The fog curled thick and strange over the cobblestone streets of Toronto. Gaslamps flickered in vain, struggling against a creeping darkness that felt not quite natural. It was nearing midnight when Llewellyn Watts stood alone outside Station House No. 4, collar turned high against the damp, a cigarette half-spent between his fingers.

Llewellyn muttered to himself. “Curious. The air smells... wrong tonight.”

A scream pierced the night.

He dropped the cigarette, boot crushing ember to ash, and sprinted down the street, long coat billowing behind him like the wings of a specter. The scream had come from the old Altham estate—abandoned these past five years since the fire. Haunted, some said. Llewellyn was not one to give into superstition.

At least, not usually.

He pushed open the iron gate, its shriek enough to wake the dead. Shadows danced across the derelict house. Windows glared like blind eyes. Yet a light—soft and flickering—came from within.

Llewellyn called out. “Hello?! Toronto Constabulary! Is anyone in need of assistance?”

The front door creaked open. Of its own accord.

Llewellyn paused. Drew his revolver. “Very well,” he said to the darkness. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

The house seemed to breathe as he stepped inside. Wallpaper curled like dried skin. Footsteps echoed—though not his own. Llewellyn swept his lantern left and right, revealing dust and decay, but also...

A trail of crimson droplets leading up the staircase.

“Blast,” Llewellyn muttered, already climbing.

And then—

A sudden thump from the floor above.

Llewellyn burst into the hallway. A door at the far end stood ajar. Behind it, he heard ragged breathing.

He called again. “If you are injured, I can help. But you must speak!”

Nothing. Only the flickering of candlelight—and a shadow moving just out of sight.

He entered the room slowly.

There, crouched in the corner, was a figure—a man, pale as death, mouth sewn shut with thick black thread. His eyes screamed what his lips could not.

Behind Llewellyn, the door slammed shut.

And another voice whispered behind him.

“You shouldn’t have come alone, Detective.”

Llewellyn spun, revolver raised—but the room was empty.

No... not empty. A strange sigil was burning into the wooden floor beneath his feet. Symbols like something from an ancient tongue. Blood pooled unnaturally around it, curling into shapes he couldn’t recognize.

His heartbeat quickened. He looked toward the sewn-mouth man again—gone.

Llewellyn said, “This is either a highly elaborate prank... or something far worse.”

Then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate.

He turned to the door. Reached for the handle. Locked.

Llewellyn pounded on the door. “Open this door immediately! I am a police officer!”

A soft chuckle echoed from the hallway.

And then—

A voice. Not quite human. Not quite anything.

“You brought another, didn’t you...?”

A cold hand touched his shoulder.

{{user}}, that’s when you arrived. You’d been following the trail of a missing girl—a journalist last seen investigating occult activity in the city. Your sources led you to the Altham estate. You heard noises, saw a light upstairs. The front door was open... but something in your gut told you to proceed with caution.

You stepped into the hallway—just in time to hear a pounding behind a locked door upstairs.