bravest, most daring sea
  captain there ever was in the port of Faeyalot.  This was
  even more amazing because he was a dwarf.  Almadrask
  had always loved the sea.  But his love had always
  brought nothing but shame to his family who were of one
  of the great, noble families of dwarven craftsman.  They
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  HAUNTED SITES
  7
  told Almadrask that the sea had always been the home of
  men, and that dwarves belonged in the mountains where
  it was civilized.
  But Almadrask was stubborn like the rest of his
  family and, after a hundred years, his stubbornness began
  to pay off.  He eventually became one of the wealthiest
  merchants in Faeyalot.  When the pirate lord Garim the
  Dread fell to Almadrask’s axe, not even the most bitter
  dwarf could deny feeling pride for him.
  But all good things must come to an end, and one
  night while sailing through a November gale, Almadrask
  fell from the mast and broke his back.
  The clerics said their magics could do little good for
  the poor dwarf.  Almadrask lived, but often wished he
  had not, for Almadrask could never sail again.  His back
  was now humped like a whale and he walked with a
  crippled gait.
  Almadrask was more than wealthy enough for
  retirement, but in his bitterness he resigned to the lonely
  life of a lighthouse keeper.  His family pleaded with him
  to come back to the mountains but he would hear nothing
  of it, and so it was decided that if a dwarf must live in a
  lighthouse, it would be the grandest lighthouse there ever
  was.  The tower is the only lighthouse ever designed by
  dwarven craftsman and was the pride of Faeyalot.
  In time, Almadrask’s bitterness faded as all things
  eventually do, and he took a wife.  How Seelia, the tall
  and lovely tavern wench, could love a crippled dwarf is
  still a mystery.  Most folk said she was only interested in
  the old dwarf’s fortune, but one thing is certain and that
  is that Almadrask loved Seelia.  She was the only thing
  that brought joy and comfort to him in the beautiful
  lighthouse he had made his prison.
  But when the old dwarf slept, Seelia would slink
  down the steps of the lighthouse into Faeyalot where
  everyone said some handsome rake waited for her.
  Rumor can strike faster than a gale at sea and even
  dwarven ears in lofty towers are not impervious to its
  spread.  Almadrask told Seelia that if ever she failed to
  be true to him she would never see a single copper of his
  fortune.
  Outraged, Seelia stormed out of the lighthouse to her
  handsome rake.  She came back long enough to tell
  Almadrask that they would set sail that very night at
  sunset.  Almadrask begged her not to leave.  From his
  tower he watched the white sails of the ship grow smaller
  in the distance.  He never saw Seelia again.
  With bleary eyes, Almadrask took one last look at
  the unquiet sea from the top of his tower.  Then he leapt,
  cursing every ship there ever was in the port of Faeyalot.
  Over the next year, ships began to crash on the rocks
  where the lighthouse had once stood watch.  Survivors
  swore the beacon had been on in the old tower and then
  suddenly faded when they came close to the rocks.  It
  wasn’t much longer before barmaids began to swear
  having seen the hideous image of a crippled dwarf out of
  the corner of their eyes.  The townsfolk never go near the
  tower for fear of his curse, hoping in time the tower will
  crumble away, but the dwarven stonework has stood gale
  after gale as the years roll by.  And while the town of
  Faeyalot has grown, the shadow of the lighthouse still
  looms over it as it always will.  Dwarves still tell the tale
  of Almadrask to any dwarf who has fancies about going
  off to sea.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
  8
  ANSRICK’S PRISON
  by Jeremy Whitt
  Stanton, Kentucky
  rom the outside it appears as a common farmhouse
  that is deserted and run down.  To look into the
  house from a doorway or window it looks to have
  three ground floors and an attic.  When someone enters
  the house the door closes behind them, but when the door
  is opened it leads to a grand hall instead of outside.  The
  hall, like all other rooms, has two doors, the entrance
  door and another door on the opposite side of the room.
  No door leads to the same room twice.  Each room
  entered is dark, dreary, and quiet, but is easily seen that
  each room was once beautiful, colorful, and bustling with
  life.  Rooms range from great dining halls, hallways,
  bedchambers, King’s chambers, libraries, studies, and
  even kitchens.
  Each room can be searched, but a time limit is given
  to each room and always changes.  If a character remains
  in a room for too long (no more than a matter of minutes)
  then ghouls and other undead begin forming from the
  shadows.  These creatures will never leave the room
  from which they came, nor can every shadow in each
  room be extinguished.
  Ansrick, a man who must wander this place for
  eternity, will eventually help or destroy any poor soul
  trapped inside.  Ansrick, because of his torment, which
  consists of being constantly murdered by the creatures of
  his prison, and returning each night, has become insane.
  When he does show himself as a friend, he will help any
  character, but it is a false hope.  The only way for any
  character to escape is to kill Ansrick.  This of course
  isn’t a problem if he appears as an enemy.  Once he is
  dead the rooms will return to normal and any character
  will find himself/herself in the main room of the shack.
  The next night Ansrick will reawaken and the
  process will start all over.  Of course, there is a way for
  Ansrick to escape the prison, but he would have to take
  his own life.  This would lead to a more severe
  punishment.
  �
  THE STORY OF
  BATEMAN HOUSE
  by Robert Chaney
  Pleasant Grove, Utah
  he old place up on the hill, you say?  Well now,
  there’s a tale attached to that particular animal, as
  me grandfather used to say.  Aye, I know the
  “educated” folk of Dementlieu say that every hamlet in
  Mordent has its “place on the hill,” and that ye can’t kick
  a rock without it hittin’ some backwater fool willin’ to
  tell the tale.  But if they’re so all-fired smart then why do
  so many of ‘em end their days in those asylums they got?
  It’s ‘cause Mordent folk know the truth of things and
  have the sense not to go pokin’ around where decent
  people don’t belong.
  To be sure that house is a place of tragedy, made all
  the worse by it happenin’ to one of our own.  Jonathon
  Bateman was reliable Mordent stock, even if he did make
  his fortune dealin’ with queer foreigners in distant
  places.  ‘Course some folks say what happened is what
  comes to a man who takes an Invidian bride.  You just
  ignore such talk, Myriam Bateman was one of the
  sweetest women to ever live, never you mind those odd
  fits of hers, and not once did I hear tell of her showin’
  “the Invidian temper” to a soul, not even her own
  children.  And the gods know that her children gave her
  reason enough to at times, but that’s true of all children.
  The oldest, Mary, was every inch the beauty that her
  mother was.  She even turned my head when I was a lad,
  but I guess I was overfond of me possessions to court
  her.  Valuable things tended to disappear when Mary was
  around, you see.  No one ever did figure out what she did
  with ‘em.  Now her brother Jeffrey was as solid and as
  practical as his father, assumin’, of course, you
  overlooked his unhealthy fascination with the grave.  But
  what can ye expect from a lad who came upon the ghost
  of his grandmother in the woods wailin’ about the death
  of the entire family?  After that he spent most of his time
  contemplatin’ the graves of his young twin brothers,
  Albert and Andrew, who died of crib death not long after
  their birth.
  No one knows what pushed Jonathon to murder that
  night.  He’d been in a foul temper ever since an
  important shipment to Lamordia went down in the Sea of
  Sorrows, and he took his frustration out on his family.
  Nothin’ physical, mind you, but bad enough that Myriam
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  took abed with one of her fits.  Accordin’ to the servants,
  the whole household simmered like that for about a week
  until Jonathon caught Mary sneakin’ out of the house at
  night with the silver tea set.  The whole lot of them took
  to screamin’, even Myriam from her bed, and it got so
  bad that the hired people fled and found other places to
  stay that night.  The neighbors listened to the screamin’
  into the wee hours until the last busybody drifted off to
  sleep, but no one thought anythin’ was truly wrong until
  mornin’, when the sound of someone hoarsely screamin’
  could still be heard.
  It was Jeffrey, curled up in a comer of the master
  bedroom, cryin’ over and over about his grandmother
  outside the window.  Nearby, Mary’s battered corpse lay
  beneath her father’s gently swayin’ form as it hung from
  the noose affixed to the ceilin’, Mary’s blood drippin’
  from his hands.  Myriam lay in the bed with her eyes
  fixed on the ceilin’, her body unmarked but no less dead
  than her husband’s.  The magistrate boarded up the
  house in the hopes that Jeffrey might come to his senses
  and tend to it someday, but Jeffrey screamed himself to
  death up in that fancy asylum in Dementlieu about a year
  later.  Over the years, the house itself was claimed as
  inheritance by a series of cousins and such, but each and
  every one of them fled before spendin’ so much as a
  single night beneath its cursed roof.  These days folk just
  leave the house be, not even heedin’ when some damn
  fool treasure hunter starts pokin’ ‘round for the money
  that’s supposed to be lost in there.  This isn’t some
  parlor in Port-a-Lucine where the dark is far away and
  easily mocked.  Evil dwells in that house, and I for one
  ain’t goin’ to be visitin’ it.
  The Truth
  Before Bluetspur was sheared from the Core, a lone
  Illithid wandered from within its wastes.  Its name, like
  its motivations, is meaningless to humanoid minds,
  though it considers itself a researcher.  It used its talents
  to observe the surface lands with detached interest until it
  was drawn to Myriam Bateman.  Recognizing in her the
  crudest form of its own formidable skills, for the first
  time the monster was intrigued.  Prior to this, the
  Bateman household was a normal one with its worst
  scandal being Mary’s infatuation with emulating a
  dashing rogue she met while on holiday in Port-a-Lucine.
  The creature enhanced Myriam’s skills beyond her
  control or tolerance.  Her dreaming mind wrecked havoc
  abroad, including the sinking of the Lamordian shipment.
  When awake she poured her overflowing mental energy
  into those around her, enhancing mild or latent traits into
  psychoses.  Jonathon’s temper exploded; Mary’s
  infatuation became obsession and kleptomania; and
  Jeffrey, having a touch of his mother’s sensitivity, was
  driven insane by the influx of his mother’s dying surge of
  energy.
  Myriam’s mind, along with the minds of her family,
  remains trapped by madness within the house.  Memories
  drift down the halls like drafts of cold air, making reality
  ever subjective.  Myriam slumbers often, but fitfully,
  causing disasters as she dreams, but when awakened by
  intruders her attention cripples them by magnifying
  exponentially their latent traits and foibles.  In addition,
  the Illithid still scrys its “grand experiment” from a
  cavern beneath the house, and will intervene if it believes
  the latest set of “variables” (i.e., people) threaten to bring
  its research to a premature conclusion.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  BLACKSHADOW’S
  STUDY
  by Montsho Shelby
  Chicago, Illinois
  ou gaze upon a magnificent building maybe three
  stories in height.  The building is gray and devoid of
  color; the only thing that gives the building life at
  all are the long windows and beautifully sculpted statues.
  There are ominous, winged gargoyles at the top of the
  building, and gracing the entrance are gigantic, grey steel
  double doors.  There are a few steps to get to the
  entrance of this structure and to each side of the steps lay
  two statues of men on their side.  The two statues are
  pointing out as if to lure a wary traveler in for a
  comfortable night.
  As you near the place you take a further inspection
  of the two statues, only to notice faces on the inside of the
  stomachs of each of the two statues.  As you turn to the
  door, you swiftly turn back to the statue and you could
  have sworn by your god that the faces on the stomach of
  that statue shifted positions, or maybe it was just
  paranoia.  The group’s wizard and thief notice cryptic
  runes on the steel door, though your two companions
  aren’t sure exactly what the door says.  The wizard
  believes that the runes say, “Your knowledge will be
  increased after one night spent in this place.”  The thief
  of your party believes the runes say, “Your wealth will be
  increased after one night spent in this place.”
  The warrior doesn’t care one way or the other
  because the party needs a place to sleep.  The warrior
  slowly creaks the door open, only to be greeted by the
  moldy smell of books.  The inside is pitch-black until the
  wizard casts his light spell.  The light reveals and eerie
  but marvelous sight, no doubt, the remnants of a great
  library.  You notice a torch to the side of you and quickly
  use your flint and steel to spark a fire to life.  This library
  has three floors; the second and third floors are filled
  with books on the side and open in the middle.
  Suddenly, you hear the metal doors creaking as if
  they would shut behind you; you jump just a little.  The
  warrior slaps you on the back with one hand and points
  to the door.  “It’s just a storm brewing, my friend,” is
  what he tells you, as the wind and light drizzle begin to
  blow into the library.  Maybe it’s your paranoia, but the
  sky was perfectly fine before you came into this place.
  The warrior slams the door shut with a boom.  As the
  door slams shut a loud click chimes in a disturbing
  sound.  Though nothing has happened, you definitely feel
  uneasy about being in this place.  Even the light shining
  from the wall seems as if it’s watching you.
  The party checked the whole library from the first
  floor to third, and you took note of everything we found
  of significance.  On the first floor we found magical
  runes on the entire first floor; the wizard says if the right
  chants were spoken it could have been used for
  summoning demons.  Besides the aisles of books, upon
  which the wizard frequently perused, we found a
  trapdoor leading into a mess hall and sleeping quarters;
  from your knowledge of religious practices, you’d think
  monks lived in this place.  Other than the infernal ticking
  of a clock you haven’t found, this floor was fine.
  The second floor housed aisles of books just like the
  first but, inside of the books were long boxes that seemed
  to look like coffins.  Since this floor seemed to be fine we
  let the thief try his luck at picking the locks on the
  supposed coffins.
  As you venture to the third floor one man less, the
  wizard begins to get paranoid; you believe those books
  he had been reading have been giving him evil messages.
  As the warrior tried to take away the wizard’s books, the
  wizard snapped at him; the wizard never had done this.
  You ventured on to find a wizard’s laboratory; the wizard
  wished to stay in this place to find out more about the
  former owners.  You and the warrior now gaze down to
  the first floor, only to find out that the moonlight shining
  on the first floor seemed to be moving.  The warrior
  decided to go back down to the first floor, and check
  things out while you go and find the thief and the wizard.
  Now all alone you go to find the wizard, but it seems
  as if the book aisles are in a different place.  Had this
  place given us the impression that everything was fine
  just to split us up?  You push your doubts aside to find
  the wizard, until suddenly a noise distracts you.  You see
  a demented man in wizard’s robes push a man in priestly
  robes off the side of the third floor banister.  You
  brandish your holy symbol, maybe these are ghosts, but
  nothing happens.  The mysterious wizard runs off,
  dropping a book behind him.  As you look over the side
  to see if there is a dead priest you see nothing, but do see
  the party’s warrior on the first floor.
  You open the book, but instead of seeing words, you
  see an image of the group’s wizard and thief talking in
  the library.  The thief suggests that the wizard and he
  should kill the fighter and you and collect the reward at
  the end of the night.
  Suddenly, a hand taps on your shoulder; it’s the
  thief.  You immediately question him about what you
  saw, but the thief stutters out his words.  The thief said it
  was a chill, but your wisdom tells you better.  The thief
  says that, “there were dead bodies in the coffins we saw
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  earlier.”  He even says that he thought you were calling
  his name.  To your relief the warrior returns; you need an
  ally.  In a split second the warrior falls to the ground with
  a knife in his back.  The wizard stands over him.  “I am
  the great magician Blackshadow,” he yells.  You can
  look in the wizard’s eyes and tell he is not all there.
  You deduce that the excessive reading of the books
  must turn wizards into this demented man.  Now you use
  your exceptional deductive abilities to create a
  hypothesis.  This place must have been designed by evil
  priests and one evil wizard.  Somewhere along the line
  the priests had a falling out, so the wizard murdered all
  the priests.  Sometimes the library replays the murders
  like the way you saw earlier, but you guess that it is not
  enough.  If this place gets a good wizard to read the
  books it turns that wizard into an evil wizard.  Then the
  library turns everyone against each other whether they
  read the books or not.
  You and the thief subdue the wizard, and you
  manage to heal the warrior, saving his life.  The thief and
  you try to unlock the door the whole night but it won’t
  budge.  Though you see visions and ghosts the whole
  night, at daybreak you hear the ticking of a clock stop.
  The big metal double doors swing open, and it seems as
  if the rain has just stopped.  As you and the thief drag the
  unconscious warrior and wizard out of the library, the
  thief notices a gold coin positioned on the first step of the
  library.  “I received wealth and the wizard received
  knowledge I guess,” the thief says with a sigh.
  There was nothing that physically attacked us in that
  place, so, you guess the worst demons are in our own
  heads.
  (P.S.  Every suspicion and hunch is correct
  information.)
  �
  THE HORROR OF
  CASTLE VANIA
  by Alexander “Warlock” Bennet
  New York, New York
  This haunted site is loosely based on the legendary
  Glamis Castle in Scotland, childhood home of the Queen
  Mother and the most haunted place in Britain.  Written
  for the Ravenloft setting, the castle would work well in
  Mordent or Dementlieu.  Also, a few modern features
  such as the lift mean that it could easily be reworked for
  the Masque of the Red Death setting.
  astle Vania, crouched on the hills above
  Strathmore village, was once the home of a long
  line of Earls, all bearing the name of Strathmore.
  The First Earl lived as King of a people called the Dorns
  in a now unknown Prime Material world.  These people
  were nomads, looking for a likely site to call home.
  Eventually, they settled down and founded the village of
  Strathmore.
  The First Earl had a son, the Second Earl, who built
  Castle Vania.  He designed it himself, for he was an
  enthusiastic, if slightly mad, architect.  Many of the traps
  and dangers in the castle were designed by his hand.
  However, the castle’s fate was written by the Third Earl,
  Patrick.
  Stories say that Patrick was an evil child.  His
  mother died in childbirth and his father doted on him.  He
  had everything he wanted: fine food, splendid toys and
  exotic pets.  Because of his wealth, Patrick grew up
  obsessed with gambling.  He would wager much money
  on cards, dice… and dares.
  At age sixteen his friends bet him that he could not
  poison his father’s meal.  Patrick won a lot of money that
  night, and a week later became King.  He was a harsh
  ruler, demanding large taxes which he quickly gambled
  away.
  One night, Patrick stayed awake until midnight,
  playing cards with the Earl of Craweford.  A servant
  approached to remind him that it was nearly the holy day,
  upon which no gambling was allowed to take place.
  Patrick replied that he cared not for holiness, and
  that the Deville himself could take a hand of cards if he
  wished.
  The servant fled the room, terrified of what she
  knew would happen.
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  It is said that at midnight, with a crackle of thunder,
  the Deville appeared and told the two that they had lost
  their souls and were cursed.  The Earl of Craweford died
  of fright right then, but Patrick stood his ground.  He
  cursed the Deville back, and the village of Strathmore
  was claimed by the Mists of Ravenloft.
  Castle Vania and its village settled somewhere in
  Mordent in the Barovian year 599.  It is not known why
  the dark powers took them for Patrick was not made a
  darklord.
  When the Earl awoke the next morning, he found
  that there was nothing different.  He believed that he had
  avoided the curse of the Deville.
  Two years later, Patrick’s wife had a son.  When it
  was delivered, the midwife fainted and dropped the child,
  while onlookers ran from the room and the mother
  sobbed.  The ‘Horror’ was so hideously deformed that
  doctors thought it impossible to save, but it lived on in
  secret rooms which Patrick built for it.
  Patrick had other sons as well, but these were
  seemingly normal.  The eldest became the Fourth Earl of
  Strathmore, and so the bloodline, and curse, continued.
  By the Fourth Earl’s private decree, no woman of
  the royal household could ever be told of the curse.
  Every male Strathmore was told the secret on the night of
  his twenty-first birthday.
  For almost a century and a half, the Strathmores
  lived in fear that the curse would resurface.  Every birth
  in the family was a time of fear.  The Sixth Earl once said
  to a friend:
  “If you could know the nature of the curse, you
  would go down on your knees and thank the gods it were
  not yours.”
  Twenty years ago, a second Horror was born.
  Castle Vania lies prematurely ruined, for the entire
  Strathmore family has fled.  Its dark spires are now home
  to many creatures of the night and restless spirits of this
  sad history.  Only the hopelessly insane Seventh Earl,
  Robert, stays on in the castle, tending to the Horror’s
  every need, just as Patrick did centuries ago.
  The Castle is four stories high, not including its
  towers, a fact that annoyed the Fifth Earl.  Being a lazy
  and obese man, he decided to use the considerable
  Strathmore fortune in building a ‘lift.’  This large wood
  and iron box, capable of holding several people, was
  powered by magic and could be ‘lifted’ to any floor of
  the castle with the push of a button.  One night, as the
  Fifth Earl was holding a banquet, he watched ten of his
  guests push and shove their way into the lift, wanting to
  be the first to try the incredible invention.  The Earl was
  about to follow, when he saw to his terror that the face of
  the lift attendant was that of his brother, who had died a
  week earlier.  The Earl fled, screaming, from the room.
  On its way to the fourth floor, the lift cable snapped and
  all inside the cage plummeted to their deaths.
  Now the ghost of the lift still makes its way up and
  down the inside of the castle, opening to any who come
  near.  Those foolish enough to step inside are taken on a
  one-way trip past the ground floor and into hell.
  Then there are the other ghosts of the castle.
  Jack the runner is the ghost of a messenger boy,
  beaten to death by the Seventh Earl because he stumbled
  upon the secret rooms of the Horror.  He now strides
  through the castle, bizarrely elongated legs propelling
  him through the halls.
  The Grey Lady is none other than the ghost of the
  mother of the First Horror.  She hanged herself soon after
  its birth and now haunts the room where she died.
  Then there is the Horror itself.  No one knows what
  it looks like or where its secret chambers lie.  It cannot
  leave its hidden rooms, for it has spent its life within
  them and is too afraid to leave.  It can project its mind
  beyond them though.  Because of this, it knows the
  instant anyone enters Castle Vania.  Even now it is
  building up strength to escape from its chambers, and
  perhaps even the castle itself.  Any adventurers who
  would try to stop it: Good luck.  You’ll need it…
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  THE CATHEDRAL
  OF THE DAMNED
  by François Mathieu
  St. Victor, Quebec
  To the Kargat, Secret Document:
  he following text is taken from the journal of
  Thoris Tregart, a young and positive paladin who
  followed his father’s lead in the hope of being as
  good as him and to avenge his death.  But now, it’s
  Thoris’ death that must be avenged.  Thoris roams now
  as a “Radiant Spirit” (Ravenloft MC Appendix III), filled
  with the desperate obsession of finding someone able to
  give his corpse a decent burial, and to kill the person
  responsible for his father’s death.  His corpse lies in a
  secret chamber (in the wardrobe of another chamber;
  pushing the dirty clothes reveals a door leading to this
  one).  In fact, Thoris hung himself in this room, trapped
  between madness and despair.  The Lord of this place
  animates the corpse as a zombie but leaves it hung, just
  to torture his spirit.  At first view, the dead body seem to
  be just what it is: dead; but if someone comes too close to
  it…
  Thoris’ equipment is at one corner of the room.  The
  journal is in one of his pockets (on the corpse, of course).
  Have a good read.
  The Paladin’s Journal
  March 16th, 733.
  —The oracle of this town told me that I will find
  answers to my questions on the top of the mountain to
  the East.  He said that I will even find more than that.  I
  wonder what he wanted to say.  Later, I went to see a
  fortune-teller.  When she looked in her crystal ball, she
  screamed and dropped it.  Then, she put twice the
  money I gave her on the table and told me to leave
  immediately.  What the hell is happening?
  March 17th, 733.
  —I slept outside the town and, when I woke up, the
  entire town had disappeared!  Like planned, I went to
  the East.  After a mile, I began to see it: a high plateau
  of which the summit was lost in the clouds.  After two
  hours of constant climbing, I had entered a foggy
  stretch that persisted all the way to the top.
  Near to the top, there is a secret entrance on a little ledge.
  It leads into the plateau, to the crypts beneath the
  cathedral and they are connected together.  You must be
  very lucky (or unlucky) to find it.
  On the top, mist covered all the ground so I
  couldn’t see my feet.  Then, I saw it in all its morbid
  splendor, a huge, sinister cathedral with a tall belfry,
  towers, tinted windows, gargoyles…  They were
  carvings that seemed to represent fallen angels.  This
  place gave me the chills.  The cathedral was infinitely
  immense, three or four floors without the belfry and the
  towers.  It was larger and longer than I could imagine.
  But, before reaching the imposing structure, there was a
  little obstacle: the thorny garden.  It’s a labyrinth with
  interlaced branches full of thorns that serve as tall, long
  and thick walls.
  I was driven from my thoughts when I heard wolves
  howling.  Worgs and wolves were around me, ready to
  stalk me at any cost.  I feint a heart attack but I ran
  faster than my thoughts.
  When I regained my memory, I found myself in that
  gigantic maze, lost in the middle of nowhere.
  Encounters like the above, dogs’ relatives in particular
  lore, were common.  It took me all the night to finally
  find the exit to this cursed place.  I found interesting
  elements about this place.  The complex maze was all
  around the cathedral.  The branches and thorns seemed
  to secrete something preventing fire from igniting.
  If someone is able to extract it, all items or people
  induced by it are immune to fire of any sort for a
  maximum of an hour or after the first fire attack on this
  “special oil”.
  Cutting it was impossible, it grew again
  instantaneously.  I was perforated once by a thorn.  I
  don’t seem to suffer lately but when it happened, I felt
  like it was draining my blood.  I was afraid about the
  idea of an unarmed person impaled by thorns and
  seeing himself slowly become a bloodless heap of skin.
  Climbing the thorny walls is, of course, impossible.
  Using magical ways is a possibility, but magic is as
  unpredictable as anything on and in this plateau (the
  plateau is a wild magic zone).
  I was completely exhausted, but the nightmare was
  not yet started.
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  March 18th, 733.
  —The sun had just risen when I left that dreadful place.
  I saw, some distance before me, two magnificent but
  extremely fearful statues standing face to face on each
  side of the exit.  They were like two tall, winged
  vampires, of an incredible artistry that shook me
  inwardly.
  These monsters have nothing to do with gargoyles.  They
  are called “Geodemonias” and they are only active by
  night.  These two have been ordered to catch anyone
  avoiding the labyrinth (such as with a fly spell), clutching
  their victims by the shoulders and leaving them anywhere
  else in the maze.
  A pack of death dogs found me but they stopped
  their run brusquely when I passed between the statues.
  I looked back at them when I heard their snivels.  They
  were running back to that awful maze when I noticed
  the red eyes of the statues.  Weren’t they closed a
  moment before?  The courtyard had an old, crumbling
  fountain.  In an adjacent spot, there was the biggest and
  the most horrible tree that I’ve seen in my life.  It was if
  people were trapped under the bark, frozen in agony
  and trying to escape it.  Then, among these
  “sculptures”, I saw the man I had imagined impaled by
  the thorns.
  Suddenly troubled by that view, I fled to the
  cathedral, climbing the enormous stairway leading to
  the gates.  I took a break to write these lines, but now is
  the time to enter that place; mixing of beauty and
  terrors, anger and death—and… sacrilege.
  The remains of the journal are scrawls of notes
  concerning the cathedral.  The last part is completely
  illegible.
  The cathedral is the lair of arts in all its forms.
  Splendid but scary frescos and bas-reliefs are common.
  This site has an innumerable variety of rooms and has
  had many owners through time.  None had discovered all
  the rooms so some hold secrets of another time.  All the
  ghosts and spirits here speak in an inverse order.  So, a
  ghost saying “help me” will rather say “em pleh”.  It
  gives players another mystery to solve and some spirits
  can give them good clues (not clearly or directly, of
  course).
  Among the cathedral’s owners, the first were the
  order who built it (over six generations), a very affluent
  church of a distant realm with the greatest project of
  time.  But, for unknown reasons, they became or were
  evil priests who have done all the atrocities imaginable.
  100 years later, a vampire claimed this place as his own.
  He was driven mad and now he reacts just like a beast.
  He can’t think, just acts by morbid impulses and instinct.
  One of his experiments, an intelligent and powerful
  zombie created from a werebat trapped in its hybrid
  form, became then the new master.  Now he (or it) is
  chained up to the big mosaic rosary of the nave.
  Sometimes, we heard a loud noise of footsteps.  Is it the
  true lord of this place?
  �
  
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  CELL NUMBER 4
  by Pierre van Rooden
  Amsterdam, the Netherlands
  pvrooden@ttpdiskad.nl
  he Martira Bay jail house can hardly be called a
  luxury place to spend your days.  Cell number 4, in
  that respect, does not seem much worse (or better)
  than any other cell.
  It is only three feet wide by five feet long, with one
  small barred window that looks out on a small alley place
  at the back of the jail house.  It contains a bunk to steep
  on, and a bucket for other ‘necessities’.  In the ceiling
  used to be a hook on which you could hang a lantern, but
  the one in this cell has been forcibly removed.
  All in all, this does not differ much from other cells
  the building.  Cell number 4, however, has been the site
  of a haunting ever since the death of a young man named
  Marnix Drecht.
  Marnix was the son of a poor Lamordian craftsman.
  He was also, secretly, the lover of a young woman,
  Elserelda, who was the daughter of a wealthy local
  merchant.  Obviously, the girl’s father was not pleased
  with the love of his daughter.  He confronted her, trying
  to convince her that the young man was no good, going
  so far as to spread false rumors that he was unfaithful,
  and tried everything in his might to turn the two lovers
  away.  Finally, after all his attempts had failed, he flew
  into a rage, and struck his daughter so hard that she
  dropped down to the floor and hit her head on the mantle
  piece in the study room.  She was killed instantly.
  The merchant panicked.  He was at a loss of what to
  do, not willing to turn himself in, to be accused of
  causing the death of his own blood.
  At that moment, the young Marnix arrived at the
  gate to speak to his beloved.  The merchant saw his
  chance—he granted the young man entrance, giving him
  free way to wander about the house to find his daughter.
  When the young man thus happened upon the body of his
  beloved, his heart broke.  He was kneeling by the dead
  body, stroking her hair in shock, when the merchant
  entered with a quickly-fetched servant witness.
  The officials were quick to bring a charge of murder
  against the young man and he was thrown in jail, in the
  now infamous cell number 4.  Marnix was devastated.
  His girlfriend was dead, and he was accused of the vile
  crime.  Moreover, he felt it had all been his fault—was it
  not his love that hat brought her death?  It was more than
  he could take, and the next morning, when the guards
  came to get the boy for his trial, they found he had hung
  himself using his own belt.  The constable declared the
  boy hung himself out of guilt, and the case was closed.
  Two weeks later, another man was interred in cell 4.
  This time, the accused was a thief named Micel, who had
  stolen a merchant’s purse.  In the night, the young thief
  was woken by a soft voice, that whispered to him of guilt
  and despair.  He called out to his guards, but when they
  had arrived, the voice was quiet.  They laughed at his
  fear, saying he was nervous before his trial, and left.  The
  following morning, however, they were shocked to find
  the thief had hung himself, in exactly the same way as
  Marnix had done before.
  In another three weeks, two other people, an alley
  rat and a drunk, had hung themselves in cell number 4.
  The constable at that time, Alanik Ray, had no time to
  investigate the matter at that moment, and instead had the
  cell sealed.
  Several years later Ray was replaced by Aron
  Tyllich, a commander who was known for his
  pragmatism and disdain for all things mythical.  He
  ordered the cell to be opened again, despite protests of
  some veteran guards.  He had the hook in the ceiling
  removed to “ease the locals” and, in fact, was so
  confident that he accepted the challenge to spend the first
  night in the cell all by himself.
  Unconfident, the pods posted someone outside the
  cell to be sure to take watch.  In the middle of the night,
  the guard fell asleep, only to be woken again by a soft
  droning voice of a young man that seemed to emanate
  from the cell.  He hurriedly entered the cell only to find
  commander Tyllich dangling from a makeshift noose he
  had tied to the bars of the cell’s window.  The next and
  current commander, Emily Tohald, quickly installed after
  this event, made her orders very clear: Cell number 4
  was to be closed and never to be opened again.
  It remains closed to this day, though prisoners in
  neighboring cells sometimes claim to hear a young man’s
  voice speaking to them from the cell.  No one has been
  willing to open the cell in years, however.  And it seems
  it will take until the next commander before anyone ever
  will.
  �
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  CHATEAU DE
  MARIUS-EIBENAL
  by Matthew L. Martin
  Chatfield, Minnesota
  Description
  his once-glorious Richemulot mansion, nestled
  between two hills on the west banks of the
  Musarde River just south of Ste. Ronges, retains
  some of its former glory.  Three stories tall, it’s built in a
  Gothic style, with vaulting ceilings and many tall, narrow
  windows.  The ceilings are wrapped in cobwebs and
  shadows, and most of the windows are broken or
  fragmented, letting in drafts that chill the rooms
  regardless of the outside temperature.  The house was
  built in a ‘hollow square’ pattern, with numerous halls
  and suites surrounding courtyards and gardens.  At the
  center, connected to the main body of the house by a dark
  and narrow hallway, is a building devoted to a great
  dining hall on the first floor and a ballroom that takes up
  the second and third.  Unlike the rest of the house, which
  is ramshackle and dusty, the ballroom’s floors still shine,
  the stained glass windows that depict legends of the Core
  remain clear and intact, and the lanterns and chandelier
  bum with pale and unearthly flames that shed no heat and
  cannot be quenched.
  History
  The feud between the Marius and Eibenal families of
  Richemulot date back to farther than any resident of
  Richemulot remembers; some whisper that it was old
  when the domain appeared in the Core.  The origins of
  the hostilities are likewise lost in time.  Some say that the
  two families both possess strong Invidian blood, which
  might be enough of an explanation.  Others say that in
  years past, the two families dabbled in sorcery and
  unleashed an unearthly creature that set them against
  each other.
  Regardless of the origins, the bloody feud between
  the two houses continued until ten years ago, when the
  heads of the two families decided to end it in the wake of
  the Grand Conjunction.  Louis Eibenal and Emile
  Marius, heirs to the family lands, would marry.  The
  Chateau de Marius-Eibenal was built to celebrate the
  union of the two houses; the mansion was a marvel in its
  day.  Unfortunately, Emile’s brother Jean had been slain
  in a duel with one of the Eibenals, and the anger she felt
  at that had snapped her mind and left her fixated on
  vengeance.  On the night the two were to wed, both
  families gathered at the Chateau.  Emile, meanwhile, had
  managed to steal Louis’ dagger, and attempted to cut
  herself with it, hoping to frame her fiancee for an assault.
  In her madness and rage, though, the blade slipped as
  Emile sliced at her arm.  A serving girl found her dead an
  hour later, blood flowing from her wrist and Louis’
  dagger by her side.  Louis was quickly hanged by the
  men of the Marius family in one of the gardens, in plain
  view of the rest of the Eibenals.  The resulting anger
  swept up the rest of the household.  Duels were fought,
  both nobles and servants were hanged, and it all came to
  a climax in a furious, vicious conflict in the ballroom.  By
  the time the sun rose, no living soul walked the halls of
  the Chateau de Marius-Eibenal.
  The final tragedy came in the fact that two younger
  scions of the families, Elaine Eibenal and Pieter Marius,
  had met and fallen in love that day.  The two of them
  tried to escape as the violence swept through the house,
  but fell, shot down by two of their own kinsmen who
  each thought that one of them was trying to capture the
  other.
  Hauntings
  When entered in daylight, the Chateau appears to be an
  ordinary ruined mansion.  The only remarkable thing is
  the cold, which persists regardless of the season or
  weather.  Rats and spiders fill the halls, but they are only
  the most mundane feature.  As the day goes on, heroes
  may hear whispers in the background, speaking of peace
  and happiness.  Swords, daggers, and pistols appear
  beneath the rubble, looking as though they were newly
  polished.  Some weapons are ornamented with blue and
  gray colors, the colors of the Marius family, while others
  show the red and green of the Eibenals.  If walking
  through the gardens, the shadow of a noose can be
  glimpsed out of the comer of the eye.
  As the moon rises, the Chateau begins to change.
  The cobwebs start to disappear, and heroes who look
  closely can see the spectral windows glistening dimly in
  the moonlight.  The whispers some heroes might have
  heard grow a bit louder, and also more hostile, talking
  now of vengeance and offended honor.  Heroes who
  picked up weapons find themselves sympathizing with
  one of the two families, going so far as to draw those
  weapons against those carrying blades or guns of the
  opposite family, or lashing out at unseen targets.  Anyone
  fleeing to the gardens finds the hung bodies confronting
  them at every turn; standing beneath a tree for any length
  of time brings a rope down around one’s own neck.  The
  phenomena grow stronger as the night goes on, with
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  ghosts, haunts, geists, and other incorporeal undead
  appearing the mansions halls.  The haunting will usually
  herd the heroes towards the ballroom, where most of the
  ghosts gather in the last hour before dawn.  The spirits
  attack anything, even turning on their own kin; while
  immaterial, the blades and bullets they strike with harm
  living flesh just as well as ectoplasm.
  The ghosts of Louis and Emile walk the halls; each
  will gladly tell their side of the story if asked.  If those
  facts can be presented, the wrath of the offended ghosts
  will focus on Emile, as they realize her attempt to restart
  the feuding.  The haunting thus ends as the situation
  resolves itself, albeit horribly for Emile.  Those who help
  the spirits of Elaine and Pieter escape, by guiding them
  on a different path or protecting them from attack, do not
  break the curse, but manage to escape with their lives
  and free these two souls, a worthy act itself.
  �
  THE CHURCH
  IN THE MISTS
  by Chris Montgomery
  Del Mar, California
  n old, gray church rises out of a quiet yard, with
  tall gothic spires and a timeworn bell tower.  Fog
  shrouds the area inside the tall, ivy-covered outer
  wall, restricting vision to about twenty feet.  One large,
  rusted gate stands at the front of the grounds, slightly
  ajar.  Ivy from the walls clutches the sides of the gate,
  slowly pulling it closed behind you as you enter.  The
  bell tower seems shadowed and unreal in the fog, with
  dark windows and no visible bell.  Gray, half-glimpsed
  faces drift in the fog, seen only through the comer of your
  eye.  A sense of watching quiet pervades the area.  The
  cathedral itself stands near the back of the grounds, and a
  sprawling garden ringed with dense hedges covers the
  front area, near the gate.
  Stone statues of robed figures stand among the
  heavy leaves of the garden, and vines clutch their feet.  In
  the center of the garden stands a dry fountain filled with
  dead leaves, which rustle constantly as if something were
  passing just underneath their surface.  Narrow
  passageways between tall hedges form a fog-filled maze
  around the fountain.  Perfectly white, silent cats roam the
  grounds, moving slowly and deliberately.  They seem to
  follow you, staying just out of reach in the fog and gazing
  silently down at you from the tops of hedges and walls.
  The leaves of the garden seem to reach out at you,
  clutching softly at your arms and face.  The leaves seem
  unnaturally dry in the mist, and quiver slightly in an
  unfelt wind.
  As you get close to the church, a barely audible
  whispering noise drifts from the damp walls, seeming to
  get louder and louder as you approach—but when you
  shake your head, you realize that it hasn’t changed.  The
  old stone doors of the church stand wide open, and dead
  leaves litter the wide steps in front of it.  As you step
  inside, the air seems colder, and the fog thins.  The
  church consists of one large room, with rotting wooden
  pews standing to your left and right, forming an aisle to
  the altar.  Heavy shadows cloak the upper reaches of the
  walls and the arched ceiling, giving the room a
  sepulchral feeling.  A great stained-glass window frames
  the altar, covering most of the wall behind it.  The
  stained-glass window depicts a hag in black rags with a
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  hooded face, surrounded by less detailed images of
  weeping angels.  Three steps of cold black stone form a
  podium for the altar.  Tall, narrow windows are spaced
  regularly along the inside of the church, looking out on
  the fog-covered grounds.  As you look outside through
  the glass, you see misty gray figures slowly come out of
  the fog and walk towards you.  They look like pale
  children in black clothes, all walking towards the
  window that you are looking from.  The fog doesn’t stir
  as they move through it, and when you blink they seem to
  have all disappeared.
  A heavy trapdoor behind the altar creaks sullenly
  open when you pull on it, and cold air rushes out of the
  dark space below.  As you descend on a nearly vertical
  stone staircase, your lights flicker and dim, causing
  shadows to lurch and sway at you in the cold.  A dank,
  one-room basement stretches out in front of you, almost
  as large as the church itself.  Water stains run down the
  regularly spaced pillars that support the ceiling, and you
  begin to hear soft, pleading cries emanating from the
  dark places in the room.  The air smells faintly of mildew
  and decay, and a thin covering of clouded liquid on the
  floor makes it hard to be completely sure of your footing.
  In the center of the room, surrounded by the shifting
  shadows, lies a small rag doll.  It lies face-down in the
  liquid on the floor, and seems quite heavy when you pick
  it up.  It hangs limply in your hand, as the trapdoor to the
  basement shuts with a slow, sodden creak.  Suddenly it is
  very dark.
  According to local legends, the Church hasn’t
  always been this way.  It was once open to everyone who
  happened by, and a kindly old woman would welcome
  those who came.  It was a light, airy place then, and all
  spoke highly of the Church and its caretaker.  Then
  things began to change.  The old woman seemed to grow
  even more friendly, especially towards the children who
  once played in the garden.  They would ask their parents
  if they could stay at the church for days at a time, and the
  parents would agree—it was holy ground, wasn’t it?
  And so the old woman took care of the children,
  teaching them about the plants in the garden and the
  animals that lived there.  The parents let the children go
  to the Church often, glad that they were learning.  But
  then, one day, the children didn’t come back.  After a
  while, the parents grew worried, and went to the Church.
  They found it as it is now.
  Some whisper that the old woman embraced dark
  arts, while others say that she was abducted and replaced
  by something more hideous.  A few believe that the old
  woman kept the children in the Church’s basement, and
  left them to starve—or worse.  But people only know
  what they have seen: that the fog around the Church
  never lifts, even on the sunniest days, and no animals will
  go near it.  None tread lightly near the Church in the
  Mists.
  �
  
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  THE CITY
  OF LOST HOPE
  by Andy Schiller
  Adrian, Michigan
  mid the desolation, the darkness, the chill that is
  Ravenloft, there once was a citadel against the
  night.  It was built on a plateau, surrounded on all
  sides by sheer cliffs.  The humans who built the city
  sealed its entrances with wards and glyphs, keeping out
  undead, spirits, and unwelcome guests.
  Several generations flourished within its walls.
  Azalin’s zombie armies could not penetrate the heights,
  nor could any transgressor defeat its magic.
  The city elected a council of elders, and for decades
  the city of Jepessen flourished.  But what rises must fall,
  and the Citadel of Hope fell to a horrid, ghastly ending.
  A clan of vampire/sorcerers, plotting to steal the
  lifeblood from every soul in the city, devised a magic so
  potent, that the circle that was the city’s magical defense
  was snuffed out like a candle.  The undead poured in like
  a flood, rising to engulf the city.  They thirsted for the
  life-energy that they would steal to add to their own
  power.
  Losing all hope, the city Elders issued their last
  orders.  Rather than allow their inviolable city to be
  desecrated, and its inhabitants violated, they chose to
  destroy themselves, putting an end to the vampires’ evil
  plan.  Every man in the city perished by his own hand,
  just shortly after his family, save one man.
  That one man was Saravick.  Saravick was a
  coward, a liar, and a cheat.  Too afraid to end his own
  life, he hid.
  Howls of anguish filled the air when the Kindred
  learned of their misfortune.  Weak and exhausted from
  their compound magics, the undead took refuge in the
  now Dead City.  They soon found Saravick, though, and
  vented their frustration on him.  Although they did not
  kill him, the vampires used his blood for their dark
  rituals, gathering strength to go out again.
  The ghosts of the dead citizens taunted Saravick to
  the point of lunacy.  On the night that was to be
  Saravick’s last, he was drained nearly to the point of
  death, and he began hallucinating.  His vile visions made
  him insane, but gave him courage as well.  Staggering,
  he took the only bold action of his life, and attacked the
  vampires at their weakest moment during their blood
  ritual.  A lantern was thrown, and its oil spilled across
  the floor, then ignited, setting the kindred ablaze.  As the
  undead screamed and died, Saravick fled into the only
  portion of the room that was not ablaze—the circle
  drawn in the center of the room by the Kindred.  Here,
  Saravick received the power begotten by the blood ritual,
  and the knowledge of how to extract this power from
  living beings.
  Saravick took refuge in the Dead City, but he was
  haunted by the ghosts of the city’s predecessors.  Driven
  mad, he found himself trapped within the walls, held by
  the ghosts who wished to torture him for an eternity.
  Saravick is not undead, but he is ancient.  He is
  warped and twisted, a husk of a man.  (Note: his
  Comliness is -18, and his alignment is CE.)
  Now centuries have passed.  The Dead City sits atop
  the plateau like a carcass.  Scavenger animals and birds
  are seen near the site regularly.  A few bard’s ballads and
  the occasional historic text make mention of the glory
  that once was Jepessen, but none alive now remember it.
  Rumors of vile magic and all sorts of “old wives’ tales”
  concerning the place abound.  Some have even reported
  seeing strange, ghastly creatures entering and leaving the
  City of Lost Hope.  There have even been reports of
  ghosts near the plateau, but all witnesses have either
  disappeared or gone mad.
  Any PC casting legend lore to find out more
  information about the Dead City must make a
  Constitution check.  This is due to the immediate onset of
  visions of murder and mayhem.  A PC peering through a
  crystal ball will experience the same thing.
  Attempting to enter the city is difficult, due to its
  location, and to Saravick’s minions who patrol the area.
  They keep an eye out for anything alive to bring to their
  master.  The old Defiler needs the life-blood of a living
  being every day just to maintain his own life.  He still,
  however, is unable to leave the city, trapped and
  tormented by the ghosts of the city’s citizens.
  Where’s the Adventure?
  An NPC, the elven maiden Alhana Starbreeze, seeks a
  magical item to prolong the life of an elderly half-elven
  king.  Her mentor has provided her with the information
  that there is such an item, known as the Phylactery of
  Ages, and it is located in the Lost City of Jepessen.  This
  is all she knows.
  The party somehow comes to aid her (perhaps they
  have heard of the city, and overhear her mention it?).
  What no one knows is that the item was made by
  Saravick, and he wears it around his neck.  Alhana has
  no idea that the item steals life from other beings, and
  does not know what awaits in Jepessen.
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  Is That All?
  After defeating the city’s guardians, the party enters the
  city.  They are immediately flooded with images of
  people stabbing each other, and sounds of screaming,
  which may seem completely real to the PCs.  However,
  when approached, these ‘victims’ simply fade away, as
  though they were illusions.  Really, they are ghosts, and
  due to the power of this place, they cannot be dispelled,
  turned, or destroyed.  The ghosts are relentless,
  reenacting their vile ends day and night.
  When witnessing one of these horrible atrocities, all
  players must make a Wisdom check.  Failure means that
  the feeling of a dreadful darkness fills the character’s
  bones.  All checks made from that point onward are at a -
  1 penalty.  This effect is cumulative.
  Any player missing seven Wisdom checks has lost
  all hope, immediately finds the nearest sharp object, and
  takes his own life.
  Of course, if the party has lost any members in this
  manner, they are bound to see that PC’s ghost at a later
  time.  The ghost will die in a very macabre fashion.  This
  is enough to merit its own -2 penalty (on top of any other
  penalties) to the Wisdom check.
  OK, The Place is Scary.  Is That All?
  The PCs must find and defeat Saravick.  Once this is
  done, they will find the Phylactery.  Alhana will then
  groan in despair when she realizes that the item is useless
  to her.  She decides that the item must be destroyed.
  This can only be done by throwing it into the fires that
  sparked its creation.  This means a journey down into the
  mountain.  Here awaits the lava pool that will destroy the
  item.
  Are We Done Yet?
  No.  On their way out, the PCs face Saravick as a ghost.
  The spirits that kept him prisoner in the city have now
  been laid to rest, so he is now free to travel outside the
  city, should he decide to try to get away.  He has the full
  powers of a 25 HD ghost.
  �
  THE CLOCK
  by anonymous
  Youngstown, Ohio
  ong ago in a city of obscure origin and name there
  was a clockmaker.  This clockmaker was the best
  craftsman in his field.  He had an odd hobby for a
  man of such mechanical means, that of magic.  His
  fascination with this craft was a result of the fear of his
  mortality.  So through his studies he searched for an
  escape from death.
  In his seventieth year he finally realized his time was
  drawing to a close when on the same day two miracles
  happened to him.  Each aided the other.  As he searched
  through the basement of a recently committed man he
  found an old spellbook.  He quickly realized this book
  was written in an order from the easiest spells of its
  contents to the most difficult.  He promptly flipped to the
  final page and found what he had longed for for so long.
  A spell for immortality.
  So amazed he was with his find he thoroughly read
  the entire description of the spell.  That was when he
  found what caused the spell to be so difficult.  Unlike
  most spells which are mainly influenced by a
  combination of words, materials, and motions, this spell
  revolved around a central item.  A giant clock with
  precision to rival the very stars.
  This was definitely not the undertaking of a normal
  mage.  Only one with extensive experience in the field of
  clockwork would be capable of constructing such a
  monument to the ultimate of cheats.
  Upon his return to his store a messenger rapped
  upon his door.  The man was a messenger from the
  council.  A hall was to be constructed in the center of
  town to be the new housing of the council.  His expertise
  was required for the centerpiece of the tower.  An
  enormous clock of unrivaled proportions would be
  constructed by a hundred men under the command of the
  old clockmaker.
  He was overjoyed with this wonderful turn of events.
  This was precisely what he needed.  He excitedly
  accepted the offer and quickly ushered the messenger
  out.  The sooner to study the spell and design the clock of
  his freedom from death.
  Five years later the tower half of the hall was almost
  completed.  One thing had still not been completed.  The
  clock.  With only four months until the scheduled
  commemoration of the clock the clockmaker hadn’t even
  begun construction.  He had threats from the council that
  if at commemoration time he still was not finished they
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  would have a hanging instead, with his neck in the rope.
  This was the old man’s last chance, so foolishly he took
  shortcuts.  Desperation can cause the mind to make
  mistakes and cause one’s thoughts to deteriorate, as the
  clockmaker found out.
  Finally the day of commemoration had arrived.  All
  the townsfolk were there.  When the sun had reached its
  highest peak in the heavens a great hush came over the
  land and then the tolling of the bell began.  At first the
  bells started off with an unusually quiet note that slowly
  increased in intensity climaxing with a great roaring
  torrent of ringing and gonging that was suddenly
  silenced.  The townsfolk suddenly burst into cheers and
  whoops of pride at what one of them had created.  Slowly
  though, one by one each person realized that person
  whom they cheered for so was not there.  Then the true
  tolling began.
  The clock tower struck out with such a ringing that
  no human thought possible from a timepiece of any size.
  Frightfully haunting yet mystifyingly entrancing the clock
  rang out and was once again suddenly silenced.  But only
  momentarily.  For once the chimes had ceased a cause for
  a new title for that day swooped from the sky.  Clouds of
  innumerable crows rolled over and upon the town.  The
  citizens panicked.  Parents grabbed their children from
  the streets and ran for cover.  Only the luckiest could
  save their young.  Young and old alike, a hundred people
  died that day.  Once the crows had pecked clean the
  bones of those they had killed they turned on the homes.
  By sundown the crows disappeared just as suddenly as
  they had come.
  Sure that the old clockmaker was to blame for this
  massacre the townsfolk managed to assemble a party to
  confront him.  As they were about to enter the tower the
  doors easily swung open.  One of the party kicked the
  tower as he passed through the doorway and instantly
  turned into a decayed pile of remains.  The others were
  thoroughly horrified but proceeded anyway.
  As they searched each of a hundred rooms they grew
  tired easily and found themselves resting before the
  fourth level.  As they huddled together they had a
  horrifying realization.  They were rapidly aging.  Rather
  than waiting for their energy to return they hurried for the
  exit.  The longer they stayed the older they became.  As it
  seemed they might almost make it out with a few years
  left, they heard a horrifying youthful cackle from the
  uppermost region of the tower and then heard the faint
  rustle of flapping wings.  As soon as they reached the
  first floor the onslaught of crows befell them.  None
  returned to their families.
  It has since been concluded that any who assaults the
  tower will have all youth and life sucked from their body
  and any who shall venture into the tower of the insane
  clockmaster will have their life slowly drained from
  them.  The lives of these unfortunate souls are then
  transferred to that of the clockmaster.  He will do
  anything to keep his captives within his home.  He has
  since found many devious ways to detain visitors.  He is
  truly insane in all but self preservation as a result of his
  careless shortcuts.  He may also never leave his tower or
  instantly decay to nothingness.
  Kargatane Note: The author’s name was missing from
  this entry.  If you’re the author of this entry, please
  contact us at kargatane@kargatane.com so we can
  properly attribute you.
  �
  
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  THE CRESCENT
  MOON
  by James Wyatt
  Berkeley, California
  hat wreck?  She’s the Crescent Moon.  Listen up,
  you steer clear of that ship, you hear?  Why?
  Because she was lost at sea eight years ago, that’s
  why!
  “The story?  First go hang the lanterns; this fog is
  thick tonight.  Then come back here and I’ll tell you the
  story.”
  The Crescent Moon is a haunted cog that appears from
  time to time in the Nocturnal Sea.  When she drops
  anchor near a port, sailors sleep lightly in their bunks, if
  they can sleep at all, for they say her arrival is an ill omen
  of the worst sort.  Nightmares plague any sailor who
  sleeps on the sea that night, and some of those sailors
  simply never wake up.
  “You got the lanterns hung?  Good.  I don’t like the
  looks of the fog out there.
  “Well, I promised you a tale, lad, and that you shall
  have.  The Crescent Moon plied these waters just like we
  did, hoping to make a fortune with trade to the east.  Her
  captain, Landry his name, was one of the first to set sail
  from Egertus when she became a port city, though he lost
  several ships before the Crescent Moon dragged him
  down with her.  Folks laughed at him for setting sail into
  this thick fog—it was even worse in those days—and no
  one rated his chances very high.  Called him a foolish
  dreamer.  But he was right—he was one of the first to
  drop anchor at Meerdorf.
  “They say that’s about when his nightmares
  started—recurring dreams of failure, where he suffered
  total humiliation.  If that’s true, then his nightmares only
  drove him to greater and greater efforts—he kept
  exploring the eastward sea until he found the storms of
  ice past Kirchenheim.
  “Four times he sailed the Crescent Moon into those
  storms, only to be driven back in defeat.  He never
  returned from the fifth voyage.  At least not alive.
  “The Crescent Moon, though, she returned.  Rime-
  encrusted, her sails in tatters, and no sign of any crew,
  just like you saw her tonight.  She comes into port with
  the setting sun, drops anchor but never docks.
  Overnight, she just sits there, dead in the water—not a
  light on her decks, and no breeze can stir those rags of
  sails any more.  But with morning light she sails out
  again.  She takes nothing out, and leaves nothing behind.
  “Nothing, that is, but some bad dreams.”
  The Crescent Moon went down while sailing toward
  Todstein, the island home of the necromancer Meredoth.
  No ship has ever made a safe landing on that fell island,
  and many seamen have lost their lives in the attempt.
  Captain Landry, however, had the unfortunate distinction
  of being a victim of the Nightmare Court when he lost his
  life.  Tormented by dreams of failure and inadequacy,
  Landry saw his worst nightmares come true as the
  Crescent Moon sank beneath the waves.  The emotional
  devastation he suffered was so powerful that it brought
  his spirit into undeath.  Restless in death, Landry still
  pilots the Crescent Moon through the icy waters of the
  Nocturnal Sea, feeding on the nightmares of sailors like
  himself.
  Captain Samuel Landry (Third-Magnitude
  Ghost): AC -2; MV Fl 6 (C); HD 7; hp 38; THAC0 13;
  #AT 1; Dmg special; Int exceptional (15); AL CE.
  Special Attacks: Wisdom drain: Drains 1 point of
  Wisdom with successful attack, recovered at 1
  point/week.  Cause despair: Everyone within 100’ of the
  ghost must make a saving throw vs. spell or suffer a -2
  penalty to all attack, saving throw, and proficiency check
  rolls.  Cause nightmares: Affects sleeping victim within
  20’ (usually sailors in their boats).  Victim suffers an
  extremely terrifying nightmare (see page 16 of The Rules
  of Dreams and Nightmares in The Nightmare Lands
  boxed set).  Depending on the outcome of the nightmare,
  the victim may fall into a coma, go insane, or even die.
  Special Defenses: +2 or better weapon to hit.
  Immune to biological spells.  Invisible and incorporeal.  -
  1 penalty to turn attempts.
  Weaknesses: Holy water causes ld6 hp damage.
  Becomes more solid (AC 4, +1 weapons will hit) within
  earshot of a foghorn.  Repelled by mirrors—can’t
  approach within 5’.
  The ghost of Captain Landry appears as a billowing
  cloud of ice-cold vapors or mist.  He cannot leave the
  Nocturnal Sea, though he can freely drift above its
  surface or enter ships afloat on it.
  “Yes, there’s some who’ve tried to solve the mystery
  of the Crescent Moon.  They row out through the fog,
  and some of them even come back to tell of their failure.
  Some drift back in to shore, sound asleep in their skiffs.
  Others climb aboard, only to be knocked overboard by a
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  swinging mast or rolling barrel.  Most of them have
  nightmares for days and days afterward, long after the
  Crescent Moon has sailed on.
  “Like I said, lad, steer clear of that ship.”
  Captain Landry maintains a mystical link with his ship,
  which gives him extraordinary powers aboard the vessel.
  He cannot be turned when he is on his ship.  He can
  move any object aboard at will—including possessions
  brought onboard by foolhardy explorers, or even the
  explorers themselves.  All characters setting foot on the
  Crescent Moon are automatically affected by a
  neverending nightmare spell that takes affect when they
  next sleep.  Captain Landry can cast sleep, at will, on
  anyone within range of the ship.
  “Quite a fog we’ve got tonight.  You’d better get to
  sleep, though, lad.  We’ve a long day ahead of us.  Me?
  No, I don’t sleep when the Crescent Moon is around.
  You go ahead, though.  Pleasant dreams.”
  �
  DARKBLOOD
  TOWER
  by Chad M. Paxton
  Fredericktown, Pennsylvania
  s you step through the mists, the hills and valleys
  that lie before you are barren of trees.  The only
  landmark is a tower in a short distance, with what
  seems to be a light coming from a window near the top of
  the tower.  You begin to approach the tower, wondering
  on the lack of foliage, but happy for it nonetheless.  For if
  there are no trees, there are no trees for something…
  unfriendly to hide behind.  Reassuring yourself of your
  relative safety, you walk toward this tower, a soft glow
  from the moon lighting your way.
  Trekking toward what hopes to prove a friendly
  abode, you begin to notice the chill in the air, the
  quietness, the lack of even the most gentle of breezes.
  Still, the light from the tower beckons you, “seek
  sanctuary here”.
  You approach the tower cautiously, hoping its
  occupants to be friendly, or at least to be living.  You
  begin to notice something odd about this tower which
  becomes more and more noticeable the closer you come
  to it.  The light doesn’t come from a window, per se, but
  from a glass dome that sits atop the tower.  Yes, a large
  glass dome, an observation post, perhaps a place to
  watch the heavens and the earth.
  The tower itself is nothing out of the ordinary, a
  large stone structure; vines near the base, creeping
  upwards; a few windows here and there.  Again your
  mind is fascinated by the dome.  How did it get there?
  Placed upon a tall tower like that, the glass seems to be
  one large piece.  You look up again to marvel at this
  structural miracle, and you notice there is an enshadowed
  figure looking back at you.
  The door then opens, and a whisper is heard all
  around you:
  “Enter.  You are welcome here.”
  You turn to look at your traveling companions, and
  enter into the foyer.  The surroundings tell of a home of a
  practitioner of magic, as books lie against one wall.
  Tomes of knowledge and myth, folklore and philosophic
  passages.
  Stuffed chairs and a fireplace line another wall, as a
  holy symbol hangs above the mantle, illuminated softly
  from the fire.
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  “Within this room, I can see and hear you.”  The
  voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere.  “I
  entertain few visitors, and even fewer of those are
  friends.  I must ask each of you, touch the holy symbol
  above the hearth.  For my peace of mind.”
  Each in turn, you touch the symbol of faith, proving
  your status as one of the living.  Then, a door opens.  A
  man enters.
  Slowly he looks at each of you.
  (“There’s something wrong with him,” you think.)
  He wears black silk, trimmed in dark purple.
  (“What is it?”)
  His long, flowing white hair.
  (“He’s just not… right.”)
  “I am Darkblood,” he says.
  He has no eyes.
  �
  DEAD END
  by Jennifer Murray
  Lafayette, Indiana
  ou find yourself in a dark, damp dungeon.  Cries of
  pain and agony, fill the air.  You look around
  yourself, and see next to nothing.  The moonlight
  streaming through a tiny crack in the wall is your only
  illumination.
  You plunge forward in the darkness with your hands
  outstretched in front of you.  Your fingers brush the wall,
  and you follow it to a narrow passageway.  You continue
  along until you can see light up ahead.  You turn a comer
  and find that the passageways here are lit by torches
  spaced every ten feet.  You continue onward.
  You find yourself in a cavernous room that seems
  more like a cave than a man-made area.  It is darker here,
  but not so much that you can’t see.  Stone soldiers line
  the upper section of the room, all in a perfectly straight
  line.  Their eyes are all glowing a ghastly purple.
  “Who goes there?”
  The voice echoes through the cavern, but you are
  unable to pinpoint it.
  The soldiers slowly stir to life.  You know you have
  no chance against that many fighters, so you run for all
  you are worth toward the far end of the cavern, narrowly
  escaping the clutching fingers of the soldiers.  A bright
  white light seems to be coming from underneath some
  sort of a small door nearly hidden on the far wall of the
  cavern.
  You throw yourself at that door, and manage to get it
  open and go beyond.  You turn quickly and slam the door
  closed.  It immediately glows with a red aura that seems
  to be giving off intense amounts of heat, so you back
  away toward the far side of the room.  It seems to be
  some sort of a lab.  You look around and find that there is
  only one other exit, so you attempt to open that door.
  A large explosion rocks you backwards and slams
  you against a wall.
  As you come to, you look up to see some whisper of
  a man, nearly invisible as he is so insubstantial, peeking
  down at you.
  As you return his gaze, your mind is filled with the
  words, “You should not have come, you will be
  punished.”
  With no more that a nod of his head, your body is
  filled with the most intense pain you could ever have
  imagined.  The wraith turns almost green as his power
  envelopes him.
  “Now you will die.”
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  You feel your skin start smoking, so you look toward
  your hands, only to find that the skin has nearly melted
  cleanly away.  Mercifully, you pass out, and finally die.
  �
  THE DEVIL’S PIT
  by Pierre van Rooden
  Amsterdam, the Netherlands
  pvrooden@ttpdiskad.nl
  veryone knows the stories of how the breaking of a
  vow can spell disaster and bad luck.  At Madig’s
  Ville, a small village of mostly farmers, this can get
  more literal than one might wish.  The well in the center
  of the village has been named the Devil’s Pit by the
  locals.  It is customary in these parts to make ones
  wedding vows or seal closing deals in trade by casting a
  coin in the dark pools of the village well.  Such a thing,
  however, is not a wise act to do in the Devil’s Pit at
  Madig’s Ville.
  According to local lore, this was once the place
  where the woodsman Anton and the lovely Lumiere
  made their vow to eternally love each other and never
  part sides, by each casting a coin in the water of the well.
  True love, however, is not always that easy to
  obtain.  To Lumiere, so the tale goes, the relationship
  with Anton did not evolve into the happiness that she had
  desired.  Indeed, the two often fell into quarrels, as Anton
  was jealous and quick to anger, and it did not take
  Lumiere long to figure out that Anton was not, after all,
  the one she wanted to spend her life with.
  Unfortunately, Anton was obsessed with Lumiere.
  To him, the vow was sacred, and when Lumiere, after
  many fights, broke off their engagement he was furious.
  When she thereafter also proved susceptible to the
  charms of his teenage rival, his sanity shattered.
  It is said that, in an especially dark night, Anton
  went to Lumiere’s house once more to demand her
  everdying love, as she had vowed.  He found her and her
  newfound lover in arms, and, in his rage, killed them
  both with one fell stroke of his axe.
  Anton’s dead body was found that morning in the
  well.  Some say he drowned himself, others that he had
  stumbled and fallen on his way home, thus punished for
  his hideous crime.  Some others say his death was even
  less natural, a punishment of the gods.  No one can tell.
  Soon after that fateful day, the well became known
  as a cursed place, and hence was named the Devil’s Pit,
  for to make a vow at the well was to forge a pact with the
  fiends themselves.  Anyone who now makes a vow at the
  still waters better be sure about it.  For if the vow is
  broken, it is said, Anton’s spirit will rise from the pool,
  and his axe will strike once more… at the vow breaker.
  Some have said they saw the tormented spirit rise at
  night, screaming in anguish.  The following day, people
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  more often than not would find the body of a boastful
  man, who arrogantly made his vow over the well, most
  often a vow he could not possibly keep.  And despite the
  risks, vows are being made and broken again and again,
  for tradition is strong, and the human nature fickle.
  So be ware to cast a coin at the well of Madig’s
  Ville, for one risks the chance of losing more than merely
  one’s honor…
  �
  FEAR
  by Andrew Polewarczyk
  Princeton, Massachusetts
  he wind-empowered rain stings his pale face, and
  the hell-wrought gales pull at dark cloak, which he
  strains to keep wrapped about his frame.  Much
  like a faithful hound following only a few steps behind
  treads yet another who braves the agitated weather this
  night.  The wind rips at his tortured figure as well, almost
  lifting him from the rain-soaked, muddy ground beneath
  his feet.  The men stand like solitary shadows against this
  vengeful night.  Reaching the summit of a small hill they
  spy, at long last, refuge from the harsh weather of this
  desolate land.  “Come Callert, there is where we’ll find
  shelter from this tempest!” the taller man shouts, more to
  hear his own voice then to inform his struggling assistant.
  “Yes, Master,” Callert replies, his words broken by
  labored breaths.  The master continues on, not waiting
  for Callert to regain his wind.  The master’s eyes are
  locked on what is ahead; a grand abbey stands before
  them.  Two towering spires reach toward the clouded
  heavens, each tower harboring a large bell to awaken the
  hearts of the faithful from the dark sleep of sin.  To the
  left of this massive structure lies a cemetery
  encompassed by a wall of piled stones.  The wind has
  removed many pieces of the wall and has thrown them to
  the ground, revealing many gravestones.  The markers
  are cracked and crooked, the names of the deceased
  forever erased by the years of fierce weather.  Gargoyles
  perch upon the slate roofs, grinning wickedly from the
  abbey’s stonework.  Yellow lightning reflects off ancient
  stained glass marking the abbey’s chapel.
  Rain is still pouring down from the night sky when
  Callert and his master reach the abbey door.  The master
  grasps the plain brass knocker and slams it down three
  times.  Each knock echoes like a thunderbolt splitting the
  damp air.  No answer comes to the grand wooden portal.
  Again he grabs the knocker and announces his presence
  with three more knocks.  “I guess there be no caretaker
  awake to greet us; we shall enter and pay dues in the
  morn,” the master concludes.
  “But master!” Callert’s voice is shrill.  “This place
  frightens me, let’s find rest elsewhere!”
  “You forget you are traveling with me, Callert!  Dr.
  Jean Abat-jour fears nothing!”  He pulls open the great
  door and enters.  A bolt of lightning flashes across the
  sky and Callert scampers in, finding his master standing
  in the middle of a giant chapel.  Stone benches wait in
  rows on either side, a plain altar inhabits the room’s far
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  end, and narrow windows draw up the high chapel walls.
  “Here!” the master proclaims, “is where we shall spend
  this night!”
  They light a fire and eat a meal of salted meats and
  dried fruit.  Then they sit in silence.  The doctor leans
  back against a stone bench.  Callert’s eyes dart from
  comer to comer and at the shadows which seem to be
  creeping toward them.  Suddenly, “Did … did you hear
  that, Master?” Callert stammers.
  “For once let your imagination be leashed,” the
  master speaks.  A small rock skips out into the firelight.
  “Master!  Master!” Callert begins, but he is silenced by
  the wave of a gloved hand.  Abat-jour reaches for the
  heavily jeweled dirk strapped at his side.
  “Who goes there?” he thunders.  A dark robed figure
  emerges from one of the thicker shadows.
  “Stay your weapon, good traveler, I am called
  Mechant and I am the caretaker of these halls.  This place
  is called Maudit Abbey.  I apologize for not having
  attended you earlier, but I was sleeping and did not hear
  you enter.  Please sit.”
  Jean replaces his dirk,.  “I am Dr. Jean Abat-jour,
  and this is my assistant Callert.”  They turn to Callert
  who sits pale and shaking, his knees pulled to his chin.
  “You must excuse Callert,” the doctor growls, “he
  frightens easily.  Pray remove your hood and draw closer
  to the fire.”
  Mechant sits before the fire, opposite Jean.  “Thank
  you.  I do become so cold at times.”  He turns to Callert.
  “I know it is little consolation, but your fears are well
  founded.”
  “They are?” Callert chokes.
  “I will tell you of the evil which haunts this place,”
  he speaks.  Callert looks to his master, panic written
  across his face.  Jean nods and turns back to Mechant.
  “An untold age ago,” Mechant begins, “there stood
  here a temple to an ancient and forgotten god, Odemi,
  Lord of Fear.  At one time Odemi had a large and faithful
  following until conquerors from the west swept across
  this land.  They saw Odemi as a primitive and powerless
  god.  They slew all faithful to him.  The high priest,
  Tnahcem, seeing his brothers and sisters slaughtered,
  cried out to Odemi for vengeance, but the conquerors
  defiled Odemi’s temple and with its fallen stones they
  constructed this abbey, on the very spot, to house the
  priesthood to their god.  Then, one by one, these monks
  were massacred, cut down by Death’s scythe while
  praying to their god.  Through their deaths Odemi
  granted the high priest’s final wish and eternally bound
  Tnahcem’s spirit to these halls.  Rumors speak of how
  Tnahcem knows the deepest fears of anyone entering this
  accursed place.  He uses the knowledge of these fears
  and his unnatural powers to torture them.  He offers their
  fear to Odemi in the hope that this act will release him to
  his long awaited rest.”
  “What fools do you take us for?” laughs Jean.
  Mechant then removes his hood.  A deep gash, oozing
  crimson, is drawn across his throat.  Demonic designs
  are traced in blood on his face.  His eyes, red as hell’s
  inferno, flame out at Jean, who gasps.  Callert faints.
  “Look, behold my revenge!” Mechant cries.  Joan
  turns.  Half-decaying corpses of the abbey priests rise to
  their feet.  The shadows thicken and return to a wretched
  half-life, fulfilling Mechant’s twisted wishes.
  Praises to Odemi, Lord of Fear, are revealed, written
  in his offerings’ life blood upon the chapel walls.
  Mechant rises, “Enlighten me; dear, sweet doctor, what
  does a great man like you fear?  Will you tell me?  Or
  must I show you myself?”
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  THE GATES
  OF DUSK
  by Geoff Gabriel Sinclair
  Scarborough, Ontario
  In a Barovian tavern, upon the ‘Bold Ones Wanted’
  board, this particular listing has caught your eye.  Roll
  for Intelligence to see if you are able to read the messy
  writing.
  he wind howled especially audibly there,
  throughout the estate of the little-known
  necromancer Villik Scorscindusk, its hills dreamily
  inviting, brushed by strong breezes as I, the wary
  traveler, made a long, hard trek to the broken house atop.
  I was young then, a ranger, searching mischievously
  for uncharted places.  I walked proudly, strutting with my
  trusty walking cane clutched in hand.
  I remember halting briefly (during the only rest
  period of my venture, mind you) to get a drink of water
  from my flask.  I drank and drank, thirst diminishing
  when suddenly, I was startled by a bolt of the most vivid,
  godly lightning as it slithered out of the clouds and struck
  swiftly the roof of the old mansion.  Near the house, I
  suppose due to stray sparks, a tree was lit into flames,
  providing light which allowed me to see the mansion, the
  horror of it all–five levels, all of them with careless, ajar
  windows, their red velvet draperies fluttering noisily in
  the wind, reaching for me like hordes of aggressive,
  ghoulish hands.  The front doors, gigantic in their
  devilish splendor, remained closed and somehow seemed
  to boast the mansion’s enormous level of ghostly
  intimidation.  I felt the way one might feel if kneeling at
  the foot of a regal, kingly black serpent, its structure
  teeming with life, possessed by an underworld god.
  Nevertheless, I continued on, limping with my cane,
  swinging the bum leg with flawless rhythm.
  By the time I reached the top, the foggy, grey sky
  had permitted rain, smothering the tree’s fire to bring
  darkness once again.  From my pack, I brought forth a
  mid-sized torch and lit its oiled peak.
  The doors were more enormous than I had
  anticipated, an arch of jagged wood and metal with a
  yawning black dragon headpiece for its knocker.  I
  timidly reached up, grasped the hideous, serpentine ring,
  and rapped three times.  One, two, three… and three
  echoes followed, ricocheting between the walls in the
  mansion.
  There was no answer, as I expected, so I pushed the
  door, pressing all my weight into it, and the hinges began
  to squeal, low-pitched then high, higher and higher until
  the door suddenly gave way to my efforts and eased
  inward.
  I stood at the threshold in shock, cold fear invading
  my body as my gaze locked on the overwhelming silver
  chandelier hovering near the ceiling high above.  There
  were humming white spirits, maybe four of diem,
  encircling the chandelier continuously, emitting a low,
  droning moan.  Their presence lit the area generously,
  prompting shadows to dance along the red velvet walls–
  shadows of figurines on wall-mounted shelves, depicting
  a diversity of children playing, crying, running, jumping;
  it was all so very impressive and when I looked more
  carefully, I saw that every statue, even the life-sized ones,
  were of children and incredibly detailed as well as
  preserved.
  I snapped my attention to the spirits again and drew
  my sword.  Thank the gods for all things elven, I
  whispered, weapon brandished, lighter than a dove’s
  feather in my hand.  The spirits came to a sudden halt of
  movement and one of them, the largest one, stretched for
  me, its neck lengthening so that the head could address
  me face to face.  I quickly pointed my sword toward it,
  arm outstretched to keep a reasonable measure of
  distance between us.  The spirit had the facial
  appearance of a young man and the voice of an elderly,
  dying one.
  “Enter the gates of dusk, if you will,” it sang.  “…to
  explore, find adventure on this hill.”
  Another of the spirits made descent toward me,
  slower than the first, smiled, and joined in voice with the
  other.
  “Find the bride of Master Villik and be assured,”
  they continued, “that your spirit, your essence, your soul
  will be granted a treasure, a gift to conquer the night.”
  My spirits were lifted.  A treasure?  How brilliant to
  have stumbled upon this!  But I was no fool.  My
  sword’s tender blade began to shimmer with gold light,
  humming with active energy.
  “And what precisely is this gift?” I asked.
  “To conquer the night is to master the powers of
  your soul,” they chimed, and withdrew, pulling
  themselves up to the chandelier once again.  “Will you
  descend to the house?”
  “Descend?  Are we not in the mansion at this
  moment?”
  They were gone.  I suppose my stubbornness
  aggravated them.  Appearing to take their place, a
  wooden floor panel slid open, shedding forth luminous
  light.  A staircase wound to the bottom of this trench,
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  some miles below.  Jutting from the sides of the staircase
  every two steps, there was a metal platform, complete
  with railing.  I figured them to be different levels of the
  apparent dungeon one could walk into.
  Stubborn, ever so independent, I simply walked past
  the opening in the floor and explored the entire house
  above ground.  I found nothing but two extra torches, a
  red velvet cloak with hood (Villik quite obviously
  cherished velvet), and an envelope.  Standing near the
  opening in the floor once again, I opened this envelope
  and read the letter within.  It was a poem and this is how
  it read:
  I have naught to find my flower,
  I have naught to find my love,
  Such greater forbidden power,
  Has taken my wedding dove,
  Fight I will the beasts,
  The ancient rulers of the pain,
  To be united with my dear,
  To keep myself so sane
  I folded the poem, returned it to the envelope and
  sighed.  I am within the house below at this moment,
  aiding in the search of Villik Scorscindusk’s bride.  I
  have reason to believe that he searches with me, most
  likely on a lower level than I.  Feel free to join us.  The
  reward, I can safely assure you, will be more than
  handsome.
  �
  THE GLASS
  HOUSE
  by Marco Torres
  Sacramento, California
  n the domain of Richemulot, outside of the city of
  Mortigny near the Borcan border, there lie the
  remains of a greenhouse.  Forever in the dark shade of
  the trees around it, the marvelous structure stands two
  stories high and measures nearly 200 feet in length.
  Unfortunately, the structure is incomplete.  It is only a
  skeleton of what the original builder must have had
  planned, for it contains only a few glass windows, and
  only a single plant grows within.  A passing observer
  need not wonder why it was never completed, however.
  The people of Mortigny know the story of the Glass
  House quite well.
  Nearly fifty years ago, there lived a wealthy and
  intelligent merchant who resided in Mortigny.  Most of
  his business was with the neighboring domain of Borca,
  so he traveled there often.  On one of his visits, he met
  the daughter of one of his associates.  She wasn’t
  incredibly beautiful, but years of living a lonely life as a
  bachelor, the yearning for an heir, and the fact that her
  father was wealthy stirred the merchant’s heart.  After
  arranging things with her father, the merchant took his
  new bride back to his home.  After spending time with
  her, he grew to truly love her.  She, however, grew to
  resent him, for he had taken her away from the only home
  she had ever known, and thrust her into a new land.  She
  never learned to love him, choosing instead to love
  someone else.
  Shortly after moving into her new home, the lady
  took a liking to a handsome servant.  She carried on an
  affair with him for many years, her husband never
  noticing because he was always away on business.  At
  first, she only met with the servant when her husband
  was away on long trips, but after a few years, she began
  to take more risks.  She met with the gentleman far more
  frequently, and during times when her husband was away
  for only one or two days.  She was testing her luck and
  loving it.  She would have gotten away with her affair
  had fate not stepped in.
  On their tenth anniversary, the merchant decided he
  would give his wife a special gift.  He would build a
  magnificent greenhouse for her: a place to contain
  nature’s beauty for his Beauty.  He hired the finest
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  architects and engineers to design and build it right
  before he left for an important meeting with a Borcan
  associate.  Before he left, however, he placed what he
  hoped would be the first of many plants within the
  greenhouse.  It was an extremely rare plant, one that was
  said to grow only on the soil of some lost domain.
  According to the man he had purchased it from, the fruit
  of the plant was a key ingredient in curing certain deadly
  diseases.  It was also quite tasty, and a delicacy in that
  forgotten land.  While he was away, his wife discovered
  the greenhouse he was building for her, as well as the
  plant, and developed a taste for its fruit.  Realizing she
  could have two good things at once, she chose the
  greenhouse as the location for her meetings with her
  lover.  The merchant returned during one of these
  encounters, but rather than heading straight for his house
  as he normally did, he decided to check the progress the
  builders had made on the greenhouse.  It was late, and
  the workers had gone home, but upon nearing the
  building, he heard voices.  He approached cautiously,
  drawing the sword he always carried at his side when he
  traveled.  Upon entering the incomplete building, the
  merchant’s whole world was shattered.
  There he found his wife and her lover, both as
  startled as the merchant was.  His wife rushed to him,
  pleading for forgiveness and spouting excuses, but the
  merchant paid her no attention.  With his sword already
  drawn, he threw his wife aside, and pierced the heart of
  her lover.  Then his attention turned to her.
  “I will not let you go so easily,” he told her.  “We
  made a vow, to stay together until death did us part.  But
  you obviously didn’t take that vow seriously.”  The
  merchant wiped away the tears that trickled down his
  cheek.  “We will stay here together, forever reliving this
  cruel torture that you have caused, until enough people
  have shared our fate to fill the windows of this symbol of
  my love.  And this time, you will take this vow
  seriously.”  Then, he took his wife into his arms in a final
  embrace, and thrust his sword through her back, straight
  into his gut.  It is said that at that very moment, the first
  windows of the Glass House took form.
  According to the tale, the Glass House was cursed
  by the merchant’s final words.  Now, anyone who enters
  the house becomes marked by it, and they are doomed to
  suffer from a death caused by the betrayal of someone
  they care about.  In addition, the curse traps the souls of
  those it marks by creating a new window to contain them.
  This window appears at the exact moment in which the
  victim dies, and contains a small, nearly invisible
  bloodstain.  Anyone who gazes into it sees a barely
  visible re-enactment of the victim’s death.  Some of these
  reenactments are gruesome, and can drive the strongest
  of men quite mad.  There are quite a number of
  bloodstained windows already, as many courageous
  people have braved the curse of the house to obtain the
  miraculous fruit of the plant within.  Unfortunately, the
  curse usually takes effect by making the very person
  saved by the fruit be the one to betray the fool who
  braved the evil of the Glass House.
  The souls of everyone trapped within the windows
  will be released once enough victims have been claimed
  to complete the construction of the building.  Then, and
  only then, will the curse finally be broken, and the souls
  inside be allowed to rest.
  �
  
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  THE GROTTO
  by Robert VandeVeegaete
  Salt Lake City, Utah
  vandevee@eng.utah.edu
  eep in the forests of Richemulot lies the Grotto.
  The ground suddenly rises up to form a cliff
  which is split by a steep cleft with a small rill
  flowing out.  Beside the rill is a well tended path.  The
  rill and path split the four foot width of the cleft as it
  winds back into the cliff.  About twenty feet above the
  cleft ends, and the sky or an occasional overhanging tree
  can be seen.  At each turn, grasses and wild flowers line
  the walls.  After going about fifty yards the cleft opens up
  into a hollow.  On the far side of the hollow water pours
  from the rock wall about eight feet up and falls down
  through a series of small pools to a pond below.  Soft
  moss lines the edges of the pool and water lilies float in
  full bloom.  The rill flows from the pond through a sward
  and out the cleft.
  The sward is a fifty by eighty foot oval with bushes
  and trees lining the side and the steep rock wall behind.
  Many oak trees overhang the edges at the top of the rock
  walls with a circle of bright, blue sky in the middle.
  Beside the pool is a cave opening, and on the other side
  of the cave is a large oak covered in ivy.  A swing hangs
  from one of the branches of the oak, and the ivy has
  grown down the ropes making it look like a natural part
  of the tree.  The cave is about eight feet high and has a
  floor of sand.  No tracks can be seen here.  Back about
  fifteen feet it opens up into a room that seems to be
  someone’s well-tended home.  There is a fire-pit in the
  back with a crevice in the ceiling above for the smoke to
  filter out, and a cooking rack and pots to the side.  At one
  side of the room is a table and two chairs.  A bed is on
  the other side on the floor with a fine chest at its foot.  In
  the chest are a few dresses and other clothing, most made
  for practical use rather than style.  A passage leads off to
  two more rooms.  The first is a storage room with shelves
  lined with herbs, sacks of grain and clay jars of preserved
  fruits.  The other room holds a small underground lake
  and has water-filled passages that lead back into the
  darkness.  Light from the torches reflects off the lake
  onto the wet ceiling in a beautiful, almost hypnotic
  pattern.
  As time passes, things start to change.  The sky
  darkens as if a storm is rolling over.  The water from the
  spring becomes dark.  The pond becomes brackish and
  expands, turning the sward into a marsh.  The rock walls
  are covered with algae where water slides down, and the
  rocks crumble making climbing impossible.  The top of
  the cleft closes in, leaving a low cave with roots and
  moss hanging down from the ceiling and the brackish rill
  covering the floor.  Where the swing once hung, a pair of
  nooses now dangle.  Lizards and snakes can be seen
  creeping around the edges of the hollow while bugs
  swarm above your heads.  The plants slowly wither and
  die, leaving a carpet of dead leaves around the edge of
  the hollow.  In the larger cave, the ceiling is also covered
  with dangling roots and mosses where spiders weave
  their webs.  The dead leaves blow into the cave and a
  jumble of old tracks become apparent.  In the cave, the
  smoke hole clogs up while the furniture becomes worn
  and finally falls apart.  The food in the storage room rots
  on the shelves.  The underground lake becomes brackish
  and creatures can occasionally be seen surfacing for a
  few seconds in the dark water.  Soft crying can be heard
  throughout the hollow and caves.  This process takes
  place gradually over a period of about four hours.
  Unfortunately the decayed state is reality and the
  other state is only a memory of what it used to be like.
  Long ago, a druidess was drawn into Ravenloft.  She
  found this place and used her druidic abilities to make it
  into her home.  She lived here in peace, caring for the
  surrounding forests when Grishnith, a werewolf from
  Arkandale, came upon her and captured her.  He fouled
  her home, enjoying the torment that came from watching
  the place that she loved be destroyed, then murdered her.
  Her broken spirit remained, but could do no more than
  make the illusion of what her home once looked like.
  Grishnith used this place as his lair for a few years before
  he left for a new hunting ground.  When he was finally
  wounded beyond the hope of recovery, he made his way
  back here and died in the underground lake.
  Short of a wish, the only way to set the spirit of the
  druidess free is the restoration of her home.  Grishnith’s
  remains must be removed and burnt to ashes and the
  remains of his victims must be removed and buried
  outside the entrance to the cleft.  All of the decayed
  matter and strange creatures must be removed and the
  water (both the pond outside and the underground lake
  which it is fed from) must be purified.  New plants must
  be brought in and cared for until they are established.
  The remains of the druidess must be buried in the hollow
  and an oak tree planted over her grave.  When all of this
  is done, her spirit will be able to leave, and she will leave
  her blessing on this place.  Those buried outside the
  entrance will rise up to become guardians against any
  evil that tries to enter.
  �
  D
  
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  THE HANGING
  TREE
  by Jason Taylor
  San Jose, California
  The Towne of Despayre
  he frontier mining town of Despayre has always
  had a reputation as a rough town.  Although most
  of the local population consists of peaceful miners,
  those of less than reputable morals frequent the town
  because of its relative isolation from big cities and their
  lawmen.  The town itself sits at the base of a mountain
  rich with copper deposits.  The mines are only an hour
  walk from the edge of town, along an old and much worn
  dirt road that leads up the mountain.
  The Sheriff
  Far back in the town’s past, when the first tavern’s walls
  still smelled of the lumberyard, the local rabble had
  grown to be too much trouble for the miners and
  businessmen to tolerate.  They sent word into the city to
  notify the magistrate there that the problem had grown
  out of the control of their sheriff, who could barely
  handle the town drunks.  Annoyed by their demands, the
  magistrate sent a sheriff into town to deal with the
  problems.  His name was Bartholomew Ivanushka.  He
  had a fierce reputation as having no mercy with trouble-
  making riff-raff.  His appearance was a welcome relief to
  the townsfolk, who looked at him as a savior.  He quickly
  replaced the local sheriff and deputized some of the
  locals to form a town militia and posse.  It was made
  known to all through a public proclamation that the
  lawlessness would cease or be dealt with harshly.
  Unfortunately for them some of the more dense hooligans
  took no heed of his warning.
  The Beginning
  Later that same night, a young miner by the name of
  Sergei had too much too drink.  He took it upon himself
  to beat a harlot who refused to submit herself to him.
  When word reached the sheriff hours later, he personally
  went to the man’s house and dragged him out of bed by
  the hair.  In the center of town with the scared drunk
  cringing at his heels, the sheriff shouted out to all in the
  town that this man was guilty of beating a woman.  He
  was to be executed in the morning and everyone in town
  was required to attend the execution, just after dawn.  By
  the time the sun rose, quite a sizable crown had already
  gathered at the jail.  When the sheriff emerged, he had
  Sergei by the scruff of the neck in one hand, and a length
  of rope in the other.  He led the hung-over Sergei and the
  crowd out of town down the road that leads back into the
  city.  There, at the crossroads just outside of town, stood
  the largest oak tree that any one of them could remember
  seeing.  With Sergei’s neck at one end of the rope, the
  other was thrown over a branch.  The sheriff declared to
  all present that this was to be the one and only
  punishment for any crime in town.  There, stretched by
  his neck, Sergei met his fate.  And its name was Black
  Bart.
  Black Bart
  Although the first executions were met with welcome
  approval from the townspeople, the sheriff’s strict
  methods were soon to be dreaded by the populace.  They
  whispered names behind his back, “Black Bart” being
  one that was particularly fond after he had an entire gang
  of thieves executed at the same time, eight in all.  In no
  time at all, most of the criminal element in town had been
  killed or scared off.  But Black Bart was not satisfied.
  Seemingly overcome by madness, he soon started
  executing innocent citizens under the guise of phony
  accusations.  In some instances, the crimes were real, but
  his lust for justice blinded him to the innocence or guilt
  of the accused, and he had them executed anyway.  It was
  not long before some members of the town met at secret
  locations to discuss what was to be done with the new
  sheriff.  Even some of the town’s shadier citizens were
  there, for everyone hated Black Bart with all their hearts.
  It was decided by all that the sheriff was no longer to be
  tolerated.  Late one night, a mob gathered outside the
  sheriff’s home, carrying torches and crude weapons.  The
  sheriff’s own deputies were in the front of the mob, and
  indeed were of instrumental importance in organizing the
  mob.  Bart was dragged out of bed, much like poor
  Sergei those many months ago, and hauled bodily down
  to the crossroads.  There, he was pronounced guilty of
  his crimes against the town, in the same fashion in which
  he had judged them, and was hung by his neck until he
  stopped kicking.  When some curious youths went out in
  the morning to see the body, it was not there.  There was
  only a rope with a noose at the end, still hanging from the
  tree.
  The Crossroads
  Although many years have passed since Bart’s fateful
  execution at the hanging tree, the area has not changed
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  much.  It is located just outside of town, about twenty
  minutes’ walk.  A gnarled old oak tree, older than any in
  town can remember, stands at the location.  Not a single
  leaf hangs from its twisted branches.  To all appearances,
  the tree is dead, yet it still grows a little every year.
  Several old and frayed lengths of rope hang from some of
  the lower branches.  Eerily enough, one still has a noose
  at the end, and it is whispered at night that this was the
  rope from which Bart was hung.  On all sides of the dirt
  crossroads are the shallow graves where the executed
  were buried face down in the dirt once their bodies were
  cut down.  All except for Bart, that is.  It is said that his
  spirit still haunts the area, looking for vengeance on his
  murderers.  Forever prowling the night, his soul is in
  eternal torment.  To this day, locals make a warding sign
  as they pass the tree and crossroads, which they do so
  only in the utmost of need.
  �
  THE IPSWICH
  BREWERY
  by W. Jason Peck
  Freemont, California
  Whether the arras actually moved I
  cannot say.  I think it did, very slightly.
  But what I can swear to is that behind
  it I heard a low, distinct scurrying as
  of rats or mice.
  —H. P. Lovecraft
  The Rats in the Walls
  long the craggy coast of northeastern
  Massachusetts the cold Atlantic washes against a
  series of towering sea cliffs.  This region, just
  west of the small town of Rockport, is crowded with the
  gnarled and ancient trees of a dark pine forest.  Through
  the rustling woods and beyond an overgrown, wagon-
  rutted road a worn complex of timber buildings broods
  upon the precipice, overlooking the gray, churning waves
  of Ipswich Bay.
  The region surrounding the decrepit brewery is
  numbingly silent, with only the ever-present crashing
  waves far below and the occasional wailing wind through
  the trees to stave off deafness.  Even before the Puritans
  whispered of the black devils frolicking through the trees
  here, the native Indians spoke of the evil earth spirits
  who lurked atop the misty cliffs.  No one had ever lived
  here and no manner of humanity’s civilization had ever
  encroached upon this sullen land.  No one, that is, until
  William Byron Thomas decided that this unclaimed patch
  of land would serve admirably as the site of his New
  World brewery.
  History
  Construction on the brewery began in the spring of 1753
  and seemed bedeviled from the start.  The rainy season
  dragged on late that year, unceasing until mid-June.  The
  heavy rainfall drenched the coastline, creating huge
  expanses of clinging mud and soaking the woods to near
  axe-resistant proportions.  Even before the end of June
  the workers, who mostly hailed from nearby Rockport,
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  whispered that it was obvious that the Devil frowned
  upon this intrusion into his territory.
  But Master Thomas refused to be cowed.  A self-
  made Boston merchant, Thomas firmly believed that
  there was nothing that an intelligent, obstinate man could
  not do.  He therefore doubled his work force and returned
  to his task.  He drove the workers hard, quashing all
  rumors of the supernatural with harsh words concerning
  such drivel, and forcing everyone to stay focused.  Still, a
  series of accidents and unlucky mishaps plagued the
  operation and several men were maimed, killed or went
  entirely missing.  The men claimed that spirits haunted
  the site and many refused to remain.  Despite this,
  Thomas’ iron will won out, and those who did remain
  completed the brewery complex in late October, having
  once again slogged through the miserable rains that had
  come early that year.
  Once the work was complete, Master Thomas
  settled into his modest two-story home.  In addition to his
  home, the complex consisted of a large barn, three long,
  interconnected brewing buildings and a small collection
  of lesser shacks.  The entire place was constructed of
  stout pine logs from the surrounding woods.  Thomas
  spent the winter purchasing supplies and hiring a
  brewing labor force for the spring.  This task proved
  more easy than the initial construction and by early 1754
  the brewery was up and running.
  After the initial year, the brewery proved successful.
  Ipswich Ale became all the rage in Boston over the next
  decade and Master Thomas was much respected for his
  pioneering spirit and unrelenting drive.  Indeed, in
  Boston, Thomas became a sort of folk legend—the man
  who had tamed the Devil’s land and turned a profit too.
  In Rockport and its surrounding lesser communities,
  however, Thomas and his brewery garnered a more
  sinister reputation.  It was commonly believed by the
  local folk that only by trafficking with the evil spirits of
  that dark woodland could anyone benefit from the
  misfortunes of those men who had built the brewery.
  By 1771, though sales of Ipswich Ale were still
  brisk, the brewery was declining.  Laborers were hard to
  come by, for most locals refused to work in this tabooed
  place and outsiders were expensive to recruit and/or
  import.  In addition, Ipswich Brewery had developed a
  well-deserved reputation for being infested with rats over
  the last decade and no measures taken to rid the place of
  them had any discernible affect.  There were also many
  rumors concerning ghostly sightings, ominous scurrying
  and tragic accidents.  Amid whispers that Thomas had
  last been seen walking along the cliff-side gibbering
  about ‘the voices in the wall,’ the brewery was
  abandoned in 1775.
  Forbidden Lore
  The ruins of Ipswich Brewery have remained empty for
  over one hundred years, disturbed only by the occasional
  stranger seeking Thomas’ rumored stash of gold.  The
  evil stories continue to circulate even now in 1881, only
  they have been expanded upon by legends of Thomas’
  mad ghost and the evils infesting the old brewery.  Evil
  deeds, haunting spirits, and tales of those foolish
  explorers who ventured into the ruins and never returned
  abound in the local countryside and parts of Boston.
  The truth is that this rocky stretch of coastline has
  been the home to a clan of elusive jermlaine for
  centuries.  Their vast warrens honeycomb every nook
  and cranny of the sea cliffs, including many entrances
  into the ruined brewery.  The tiny jinxkin and their rat
  companions have tormented intruders into their lands
  since before the Europeans had come, and it is their
  pranks and snares that have given the region its haunted
  reputation.  They always operate from the shadows of
  their hidden tunnels, taking care never to reveal
  themselves.  It is in this way that the clan finally
  succeeded in driving William Thomas mad after having
  failed to scare the iron-willed man off in the first place.
  Now, a hundred years later, the clan infests the ruined
  brewery as well as the cliffs upon which it stands.  The
  land is much the same as it was in the past—dark, wild
  and forlorn.  Only today, the decrepit ruins of failed
  civilization sometimes lure the adventurous, and the
  jermlaine enjoy the chance to frighten and abuse them.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  THE LEGEND OF
  WILLIAM TOR
  by Dan Olson
  Chicago, Illinois
  illiam Tor, in his youth, had spent much of the
  time with his friends, an adventuring party
  known as The Hunters.  A sun-priest, William
  made healing his specialty.  In fact, his curative abilities
  were spoken of far and wide.  Many big cities offered
  luxuries and flat-out bribes for William to retire within
  their confines.
  When the day did come for his retirement, William
  chose not one of these cities, but the small lumber town
  of Bachelor’s Grove.  And with his life-savings, William
  built the Cathedral of Radiance.
  It was a grand structure, truly magnificent in its
  worship of the sun.  For years, people would come, not
  only from Bachelor’s Grove, but from the cities
  themselves.  And these were cities that had cathedrals of
  their own.
  The people of Bachelor’s Grove began to see
  William as their own personal saint, more than the man
  he really was.  William would, without fail, make it a
  point to gently correct this misconception.  Of course,
  that only made him seem more saintly, and his popularity
  grew.  Thus it came as a devastating shock when the
  infant died.
  The child had been brought to him late one night.
  The boy seemed to be suffering from a bad cold, nothing
  more.  But the malady grew steadily worse, and as dawn
  broke, the chili died.  It was as though the infant had
  been waiting for the sun.  William’s popularity had
  peaked and now began to wane.
  A few months later, a hunting party arrived at The
  Cathedral.  One of their group had been mauled by
  “something” in the surrounding woods.  The man was
  dead before they even carried him inside, but that was
  not how the story remained.  Word quickly got out that
  William Tor had lost another soul.
  Enemies of the Hunters (the ones that had managed
  to survive) saw this as an opportunity, and made the most
  of it.  Bodies began turning up in Bachelor’s Grove, each
  one marked with symbol of William’s order.  Graves
  were dug up, and muddy footprints led to the rear doors
  of the cathedral.  William, of course, was responsible for
  none of this.  The townspeople, however, saw it
  differently, deluded as they were by the recent events and
  the speeches about William’s dark past given by the
  “wandering minstrel.”  Incited to a mob mentality, they
  stormed the cathedral en masse.  Kegs of oil were broken
  open throughout the interior, while others were left to
  explode at key structural points.  William, emerging from
  his chambers, was met with a hailstorm of thrown debris.
  He fell back, unconscious.
  He did not awaken until his oil-soaked robes burst
  into flames.  His shrieks could be heard even above the
  roar of the inferno by the townsfolk outside.  Over the
  course of the night, the Cathedral of Radiance was
  leveled.  Exploding kegs started the job; sledgehammers
  and teams of oxen finished it.  The pile of rubble
  smoldered all through the following day.
  But as the sun set, the people of Bachelor’s Grove
  began to scream.  As others ran into the streets, they saw
  it, too.  Not a pile of smoking rubble, but The Cathedral
  itself, standing defiantly, now seeming to loom over the
  small town.  By the following night, no one remained in
  Bachelor’s Grove.  The mass exodus had been fast and
  panicked, many people fleeing down the road without
  returning for their belongings.
  The Cathedral of Radiance appears again, from time
  to time, but it is by no means anchored to Bachelor’s
  Grove.  The spirit of William Tor, enraged by the
  mistrust and betrayal of those he served so faithfully, is
  now consumed by a quest for revenge.  The Cathedral
  reappears on the outskirts of towns now inhabited by the
  people from Bachelor’s Grove directly responsible for
  the betrayal.  It remains a day, and then vanishes, only to
  reappear near another of the angry mob.  Very few of
  those targeted ever entered the structure, but William’s
  hatred knows no bounds, and the curse has become
  hereditary.  The descendants of the original mob very
  often do not know about The Cathedral, ashamed as their
  parents and grandparents were of the incident.  It is
  through this ignorance that William seeks to fulfill his
  quest.
  The Cathedral is completely harmless during the day
  as William, its driving force, lies dormant.  As the sun
  sets, The Cathedral loses any claim to “radiance”.  The
  white stones turn charcoal grey and the colored windows
  bleed to red.  When the sun disappears, the doors slam
  shut and cannot be opened until sunrise.
  The many paintings throughout the Cathedral,
  formerly of holy figures and sunscapes, take on a sinister
  new look.  William, and those trapped within, are
  constantly reminded of the past.  In one painting, two
  parents stand over a tiny coffin, glaring accordingly at the
  viewer.  Other paintings depict William’s former
  compatriots, now seen as ghouls and rotting zombies.
  Many other pictures become personalized for the person
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  looking at them, showing gravestones with their names
  on them, for example.
  William appears at the altar during the night and
  begins his sermon.  He starts out innocently enough,
  speaking of the merits of friendship and loyalty.  But the
  sermon soon turns to the topics of betrayal and murder.
  Should one of the captives be a descendant of the
  Bachelor’s Grove townsfolk, William makes it a point to
  explain to the doomed individual that he or she is dying
  this night to set right an old wrong.  But unless the
  opportunity presents itself to do so in a fitting manner, he
  does not kill the person outright.  He is patient, and more
  than willing to play “cat and mouse” until morning.
  Just before sunrise, the oils from the paintings begin
  to liquefy and pool on the floor.  The blood from the
  windows mixes with it as well.  As dawn breaks, the
  sunlight ignites the oil, and the past is relived.  Those
  trapped within will never be seen again.
  Except for William For, of course… he has much
  more to do.
  �
  THE LITTLE
  FELLOW
  by Jon Stacey
  Bradley, South Dakota
  This article takes place on Gothic Earth and is based off
  an actual place and legend.
  rom the journal of Thomas O’Brien, railroad
  engineer:
  August 7th, 1898
  A tragic tale was revealed to me this day.  A tale of a
  child’s ghost, lost and alone, trapped in this world by its
  own childish aspirations…
  For more than a year, I ran a locomotive though the
  Great Plains.  A rather boring route because of the
  emptiness of the land.  There was one highlight of the
  trip though: a young boy who would stand upon a hill and
  wave as I rolled past.  The lad couldn’t have been more
  than nine and his face would absolutely beam with
  dreams and aspirations.  The boy would only be there to
  greet me the few hours before sunrise or the few hours
  after sunset.
  Seeing the young boy filled with awe as the
  locomotive rolled by always lifted my spirits… until this
  evening…
  The summer heat warped the rails in a town near
  where I would see the little boy.  My engine derailed—
  not bad, but I needed help to set the wheels back on the
  track.  Men from the town volunteered to help and we
  had the engine sitting back on the rails by evening.  I
  thanked the men for their time by buying them all several
  rounds of drinks at the tavern.  It was a celebration!
  Until my curiosity got the better of me…
  I asked the barkeep about the young lad who waved
  at the locomotives.  As soon as the words passed my lips,
  the room grew silent.  Everyone stared at me, surprise
  and fear on their faces.
  I’ll never forget what the barkeep said to me then:
  “There is no such lad… Not for many years.”  He
  continued, his voice breaking the silence.  “The lad
  always stood on a hill beside the rails to wave at the
  engineer as the train rolled past.  Even during the coldest
  part of winter he would be there to greet the
  locomotives.”
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  The barkeep looked at me in sorrow as he saw the
  truth dawning on me.  “The lad died ten years ago.  His
  family buried him on the same hill so he could watch the
  engines forever.  A simple wooden cross as his marker.
  Then they left, returning to the East, unable to stay in the
  land that took their son.  No one even remembers their
  surname.
  “Ever since the lad was buried, we still hear stories
  of him waving at passing trains.  I guess the boy’s spirit
  remains, still greeting the great locomotives he so loved
  when alive.  I am sorry to be the one to tell you this.”
  The people in the tavern resumed their chatter, only
  more quiet than before.  I left the tavern soon after,
  leaving a generous tip for the barkeep.  As I write this, I
  sit here in my room at the inn, unable to sleep, as my
  mind races over what the barkeep told me.  The boy who
  greeted me every sunrise and sunset for the past year was
  in truth a spirit tied to the earth, unable or unwilling to
  move on, trapped by his own love of trains and childhood
  aspirations.  I wonder if the spirit even realizes he is
  dead.  I cannot help but weep for that poor lost soul.
  �
  LOCHART LAKE
  by Jason Schultz
  Quimby, Virginia
  Background
  mong the rolling hills of the north lies the sleepy
  town of shepherds known as Downing.  These
  people, safe in their warm beds or next to their
  glowing fires, speak in hushed tones of the lake to the
  south known as Lochart.  Surrounded by a misty forest
  the cold, dark waters of the loch have beckoned many a
  group to their deaths.  A few fishermen ply these waters
  and speak of a beast who roams them by night.
  Plesiosaurus: AC 7; MV sw 15; HD 20; hp 100;
  THAC0 5; #AT 1; Dmg 5d4 (bite); SA flippers;
  SZ H (40’ body, 20’ neck); ML avg (10); Int non-
  (0); AL N; XP 12,000.
  Notes: When attacking aquatic foes, can attack twice with
  its flippers for 2d6 damage each.
  But it is not the waters that call to adventurers, but
  the mist-shrouded island at its heart whose shores cannot
  be seen from land.  The six-by-five mile island was once
  a grove to a druid.  One day a noble and his men landed
  on the island and found the grove.  They chose to begin
  their construction using the stones of the grove.  When
  the druid returned he was distraught and was easily
  captured.  He was taken to the shore and on the pain of
  death told not to return.  The prince then used the local
  townsfolk to build his manor.
  Less than a year later the noble captured the fancy of
  an elven maid and she soon came to reside with him in
  his new home.  A year later the manor was finished and
  there was a celebration, for the maiden was found to be
  with child.  But the celebration was short-lived, for now
  the townsfolk were again drafted to make additions and
  changes to the manor.  But now they were at a deadline,
  for it must be finished before the birth.  They were
  pushed and worked, some to death, and many accidents
  occurred but they finished a week before the gala.
  Now during this time the druid had walked the land
  and had heard all of what the noble had been doing.  But
  when he heard about the maid, he began to understand.
  He had known her thirty years before and had refused her
  love, and this was all directed against him to make him
  suffer.  And so his plot of revenge was formed; along
  with many of the villagers they planned to poison all the
  wine going to the ball.
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  At the final toast of the evening it was made sure
  that all had plenty of wine, and after the toast the druid
  confronted the assembled guests, told his story, and
  announced their fate.  Then, as he laughed at their doom,
  he transformed into a raven and took flight.  With her
  final breath the elven maiden cursed him, and as he flew
  over the water his form was transformed and he crashed
  into the icy waters below.  He swam back to the island
  and found he had been transformed into a leucrotta
  (greater or normal).  As he lay on the beach he heard the
  maiden’s final scream as she was transformed into a
  banshee and her guests into zombies and skeletons as the
  fog began to come upon the water, drawing them into the
  Demiplane of Dread.
  Description
  The waters of the lake are dark and murky.  The fog
  clings to you, seeping coldness through to your bones.
  The only sounds you hear are your labored breathing and
  the sound of the oars slapping against the water as your
  smelly fishing boat creaks through the mists.  All sound
  seems muffled in the dead calm of the loch.
  Ahead of you the fog begins to take on form and you
  can make out a rocky shore.  As your boat beaches on the
  rounded stones of the shore the silence is broken by the
  beating wings of visitors.  Your admirers, huge coal-
  black ravens, stare at you with piercing blue-black eyes
  from the limbs of ancient oaks a few dozen yards away.
  They start to call to you, bringing uncomfortable
  attention, disturbing the deathly silence of the shore as if
  in protest to your intrusion upon their isle.  Just as
  suddenly as they came they take flight as if to go and
  warn the rest of the island of your intrusion.  It is only
  then that you notice the forms of turrets of an ancient
  castle that lies ahead of you, somewhere within the
  gloomy mist-filled woods before you.
  �
  MIRRORS
  TO THE SOUL
  by Lazarus Smith
  Jonesboro, Arkansas
  ometimes it seems that the most frightening things
  are those that are not evil, but are instead tragic.
  This is the nature of the Soul Mirrors.  In years
  gone by, the Garden of the Soul Mirrors was a place of
  peace, guarded by a small sect of priestesses.  The
  acolyte would enter the Mirrors, which were actually a
  set of four small pools, each one absolutely clear and
  serene, and would look in each one in turn.  They would
  show her the past, present, and future.  Each acolyte was
  always warned not to look into the fourth, lest they see
  that which no one should ever see, though none ever
  knew what that was, for none had ever dared to look.
  Then the day came that a young acolyte named Iona
  was to take her turn at the mirrors.  Iona knew that the
  Mirrors would help her decide what to do with her life.
  Many other young women had come away from the
  Mirrors with a new purpose, having seen that their
  Goddess had different plans for them.  That was the
  purpose of the Mirrors after all, showing you not what
  you wanted to see, but rather, the truth.
  Iona’s doubts about her life as a priestess sprouted
  from a young man named Daen.  The two lovers had
  been together just once, but it made Iona feel that she
  might not belong in the sect, but rather had a family life
  ahead of her.  Daen had told her how much he loved her,
  but that he would respect any decision she made.  He
  would wait for her to visit the Mirrors, and when the next
  day came (visiting the Mirrors was usually an all night
  affair), he would meet her outside the garden where they
  would either be married or go their separate ways.
  That evening Iona went to the Mirrors.  She looked
  in the first pool and saw herself as a child.  She dreamt
  what it would be like to have a child of her own.  Moving
  to the second pool, she saw an image of herself.  It could
  almost be a reflection, except that in the pool, she was
  pregnant.  Iona tried to touch the full belly of the
  reflection, but the image vanished in the ripples.
  Hurrying to the third pool, she gazed in, and saw nothing
  but swirling mists.
  Iona realized that she must have looked into the
  pools out of order, and hurried to the fourth pool.  Gazing
  into its cool depths, Iona saw Daen, and knew in her
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  heart that this was a sign from her Goddess, that she
  should spend her life with him.  She watched as his body
  rolled with hers, and he cried out that he loved her, that
  he would always be hers, and hers alone.  She
  remembered all the things he said to her, and hearing him
  saying them again made her resolute that this was the
  path that her life was to take.  Then she noticed the hair
  of the woman in the image.  Instead of her blonde curls,
  she saw the raven locks of another acolyte.  Daen was
  with her, and Iona realized what the fourth pool showed
  her as her heart broke.  The pain in lona’s heart grew as
  she drew out the slim knife that she used for a hundred
  different chores every day.
  The next day, When a priestesses went out to the
  garden to see how Iona had fared, Iona was not there, and
  neither was the garden.  All that remained was a slim,
  bloodstained knife.
  The Mirrors
  In Ravenloft, The Mirrors can seem to be a safe haven,
  because undead will not enter the garden unless
  commanded by someone on the power level of a Lord.
  The players (and their characters) will never believe that
  they are safe from the horrors of Ravenloft because the
  place they are in is too horrible even for those on the
  other side of death’s threshold.
  If the characters choose to ignore the pools of water
  entirely, then there is no problem.  However, if during
  the night someone chooses to drink, wash, or even look
  into the pools, two saves vs. spell must be made; the first
  is to suffer the effects of the pool, the second is to see if
  the character goes on to the next.  If this second save is
  successful, the character has no compulsion to continue,
  but knowing most players, they will.
  The first pool will show the character his childhood.
  The character will be forced to relive his worst childhood
  memory, and must save, or be forced to relive it forever,
  every time he closes his eyes, allowing for no sleep.
  The second pool shows the character’s present, but
  magnifies his worst flaw.  The character must save, or
  will be filled with self doubt for the rest of his life,
  causing him to always lose initiative.
  The next pool is simple, as it shows the character
  laying dead next to the pool, and he must either save or
  die from the shock.
  The fourth pool shows the character the worst
  betrayal of his life.  If the save is failed, the character
  flies into a rage and attacks the betrayer (if present) with
  a +4 to hit and +4 to damage (spells are allowed).  If the
  betrayer is not present then the character will make every
  attempt at suicide, unless restrained.  A remove curse
  will stop any effects but this last one, which requires a
  properly worded wish to break it.
  The final danger of the garden is Iona herself, who is
  like unto a Lord in this Mini-Realm.  She resides in the
  statue of the forgotten goddess, which she will animate
  and cause to attack anyone who has ever betrayed a
  lover.  The statistics of this statue are those of a 16 HD
  Earth Elemental (Monstrous Compendium), except that
  it can only be harmed by the betrayer, and is impervious
  to any other source of attack.
  �
  
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  THE MOORLAN’
  STONES
  by Michael Abell
  Wilmington, Massachusetts
  efore you lay the moor-lands; nestled within a bowl
  formed by the surrounding hills.  Pale, dead trees
  dot the landscape, their roots long drowned by the
  persistent water.  Within the center of the moors lie a
  circle of monoliths.  Even at this distance you feel a
  strong pull from the stones…
  The ground beneath the moss is soft, with each step
  it undulates, sending ripples as though announcing your
  presence.  Ice cold water wells up through the moss with
  each step, numbing your legs from the calves down.
  With leaden limbs you pick your way forward as the lure
  of the stones pull you onward…
  The stones are mottled with a scabrous growth of
  lichen and jut out of ground like rotten teeth.  You can
  feel the weight of eons bearing down as you enter the
  circle and approach the pool.  The familiar sounds of the
  surrounding woods have stopped as if unable to penetrate
  the stone circle.  Even the light breeze has been stilled,
  causing the air to lie heavy…
  The grove is pock-marked by clumps of sickly
  vegetation; the clumps growing closest to the water are
  covered in a pallid fungus.  The same fungus grows thick
  on fallen trees as if a bloated corpse has risen from the
  depths.  A sluggish stream oozes from the pool, the only
  discernible movement in the fetid waters is the
  occasional swirl…
  You now realize that you’ve been standing near the
  edge of the pool, your weight causing the floating ground
  to pitch toward the black maw of the pool…  With a cry,
  you stumble back from the edge, falling as your wooden
  limbs betray you.  The icy water shocks you awake and
  as you regain your footing you realize that the sun is low
  in the sky…
  �
  THE MANOR
  AT NEW CORINTH
  by Tricia Newbre
  Peoria, Illinois
  he Manor at New Corinth rises nearly 180 feet
  above the rocky inlet of the Atlantic coastline.  The
  courtyard and gardens surrounding the marble
  fountain are well-designed and perfectly executed; not a
  blade of grass is out of place.  The white stone walls of
  the house have taken on the dancing glow of torches
  which line the circular drive, and the candles that shine in
  every window.  Cheerful bunting flutters around the great
  arched doorway.  Before the house stand a dozen or more
  carriages, ready to convey their owners home at the close
  of the evening.  So the Manor has stood for three
  centuries and more; not a stone has fallen from its walls,
  not a single leaded glass window has been broken, and
  the white lace curtains still adorn its windows.
  The Manor has not changed in its slightest detail
  since well before this piece of real estate was deemed
  “The United States of America,” when “Pennsylvania”
  sounded odd and too new.  The Manor stood at New
  Corinth long before polite people dared to make the
  voyage across the Atlantic, then a feat reserved for
  criminals and refugees.  Yet, even then a certain few of
  the old world sensed the potential this mysterious new
  continent held.  Lord Henri of Corinth was one of them.
  Seemingly overnight he amassed an unheard of fortune,
  the entirety of which he devoted to building his estate in
  the new world.
  Upon its completion he gathered what passed for
  high society in that place for a celebration which rivaled
  those held in the courts of Europe.  At the height of the
  festivities, a servant summoned the master of the house
  to settle a dispute among his men.  He emerged from the
  house to the courtyard, furious that his celebration had
  been disrupted.  He turned his best hunting dogs loose on
  the angry men, ordering them off the property and
  refusing payment for their services.  Instead of leaving
  and allowing him to return to his glorious housewarming,
  the men swarmed, pelting him with whatever debris they
  had.  Henri of Corinth was stoned to death there in the
  courtyard by his own men.  They left his body where it
  fell, bloody and unburied.
  His guests that evening simply vanished.  Some
  surmised that they witnessed the murder and fled, or
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  were murdered themselves, but in any case not a single
  person in the house the night of Henri’s death, guest or
  servant, ever returned.  Soon after, the gates were found
  locked and the yard empty except for the broken body of
  Henri Abbot.  The body has since disappeared, but. the
  same lock hangs upon the gate today, unrusted and
  unbroken.
  �
  OLD OGDEN
  ABBEY
  by James Wyatt
  Berkeley, California
   bleak promontory overlooks barren fields that
  have grown no crop in decades.  Atop the
  desolate mound, charred mounds of rubble
  huddle around a ruined chapel, the only structure that
  remains of Old Ogden Abbey
  Background
  Ogden Abbey was founded centuries ago, in a happier
  time.  It was never large or wealthy, but served its god as
  a center of learning, a place of worship—and a renowned
  bakery.  The nearby village benefited greatly from the
  presence of the brothers on the hill, and sustained their
  labors by providing a market for the abbey bread.
  Twenty-five years ago, everything changed.
  Somehow, a chasm opened in the earth that seemed to
  connect to the deepest pits of the Abyss, and from that
  chasm foul tanar’ri came streaming forth, polluting the
  land with their presence.  Ogden Abbey was gutted by
  fire, the brothers were tortured and killed, and the
  scorched stones of the chapel were abandoned on the
  hilltop.
  Or perhaps they were not quite abandoned.  Over
  the years, many travelers have found themselves among
  the ruins of the abbey—some hoping to rebuild it and
  reconsecrate the chapel, others simply looking for
  shelter.  All of them have faced a terrible enemy: a
  succubus, the most beguiling and treacherous of tanar’ri,
  who led their plans and their hearts astray.
  The Chapel
  Except for the bell tower, the chapel is but a single large
  room, a rectangle about 40’ by 60’.  Arching stained-
  glass windows once graced all four walls.  Above the
  doors to the chapel, a gaping hole is all that remains of
  the glass which once invited all within and without the
  sanctuary to join in praise.  On each of the side walls,
  four small windows depicting prominent saints of the
  church are in various states of wholeness, some
  completely intact, others with only fragments remaining.
  On the far wall, above the altar, an elaborate circular
  window depicts Saint Marcella, the warrior-monk who
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  lay down the Rule by which the monks of this abbey
  lived.  She is dressed in plate mail and has long golden
  hair spilling over her shoulders.  The top half of the
  window is broken out, but the remaining portion shows
  the saint kneeling before a beautiful black unicorn (a
  divine avatar), as angelic figures deliver the pages of the
  Rule into her hand.
  Nine statues ring the altar in a semicircle,
  representing the same nine saints depicted on the chapel
  walls, with Marcella in the center.  These are worn and
  sometimes broken, like the windows.  The altar itself is a
  large stone table, decorated with scenes of unicorns and
  knights, monks and townspeople.  The precious
  furnishings that once graced the altar are gone, and the
  surface of the table bears dark stains from the defiling
  sacrifices of fiends.
  The rest of the sanctuary is large open space.  There
  never were pews in the chapel, since the monks stood
  during worship.  The bell tower, located in the southwest
  comer of the chapel, impinges on the rectangular space
  of the sanctuary.  An open doorway adjacent to the main
  chapel doors gives access to a square staircase leading
  upward.  The bell ropes hang all the way down to the
  chapel floor.  At the top of the stairs, a trap door leads
  through a thin wooden floor to the belfry itself.  Two
  bells hang from the top of the tower, their ropes passing
  down through holes in the floor.  One bell remains firmly
  affixed to its bearings, but the other is loose, and the
  slightest extra weight on the rope will send it crashing
  down to the ground below.
  The Fiend
  The sole inhabitant of Old Ogden Abbey is a succubus
  named Shi’ara.  She delights in twisting the spiritual
  longings of her prey, using the faith of her victims to
  corrupt and eventually destroy them.  Her favorite
  targets, naturally, are paladins and priests, but she
  eagerly sets her sights on the simple faith of the nearby
  villagers as well.  By seducing the good with visions of
  power tainted with corruption, with dreams of glory and
  wealth achieved through force and trickery, Shi’ara
  pollutes the highest ideals of good, spiritual folk with
  baser motives and desires.  In a demiplane where the
  forces of good have so little power, she finds many easy
  victims by offering them the chance to exert power in the
  name of goodness—even though that name be defiled on
  their lips.
  This is why Shi’ara has taken up residence in Old
  Ogden Abbey.  Posing as the elderly leader of the
  monastery, Abbot Michael, struggling alone to rebuild
  and reconsecrate the place, she lures those who also
  dream of rebuilding the abbey.  She favors the guise of
  Abbot Michael, a wizened old man who seems
  completely harmless, but to suit her purposes she often
  appears in other forms as well.  She sometimes appears
  as a young woman who reluctantly confesses to being the
  abbot’s daughter, conceived in a shameful liaison.  She is
  especially fond of appearing as Saint Marcella, the
  patron of the monastery.
  Shi’ara (succubus): AC 0; MV 12, Fl 18 (C); HD
  6; hp 34; THAC0 15; #AT 2; Dmg 1-3/1-3; SA Energy
  drain, see below; SD Silver or +2 magic weapon to hit,
  immune to fire, electricity, and poison, half damage from
  cold and gas, never surprised; MR 30%; ML 14; AL CE;
  XP 14,000; Planescape Monstrous Compendium/ 109
  (Tanar’ri, Lesser).
  S 12, D 15, C 13, I 19, W 16, Ch 17
  Notes: The innate spell-like abilities of a succubus include:
  etherealness, charm person, clairaudience, ESP, plane shift,
  shapechange, suggestion, darkness 15’ radius, infravision, teleport
  without error.
  �
  
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  PLIGHT
  AT THE END
  OF THE TUNNEL
  by Conor Trouw
  Berkeley, California
  he stench of a thousand souls slowly trickles its
  way along the worn masonry as it weaves its path
  along the grey banks, finally dropping into a
  darkness, which, although absurd, seems capable of
  sentient thought, almost as if the darkness itself were
  alive, and hungry.  The maze of refuse and excrement has
  almost become tolerable now.  However, despite
  experience, one never truly becomes accustomed to the
  filth.
  Slowly, the roar of the turbulent waters becomes
  louder, and with every step further along the narrow path,
  the terror slowly begins to build.  For ahead is the
  darkness, the final battle, and the final test.  Has the
  constant sound of running water gnawed at your mind for
  too long?  Were the long hours of planning worth all the
  days in this filth?  Will the vain cries of help from your
  drowning guild haunt you for the rest of time?  Soon
  however all these questions are dismissed, and only one
  remains.  What alternatives are there?  The flashes of the
  many hours you’ve spent in this labyrinth appear before
  your eyes, and all hesitation is wiped from your mind.
  No one should ever have to experience a place such as
  this, and no one but the devil himself should be forced to
  brave it twice.
  The tunnels of the sewer had opened up recently,
  and for a moment the relief of going in the correct
  direction seemed almost as good as a warm meal.  The
  map, which you were told would lead you directly to your
  goal, was quickly found to be a fake, when a pool you
  were instructed to wade through was found to be
  anything but a pool, and far from uninhabited.  The
  knowledge that most subterranean creatures are greatly
  effected by bright light again became quite invaluable.
  Places like this has always haunted you.  They’re
  like a nightmare, the kind where the monster chases you
  and you run, but no matter how fast you go, no matter
  how far you push yourself, you just can’t escape it.
  These tunnels do the same.  They stay with you, and you
  can’t escape them.  They leer in creaking tones.  Their
  tears of laughter trickle down your back.  For they know
  you can’t escape them.  Just like the monster in the
  dream, you’re doomed no matter what you do.  Down
  here in the tunnels however, once the monster finally gets
  to you, there’s no guarantee you’ll be waking up.
  Suddenly, the tumbling of stonework brings you
  back to the present.  A mix of a thousand emotions rush
  across your mind and it is the very walls you have
  learned to despise which save you from a grisly death.
  The darkness has finally given up its bounty to you, and
  as you stand on the edge of oblivion, you begin to realize
  the true magnitude this secret, a secret hidden for over a
  thousand years and more, truly poses.  For it is now that
  you stand witness to what many a storyteller has dubbed,
  The Eater of Souls.
  The drop before you is greater then any you have
  ever witnessed, and the thought that you have uncovered
  the Abyss itself comes to mind.  Even more astounding
  however, is the realization that there are almost a
  hundred more outlets, almost identical to your passage,
  sprouting from every inch of the inner wall.  Looking
  toward the surface you suddenly realize that your passage
  is far below the city streets, and that there are many more
  openings marring the smooth grey wall of this immense
  shaft, each spewing their horrid contents into the great
  depths below.
  Suddenly, a chill begins to fill the air and you
  suddenly feel a dampness around your ankles.  The water
  has begun to flow swifter since you first arrived here, and
  it is only now that you realize the other outlets have also
  quickened their pace.  Sorrow fills your heart as you
  frantically search for another exit; however, it is now that
  you finally notice another, far more sinister change.  As
  the repugnant liquid tumbles away from your sight you
  notice that a cloud has begun to form.  This mist comes
  not from the liquid’s vapor, nor does it seem to be rising
  from the floor.  No, this mist seems to be forming from
  the very air itself, and it is now that you begin to wish
  you had reconsidered turning back.  Despite the fear of
  approaching death however, you are amazed to find
  yourself almost hypnotized by the spectacle.  Every
  swirling tendril of mist seems to beckon you, calling out
  for you to leap toward the mist’s swirling center, and yet
  you are frozen in place, almost as if you have become
  one with this domain of defecation.
  With a roar not even the greatest of beasts could
  muster the city begins to lose control, with many of the
  openings being destroyed in the very process.  Gallons of
  vile liquid begin to plummet into the unknown and it is
  only a matter of time before the structure gives way.
  Therefore, as the entrance to your passage begins to
  shudder and the sound of over a thousand years of waste
  is forced towards you, you gain the strength to vault.  To
  fling yourself into the darkness.  To descend into the very
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  unknown which you had before seen only as evil.  For it
  is now that you realize that it is not what you can’t see
  which is evil, it is what you could see all along which
  posses the greatest threat.  So it is as the mists engulf
  you, and the remaining entrances explode with an earth
  shattering tremor, that you finally escape the wretched
  labyrinth of blackened filth, and hope that wherever this
  strange mist takes you it has a hot bath.
  �
  THE RED
  CARPET HALL
  by Pierre van Rooden
  Amsterdam, the Netherlands
  pvrooden@ttpdiskad.nl
  Author’s Note: This site is meant for the Masque of the
  Red Death setting.  It can be adapted to other places,
  though the concept of large hotels is probably not one
  popular in most places in Ravenloft.  Within Masque of
  the Red Death, it can be placed anywhere, though I
  chose the Amstel Hotel in Amsterdam (for obvious
  reasons).
  he Amstel Hotel is a large hotel at the edge of the
  bustling Amsterdam city center, facing the Amstel
  River that flows south from the city.
  It has been the chosen place to rest for kings and
  queens, rich merchants and noblemen.  It is famous for
  its cuisine, the service and the luxurious rooms.
  One thing you won’t find in the hotel’s
  advertisement leaflet, however, is the Red Carpet Hall.
  This hall, situated on the second floor, is named after
  the large red woolen carpet that covers it from wall to
  wall.  Careful observers will note that the carpet has
  several stains, seemingly caused by soot or burning of the
  fibers.  No matter how often the carpet is cleaned, the
  marks reappear every time.
  The stains are one of two reminders of a large fire
  that took out most of the third floor a few decades ago.
  The second reminder is the ghost which is now known as
  ‘Isabella’, a young girl that—so rumors state—died in
  the fire.  She was trampled by the horde of people trying
  to escape, and probably suffocated due to the smoke.
  Now, the girl wanders the halls of the hotel, though
  her presence can best be felt in the Red Carpet Hall.
  Few have actually seen her.  Those who have say she
  looks like any other girl, but with soot on her face, and
  burns on her hands.  Some have seen her being on fire,
  but those witness accounts are discarded as being too
  fantastic.
  Most people detect her presence through other, more
  subtle signs.  Guests have claimed to hear footsteps and
  moaning in the corridor, or the voice of a girl that cries
  for help.  Those who open their door find nothing in the
  hall but a sharp scent of burning fibers.
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  Some have felt hands grasping their coats or dress,
  and a few men have had the sensation of ‘tripping’ over
  someone lying on the floor, though there was no one to
  be seen.
  The most mysterious accounts are those of a steward
  who once actually sighted the girl, crying out to him
  before disappearing into thin air.  For some reason, the
  steward immediately felt compelled to take a look in the
  boiler house, where he narrowly avoided the hot water
  kettle from igniting a fire would have lain the hotel into
  ashes.
  Another time, a guest who heard moaning from a
  room found a small fire had started from a fallen candle.
  The fire could be put out, but no person could be found
  in the room, and again, this save was attributed to the girl
  ghost.
  So far, the hotel management has kept the existence
  of the ghost out of the public eye.  After all, a ghost might
  frighten the guests, or draw unwonted ones.  And as long
  as the ghost’s spooks are minor and even seem to be
  beneficial, no steps are undertaken to lay the little girl to
  her rest.
  And so, the haunting continues to this day.
  �
  THE RIVERSIDE
  WALL
  by Nick Pabon
  West New York, New Jersey
   don’t know why I keep coming back here, but it was
  a very nice night to do so.  The autumn sky was clear
  but the air was chill.  I could see my breath as I made
  for the cliff that everyone was talking of.  I made sure to
  be prepared for this journey as there are rumors going
  around of an apparition haunting the site.  With my
  enchanted blade in hand, I headed down the hill to the
  edge of the cliff.
  I often wonder why people talked of this place as
  being haunted.  There were always people coming here,
  as the site was very popular with lovers.  There was a
  short wall built of black stone separating the cliff edge
  from the street leading back to town.  Leaning over the
  wall, one could see the cliff face and then the river
  beyond.  Across from the river, was another town like
  any other.  At night, the dinner fires lit up and their
  reflections danced on the river’s surface.
  But tonight was different.  Fewer fires were burning
  across the river.  As I leaned over the wall, I felt the
  stone unusually cold to the touch.  It was like ice.  My
  vision blurred for a bit under the pale moonlight, as if
  everything suddenly turned to shades of gray.  Gripping
  my sword tightly, I strained to see clearly.  I noticed the
  trees, in their blue and gray hues in the moonlight,
  reaching up towards the sky.  As if winter had suddenly
  come, they looked lifeless.  They looked like hands
  clawing upward reaching for light, for breath.
  Darkness surrounded the tree trunks and there were
  no signs of life.  No animals scurrying for food or
  crickets chirping their night songs.  Then ice hit me from
  behind, or at least, it felt like ice.  It was as if a wind
  struck me but there was no other evidence of it.  No
  leaves rustling or clothes whipping in the rush of it.  It
  was only affecting me and it was cold.  It felt like ice
  against my shoulders, yet there was no numbing feeling
  and no moisture for it to actually be ice.  This was very
  unnatural as well because it was gone the instant it had
  arrived.
  I turned to see what caused the chill and was amazed
  to see a very striking young woman smiling at me.  Her
  eyes were dark and her skin like porcelain.  She wore a
  rather revealing gown, almost transparent.  I saw the
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  shape of her body.  She had full breasts and a seductive
  swell to her hips.  But the gown revealed nothing more.
  She smiled at me and turned to lean against the stone
  wall.  Her movements were slow but there was grace in
  them.  I was instantly attracted to her.
  “Hello stranger,” she said as she slowly looked at
  me.  “What brings you out this eve?”
  “A ghost,” I replied.
  “Oh?  How frightening.  She was mocking me.
  “You’re not scared?”
  “Not at all.  I live near by, lived here most of my life.
  I always come here to think and clear my mind.”
  It was very late at night to be taking walks, and
  around here, late night strolls could be a very dangerous
  thing.  But I found myself listening to her every word.
  She was beautiful but I had to get back to my task of
  finding out if there is something unnatural happening
  along the cliff.
  “You should go back home, your man must be
  worried and this is no hour to be out alone.”  I could
  barely take my eyes from her as I said the words.  I
  longed to stay but I was feeling so nervous and my legs
  were weak.  My heart raced a little as she drew in a
  breath to respond.
  “Well, I don’t live far away, and I have no man.  I
  live with my father.  Your are right thought, I should go.”
  I turned to walk away and she put a hand on my
  shoulder.
  “Will you be here tomorrow night?  I’d love to talk
  to you some more, maybe hear some stories about what
  you’ve been through?  I’d love to get to know you
  better.”
  My heart was pounding and I couldn’t help but show
  it.  I smiled warmly at her and agreed to the meeting.  I
  didn’t even notice the odd feeling I had on my shoulder,
  as if cold water were being poured on it, but I wasn’t
  feeling wet.”
  “Very well then,” she said smiling.  “Tomorrow
  night when the sun sets.”
  She walked away but I didn’t have the chance to see
  which direction she walked.  I was feeling nauseous.  I
  fell to one knee and then against the cold stone wall.
  I awoke at my shack in the woods, my comrades
  around my cot.
  “Averall, we found you passed out along the cliff
  edge and we brought you here.  How do you feel?”  I
  tried to sit up on my bed and noticed my hand was
  covered with wrinkles and liver spots.  I took a deep
  breath and looked at my other hand.  They were the
  same.  I closed my eyes and asked one of my friends to
  fetch me a mirror.
  “Brace yourself,” he said as he held it before me.
  To my horror, I saw myself forty years older.  My
  skin was like dried leather, browned and wrinkled with
  age.  My eyes were pale and my hair was ash.  I then
  realized that the woman I was talking to on the cliff edge
  must have been the apparition.  I lay back down on my
  bed and closed my eyes tightly.  Again, my world turned
  black.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  THE SHADOWED
  CHURCH
  by Kathleen Ervin
  Peoria, Illinois
  t was a church of light.
  It is no longer.
  Dust coats the stained glass windows, disfiguring
  the images and mutating the light into dim, eerie hues
  that shift and crawl through the still, silent air.
  The arched ceiling is masked in darkness; only the
  dim shapes of the lowest rafters are visible.  Below,
  poles that once held brightly colored banners now stab
  unadorned into the space above abandoned pews.
  At the far end rests the altar, vested in patchwork
  shadows that stretch like fingers down the empty aisle,
  and flanked by candelabras whose candles have long
  since gutted out.
  The slightest sound echoes, marking the intruder and
  awakening the Guardians…
  �
  THE STATUE
  by Aaron Swanson
  Red Oak, Iowa
  he small town cowered in darkness, a darkness that
  seemed to swallow all light.  In the center of this
  darkness, and some say the cause of it, rests an
  immense statue.  The statue is of a great warrior upon a
  great mount, his sword held high as if in victory.  The
  warrior depicted is said to have once, many, many years
  ago, defended the town from a swarm of undead, and
  brought life back to the decaying town.
  The statue was once gold, but now is the same dark
  black that chokes the town.  The darkness fell upon the
  city abruptly, and seemingly without cause.  As the
  darkness consumed the town, so too did it consume the
  statue.  The only bit of color is the fiery eyes of the horse
  and its rider.  The statue rests upon a large square of
  metal, in which a door stands open.  The door once led to
  the city treasury that was kept in the halls beneath the
  city.  Many of the towns people have entered the
  treasury, but none of these citizens ever returned.  Then
  began the wailing, as of a thousand widows mourning.
  The town began recruiting adventuring parties to
  investigate, praying to gods that they no longer believed
  in, to find the cause of all the disturbances.  Many parties
  entered through the cold steel doorway, but only one ever
  had the misfortune of living to return to the surface.
  A young fighter named Ankin once staggered from
  the doorway, trembling and clutching his chest.  The
  local clerics set to work and healed his broken ribs,
  broken nose, and torn flesh, but his mental wounds
  threatened to overwhelm his senses.  He told of how new
  tunnels had branched from the original treasury complex
  and that the walls had turned midnight black.  These
  walls seemed to suck up the light, he told, and at times he
  had even run into them, unable to distinguish them from
  the darkness.
  Lanterns and torches would not light.  He said the
  only light they could use was magical.  Screams and
  moans emanated from the very air around them, and
  creatures seemed to scuttle around just out of their sight.
  The group tried to tie a rope to the entrance of the tunnel,
  so they could find their way back, but as they started out
  the rope fell slack.  Investigation revealed that it had
  been cut by something.  It seemed as if something wanted
  them there.
  Ankin said that the party was ambushed, but he
  didn’t see what or who these attackers were.  His nerves
  uncoiled and he ran to save himself.  He wandered for
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  hours, becoming lost in the darkness of the tunnels.
  Whether by fate or coincidence Ankin managed to
  stumble upon the stairway leading to the town above.  As
  he started his ascent, he heard claws clacking upon the
  stone floor behind him.  He started running, but the
  stairway seemed to grow.  He ran to the verge of collapse
  before reaching the doorway, easily covering more than
  four times the length of the original staircase.  When he
  turned to look back though, he saw that the stairs were
  the same length as they had always been.  There were
  also no signs of his pursuers.
  After learning of Ankin’s experiences, the mayor
  ordered the door sealed.  The whole town turned out to
  watch as the mayor’s men tried to shut the door, but they
  couldn’t budge it.  A priest was called in and began
  blessing the area.  Before the blessing had been
  completed, a ball of fire rolled from the stairwell.  The
  fire enveloped the priest, and many of the townsfolk.
  Panic exploded throughout the assembly, and many of the
  townspeople ran to flee the town.  Others had nowhere to
  go, and so remained where they were.  From then on no
  adventurers would dare enter through the gaping
  doorway, and so life continued.
  A week later a storm crept in, and the town was
  rocked by lightning, rain, and hail.  Shortly after the
  storm began, Ankin bolted from his bed screaming.  His
  terror could be heard over the storm itself.  His screams
  would follow many to their graves.  The remaining
  townsfolk challenged the storm and raced to Ankin’s
  side, trying to calm him.  Ankin clawed at the comer of
  his room, oblivious to the presence of the others.  Then
  his clawing stopped, and he turned.  He crouched on the
  floor and appeared to be watching something on the wall.
  Tremors wracked his body, and his face bleached white.
  “They’re coming!  Gods help us, they’re coming!”
  He howled before slumping to the floor, dead.
  In the morning, after the storm had passed, the
  townsfolk went to the town square and all wished that
  they had fled the town with the others.  In the middle of
  the wrecked town and the wrecked crops surrounding the
  town, a most unholy event had taken place.  The statue’s
  color had once again undergone a transformation, turning
  from black to blood red.  The ground within the town’s
  square had been scorched black, and all of the trees
  reduced to smoldering piles of ash.  A trail of red stone
  lead from the edge of the town square directly into the
  blackness of the treasury doorway.  The red tile still
  remains, beckoning, inviting people to follow it into the
  depths of the city.
  �
  THE SWAMP
  by Tim Roberts
  Huntington, Indiana
  he swamp seemed alive.  I had entered with a bold
  and noble purpose; to clear this forbidding bog of
  the evil that hangs so heavy it can be felt for miles
  in each direction.  It was bright daylight a scant hundred
  feet behind me, but it seemed even the sun feared to enter
  through the decaying, moss-encrusted branches
  overhead.  As I withdrew my lantern from my pack and
  fumbled with my flint to create a spark, I marveled at the
  tremors shaking my hands… did the temperature drop
  that much?  Or is my imagination taking too much hold
  on me?
  At last, the oil sputters into flames that seem to
  dance and sway despite the lack of any wind in the
  stagnant air.  Any hopes I had of a brighter mood are
  destroyed as the light shed from the lantern only shows
  ghostly shadows where none should be, and branches
  that seem to reach and grab for me as I slowly trod
  through muck that threatens to pull me under with every
  step.
  But the worst is what cannot be seen.
  My lantern’s light has become the center of a very
  small world.  Thirty feet out, and in many places far less
  distant, all is blackness, save for an occasional pair of
  savage, emotionless eyes reflecting back at me. I know
  not what foul creatures are watching me from that
  infernal darkness, all I know is that they are there!  I
  begin to wonder what they are… a mistake it seems, as
  my imagination fills my head with creatures only
  distantly remembered from childhood nightmares.  The
  creatures out there couldn’t possibly be that bad… I
  pray.
  There!  From the left, or was it the right?  It seems
  that even sound itself has turned against me.  All I have
  now is the blessed light from a single lantern to see me
  through.  I have long since unsheathed my blade and it
  sings from side to side every few steps as a new threat
  seems to materialize from nothing.
  I strike!  Again and again I lash out furiously, slicing
  at my latest attacker!  My blade snaps and still I strike at
  my unknown enemy.  Only when my hand gives up and
  releases the useless hilt do I pause to see what attacked
  me.  A tree, but surely a tree from the Abyss itself!  The
  rotten trunk grins wickedly as the branches no wind has
  stirred in decades reach for me… I must run!
  Back the way I entered (I hope) I flee, all thoughts of
  riches, fame, and adventure banished by forces no man
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  was meant to conquer.  It seems I’ve run for far longer
  than I have been in this swamp, but I am starting to
  question everything my mind is telling me.  So much so
  that when a root or rock or something grabs my foot and
  sends me sprawling into the black water, it is like a
  shock, bringing me back from the sweet release of
  madness!
  How long I sat in the cold water I know not.  My
  weapon is gone.  My lantern lost in the silt and muck
  beneath my feet.  My sanity?  I begin to wonder… then I
  begin to shake.  I can feel them now; slimy forms
  swimming around my legs and feet.  Occasionally, I feel
  a nip, a strike, but I can’t react!  Any movement now
  would tell me that all this is real.  All I can do is sit here
  in the dark and the cold and hope I wake up before I
  bleed to death.
  Is it my imagination again, or has it grown lighter?
  It has!  I can begin to make out the sickly pale of dying
  trees and even some tracks in the mud I know I didn’t
  make.  I can see the mists… the light is from the mists,
  reflected and held and out of place in this world of
  darkness.  It is like the last dying breath of day as it loses
  its battle with the night, soon to be gone forever.  Then I
  see them.
  Shuffling forms slowly moving through the fog.  One
  is grabbed and pulled under by the merciless bog and
  they do not stop.  I scream, I threaten, I pray, and still
  they do not stop.  Dozens of dark forms and they are
  coming for me… coming to punish this fool who dared to
  invade their realm.
  I try to flee, but I have been here too long.  My legs
  are firmly mired in the mud, or perhaps some underwater
  behemoth is holding me in offering in appeasement of the
  wandering horde’s mercy.  I don’t know… all I know is
  terror!  And that they do not stop!
  Closer they come.  Closer and closer.  Always
  closer.  They move with a calm deliberation that makes
  them all the more terrifying.  There is no panic.  There is
  no hurry.  They know their prey will not escape them.
  Well before they arrive I can smell the scent of death and
  decay hanging from diem.  I vomit.  As my stomach and
  head clear I look up to see that they have gotten ever
  nearer.  I close my eyes and pray for madness to take me.
  And they do not stop.
  �
  THE HAUNTED OF
  VALCON FOREST
  by Robert Baker
  Asheville, North Carolina
  alcon Forest is a thickly wooded forest resting
  some twenty miles away from the Village of
  Barovia.  This magnificent green forest was once
  the home to a group of people known as the Givilis.
  Some say these were the very first inhabitants of Barovia,
  and that they possessed knowledge of the lands history
  long forgotten by modern peoples.  Legend say they had
  some secret ties to the Gypsies.  Others maintain they
  were simply a loosely-knit group of wanderers, brought
  together in a simple community away from outsiders.
  All that remains of the Givilis today is what lies in
  Valcon Forest, their home.  The Givilis made there home
  deep within the woods, living off the rich wildlife and the
  abundant wild berries growing throughout the woods.
  Their main focus of life revolved around a small ruined
  keep located directly in the center of the woods.
  Although the Givilis often explored other lands seeking
  adventure, a large number could always be found within
  or outside the ruined keep.  The Givilis were peaceful,
  bearing no ill will towards others unless provoked.
  Until the vampire lord Strahd came to their country.
  When Strahd first began flexing his newly
  discovered powers, the Givilis retreated to the keep,
  hoping to avoid the attention of the dark ruler.
  Unfortunately, their actions had the opposite reaction.  It
  was not long before the Givilis and their forest came
  under the vampire’s severe scrutiny.  He requested a
  meeting with Velsar, an experienced warrior who led the
  Givilis.  Strahd invited him to come to his castle on a
  certain date.
  When Velsar refused, the vampire grew angry at the
  Givilis leader’s defiance and immediately dispatched an
  entire legion of his undead zombies and skeletons to
  Valcon Forest to destroy the Givilis.
  But Strahd had severely underestimated the Givilis
  fighting knowledge, for Velsar had always trained his
  people in the ways of combat.  The battle of Valcon
  Forest was great, and for a time, the Givilis actually
  nearly defeated Strahd’s undead, but when the vampire
  sent more, their sheer numbers became too much for
  even the brave Givilis.  The undead’s lack of weariness
  and teeming masses eventually wore the Givlis down.
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  Many of the people were hacked down to pieces by the
  undead’s relentless swords.  Those who survived were
  quickly hunted down as they tried to flee the forest by
  undead patrols scouting along the outskirts of Valcon
  Forest.
  Those who remained alive were imprisoned within
  Valcon Keep until the next sunset.
  Strahd himself came to the keep the night following
  the battle.  He brought the surviving Givilis before him,
  allowing them to view their dead, all piled up by the
  zombies by the keep.
  He gave Velsar one more opportunity to swear
  loyalty to him, in much the same way the gypsies had
  done.  Velsar spat at him in response.
  Calmly, Strahd ordered the last Givilis to be taken
  and crucified throughout the forest, as an example to
  others who might think of disobeying his rule.  The
  vampire forced Velsar to watch as men, women, and
  children were nailed screaming and bleeding to the trees
  of Valcon Forest.
  Velar tried to fight, but Strahd had brought some of
  his vampire servants along with him, two royal women
  from other lands.  They held Velsar, turning his head so
  he could not turn away from the extermination of his
  people.
  When the last Givilis hung crying from a tree, Strahd
  took Velsar to the top battlement of Valcon Keep,
  making him listen to the tortured screams of agony of the
  Givlis echoing through the forest all night long.
  An hour before the coming of dawn, Strahd gave the
  signal for Velsar himself to die.  The warrior was forced
  to his knees by the two female vampires.  While the
  women taunted him, a skeleton bearing a huge battle ax
  lumbered forward, coming to stand over him.
  Filled with sadness, anger and desire for vengeance,
  Velsar cursed Strahd.  “From this night on, you shall
  never be able to set foot within this forest.  All who serve
  you who come here will perish.  What treasure lies
  within this keep shall never be yours Strahd.  If my
  people could not live in peace in our forest, neither shall
  those seeking to dwell or travel through these woods.”
  At that moment, Velsar’s separated head sailed over
  the battlement edge, falling to the ground below.
  Strahd at once found himself under attack from the
  recently departed angry dead spirits of the Givilis.  The
  force of their attack was so great, the vampire almost lost
  his mind in a whirlwind of insanity.  He tried to call on
  his undead servant, but was shocked to find they no
  longer obeyed his commands.  Zombies and skeletons
  climbed the walls of the keep in all directions, attempting
  to attack Strahd with their weapons.
  Strahd’s female vampires, being far less powerful,
  met gruesome ends.  Their bodies were ripped apart
  under the assault of the dead.  Using all his strength,
  Strahd fought them off, flying away from the keep, not
  stopping until he cleared the edge of Valcon Forest.
  There he found his undead patrols waiting for him,
  awaiting his orders.  Those outside Valcon Forest were
  still his.  Strahd angrily cursed the Givilis leader’s last
  words.  The land had evidently listened.  For several days
  Strahd was forced to lie in the ground outside Valcon
  Forest recovering from his wounds.
  Over the past several decades, Strahd has tried to re-
  enter Valcon Forest to search the keep but to no avail.
  Every undead he sends to the forest he loses control over.
  And the few parties he slyly has sent have never been
  heard from again.
  All that is known of Valcon Forest is the
  superstitions which have grown up around the haunted
  forest.
  Whenever travelers get close to the outer edges, a
  feeling of great sadness and dread falls over them while
  the sun still burns overhead, affecting the morale of all
  those near.  If the group or individual is not driven away
  from the forest by these awful feelings in the daylight, as
  dusk falls they begin to hear the far away, frantic, terror-
  filled cries.  As the night comes, the screams become
  more numerous and louder.  Men, women, and children’s
  voices mix together in wails and shrieks, and the air
  becomes icy cold no matter the time of year.
  A few tales say some individuals have bravely
  ventured a small way into the woods and have reported
  seeing strange lights weaving and bobbing among the
  trees, accompanying the tormented sounds of the Givilis
  spirits.  Wherever a skeleton hangs from a tree, it is
  believed the spirit savagely attacks any living beings
  nearby, creating illusions and bringing up any profound
  fears a person carries in their mind.
  The undead Strahd sent to the forest still walk there,
  aimlessly stalking through the woods, viciously attacking
  any creature which crosses their path.
  At the keep itself, the spirit of Velsar himself is said
  to stand on the battlement, headless, holding in his hands
  the very battle ax which removed his head.  He is said to
  be guarding his home until the end of time from any
  intruders.
  Other fearsome beasts from the demiplane are now
  believed to also make Valcon Forest their home,
  although none know exactly what kind.  But there are
  reports of cattle and in some cases people carried off by
  things in the night, and a bloody trail can be found
  leading into the woods.
  What treasure is located inside Valcon Keep is a
  complete mystery.  No group of adventurers have ever
  been know to make it to the keep, and little of the keep’s
  design is remembered other than it stood at least four
  levels high, and contained many rooms, some of which
  were secret, and known only to certain Givilis.
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  Great wealth could perhaps could be found inside
  the keep if it could be explored, although a successful
  search will probably bring about the attention of the
  vindictive Strahd.  But so far, the combined might of the
  angry Givilis spirits and mindless, violent undead and
  whatever now lives in the woods have sent most parties
  fleeing for their lives, leaving the keep and Valcon Forest
  itself largely unexplored.
  �
  THE SPECTER
  OF VILLSMITH
  by Rogan R. Hamby
  Columbia, South Carolina
  illsmith handles its problems much like any other
  hamlet that is far from church and law—it buries
  them.  The Specter of Villsmith came to be one
  hundred years ago.  The boy’s name was Helmus and he
  was poor but witty.  He thought Ingrid Janseng, the
  daughter of the mayor, loved him.  Every soul in the area
  knew that Herr Janseng wanted Helmus’ head on a pike
  and none were surprised he was framed.
  With no family to look out for Helmus it was
  expected that Ingrid would pay the jailer off with silver to
  have him look the other way while Helmus ran, and he
  would not show his face in Villsmith again.  It would not
  be the first, or even fifth, time in memory.  Helmus
  waited patiently for Ingrid, but she never came.  He grew
  mad and a violent red set into his veins.  He knew that
  the mayor was keeping Ingrid from seeing him.
  Eventually, news filtered to Helmus that Ingrid had
  been seen with a new suitor.  Although this wounded
  him, he remained convinced that there was something
  else to this and that she would still come for him.  In the
  end she didn’t even bring the coppers to the hangman to
  tie the knot that would end Helmus’ hanging quickly.  It
  took him over twenty minutes to die at the crossroads
  with most of the town watching.  Helmus was buried in a
  pauper’s grave with other criminals behind the apple
  trees they were hanged from at the crossroads.
  There is no doubt among the people of Villsmith
  that the specter is Helmus.  The first sighting occurred
  two weeks after the hanging as a group of farmers
  returning from market passed through the rarely-used
  crossroads.  It was a deranged farmer named Thomas
  who led the townsfolk to the corpses, his own skin
  stretched so thin at the neck as to become transparent.
  Thomas described in detail an image that periodically
  would return to the townsfolk over the next hundred
  years.  Sometimes the results would scare the townsfolk
  and sometimes would terrify.
  The farmers were passing through, their pockets
  jingling with the pay from their livestock and a little
  drunk, looking forward to their beds and hearths, when a
  chill tore through the area.  The feeling was slight, like a
  prickling of the skin, but then they heard the smashing
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  sound of horse hooves striking frosted ground.  They
  realized that their breath was fogging in front of them and
  their limbs felt numb.  Getting off his horse, one of the
  men tried to warm up and absently reached up to pick a
  young apple.  After a minute of effort he forced it into
  halves with a knife only to find it frozen through.  He put
  the apple to his tongue to first feel the rough texture of
  jagged ice and as it melted against the warmth of his
  mouth, replaced with the taste of acidic flesh.
  Then the men became disoriented and the horses
  bolted when the sound and sensation of a gale force wind
  struck the area instantly though no actual movement of
  air could be felt on the skin.  Suddenly a force gripped
  Thomas’ neck and he reached out to resist, but could
  only find a stringy mass that he could feel but not actually
  touch with force or see, and it felt like cords or rope.  The
  farmers couldn’t hear each other screaming until a single
  noise broke the deafening noise, the sound of a coin
  striking the ground as Thomas’ coin pouch slipped from
  his belt and the coins fell across the ground.  Suddenly
  the force let up and Thomas saw a face for a split second
  and he stumbled away.  Thomas could hear the screams
  of the other men though they sounded high-pitched, as if
  through a film of water.
  Years later a gypsy band visited the town and
  Thomas ran away screaming.  He admitted on his death
  bed that the gypsy’s monkeys reminded him of the face, a
  face that was human but distorted and attached to arms
  that were too massive for any human.  The face he
  recognized, impossibly, as belonging to Helmus.  As the
  decades passed the specter would attack at any time of
  day but always those who carried large amounts of
  money.  Some have come to believe that throwing silver
  into the trees will placate him, while others have been
  attacked for carrying a few copper bits.
  Mayors have attempted to close the roads but the
  growth of port cities to the north has increased the need
  for the crossroads and increased the number of victims.
  The dead are found with their necks stretched thin and
  heads rolling away from the body where several inches
  separate the bones in the neck.  One merchant was found
  curled into a fetal position trying to spit out coins.
  Although he lived he had strange ailments and breathing
  problems until he committed suicide a year later.  Some
  have managed to bypass the curse by carrying no cash
  but the difficulty of doing that makes the value of travel
  between ports limited.  Thirty years ago the townspeople
  brought a witch in from the west, hiring her to cast out
  the spirit.  The witch returned sweating, refusing money
  and became a hermit in the woods and obsessive that no
  apple trees be allowed to grow near her.  Three young
  lads got drunk ten years ago and tried to dig up the
  “treasure of the apple grove.”  They were found dead,
  with gold clasped in their hands where they fell,
  stumbling away from the trees.  The townspeople cut the
  corpses’ hands off so as not to touch the gold and swept
  it back under the trees, carting the bodies off for burial.
  And still the specter haunts the crossroads, less
  common now than he was a hundred years ago and
  perhaps closer to peace, but every now and then a new
  victim testifies to his vigilant rage.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  THE HAUNTING
  OF WATERLOOK
  MANOR
  by Jason & Belinda Asbell
  West Melbourne, Florida
  aterlook Manor sits upon a steep hill
  overlooking a lush river delta.  The manor is far
  enough from the seaport town of Waterport to
  be considered a “country estate”, but close enough to go
  to town if need be.  The main channel of the river bends
  around the base of the hill before fanning out into the
  bayous and ultimately emptying into the sea.  This
  creates a beautiful view from almost any window,
  especially to the east where the sun rises over the
  wetlands.  But all this beauty hides a sinister past.
  Many years ago, an abbey of nuns sat atop the hill,
  offering refuge from the horrors of the world for a life of
  quiet prayer.  The abbey also housed an orphanage.
  Each child received an education and learned discipline
  working in the fields which kept the abbey self-sufficient.
  Twenty years ago, a wealthy merchant named Ilyich
  Varonov saw the site upon the hill and desired it for his
  own, to tear down the abbey and build himself a country
  home.  He offered a fair price, but the nuns refused even
  his best offer.  Accustomed to getting his way, Varonov
  hired an arsonist, one Drego Pyotrov, to bum the place,
  planning to renew his offer afterward.  He also assumed
  Pyotrov would commit the deed in such a way that no
  one was hurt.  He could not have been more wrong.
  Pyotrov was a poor choice to commit the deed.  He
  had been orphaned and spent his childhood in the gutters
  of Waterport.  He was a cruel, bitter man and his cold
  heart drove him to ensure that nothing remained
  unburned.  Out of over a hundred children and twenty
  nuns, no one emerged from the blaze alive.  Neither did
  Pyotrov survive; his drive to bum everything caused him
  to be trapped in the fire as well.
  It was apparent that the fire was a crime, but as the
  criminal also died in the deed, no investigation was
  made.  Varonov quietly claimed the land a few weeks
  later and work began on his house—to be called
  Waterlook Manor.  When it was finished, he looked
  forward to settling down with his wealth.  But it was not
  to be.  Too many lives had been snuffed out prematurely,
  and not all rested peacefully.  Already tom by conscience,
  he slowly went mad.  Varonov hung himself from an
  upstairs window, and his unquiet spirit joined those of
  his victims.  Successive owners of the place found it to
  be a home of strange events and rarely stayed long.
  There are many manifestations of the unquiet dead in
  Waterlook Manor:
  � Strange Sensations: Muffled screams and the
  crackling of flames can be heard regularly,
  sometimes accompanied by sensations of warmth
  and even unexplained smoke.  “Hot spots” may
  appear in various areas within the manor where the
  air feels inexplicably warm.  The most dramatic
  manifestation of this type is of a closed door
  exhibiting all the signs of a fire beyond (warm door,
  searing hot doorknob, flames visible through
  keyhole and under the door) for several seconds only
  to return to normalcy.
  � Ilyich Varonov: An apparition of his spirit (similar
  to a geist) may occasionally be seen in the room
  where he ended his life.  It appears beside the
  window with a rope about its neck.  It looks around
  fearfully as though it were surrounded by enemies.
  It thrusts its hands out in supplication and cries, “I
  never meant any harm!” before leaping out the
  window.  The only physical evidence of this
  manifestation is that the window will swing open
  just before the apparition appears, and remains open
  afterward.
  � Drego Pyotrov: This tortured soul manifests as a
  flame, similar to a will-o-wisp in appearance, flitting
  about the perimeter of the old abbey—this does not
  match the perimeter of the manor, so there are times
  where this apparition will pass through walls.  The
  supernatural flame is the same size as the flame from
  a torch and feels warm in proximity but not hot
  enough to burn.  Anyone viewing this who is
  capable of seeing invisible or into the border
  ethereal will be able to discern the faint outline of a
  featureless humanoid.
  � The Bonny Child: One of the orphans was a joyful
  child, always smiling and helpful.  Her spirit can
  manifest physically but is usually noncorporeal (treat
  as a spectre but will never attack and will disappear
  if any attempt to attack is made).  It appears as a
  horribly burned child whose unburned face bears an
  almost angelic expression.  Seeing this is a cause for
  a horror check, but anyone who succeeds at this
  check feels a strange sense of calm which will
  remove any outstanding effects of previous failed
  fear or horror checks.  The spirit will occasionally
  manifest physically to perform small helpful tasks.
  W
  
  HAUNTED SITES
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  � The Stained Glass Image: The abbey had a large
  stained glass window which faced west and
  projected a beautiful image through its altar area
  with the light of the setting sun.  The main hall of the
  manor occupies a part of this space, and
  occasionally the image of the stained glass window
  may be seen upon the floor of the hall.  The window
  was of colored geometric patterns only, and had no
  special symbolism, but its image is no less eerie
  when it appears upon the floor of the hall.
  � The Praying Nun: The rarest apparition is the
  praying nun (treat as a geist).  She appears at
  midnight on the anniversary of the fire, kneeling in
  prayer on the spot where the Stained Glass Image
  appears.  The image surrounds her, but this time lit
  with the flickering light of fire rather than the clear
  light of sunset.  She makes no sound but is obviously
  praying.  Over the course of several minutes, the
  apparition appears to burn, continuing to pray
  despite obvious agony.  It collapses from pain, then
  disappears, along with the Stained Glass Image.
  This sight may be cause for multiple horror checks
  in succession.
  �
  THE WELLSPRING
  by Derek Ash
  Ellsworth, Maine
  The Garden
  here exists a tiny, roving island of terror that drifts
  like a spirit among the Mists of Ravenloft.  As if
  driven by its own will, it often draws travelers in
  need, seekers of secrets and of truths to it.
  The tiny island is known by the few that have been
  there as ‘Kargel’.  No one knows why that is the name,
  but the few that have come in contact with the island
  leave it with that knowledge.
  Kargel is encountered among the Mists, or upon the
  sea, or anywhere among the Core lands, even within the
  borders of another domain itself.  It manifests as a small
  garden on a hill, with an old well at its center.  Anyone
  entering the area immediately notices that the sun has
  been swept behind a sudden head of clouds, dressing the
  beauty of the garden in shadow.  A visitor’s eyes long to
  see the sun, even if their visit to Kargel is a short one.
  There are a few old stone posts set in the ground, with
  heavy iron rings, old and rusted, set in them.  Vines and
  flowers creep their way up the stones, thriving in spite of
  the shadows.  There is a silence so deep that one’s
  breathing is the only sound to be heard.
  The well at its center appears old, with some stones
  loose and missing from its lip.  It does not seem rickety
  or weak to the touch however, in fact, the stones feel
  harder, and colder, almost leeching the body heat from
  those it touches.  The water is black as oblivion, and their
  are no ripples in its surface, nor reflections of those
  looking in.  An unspeakable feeling wafts up from that
  circular black pool; one of being scrutinized very
  carefully by some huge beast with its eye to a tiny peep-
  hole.
  The water can be touched and ingested with little
  worry.  Though the water would most surely have
  stagnated long ago, this water is fresh and alive.
  Those who enter this domain will soon discover one
  thing.  They cannot leave.  Try as they might to enter the
  Mists and be on their way, they cannot.  If they walk into
  the surrounding forest or push their boat off into the
  waters of the ocean, they always seem to be lost, and
  rerouted to this tiny garden with its ancient well.  Only
  upon ingesting the water and spending one night in the
  garden (and dreaming a very special sort of dream) may
  the weary traveler be on their way.
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  The Promise
  Once travelers have taken a sip of the well-spring’s
  waters, the traveler becomes sleepy within an hour’s
  time.  Rest must be taken.  Several patches of harmless
  and very comfortable moss grow within the garden’s
  areas, for just this purpose.  Regardless of where the
  traveler sleeps, the traveler always dreams.
  The dreams are always prophetic, and disturbing.
  There is a chain of images, different for every dreamer,
  that floats through its mind.  Then an image of the
  dreamer dropping an undefined item into the well’s
  water, and then a miraculous light bubbling up from the
  water.  The most immediate need of the dreamer is met in
  the dream.  Knowledge, money, strength, power, answers
  to mysteries, the love of a woman, or escape from one’s
  past evils.
  The sequence of images repeats itself once more,
  and the image of the dreamer dropping a mysterious item
  into the water.  Then a message: “Bring it to me.”
  The traveler wakes, and is rested.  They are then free
  to go.  But they leave with knowledge.  The island’s
  name, and how to visit it a second time: Whisper
  ‘Kargel’ within the Mists, or near water, and the well
  will soon be found.
  The Price
  The dream images are a message, telling the visitor what
  he or she must look for to drop in the well.  The images
  are purposefully obscure.  More often than not,
  misinterpretations abound.
  The images might be: a blue bird, a human skull,
  and a tree.  This could be many things.  A feather from
  the base of a tree in a graveyard?  A bird’s nest with a
  dead chick?  A branch from an undead treant that preys
  primarily on birds?  Or a tapestry with all three images
  embroidered on it?
  The point is, the dream should be hard to navigate.
  The traveler that sets out the next morning, suddenly
  finds all kinds of situations where the dream might apply.
  Only one item is the right item however.  And indeed, the
  well delivers, if the right item is dropped into its waters.
  The items disappear into the water as if they were only
  ghosts sliding into the ground, and the visitor’s wish
  (minor wishes only) is granted.  Everyone is happy.
  If the wrong item is dropped within the water’s
  reach, the water turns a dark red, and something terrible
  happens.  The effect is different for each person.  Perhaps
  rotting, sea-zombie arms raise up out of the water to grab
  a hold of the foolish seeker.  Perhaps a whispering voice
  slowly echoes from the water source until a thousand
  mad voices all whisper and wail, gibber and laugh in the
  traveler’s ears, driving him quite mad while his
  companions watch in silent horror.  Or wraithlike
  maidens drift up like steam from the smooth pool’s
  surface to steal away the victim’s soul.
  The effect is different every time.  Be inventive.
  They are potentially harmful, and always very dangerous,
  and usually fatal if not dealt with, but they can be
  resisted, and fought, like monsters or spell affects.  Only,
  the character’s companions are never aware of the
  outcome because they can neither see nor hear the
  effects.  In effect, they cannot help him.
  Trying to communicate with the well, or a being
  within it by magical or psionic means is to invite
  madness.  The area around the well should be treated as a
  sinkhole of evil, and the undead that come from its
  depths can be turned, but with all the inherent
  difficulties.  Exploring the depths of the well is to be
  swallowed by the well, never to be seen again.  That is
  all there is to tell.
  No one who has been in contact with Kargel ever
  tells its secrets, or the outcome of their visit.  They only
  shiver at its mention, and may only tell their story under
  extreme conditions.
  The best course is to not heed the call of the well,
  after it has made its pitch.  Ignore the promise, and avoid
  the price.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES
  56
  WHERE ARE WE?
  by Martin Morris
  South Bay, Florida
  here are we?”, was the general question asked
  for what seemed like the thousandth time.  The
  elven wizard’s ears received the same reply as
  his brown hair was gently blowing in the stagnant wind,
  “We be west of the nine places of Hell as far as I can
  tell.”  Well, what did he expect from a dwarf, thought
  Lichbane.  His gray eyes looked about at the endless
  blood red sky streaked with poisonous veins of a
  midnight black that lacked hope of any welcome.  This
  was hell if ever there was one, and the constant swirling
  of the glowing yellow-green mist constantly took on
  humanoid shapes.  There was the constant moan that
  could be heard.
  Now looking around at the others, he figured that
  they probably felt the same soul wretchedness that he
  felt.  There was only five in the party, only five against
  the whole of hell.  The dwarf’s name was SlabNugget
  Pitchwright.  He was a stout dwarf of the mountains.  His
  hands were in a death grip upon his giant war hammer as
  if it were part of him.  The two females that were
  currently sitting upon the dead tree, went by the names of
  Christina De’NocAngel (who was the silver-headed one)
  and her sister Sara (with a mane of pure spun gold).
  Their beauty was as fierce as their swords were deadly.
  The large fellow who was currently crouching and
  cleaning his armor was none other than Arkust Dawn
  Bringer.  A paladin of the Order of the Flaming Bolts,
  who zestfully served the goddess of magic.  His hair was
  as red as the flaming crest he wore upon his talbert.  His
  eyes were the palest green and full of kindness.
  By this time the food and water were getting really
  low.  Arkust had stated that his powers grew weaker and
  weaker as they stayed there.  He couldn’t feel the
  connection to his Goddess.  They all needed that power if
  they were to survive another hour in this den of
  nightmares.
  Arkust was the first to react to the sound, it was a
  sound of a child who was innocent and pure; it cried out
  to them, tugging at their hearts.  The wind had begun to
  pick up and the mist started to stir.  The sky took more of
  the black brightness than before.  The party took a
  defensive posture and surrounded Lichbane who had
  begun to chant.  The rune blades of Christina and Sara
  glowed the pale rose colors that made them so famous.
  As Arkust lifted his great two-handed sword it caught
  fire and he started to sing the song of valor.
  SlabNugget’s hammer was swinging around and around.
  Then all of a sudden—nothing happened!  The air grew
  quiet and the mist settled down.  A peace was in the air.
  The party looked around and then at each other.  An
  uneasy stillness was in the air.  Nerves were straining
  from the effects from the stress of the moment.  The party
  was beginning to put their weapons and into a peace-
  defense stance.  Ten minutes went by and still nothing
  else had happened.  The party started to reset the camp.
  When the attack came—
  Out of the shadows a grinning doll’s head came up.
  Its eyes were dripping blood, the head set upon the bones
  of what looked to be past victims and not all looked to be
  human.  The doll thing stood up and was the size of a
  small giant.  It towered over the party.  Then it
  screeched—Aahhaahahahh!
  Fear assaulted the friends.  Arkust looked to have
  aged forty years and with not a whisper died.  Christina
  groaned and blood dripped out of her mouth, then she
  turned to stone.  Sara was the first to recover from the
  ambush then with vengeance ran and struck the bone
  demon’s front left leg.  The blow fell true, with the
  crackling of bone the leg came off.  The creature slashed
  out with its long white tail and struck her in the head.
  The only sound was the crunch of broken bones.  She fell
  like a flower petal in the wind.  A hammer went flying
  and with the Kaboooom of thunder, ozone filled the air.
  The demon cried out Mmmmiiiggghhhttttyyy, as it was
  enveloped in sparks of electrical whips.  Before it could
  recover Lichbane struck out with his anger and released
  the fury of the arcane arts into the most lethal spell he
  knew—the brimstone bolt spell.  It would drain him of
  his very life essence but he knew his friends needed him.
  The gates of hell began to open up and power flew from
  his finger tips.  The cold plasma of justice struck the
  Spawn of Bones in its breast, as the smell of sulfur and
  burnt flesh hit the air, it roared and began to burn.
  Lichbane stumbled and almost fell.  He tried not to
  black out.  The fires were still burning when the effect of
  his power began to be felt—time itself was being ripped
  apart.  The spell was reacting to the very air itself.  The
  land moaned and time had begun to break apart.
  Lichbane looked at his friend with tears in his eyes, at
  friends he would never see again.  SlabNugget might
  have guessed at what he had to do and tried to stop him if
  given enough time—but he wasn’t…
  With arms outstretched he pulled into the nexus of
  the power, sweat beaded his brow and he shook.  When
  he felt he could take no more, still the power flew into
  him by his will alone.  He was transcended as time was
  restored…
  …”Where are we?”, was the general question asked
  for what seemed like the thousandth time.  The elven
  wizard’s ears received the same reply as his brown hair
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  HAUNTED SITES
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  was gently blowing in the stagnant wind, “We be west of
  the nine places of Hell as far as I can tell.”…
  �
  THE WRECK
  OF THE TENEBRAE
  by William J. Walton
  Felton, Delaware
  waltonwj@aol.com
  t sits, perched among the dunes of the parched desert
  as if in its rightful place; a massive black sailing
  vessel with tattered sails.
  The nomads and caravans avoid it, as has rumor has
  it that simply gazing upon it is very bad luck.  Legends
  tell that it is a ship from the netherworld, abandoned here
  by its monstrous crew during a cursed expedition.
  At first, one would think it was a mirage, a common
  occurrence to a pair of dry, sand-encrusted eyes.  But as a
  traveler draws near, the ship’s reality becomes more
  evident.  It is a very real, very solid, black ship of
  massive proportions, leaning at a slight angle in the sand
  on its starboard side.  The sails, flags and rigging are
  tattered and rotten away, and jagged holes can be seen in
  the exposed portions of the hull.  The desert winds blow
  through and around these holes, creating eerie whistles
  and moans that have become a part of its reputation
  among desert travelers.
  The entire ship is constructed of a black, thick-
  grained wood that has been nearly petrified by magic, yet
  remains buoyant enough to have kept the afloat in its
  heyday.  Close inspection of the wood reveals what
  appear to be twisted faces hidden in the grain.  At night,
  in the moonlight, the faces seem to swirl and dance over
  the surface of the wood.
  The masthead features a stone statue of a woman
  with long, writhing snakes in place of hair.  She appears
  to be screaming in horror.  Novice adventurers will know
  that it is a representation of a Medusa, while the
  experienced will wonder if it isn’t in fact an actual
  specimen who has fallen victim to her own petrifying
  gaze.
  The ship itself is massive, nearly four times the size
  of the common pirate ship, and can easily hold a crew of
  200 or more men.  Entering the ship is easily done
  through one of the gaping holes found in the hull, at
  which point the bold soul wilt find himself in the lowest
  cargo holds of the ship.
  Inside, the contents of the ship remain almost
  perfectly undisturbed; despite years of abandonment,
  nothing has been taken from the vessel.  Moving about
  I
  
  HAUNTED SITES
  58
  inside the ship is slightly hindered by the angle at which
  it rests.
  Skeletons of the ship’s crew lie scattered about,
  clutching sabers and cutlasses, as if they had all died in
  battle.  Judging from their dress, and the positions in
  which several of them lay, it appears as if they had no
  enemy; the crew were fighting among themselves.
  Hunched over a desk in the captain’s quarters rests a
  well-preserved corpse, his dress and accouterments
  suggesting that he was a mage in life.  A cutlass juts from
  his back.  On the desk before him lies a treasure map of
  some sort, written in a strange language.
  History of the Tenebrae
  The Tenebrae was the creation of Alij Bak’nhar (al-
  LEEZH bak-NAHR), an evil wizard bent on locating an
  artifact of great power, the Prism of Unseen Stars.  His
  reasons for possessing the artifact were unknown, but
  given his reputation, it was certain that it was for his own
  vile advances.  For years he researched the location of
  the Prism, until he found evidence that it had been left on
  a deserted island as part of a treasure cache by a gang of
  unknowing pirates.
  Alij commissioned the ship, killed the workers after
  its completion, and enslaved a crew of drunks, orphans,
  and homeless to join him in his quest.  He was a cruel
  and heartless man, and was no less of that as a captain,
  and many of his men perished while on the journey.
  As the Tenebrae drew close to her destination, The
  Mists drew around her and brought her to Ravenloft.  But
  rather than deposit her into the sea, the Mists slammed
  the ship into the middle of the desert, as some kind of
  cruel joke.  The hull cracked like a black, rotten egg and
  men were thrown about as the ship ground to a fatal halt.
  Driven mad by lack of food, terrible morale, and
  their situation, the crew revolted, and began fighting
  among themselves.  None survived the chaos, including
  Alij, who was stabbed in the back before he could even
  recover from the impact.
  Exploring the Ship
  Anyone entering the ship and staying past nightfall will
  gradually feel the ship begin to rock in the familiar
  rhythm of the ocean.  A quick look around will reveal
  that the ship has transformed into its former sinister
  glory.  Crew members, still in their skeletal form, race
  about the ship, adjusting the rigging, and performing
  their duties as did in life.  The sails and flags billow with
  wind, and below can be seen an oily black sea.
  If caught by the crew, the intruders are quickly
  overrun by skeletal forces, who subdue rather than
  wound the characters.  Once captured, the intruders are
  brought to the captain’s quarters, where they meet the
  undead Alij Bak’nhar.
  Alij is now a revenant, and is devoted to finding the
  Prism even in his state of undeath.  His dedication to his
  task has created his own Nightmare Realm, where his
  ship still sails upon a black sea, and his crew is silent and
  ever willing to serve.  He knows that if he ever finds the
  Prism, a terrible power will be his.
  He gives the intruders the choice of serving him in
  his quest, or walking the plank (as is the usual
  punishment for stowaways).  No matter their choice, Alij
  sentences them to servitude.  He believes that living
  hands will aid him much better than dead ones.
  Whether he finds the Prism, or is thwarted by his
  newly-gained crew members, is up to the adventurers…
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTEST WINNERS
  59
  CHILDREN IN
  THE ATTIC
  by Margaret L. Carter
  Annapolis, Maryland
  MLCVamp@aol.com
  his location occupies a phantom space attached to a
  hundred-year-old house.  This two-story structure
  is in good repair and appears to be an ordinary,
  comfortable home for anyone who decides to buy or rent
  it.  In a small upstairs bedroom, however, a massive,
  heavy chest blocks a long-disused door.  Upon moving
  the chest, anyone who investigates finds that the door is
  warped but not impossible to open.  Opening the door
  reveals a walk-in closet empty of all but dust and
  cobwebs.
  Anyone who steps inside the closet sees the back
  wall dissolve into mist, then change into another door,
  secured by a wooden bar.  Yet this room lies against an
  outside wall; there is nowhere for the door to lead.
  If this portal is unbarred and opened, the musty
  smell of the closet changes to the fumes of smoke.
  Before the investigator’s eyes, a steep, narrow stairway
  leads up.  The house, however, has no floor above this
  one.
  The stairs bend around a corner, continue upward,
  and finally end at a narrow door, small enough to force a
  tall person to stoop to enter.
  Beyond this door, the odor of smoke becomes dense
  and unmistakable.  The intruder hears the cries of babies
  and the screams of children.
  Eighty years ago, the attic of the house was occupied
  by a young woman who practiced “baby farming,”
  providing shelter and food for orphaned and abandoned
  children under the slipshod oversight of the local town
  council.  She accepted more children than she could
  adequately care for, greedy for the stipend paid by the
  council.  She pocketed most of the money allotted for the
  feeding of the orphans, nourishing the infants on watered
  milk and the older children on cheap, meager fare.  In the
  overcrowded, poorly supervised attic nursery, one of the
  toddlers stumbled into the open hearth.  The fire quickly
  spread from his clothes to the rest of the room, blocking
  the exit.  The “nurse” and all her charges burned to death
  in the destruction of the attic.
  Anyone who enters the ghostly re-creation of the
  attic finds that the main room features a large fireplace,
  from which flames and smoke billow out.  The rest of the
  attic is divided by flimsy wooden walls into several
  cramped rooms.  The only furnishings consist of an
  overstuffed chair beside the hearth and straw-filled
  mattresses covering the floors from wall to wall.  Smoke
  and the stench of burning flesh, hair, and cloth fill the air.
  Upon stepping over the threshold, the intruder
  instantly becomes disoriented.  He or she stumbles
  through the tiny rooms, with their low, slanted ceilings,
  unable to find the way out.
  Dozens of screaming children crawl on the floor or
  roll on their pallets, vainly struggling to escape the
  flames that engulf them.  All the children capable of
  crawling cluster around the intruder, clutching at arms,
  legs, and clothes.  Upon being rebuffed, they clamp their
  teeth onto any exposed flesh they can reach.  They force
  the intruder to drag them along in his or her escape
  attempt.
  No attempt at extinguishing the flames has any
  effect.  If a visitor attacks the babies, one blow from a
  weapon causes the infant to fall “dead” and change into a
  heap of bones.  Within minutes, however, it reconstitutes
  its lifelike form and clutches onto the visitor again.
  A wailing woman, with her hair and gown aflame,
  rushes out of the thickest cloud of smoke with an infant
  in her arms.  She tries to give the baby to any living
  person she can reach.  If the intruder accepts the baby,
  the other children stop mobbing him.  He then finds
  himself in front of the open door to the attic stairs.  As
  long as he carries the baby, he can successfully descend
  the stairs and exit through the door into the closet.
  As soon as the phantom door is barred, it vanishes.
  The baby transforms into a charred skeleton wrapped in
  the disintegrating ash of swaddling rags.
  If an intruder refuses to let the woman give him or
  her an infant to “save,” the visitor will never find the way
  out.  The children’s clawing and biting become more
  painful, as if they are growing more solid.  Eventually
  they rip the intruder to shreds.  His or her mutilated body
  will be found in the closet, should anyone else open it in
  the future.
  A successful exorcism by a powerful priest will
  reduce the woman and children to calcined bones and
  make the flames vanish.  To make the entire haunted attic
  (with the stairs) disappear completely, however, a more
  elaborate ceremony performed by several holy persons
  together is required.
  �
  T
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTEST WINNERS
  60
  THE PHANTOM
  ORACLE
  by Joseph Dunn
  Columbus, Ohio
  Description
  n a valley lies an arc of travertines which stand before
  the opening to a circle of squarish, squat stones.  The
  formations are fairly short, the tallest being barely
  seven feet tall and the circle seeming to lack any natural
  cause.
  Background
  These are the remains of a band of Vistani who offended
  a darklord named Koreth, long since vanquished by the
  portent foreseen for him.  The site survives its creator by
  the dark events that befall those who enter it.
  When the Vistani were altered, their spirits
  remained trapped and tormented with little chance for
  release.  By her gift, the old prophetess of the group
  discovered the means to overcome the bane but could not
  pursue it.  Only the living could bring the release of her
  fellow wanderers forever rooted to this cursed valley.
  Many times, the souls strained to contact a living being to
  help them.  Rarely would a mind be touched and then
  only to drive it to madness.  Even in their madness, the
  poor possessed creatures could not even chip the
  smothering stone.  Agony infused these moments.
  Reaching for hope which quickly crumbled.  Encased in
  grim stalactites which would not.  It eventually was
  realized that prognostication must be their salvation.  To
  this end, they focused their will on the talismans of
  prophecy which had remained unharmed within the
  boulder which had been the vardo of the seer.  But the
  dark powers of Ravenloft twisted their efforts.
  Effect
  Any sentient may enter the “cave” of the phantom oracle
  to seek their fortune, but few are favored by the future
  shown.  The “fate” of the seeker is determined by the
  Tarokka.  When the fated sits before the stone at the
  center of the vardo cave, a stack of cards appears before
  them.  When touched, it proceeds to display itself in a
  simple cross.
  The significance of each card is defined by three
  levels.  The central card remains the focus and directs the
  effect.  The four cards to complete the simple cross or
  inner circle determine the effect.  The four cards that
  finish the extended cross or outer circle modify the effect.
  Focus
  If the focus is:
  Then the penalty applies to…
  Lesser Deck
  Swords
  THAC0
  Coins
  Poison & Dexterity-modified saving
  throws.
  Glyphs
  Turning undead, Wisdom-modified
  saving throws.
  Stars
  Spell saving throws.
  High Deck
  Artifact
  2-4 random effects
  Beast
  Reaction modifier, Ranger ability to
  calm animals, Spells to control.
  Broken One
  Madness checks.
  Darklord
  Special: Koreth appears before the
  party and speaks of a weakness in the
  darklord who deposed him, but he
  must accompany the party.  Koreth is a
  bussengeist.  It was this flaw upon
  which he depended in his final battle.
  Select an appropriate darklord.
  Koreth stays until the party defeats the
  darklord or for ten days.  The party
  will not be rid of him until then.
  Donjon
  Special: A version of the petrification
  virus afflicts a random party member.
  Patches of stone slowly form about the
  victim’s body until they are encased in
  stone.  If fully affected, the PC can
  only be released by the means to save
  the Vistani.  Alternatively, the effect
  may prevent the use of a number of
  favored weapons, spells, or abilities
  equal to the penalty number.  This
  lasts ten days.
  ESPer
  Psionic-related checks, Saves vs.
  chaos, confusion, etc.
  I
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTEST WINNERS
  61
  Ghost
  Special: The spirits visit with varied
  effect.  Roll 1d10 a number of times
  equal to the penalty number and
  consult the chart.
  1-5:Haunt.  If possessed, madness
  checks ensue until the haunt is
  removed due to tormented memories.
  6-8: A phantom of the final moments
  of the camp.
  9-10: An angry poltergeist tries to
  chase the intruders away.
  Hangman
  Thief stealth skills (-1/
  -5%), Positive modifier to thief
  detection.
  Horseman
  Saving throws, armor class.
  Innocent
  Surprise checks, Proficiency checks,
  Fumble (as per spell except 1% per
  point of penalty).
  Marionette
  Saves vs. mind-affecting effects.
  Mists
  Special: As the focus, thus card
  changes the layout to an extended
  cross.
  Raven
  Informational skills/ spells beneficial
  for non-magical items (stakes, silver
  weapons, etc.).
  Temptress
  Special: One of the characters
  acquires an “advisor.”  The spectral
  remains of the imp that served Koreth
  subtly encourages evil acts.  The voice
  remains for a number of months equal
  to the penalty.  Alternatively, any
  attempt to sway a character against
  their alignment requires a save vs.
  spell to resist the suggestion.
  The penalties apply for the next three months and
  are cumulative.
  The Inner Circle
  If the cards are all from the lesser deck (2-9), then the
  results are determined by subtracting the combined total
  of the mortal suits (swords and coins) from the combined
  total of mystery suits (glyphs and stars).  The remaining
  number is compared to the chart with the appropriate
  result applied.
  Suit Tally
  Penalty
  30+
  -5
  20-29
  -4
  10-19
  -3
  0-9
  -2
  If a card from the high deck appears in the inner
  circle, then it signifies an entity from that card’s influence
  will be encountered within the scope of the minor curse
  granted by the prophecy (for example, Artifact: animator,
  Beast: lycanthrope).  If no creature is readily apparent,
  consider a creature able to affect the party according to
  their new vulnerability.  Keep it imaginative.  The
  archetypes have no effect on the outcome at this level.
  The Outer Circle
  For simplicity’s sake, the outer circle is limited to
  modifying the other factors of the read.  If the cards are
  all from the lesser deck, there is no modification.  If an
  Archetype, the penalty is doubled but is applied once
  only.  If from the high deck, further special factors may
  be added.
  Resolution
  Release from the curse is revealed in a singular
  configuration.  The focus must be the Mists.  The inner
  circle is composed of Ghost, Donjon, Artifact, and
  Raven.  The outer circle is formed by the Archetypes.  In
  this form alone is the vision of the means to release the
  Vistani revealed.  There is no penalty involved aside
  from achieving that release.  Once aware of the plight of
  the spirits and the way to free them, the players should
  feel some obligation to act.  Ignoring these unfortunates
  is sufficient cause for a Ravenloft powers check.  Feel
  free to improvise other intriguing results in relation to
  specific high deck combinations.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTEST WINNERS
  62
  ROSE GARDEN
  by Jaleigh Johnson
  Arthur, Illinois
  ver the high stone walls of the garden, the child
  gazed at the unbreachable gray dome of the
  afternoon sky—the only color visible beyond the
  lush pink roses that dominated the grounds.  She
  shuddered and tore her eyes away from the lifeless sky,
  much preferring the wild scent of the roses amid the pink
  landscape.  It was the color she remembered best—the
  scent that was forever etched upon her senses.
  Distantly she heard the sound of hoofbeats on the
  road approaching the manor house; someone was
  coming.  She glanced over her shoulder to the far corner
  of the garden, where a dark, shadowy blemish marred the
  beauty surrounding her.
  As the sounds came nearer, the shadows stirred as if
  from a long sleep and stretched out questing tendrils of
  black mist towards her.  She turned in a swirl of skirts
  and brown curls and started to run towards the garden
  gate, knowing what was to follow; it was the same game
  she had played and lost for centuries.  It never mattered;
  they came for the Beast, and now the beast was coming
  for them.
  � � �
  The rider had dismounted and was exploring the
  grounds of the ruined manor house.  Silence hung heavily
  in the air, broken only by the creaking of the iron garden
  gate swinging back and forth on its hinges.
  He was not a young man, but his stride was strong
  and confident.  Confident he was, for he had come to this
  place with a purpose.  He would slay the Beast that
  dwelled here and banish the evil hanging over the manor,
  succeeding where others had failed.
  He caught the latch of the gate and opened it.  The
  bravado held so carefully cultivated began to slip at the
  sight that met his eyes in the garden beyond.  A child was
  running toward him, her step impossibly fast and
  graceful over the crumbling cobblestone path that led to
  the gate.  She was gaunt, disheveled … and nearly
  transparent—the man could see through her frail,
  ethereal frame to the twisted, dead tangles of rose bushes
  behind her.
  The man backed away, out of reach of the child-
  spirit.  She stopped near the gate and regarded him with
  a wounded expression.  Upon closer inspection, the man
  realized that she must have been quite a beautiful child
  once, with a round face and expressive, china doll eyes
  that seemed to look through him.  He shuddered in
  revulsion at her clothes, hanging in ripped tatters about
  her body.  Her hair was a rat’s nest of matted tangles and
  wild curls swirling around bare shoulders that could no
  longer feel the cold.
  She regarded him pleadingly and held a crumbling
  dead rose out to him with a shy smile.  It was covered
  with ugly, biting thorns that dug deeply into her small
  palm, though she obviously could not feel their sting.
  The man steeled himself against the chilling image
  of the child-spirit’s awful smile and deliberately stepped
  around her onto the path into the garden.  The child was
  no doubt a distraction, meant to delay him reaching his
  goal.  He could feel the spirit’s eyes watching him as he
  started cautiously in the direction she had come from.
  The path was long worn down with age and being
  trod upon by centuries of feet.  Here and there stones
  were broken and strewn carelessly in the dirt and
  shriveled grass as the roses and weeds had grown wild
  and thrust themselves—violently it seemed—up through
  the cracks in the stone.  Even these now lay dead and
  coiled crazily across the ground, giving the scene a
  chaotic, unsettled appearance.  Nothing could grow in
  the garden now, the man realized, but even so, he could
  feel the presence of something still existing here;
  something unnatural held the garden, preventing anything
  living from taking root.
  Following a bend in the path, the man passed
  beneath an archway of stone and had the startling
  impression that he was passing from afternoon to night.
  The light of the gray sky dimmed suddenly, and the
  remains of the once lush vegetation cast sinister shadows
  before him.  The man turned around in alarm, thinking he
  had stepped through some sort of portal that his magic
  had failed to detect.  The archway was still there, but
  with an impenetrable darkness drawn across it like a
  thick curtain.  There was nowhere to go but forward, so
  the man ventured deeper into the darkness, realizing he
  was being drawn towards something.  Rounding another
  corner, he met with a dead end wall of stone.
  Shadowy darkness clung to the wall like creeping
  ivy, and with it came the stench of rot and decay.  The
  presence he had felt—the unnatural and malignant eyes
  he had barely sensed before—fell upon him fully.
  The man had no time to think, to act, before the
  rotting stench mingled with a sickeningly sweet scent of
  fresh roses filled the air, choking him.  Roses appeared
  around him suddenly, pink and black, scratching and
  clawing at him, dragging him down to the ground with
  their decaying arms.  The man opened his mouth and
  screamed, long and loud, as their thorns dug deep gashes
  into his flesh.  The shadows separated themselves from
  the stone wall and edged sinuously closer to the
  O
  
  HAUNTED SITES: CONTEST WINNERS
  63
  struggling figure.  As he screamed, the man realized
  vaguely that the garden seemed to scream with him.
  � � �
  The child-spirit watched the familiar scene in
  detached silence, letting the bright pink rose fall from her
  hand into the dirt.  It was her fault for failing to warn him
  properly.  He had ignored her, afraid, just as the others
  had been.  Now the beast would punish her again, would
  use the intruder’s life and corrupt another of her precious
  rose plants.  So few still bloomed as the years passed,
  and the scent … the child sighed and turned away from
  the shadows, where the scent of her pink roses had
  gradually become the scent of rot and death.
  �
  
  HAUNTED SITES: AUTHOR INDEX
  64
  LISTINGS BY AUTHOR
  Abell, Michael
  The Moorlan’ Stones
  40.
  Anonymous
  The Clock
  20.
  Asbell, Jason & Belinda
  The Haunting of Waterlook Manor
  53.
  Ash, Derek
  The Wellspring
  54.
  Baker, Robert
  The Haunted of Valcon Forest
  49.
  Bennet, Alexander “Warlock”
  The Horror of Castle Vania
  11.
  Carter, Margaret L.
  Children in the Attic
  59.
  Chaney, Robert
  The Story of Bateman House
    8.
  Dunn, Joseph
  The Phantom Oracle
  60.
  Ervin, Kathleen
  The Shadowed Church
  47.
  Harnby, Rogan R.
  The Specter of Villsmith
  51.
  Johnson, Jaleigh
  Rose Garden
  62.
  Laycock, Joseph P.
  Almadrask’s Lighthouse
    6.
  Martin, Matthew L.
  Chateau de Marius-Eibenal
  16.
  Mathieu, François
  The Cathedral of the Damned
  13.
  Montgomery, Chris
  The Church in the Mists
  17.
  Morris, Martin
  Where Are We?
  56.
  Murray, Jennifer
  Dead End
  24.
  Newbre, Tricia
  The Manor at New Corinth
  40.
  Olson, Dan
  The Legend of William Tor
  35.
  Pabon, Nick
  The Riverside Wall
  45.
  Paladino, Jay
  The Abbey of Kyldiss
    5.
  Paxton, Chad M.
  Darkblood Tower
  23.
  Peck, W. Jason
  The Ipswich Brewery
  33.
  Polewarczyk, Andrew
  Fear
  26.
  Roberts, Tim
  The Swamp
  48.
  Schiller, Andy
  The City of Lost Hope
  19.
  Schultz, Jason
  Lochart Lake
  37.
  Shelby, Montsho
  Blackshadow’s Study
  10.
  Sinclair, Geoff Gabriel
  The Gates of Dusk
  28.
  Smith, Lazarus
  Mirrors to the Soul
  38.
  Stacey, Jon
  The Little Fellow
  36.
  Swanson, Aaron
  The Statue
  47.
  Taylor, Jason
  The Hanging Tree
  32.
  Torres, Marco
  The Glass House
  29.
  Trouw, Conor
  Plight at the End of the Tunnel
  43.
  Van Rooden, Pierre
  Cell Number 4
  15.
  The Devil’s Pit
  25.
  The Red Carpet Hall
  44.
  VandeVeegaete, Robert
  The Grotto
  31.
  Walton, William J.
  The Wreck of the Tenebrae
  57.
  Whitt, Jeremy
  Ansrick’s Prison
    8.
  Wyatt, James
  The Crescent Moon
  22.
  Old Odgen Abbey
  41.
  
  TERRORS FROM ABOVE: SETTING INDEX
  65
  LISTINGS BY SETTING
  RAVENLOFT
  The Story of Bateman House
    8.
  Robert Chaney
  The Horror of Castle Vania
  11.
  Alexander “Warlock” Bennet
  The Cathedral of the Damned
  13.
  Mathieu, François
  Cell Number 4
  15.
  Pierre Van Rooden
  Chateau de Marius-Eibenal
  16.
  Matthew L. Martin
  The City of Lost Hope
  19.
  Andy Schiller
  The Crescent Moon
  22.
  James Wyatt
  The Gates of Dusk
  28.
  Geoff Gabriel Sinclair
  The Glass House
  29.
  Marco Torres
  The Grotto
  31.
  Robert VandeVeegaete
  The Phantom Oracle
  60.
  Joseph Dunn
  The Haunted of Valcon Forest
  49.
  Robert Baker
  The Wellspring
  54.
  Derek Ash
  GOTHIC EARTH
  The Ipswich Brewery
  33.
  W. Jason Peck
  The Little Fellow
  36.
  Jon Stacey
  The Manor at New Corinth
  40.
  Tricia Newbre
  The Red Carpet Hall
  44.
  Pierre van Rooden
  ANY SETTING
  The Abbey of Kyldiss
    5.
  Jay Paladino
  Almadrask’s Lighthouse
    6.
  Joseph P. Laycock
  Ansrick’s Prison
    8.
  Jeremy Whitt
  Blackshadow’s Study
  10.
  Montsho Shelby
  Children in the Attic
  59.
  Margaret L. Carter
  The Church in the Mists
  17.
  Chris Montgomery
  The Clock
  20.
  Anonymous
  Darkblood Tower
  23.
  Chad M. Paxton
  Dead End
  24.
  Jennifer Murray
  The Devil’s Pit
  25.
  Pierre Van Rooden
  Fear
  26.
  Andrew Polewarczyk
  The Hanging Tree
  32.
  Jason Taylor
  The Legend of William Tor
  35.
  Dan Olson
  Lockart Lake
  37.
  Jason Schultz
  Mirrors to the Soul
  38.
  Lazarus Smith
  The Moorlan’ Stones
  40.
  Michael Abell
  Old Ogden Abbey
  41.
  James Wyatt
  Plight at the End of the Tunnel
  43.
  Conor Trouw
  The Riverside Wall
  45.
  Nick Pabon
  Rose Garden
  62.
  Jaleigh Johnson
  The Shadowed Church
  47.
  Kathleen Ervin
  The Statue
  47.
  Aaron Swanson
  The Swamp
  48.
  Tim Roberts
  The Specter of Villsmith
  51.
  Rogan R. Harnby
  The Haunting of Waterlook Manor
  53.
  Jason & Belinda Asbell
  Where Are We?
  56.
  Martin Morris
  The Wreck of the Tenebrae
  57.
  William J. Walton
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Dungeons & Dragons [multi]/AD&D 2nd Edition/Ravenloft/Netbooks/Ravenloft - Haunted Sites.pdf