Day 1,846

When a lot of people die in one place, it tends to make reality go a bit off the rails. Most of the time its found in old battlefields, now used for dog walking or yearly commemorative parades but never lingered in enough to notice how red the mud is or how broken branches in the grass look eerily like shrivelled up limbs.

Yes, for the most we are practically unaware of anything more than the potential that old homes have to being haunted while higher authorities keep the legitimate haunts well contained. They'll say the house is fake, just a front for water tanks in the middle of the city or that it's just a myth and the well-dressed owners won't let any reporters in because they value their privacy Thank You Very Much.

Occasionally it'll happen quietly enough that by the time anyone notices, they're too distracted by all the bodies to notice how their shadow is reaching out towards them. They either add to the body count or live long enough to receive a rather nice amount of hush money while the papers scream out about a serial killer's dumping grounds.

The papers won't mention the nosebleeds that start as soon as they enter the killing room or the way the house seems too big and too small all at once or the flickers of mutilated people running in the corners of their eyes and following them out to their car and down the street and as far as the sewers washed their broken body parts away.