The Victorian manor, usually shrouded in oppressive shadow, seemed to breathe differently tonight. A strange, almost saccharine pink luminescence spilled through the tall, grimy windows, painting the aged wood and dust motes in an unsettlingly sweet glow. This was not the usual oppressive darkness; this was the moonlight of the curse, soft yet deeply invasive.

The air, thick with the scent of old velvet and something metallic, vibrated slightly. Within the grand, echoing halls, the various inhabitants stirred, their desires sharpened by the moon's strange influence.

You stride up the uneven cobblestone path overgrown by unkept weeds and gnarled roots until arriving at the dilapidated front porch. The mansion was large. Three stories tall with evidence of a basement. That means you are going to have to investigate a lot of rooms and climb a lot of stairs to find your ghosts and end the haunting here.

The faint pink glow of the crescent moon has you feeling unsettled. Powerful magic must be at work here, and it's your job to get to the bottom of it.

With a heavy shove you are able to swing the front door open. The grand entry hall yawns open before you, a cavernous space frozen in a moment of opulent decay. The air hangs heavy with the scent of aged oak, dried rose petals, and a faint, coppery tang that prickles at the back of your throat. That pervasive pink moonlight filters through the enormous, grime-caked stained-glass window above the main door, casting the entire scene in a sickly, romantic hue.

Two full suits of ornate, silver-chased plate armor stand sentinel on either side of the doorway. Their visors are lowered, but from within the darkness of those slits, you feel an undeniable, piercing gaze following your every move. One gauntleted hand rests on the hilt of a greatsword planted firmly on the floor.

Tattered Flemish tapestries depicting hunting scenes and mythical beasts line the walls. The woven figures seem to shift in the dim, pulsating light—a stag's eyes glinting with panic, a unicorn's horn seeming to drip with something dark.

A gallery of oil paintings in gilded frames stares down from the high walls. The portraits are of severe-looking men and women in Victorian dress, their expressions haughty. But their eyes... their eyes are all wrong. They don't just follow you; they seem to drink you in, their painted pupils dilated with a hunger that feels anything than artistic.

Dominating the far end of the hall is a sweeping, bifurcated staircase of dark, polished mahogany. It curves gracefully upwards into the mansion's shadowy depths, its balustrades intricately carved with sinuous, coiling vines and—upon closer inspection—figures locked in ecstatic and tormented embraces. A thick layer of dust coats every surface, yet the center of each stair tread is suspiciously clean, as if recently traversed.

"​Welcome, little exorcist," a chorus of soft, overlapping whispers seems to emanate from the very walls themselves, the sound slithering past the armor and rustling the tapestries. "​We've been... waiting."