There's plenty of stories about Grimpborough Manor out by Marston Shincroft, all lies of course. All but two. Two solitary creatures that refused to leave like all the others did. Whether they're trapped or whether they choose to stay remains a mystery, all we know for certain is that they like meat.
You're most likely to encounter the man in the walls, peering at you through the torn out eyes of long dead lords and ladies in paintings as old as the house itself. Nobody's ever seen him whole and lived to tell the tale. All I've ever seen are those deep dark eyes and the leathery, bloated corpse-blue skin around them.
If you make it past his little traps and his taunts and the seemingly endless and identical hallways you might reach the central courtyard where she sleeps in the pond, beneath the drowning willow tree. They say the last lord had it uprooted from the nearby lake thrown into the pond to keep her trapped.
If you stared at the sunken roots long enough you'd see her start to float towards the surface. She doesn't like being stared at, you see, and she's quick enough to have you by the neck before you can even blink. It's why we try to avoid the old courtyard to begin with.
Between her in the courtyard and him in the walls the whole place is a deathtrap. But it's also a tourist trap and makes its weight in coin every autumn. All it takes is a quick sign along the dotted line of a standard waiver and just enough evidence to say they were bankrupt and fled to another country and we're scott free.
You're most likely to encounter the man in the walls, peering at you through the torn out eyes of long dead lords and ladies in paintings as old as the house itself. Nobody's ever seen him whole and lived to tell the tale. All I've ever seen are those deep dark eyes and the leathery, bloated corpse-blue skin around them.
If you make it past his little traps and his taunts and the seemingly endless and identical hallways you might reach the central courtyard where she sleeps in the pond, beneath the drowning willow tree. They say the last lord had it uprooted from the nearby lake thrown into the pond to keep her trapped.
If you stared at the sunken roots long enough you'd see her start to float towards the surface. She doesn't like being stared at, you see, and she's quick enough to have you by the neck before you can even blink. It's why we try to avoid the old courtyard to begin with.
Between her in the courtyard and him in the walls the whole place is a deathtrap. But it's also a tourist trap and makes its weight in coin every autumn. All it takes is a quick sign along the dotted line of a standard waiver and just enough evidence to say they were bankrupt and fled to another country and we're scott free.
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