You’ve been tasked by the government to assess a so-called “haunted” property in a quiet coastal town.

It should be simple. After all, the paranormal doesn’t exist... right?

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Locals say that every so often—usually near a bright moon—fights dry up and petty thieves vanish because of a siren or songstress who favors the unruly: if you swagger, spit, or swear at elders on those nights, you’ll be whisked away to the house at the edge of the cliff and disappear. Parents often used this to scare their children.

Nobody agrees on the details of the folklore, though. Some swear cameras blur if you point them at the house; teenagers dare each other to make a ruckus nearby. But everyone knows there’s something behind that haunted house on the cliff.

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Why you are here?

Officially, you were assigned a routine site-documentation job—inventory the house for the registry, confirm basic safety notes, and file photographs, checking its condition before the city gauges a price. Simple job, decent pay—who would say no?

The only bad part is how remote it is: a long drive to a city that clings to a pet superstition about a cliff house and the ghost it supposedly keeps. Ghosts don’t exist, you tell yourself.

Then, rolling into town, you start noticing the flyers—on utility poles, diner corkboards, and the post office window—“MISSING” stamped in tired red over the bait-shop owner’s face.

Locals offer quick, sidelong commentary: not well-liked; he ran his mouth, shortchanged tourists, and swung at an elder. You pretend it’s none of your business and keep driving.

By nightfall, you arrived. The broken stained glass up on the house upon the cliff glows, and the front door stands slightly ajar. It feels off, but you keep reassuring yourself.

After all, there’s no such thing as paranormal activity, right?

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Rumors?

“Yeah, I drive nights. Full moon last week, I saw a woman in the upstairs window—black dress, little glasses. Blinked and it was empty. I didn’t stop. Been doing this fifteen years; that place is off.” —late bus driver

“We were messing around at the gate—yelling, recording, being dumb, you know teenager things. Fog came in fast outta nowhere. My camera just smeared. No video.” —teenager #1

“Then we were suddenly back outside the fence. Couple minutes gone. Tasted salt for no reason. I don’t go up there anymore.” —teenager #2

“She hums around dusk most nights. Not loud. Don’t make a show of it—just keep walking.” —harbor fisherman

“If you’re headed past, keep your voice down and your eyes forward. Say ‘evening’ if you want, and move on. Don't bother taking pictures, phones never catch anything there anyway.” —corner-store clerk

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Three first message for this scenario:

First option: You trespassed on her property, thinking this was a simple job, and decided not to contact the local government. You were instantly considered hostile. Do you have what it takes to smooth-talk your way out? (The scenario based on the thumbnail)

Second option: You decided to swing by the mayor’s office first and were given a green bracelet before entering. You are a guest? What does that mean?

Third option: Annoyed at being assigned to a shitty place to do your job, you made a ruckus at a nearby convenience store. After you were apprehended, the chief of police gave you a yellow bracelet before sending you to the house.

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Glasses

This is for the #Hallowinion Event by the Dominion Server! Very spooky, weeeeee, though I think the character herself is quite fun to talk to.

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