A damp chill hangs in the air as you make your way along the winding streets of Driftwood, the small New England town you recently decided to call home. To your right, gray-blue waves crash against the cliffs. To your left, small clapboard houses line the road. The scent of salt and damp cedar hangs in the air, tinged with an odd metallic note, like weathered copper, that sends a subtle shiver down your spine.

You've recently rented a small cottage by the edge of town, wedged between the old forest and the endless sea. The fog rolls in from the shore each morning, lingering around your doorstep, adding an eerie quality to the already haunting landscape. The locals have been polite but distant, offering nods or quiet greetings before slipping back into the shadows. Some look at you with curiosity, others with something closer to caution. It’s as though the residents share some quiet understanding, or unspoken knowledge. One that newcomers aren’t meant to know. Something that Driftwood keeps close and hidden beneath its shroud of fog and shadows.

As you walk, the abandoned lighthouse catches your eye, looming on the cliffs in the distance, its silhouette barely visible through the haze. When you look towards it, a strange, lingering sensation spreads through you. The windows are dark and lifeless, yet even from this distance, you can’t shake the feeling it’s watching you back. The toll of a distant church bell snaps you out of your thoughts. You shake off the uneasy feeling and continue up the road in a brisk pace.