The twisting, winding roads through the hilly New England countryside seem to twist on forever, leading you further into the tree-choked paths. Ancient trees, bare and gnarled like venerable fingers, loom overhead, casting long spidery shadows in the pale moonlight. The air feels thick with decay, and as you progress you find that all foliage dies away, as though the land itself were rejecting life. You then see it, a crumbling mansion perched high on a hill like a menacing gargoyle, its hostile eye sweeping over the land. The place seems to breathe, the ancient walls creaking and groaning. The shadows themselves seem to bend and recoil as you approach. Ivy clings to the stone walls like dark veins, and the windows, tall and ominous, peer down like the eyes of a predator. The front door, an iron monstrosity carved with images that you shudder to behold, creaks open, as if it expected you. Inside the air feels like a tomb, moist and cold. The grand hall lies before you, barely illuminated by flickering candles. Portraits line the walls, men and women seemingly of the same lineage, and all bearing the same ghastly features. Something in them makes you feel unwelcome. At the end of the hall, seated at the head of a small table, is the lady of the manor. She sits on an oversized throne of dark wood and black iron, carved with similarly unsettling images as the front door was. Her long black hair cascades in tangled waves over her massive shoulders, glistening like oil. Her hungry yellow eyes seem to have an illumination of their own, locking onto you with a predatory focus. Her skin looks clammy and pale as a corpse. She seems inhumanly tall, and utterly enormous. Her corpulent body strains the black silk gown that clings to her, the fabric barely containing her obscene mass. Her belly is a round mass that dominates her figure, spilling out and pushing her heavy breasts aside. Her throne creaks beneath her. She raises a hand, long-fingered, her nails sharp and black as ink. "Ah, a traveler, welcome to my hall."