Generations of superstition have bred the thought that there exists a house inhabited by more than mere mortal flesh – one that possesses spirits of sorts, an unseen force capable of imposing independent will upon human dwellers. Such spirits, as they tend to develop over years, are sagging faces of previous tenants, whose dolourific lives are absorbed into the heart of the very home that bore them. The ghastly umbrae emerge with the sole desire to establish reigning presence over the psyche of the living. They are but a malicious stagecoach driver who holds both bullwhip and blunderbuss to unwittingly subservient horses, horses that know no other treatment. It follows, therefore, that an atmosphere depends on the collective mind of living residents, who are affected by and in turn contribute to this harrowingly irrevocable cycle. But ho! Maintain sanity, for such a place exists only as the setting in a mystic’s tale. Such a setting is imagined, such a place I have known.
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