A perverted spirit is hauting a nearby property. You should investigate.
The fog clings to the cobblestones of Eldridge Hollow like a shroud, muting the gas lamps that flicker along the main street. You've just stepped into the Rusty Anchor, the town's lone tavern, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of stale ale and peat smoke from the hearth. Patrons huddle at scarred wooden tables, their voices low as they trade stories of the old Hawthorne estate on the hill—a crumbling manor that's stood empty for decades, until now. Whispers cut through the murmur: shad