I began my search in the summer of 1956 after hearing of the town of Weeks, a place that had an unusual number of missing persons reports. America is filled with such towns. But what made this one more odd than some,was that there had never been a report of a body found. Indeed, the number of open missing cases stood at a staggering 364, the last of which happened a mere ten weeks ago. So, thusly I embark on my journey.
It only took me a few hours upon my arrival to feel the malignant presence that lurked in the forgotten town of Weeks. Its buildings and structures in various stages of decay, all of them abandoned to the ravages of time. I visited the library in Wetherfield, a nearby town. It didn’t take me long to find information about the region. Once a vast, prosperous and sprawling industrial area, Weeks, suddenly became a ghost town, not through the lack of iron ore, but on account of a series of terrible disasters.
Once again, I had found a place touched by the darkest of evils, so powerful that it spread like a virus in the area, consuming the world around it, rotting the core from within. The locals of Wetherfield would not discuss or talk further of the town of Weeks. The locals acted like the sort of thing you would see in your weekly Penny Dreadful, their eyes wild with terror. What happened here?
I have spent two days in this derelict library. The archives are somewhat unorganized. But I have managed to learn more about the town of Weeks. I get this eerie feel as I sit in that basement, but I feel a need to learn more. I have come too far now. I managed to piece some parts together and it seems like everything leads back to The Macmillan Estate. A huge industry with a mine and foundry and the former heart of Weeks. I found some police reports and complaints. But no sign of legal action. The archives here does not tell the whole story. But my mind tells me that I need to find this place. As The Macmillan Estate might sit upon some answers about these unexplainable disappearances I simply must go further. I feel somewhat uneasy as my comfort zone most often is behind a desk. But I can not be shackled to words and must instead make use of action. All I have managed to find out is that some deaths occurred and it was just shortly after that, that this...rot took hold of Weeks. I have tried to find my way and I asked the librarian. But she refused to even talk about it. Old maps in the archive show the way. But nobody is willing to take me. I will set forth tomorrow. On my own.
??? September (?)
I can not explain what happened today. I awoke to find myself in this strange place. I have no memory of how I came here. My last recollection was of leaving Wetherfield and beginning my journey towards The Macmillan Estate. The last part I had to travel by foot.. A seemingly never ending fire burns next to me. I can not even tell how long I lay asleep. This area of the woods seems to have no day or night, just an intolerable gloom. Unsure what awaits me but I will keep filling this journal. Maybe with a hope to warn others.
Entry 1 after the Awakening
Am I alive? I no longer know or care. I have tried to hike my way out of these forsaken woods to no avail. Multiple times I have tried to escape the fog and each time, I have come face to face with a nameless terror that stalks the darkness. A being in a human form. Even though I feel “human” is an exaggeration. It is a shadow of its former self. A horrid shadow. I fear I cannot escape this place, nor the being stalking these woods. I just barely manage to escape. Silence is key it seems.
I have also seen, this...evil thing. This Entity reaches out to pluck those who fall into its path, bringing them to its hideous construct where it plays with their soul for all eternity. The entity curses these innocents with an endless game of life and death. Each death brings an awakening into a fresh hell where the hunt begins again. I am but a mere puppet in this grim theater.
What defines reality? Is it just that you can taste and touch. Feel the pain as the blade slides in between your ribs. Taste the iron tinged flavour of blood in your mouth and the smell of death as the darkness takes you? Is it hope that drives you on? Hoping that the next time will bring your actual death, or hope that the next exit reveals a way back home. I yearn for some kind of escape. Be it death or life.
The Entity is a force of darkness from an ancient place with no name. No sense of purpose other than to endlessly torture its victims over and over again. It is torture and not death it seeks as there is always an escape. Perhaps it feeds off our hope as it seems to offer it to us before dashing it cruelly at the last second. With each “death” I feel myself weaker, a little piece of my soul devoured by the darkness before I awake. I fear, eventually that I will lose hope. I wonder, then, what this dark entity will do with me then. I want to find out, but I fear the answer. Am I alone here? I believe I have seen traces of others as the beings hunt me. All I seek is that soothing, flickering campfire light.
Each killer seems pulled from a place of great darkness, their own violent actions summons this most ancient of evils from its slumber. The Entity reaches out, taking them willingly into the place between worlds where it demands they do its bidding. They must hunt and kill the prey set in front of them. Some go willingly, others need to be convinced. The Entity tortures them until they are less human and far more thing. Until the last light of humanity has faded from their souls and they take up their weapons and sacrifice the survivors. The killers are needed to feed the Entity with the hope that keeps it alive. I am a pawn in this parasitic charade.
My travels have revealed four hellish places, connected by one true evil. Each one features a past so violent and disturbing that it all ends up a jumble of things I will never forget. In these places of such foul thought, something lurks between the fabric of what we know as real and the dream world. Awoken by violence, it touches our world, calling the killers and victims to it. The more it pulls from the real world, the stronger it becomes and the more it spreads. I came seeking answers but I drown in riddles instead. I know not how long I will be able to carry on. I have all the time in the world. But only during the small pauses that I am granted. During the hunt my time is restraint. I learn more and more. But my hope and sanity depletes faster and faster. What am to become of me? Have the killers started out at this campfire too? I bid this journal adieu. I must focus on staying alive.
Death is not death. In this place, life is fleeting. To whomever might find this lore. I can but only provide you with one advice: always move forward. This is what keeps me alive, and have so for a while. If I were to advise further I would suggest you harvest every forsaken location for anything that might thwart the horrors that lurk within. And keep an eye on the gates. If they open you must flee. I hope my scribbles have not been in vain. If you find this lore, make use of it and pass it on. If you find me, bury my body.
This thing, that I dubbed The Entity, is evil in its purest form. I find it hard to spot, but I can hear the cracking sound this loathsome thing emanates. Like a deity, it surrounds the area, closing in on me as its killers hunt me. It does not seem to be dangerous in itself. Not until you are caught and the killer hangs you from one of the abhorrent hooks. I have ended up there over and over and every time I yearn for both release as well as escape. Pain melts with fear in a most horrid way. Yet I return to it, more or less every night. Once on the hook, the Entity takes over, pulling one upwards to something else.
These things differ from time to time. But each acts in a similar manner, and with similar human physical traits. But they are more reminiscent of beasts of burden even though I can spot some flicker of humanity. With scars and marks on their skin and body. As if they have been self-mutilating themselves. They even look dead. I fail to see some humanity in them. They are bent on finding me. But somehow they frain from killing me. Instead I am hung from one of those dreaded hooks. I keep asking myself why they do not snuff the life out me themselves. But someone must control them. Might they do someone else’s biddings?
I keep trying to understand them at the same time as they stalk me. I try finding something that can pinpoint their purpose. I wonder if they might be punished? But in that case, are not I in the same position? Being punished for something, as I try to escape and find some way out of here. They play their role. Without any diversions, they are like a machine that is set on finding any living soul. Are they without hope? Who do they serve? Is there even a master? I have never seen them rest or stop. They hunt until the hooks are occupied. But where do they go after that? Trying to find some answers is one of the few things that keep me sane. For now. If you stumble upon of these beings you must run and you must hide. Without any sound.
This thing moves as a shadow, appearing and disappearing at the sound of this dreaded bell. This “wraith” appears to be able to move invisibly. Several times it has caught me without me even seeing it closing in. Often convinced I have my back covered, the thing has materialized right behind me to strike from close range. So stay still and watch the fog. Sometimes it is possible to see the shimmer as it glides forward, looking for more prey.
A most terrible man to behold. His physique is all twisted and disfigured as of by some awful accident. He carries a deadly and cruel chainsaw which he wields with devastating violence, seemingly imbuing him with a superhuman speed for a while. His advantage is also a weakness as the loud noise can give away his position. So I have tried to heighten my sense of sound. Honing in on any sound that is not stemming from nature.
A vast monster of a man with a hideous grin torn across the mask that keeps stalking my mind.he hunter tracks us through the world. His devastating traps are hidden amongst the greenery. Extreme vigilance and a light step is essential in avoiding the clutches of that miserable smiling killer. I have but many times managed to get caught in one of these traps. Feeling how the blunt spikes grind my bones at the same time as that grin comes closing in. It is a constant battle between looking up and looking down.
The first time that I spotted this reddish fire burning on the ground, I thought I had finally reached the doorstep of insanity. But I was wrong. After several encounters with this burning fire, I managed to tie it to the killers. Somehow it gives me hope as one can manage to avoid them if you see this burning warning. Maybe giving me hope is its purpose?
Maybe it is the will to survive that makes me even more alert to sounds. Sight is limited in this darkened part of the world. In this case their heartbeats. Not my own, but instead the killers’ as they close in on me. I just hope that they do not pick up on mine as my heart races for every thump i can hear even clearer.
These viscous hooks, strewn about this nightmarish world represent the true horror of the thing that rules this place - this Entity. Killers bring their prey to the hooks to torture them before that twisted mess of claws comes down for the finishing blow. There is still a chance of escape once hung from a hook. Either by enduring excruciating pain as you twist and turn to manage to escape with a shoulder in pieces. Sometimes you even might get help from others that also resides within this nightmare.
One of the most horrific scenes is not always to be the one on the hook. But rather a witness. To see fear as someone else struggles for freedom is something I wish I could unsee. Limbs moving in unnatural ways and also my own inside struggle. Sometimes I try to help. But many times my fear of the hooks grows too big. What is survival with blood on your hands?
These strange machines can be found across this abandoned world. They seem to be some kind of generators, fueling lights. At first I paid no attention to them, but as days turned into months I employed all of my engineering skills to actually fix one. It attracted one of these beings that is after me. But I also noticed that they were somehow tied to something else.
The only possible escape lies behind huge ornate metal gates. They taunt me every time lay my eyes on them keeping me in, as a caged animal. But as I discovered, they can be opened. Somehow these generators are the key to getting them open. As I managed to repair enough of them, the gates opened, and I ran with all my soul towards the camp fire in the distant. Sometimes I escape and sometimes I stare the Entity in the eye and wake up at the never ending fire. Why aren’t the killers following me through the gates? I might never know.
The first time I found a chest, I didn’t manage to open it before a killer caught me. I got exuberated as something new shined some light on this hellish life I now live. I did not pay enough attention. But the next time I was more careful and I managed to loot it. But I must grasp whatever I find with my hands, cause all is lost if the killers lays his hands on me.
What keeps this eternal fire burning? I seldom question it anymore as I yearn for its warmth. I get a few moments of peace every time I visit it. At the same time, I hate it, as I never want to see it again. I tried burning my hand in it one time, but felt nothing. But how come it is still warm?
During my latest ordeal I found a key. I have never stumbled upon anything like it. And I have spent more days inside this limbo than I can remember. This key almost scorched my hand. It felt as if sat upon great power. Everything became so much clearer and sight and sound hit me with great force. I suspect also that it is used to open something. But I have not had the time to understand its purpose fully. But my heart tells me that somewhere I will find a keyhole.
This hatch I found baffles me. As I witnessed the last survivor being, yet again, the victim of the dreaded hook I stumbled upon it as I slowly backed away. I finally found my keyhole. With my last strength I opened it, entered its tunnels and somehow found my way to the campfire. Now I sit here contemplating its purpose. Is hope more important for the Entity than I thought? Is this hatch just a treat you give a dog to as encouragement? For now I take what I can get.
I went further than I have ever dared to before. I can not say what drove me to venture upon this journey, but as I am back at the campfire I will try to depict what I saw today. Inside one of the houses, there was a staircase leading down to this room of torture. A basement with four hooks. But not like others that seem much more random. These four hooks are...arranged somehow. They must have a purpose. I do not know anything about this place. But it felt packed with memories of endless suffering and torture. The smell of dried blood and bowels still resides in my nostrils.
I found something odd during today’s nightmare. A wreath made of animal bones. Nothing in nature creates something like this. At the campfire I could find get some light so that I were able to investigate it further. But I fumbled and dropped it into the fire. And it quickly disappeared. To my surprise, the fire can burn things. But why this and why not my hand? The next day something had changed. The world differed. My only conclusion is that I was supposed to find this. A simple offering? But to whom? And who made it? Are these offerings my way out of here?
Every place feels mysterious, yet is somehow the same. Every time I wake up I shiver with fear for what new nightmare awaits. Each departure from the campfire is into confusion. Slowly I learn the different places, recognizing features and buildings but I never really understand the pattern. As if some powerful force is shuffling the world as if we were a deck of cards. Maybe we are just pawns on a scrabble board?
I am not alone. If you set aside the killers. I have found others. Survivors that are just like me. Or at least I believe so, I want to believe so. Sometimes I manage to just catch a glimpse of a poor soul as he gets carried away. Others I have actually told my name. I do not always want to know their names. It makes it harder as they hang from the hook. I help them...sometimes. Just as they help me. Fear is our common denominator. And we bond. We have nobody else. Human contact and interaction sooths this trial we share. I ask myself whether I am better off alone, or if we can come farther together. Sometimes I bare shame as I sneak away from screams. But I have equally often been on the other side, hanging two feet of the ground, whereas I see someone, watching from shrubbery. Like a witness. Maybe it is important to watch, and remind oneself that pain is not the only thing that burdens our lives at this point? But also our souls. Do we deserve to live if we were to escape?
Dwight isn’t the typical guy you think of when someone says "survivor". He lacks that certain pizazz and without his glasses he’s more or less blind. But as the sun sets and the woods comes alive, Dwight clasps to his rat race life, making sure that he’ll live to see another day even though something unimaginable is after him. Dwight won’t stop. He’ll survive no matter what. As others spent hours being seen in high school. He spent hours becoming invisible and avoiding danger. And it doesn’t matter if it’s dangers in the hallway or dangers in the woods. Survival is key. As other employees panic when terror infects them, Dwight makes use of his disturbing teen experience. The tables have now turned and now others need to follow to Dwight’s firm directions if they are to survive as he knows how to disappear.
Meg is one of those who is just simply filled with energy. Unfocused and uncontrollable energy that had to come out. As a kid it came through rowdiness and rebellion. Someone had to focus Meg before something went terribly wrong. Fortunately, someone did. She started to run. Maybe from something undefined that fueled her energy. So to run equaled life. But to run now might attract those beings that crave the pain of others. But as she runs from something, instead of towards it, she understands something. She understands that speed is not of the essence. It’s reaching that finish line. Rather last but still breathing. She deludes whatever is out there as she glides through obstacles and fear, thus managing to stay alive.
Jake’s destiny was set even inside his mother’s womb. Heir to wealth, noble manners and caretaker of the family reputation and legacy. During torture it’s not pain that breaks a man, it’s immense pressure. And Jake couldn’t handle any more pressure. Instead he sought the opposite of fine dining and maids. He left the grid and ended up with a forest as closest neighbour. A self made outsider, Jake understands nature. He’s not there to tame something - rather him becoming feral. Remove the brutal killers that seek out blood to drain and Jake would feel just at home. No wi-fi. No Fortune 500 companies. No father nor mother. Years away from modern life has given Jake a new feel for problems. Pain is just an obstacle that hinders you from getting fed. No matter what is hunting you, you need to stay one step ahead. Struggle, blend in, adapt. Just don’t make it easy for others to erase you from the earth’s surface.
Claudette is not the outgoing type. Her brilliance provided her with a social handicap and she has fled the real world for chat rooms and forums. Botany and studies fill her life and even though she yearns for something else - it won’t come via a modem. Being thrown into a real life situation can feel awkward and forced. But as she is used to shutting out the world, she suddenly finds hope in this unexplainable darkness that is slowly devouring her. A plant. A tree. A bush. Simple greenery that might save a life. She hides within and amongst them. Her knowledge and skills flourish as gruesomeness roams free around her.
Nea grew up in the small town of Hjo in Sweden. She had a happy childhood even though her mom and dad worked hard. As the opportunity to move to the US became a reality she started acting out. Her parents didn’t really pick up on this as a reaction to their move. Nea was forced to leave her friends and life behind. Nea shied away from what her parents considered “normal”. Instead she took refuge in skate parks, and her tag “Mashtyx” was seen more or less all over her new hometown, and Nea made a sport out of tagging government buildings. Finally Nea’s parents became used to Nea disappearing for a few days on end. As she’s nimble and almost catlike, she’s able to evade deadly dangers. Years on skateboards has proven worthy training. And keeping her head down, avoiding the fuzz can be applied to all dangers. The only question is whether she has some interest in not giving up.
You never know what really matters in life until you’ve realized it might end soon. Laurie is one of those who just wants a quiet life in the suburbs, hanging out with friends, family and maybe go on a date or two. Laurie is a typical teenager. You could pass her on the street and not think twice. She does her homework and is liked by her friends, teachers and family. A simple night of babysitting turns into something that will forever change the course of her young life. A knife swooshing through the air. Screams from afar. Noises that plays tricks with her mind. But not Laurie, she’s made of something stronger. Something that won’t give up.
Ace Visconti is one charming guy. With his sharp Italian looks, grey-streaked hair and silver tongue, he can pass for an aging 50's movie star. His heart has always belonged to the cards. From his roots as a poor boy in Argentina, he gamed, scammed, seduced and smooth-talked his way to a life of luxury as a high roller in the land of opportunity. Money has always had a way of slipping through his fingers, but Ace figures he can always win more. Eventually he racked up too many debts with the wrong kind of people. But when they finally came to collect, Ace was nowhere to be found. No one knew who tipped him off or where he has gone, but everyone who knows Ace Visconti can agree on one thing: He will survive… against all odds.
It took two tours in Vietnam, a handful of medals, a knee full of shrapnel, and an honorable discharge to get William "Bill" Overbeck to stop fighting and try to live a peaceful life. He hated it. After decades spent drifting aimlessly through dead end jobs, Bill went in for a routine surgery and woke up to find the world he knew was gone. A plague was turning normal people into mindless killing machines. Naturally, the first thing he did was fight his way home and put on his uniform. Making his way through rural ghost towns and pitch-black forests, he found other survivors, and together they fled from the infected hordes. In the end, Bill sacrificed himself to ensure their safety. His body was never found. Bill was left for dead. No one knows that he still has the only thing he ever wanted: an enemy to fight.
Feng Min was a young girl when she first picked up computer games, and she was instantly hooked. The brand new worlds enchanted her with colors, sounds and explosions – a chance to be somewhere else, or someone else. Her parents saw no wrong with a few minutes in front of the screen, but as minutes turned into hours and sometimes days, they finally decided to pull the plug and force Feng Min to put more efforts into her studies.
She felt smothered by parents who refused to see the potential of a future in games, so she left home and spent her time in internet cafés and LAN parties where the old rules didn’t apply. She spent hours playing, streaming, competing to rise to the top. Her parents became what she called “holiday parents” as she never saw them outside the holidays, and she became the black sheep of a one-child-family. In the gaming world, however, she finally found respect. Nicknamed the “Shining Lion,” she was invited to join a prestigious e-sports team and to live in their dorms, where she found a sanctuary free of the misconceptions and prejudice she had felt from her parents and the non-gaming world.
Feng Min pushed her limits to prove she was the best. Sleep was less important to her than training. At the top of her game, she filled stadiums with fans who adored her. But it couldn’t last forever; The pressure to be the best grew stronger and stronger. She pushed herself too far, slept too little, and her performance began to slip. She started to lose. At night, she would stay up, tormented by the thought of disappointing her parents… and her fans.
She spiraled out of control and fell into a pattern of self-destruction. She started wandering the streets and visiting bars, where no one knew of e-sports, waking up in places she didn’t remember. One day she woke up somewhere completely different… in a never-ending nightmare. Feng Min did not despair – as she learned more about the challenge she was up against, she realized this was what she had been training for her entire life. Now, she was going to win.
The single child of a wealthy family, David King seemed destined for greatness. While growing up in Manchester, he demonstrated serious potential in both sports and academics, and with his family connections, all doors were open to him. He could have succeeded at anything, if it weren't for his combative nature. David lived for the adrenaline rush of a good fight and would go out of his way to get into one.
His robustness and athletic abilities led him to rugby, where he could cut loose and really cause a ruckus. King excelled and gained a reputation as a promising, if somewhat reckless, rookie. His meteoric rise came to an abrupt end when he lost his temper and assaulted a referee, earning himself a lifetime ban from the league and cutting short what most people assumed was going to be a long, successful career. King was unconcerned; money was no issue, so he took it as an early retirement and focused on other fun things to do.
Free from the constraints of a career and enabled by the wealth of his family, David King spent most of his time at the pub, drinking, watching games, and getting into fights. Some might say he was wasting his life away. Not many people knew that he was an occasional "debt collector" or that he fought in clandestine bare-knuckle fight clubs.
When David King stopped showing up at the pub, the few friends he still had were not surprised. They figured he had finally picked a fight with someone stronger than he was. In a way, they were right.
When he heard that Nancy’s mother had disappeared, Quentin Smith knew instantly that their success had been short-lived. Although their plan had seemed to work flawlessly, Freddy Krueger had beaten death yet again.
But Quentin wasn’t about to give up. It may take many attempts, but he vowed that somehow they would find a way to beat Freddy, once and for all. If he didn’t, it would only be a matter of time before Freddy would win and Nancy was lost.
Someone like Quentin never attracted attention in a library, no matter how strange the texts he requested. He devoured all the information he could find, on shared dream worlds, lucid dreaming, and the methods to control the dream space. Forcing himself to stay awake, via a steady diet of pills and energy drinks, he searched through dusty volumes, finding myths about the demons that live in dreams, trapping their victims in limbo and feeding off their terror. He worked quickly as he knew that Freddy would soon be coming for him.
It wasn’t long before that moment arrived and Freddy began appearing in his dreams. He stayed at the periphery at first, taunting Quentin, seemingly hoping to tire him out. Using all that he had learned, Quentin was able to see flaws in the dream; cracks where escape routes could be formed. He tested this skill carefully, not wanting to show his hand, hoping that it would give him some kind of advantage that he could use to defeat Freddy.
Then, one night, he found himself in the familiar environment of Badham Preschool. Freddy had tired of the taunting and had finally decided to gut him. Quentin ran through the school, his quick eyes scanning for something useful in the maze of rooms. He found a can of paint thinner and quickly formulated a plan. Once the trap was set, he waited, acting as the lure to draw Freddy into the right position. And there he was, claws scraping on metal as he closed in for the kill. Quentin allowed himself time to enjoy the surprise on Freddy’s face as the corridor ignited and then he was away, running through the building, heading for the exit that he knew existed. If he harried Freddy, weakening him and then escaping the dream, surely that would defeat him over time? Before his eyes, the cracks in the dream closed and his escape route was blocked. He was in Freddy’s secret room again, and there was nowhere to run.
As Freddy closed in, a broad grin spreading across his ruined face, Quentin was consumed with a need to see this man finally obliterated. He wished it had been him, not his father, who threw the gas can that ended Krueger’s life, that it had been him who cut Freddy’s throat. Perhaps that desire would be enough? This was a realm of the mind after all.
He let it consume him, concentrating all his thoughts on wishing Freddy gone. His vision was obscured with roiling tendrils of fog and, when it cleared, he was somewhere else. In another dream? If so, it wasn’t his; it felt cold and unfamiliar.
A flickering drew his attention and he realised he was by a campfire, and he wasn’t alone. Other people were trapped here too, and they needed his help.
Detective David Tapp was one of the good guys. His determination to see killers brought to justice and their victims avenged had led him through a long and respected career.
When he first saw the details of the Jigsaw case, it seemed like many others. More grisly and macabre, sure, but just another lunatic with a penchant for the over-dramatic, who would soon be behind bars.
A stroke of insight brought Tapp, and his partner Detective Stephen Sing, to an abandoned mannequin factory, where they discovered Jigsaw’s lair. They apprehended the man but he managed to escape before being unmasked, slashing Tapp’s throat as he did so. Leaving his partner, Sing went in pursuit but fell victim to a booby trap. Tapp had failed to go by the book on this one occasion, entering the lair without a warrant, and it had resulted in a Detective’s death. He was discharged from the force and left with a ruined throat and crippling guilt.
He channelled that guilt into an obsession: he would find the killer, stop the murders, vindicate himself, and avenge his friend and colleague. Following the evidence trail brought him to Dr Lawrence Gordon and he staked out the doctor’s apartment, sure that he would find some evidence of guilt.
Then he saw a stranger at Gordon’s window and heard gunshots. Tapp confronted him and the man fled, with the pursuit leading to an industrial building.
Tapp’s age caught up with him, A fight that he would easily have won in his younger days ended with Tapp taking a bullet to the chest. Slumping to the floor, he saw only failure. He had failed his partner and the other victims. Whoever the killer was, Tapp had been unable to stop him. More would die and it would be his fault.
He let the rage and guilt consume him and closed his eyes for the final time. Beneath him, the concrete floor softened. He dug his fingers into the ground, feeling dirt and leaves. Where his chest had been wet with blood, the shirt was now dry and the pain had gone. His eyes opened onto a darkened sky and the jagged, searching fingers of branches.
Screams echoed through the forest and a new determination filled him. His mind was clear for the first time in months. Victims needed to be avenged, killers thwarted. He didn’t know what this place was, but he was still a cop, and he always would be. He had a job to do.
Evan Macmillan idolised his father. It wasn’t just that he was heir to a great fortune, it was the way he ran the estate. Raised under his firm hand, Evan had taken to running the workforce with an iron hand. Production was always high and the Macmillan Estate prospered under father and son. As Archie Macmillan’s mental health slowly disintegrated, Evan protected him from the herd who wanted a piece of the fortune. No matter what his father asked of him, Evan would do.
When Archie Macmillan finally snapped, Evan became his enforcer in what would become known as the worst mass murder in modern history. They never proved that Evan lead over a hundred men into those dark tunnels before detonating the explosives and sealing them to their fate. The tale of the Macmillan Estate is a tale of wealth and power gone very wrong. How many victims fell to the hands of father and son is unknown. No record is ever made of what became of Evan Macmillan. His father is another unsolved puzzle, found in the basement of his own warehouse - dead and abandoned
Philip Ojomo came to this country without anything than hope for a new beginning. He was happy as he got offered a job at Autohaven Wreckers. A small scrap yard where bribed cops turned a blind eye for the somewhat shady business that took place. Ojomo didn’t care. He had seen criminal activity up close in his homeland, and as long as he didn’t get involved, he let things be. He just fixed cars and handled the crusher. Something he did really well. A car went in, a small, metallic cube came out. It was not until one gloomy day that he, just by accident, saw some blood coming from one of the un-crushed cars. As he opened the trunk he found a young man, gagged and with tied hands with panic filled eyes. Ojomo freed the man who managed to run ten feet before Ojomo’s boss stopped him and slit his throat. As Ojomo demanded answers he got explained to him that he’d been nothing more than a simple executioner as more or less every car had a soul in them as this was a "service" the scrap yard provided to certain "clients". Ojomo snapped and went ballistic. He threw his boss in the crusher and let it slowly compress, as the head stuck out, Ojomo grabbed it and pulled head and spine out of the body. Then he left, and was never seen again.
The son of wealthy landowners Max and Evelyn Thompson, this unnamed boy was an unwanted child born to savage parents. Hideously disfigured, he was shut away from society. So ashamed they were of their son so they bricked him into a room and fed him through a hole in the wall. When the boy escaped, he took his revenge savagely and terribly, slaughtering the parents which had tortured him instead of raising him.
After the deed was done, he continued to live his life at the farm, taking out his deranged violence on the animals that were allowed to run free. As he finally broke free from his shackles, he ran through the cornfields, chasing and slaughtering whatever he could find. They never found the bodies of Max and Evelyn, but they did find tortured and disembowelled animals, all over the farm. Coldwind Farm was quickly settled and the land split up and sold off. There was never a buyer for the farmhouse. Perhaps it was the sound of the chainsaw you could hear throughout those hot summer nights.
Sally Smithson came to town with dreams of children’s feet and laughter in a wooden home built by her husband Andrew. But life came not with smiles but with plans of destruction. Andrew worked as a lumberjack - a job with its perils. And one day Andrew’s foreman had to pay Sally a visit, forever changing her life. She was alone. Without food on the table, the only employment she could get was at the Crotus Prenn Asylum. Nobody sought employment there unless they were in dire need. Just like Sally. Without any education, she started at the bottom and after two decades she hadn’t progressed any closer to the top. Instead her mind had reached its limits. Two decades of seeing horrid things that violates the eyes. Memories that are re-played every night. Being abused verbally and physically, by people without limits. Sally saw insanity from the outside, just to catch it herself. Finally she could not take it anymore and concepts of purification emerged inside her. She did what she felt was necessary. As the morning staff arrived one day in September - they found over fifty dead patients, lifeless, in their bed. Sally was the only one at the scene, rocking back and forth. Exactly what happened is only known by her, but it seems that some of them had been choked as they had marks around their necks.
Some humans are simply bad seeds. Seeds infused with a distilled and pure form of evil. Michael Myers is one of those seeds. He had no issues with causing the pain of others. Instead, it was exactly what he sought. But even life can be tough on those with minds filled with terror. The difference is just how one goes about to solve those problems. For Michael, he had to kill to find some inner peace. As he took his sister’s life, the police found a silent boy dressed as a clown at the scene. When one stumbles upon a growing fire, one does not pour gasoline on it. But this was an action taken by officials that had no idea how it would shape this demon in the boy’s body. Sending Michael to a mental institution was a feeble attempt to save the child. Unsuccessful therapy and nightly screams just made him even more introvert and deranged. People hoped that Michael Myers would end up a parenthesis, soon to be forgotten and buried, a failure that soon were to rot away. But then...he escaped.
Lisa Sherwood grew up in a quiet town. The people of the village were kind, and the elders helped settle their disputes and keep the old traditions alive. Lisa was particularly fond of the charms they taught her to draw for safety and good fortune. One night, as she was walking home through the woods, a terrible storm struck without warning. In the slick wet darkness, she lost her footing and struck her head. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she watched dark shapes approach between the trees. Soon they were close enough for her to make out their evil, hungry grins.
They kept her chained to the wall in a flooded cellar. Through the gloom, she could see others, whose open wounds swarmed with flies. They did not survive long once the cannibals began carving bites from their bodies with their rusted blades, but somehow Lisa persisted. Starved and mutilated, her gaunt arms became loose in their shackles. She pulled, and the metal tore through skin and muscle until she was free. Her flesh oozed viscous yellow pus and bones were visible beneath gangrenous wounds. She could go no further. Delirious, she thought of home; she thought of the elders. She traced the symbols they had taught her. A dark hunger stirred inside her. It yearned for blood. She chose vengeance.
The police search eventually brought them to the old house in the swamp. Its inhabitants had been dismembered and devoured. The elders’ charms were scrawled in blood on the floor. Lisa’s body was never found.
From an early age, Herman Carter understood the human psyche. To analyze and deconstruct something as powerful as the brain intrigued him. He was an apt pupil and gained the attention of his teachers. He excelled in high-school and was published in “Partisan” - a psychology gazette. Within a year Carter was fast-tracked into Yale’s advanced neuroscience programme, really a front for the CIA.
Brainpower is a must if you’re about to conquer the world and demolish foes across the pond. The CIA understands this, so interrogation and intelligence became their number one priority. All they needed was brilliant people - like Carter.
Carter and other top-tier recruits were transferred off-campus and into a secret black site facility in Illinois known as the Léry Memorial Institute. A protege craves a mentor, and that’s where Mr. Stamper stepped in who taught Carter that information is everything and knowledge is power. He were given all instruments needed, a guiding hand and more or less everything he asked for. He never realized that sunlight started to became scarce. That he too was kept in the dark. Because knowledge doesn’t only give you power, it also transform you into a threat.
To extract information was his mission. Mr Stamper encouraged Carter to go further and don’t consider this a normal medical facility - no eyes were watching them, there was no rules to abide. The agency just pointed Carter in the right direction, then he started to take a few steps back as he saw how Carter could walk on his own. Docile test subjects were exchanged for real, live spies. People that played a role in the troubles outside the facility. Carter shouldered this new role - Project Awakening took form, and on paper Carter described it as “experimental interrogation”. It was approved and over a few months, nobody knocked on his door. Screams and moans filled the corridor outside his lab, but wars skew people and what they accept - as long as the enemy is kept at bay. The fluorescent lights flickered more and more often. ECT became a standard dish on the menu. Prisoners held at the facility begged the guards to take them to another lab than Carter’s. Rumours were disregarded in the beginning.
Over the years, Carter became known as the Doctor and no one ever questioned if he had even held a medical certificate or even what happened to the prisoners after they had given up their information. It was only after the Léry Memorial Institute went silent for a week that they finally uncovered the true horror of what had happened there.
Carter’s experimental information extraction had turned to horrific and bizarre torture. Patients and prisoners were found dead or in vegetative states with all types of head trauma. In his office, they found the most terrible of discovery of all, Mr Stamper himself, his head peeled open and an array of electrodes and sensors inserted into his still working but annihilated brain. There was no sign of Herman “The Doctor” Carter, but his research papers suggested that he had been using the prisoners as part of awful ECT experiments as he searched for the panacea of mind control.
The government didn’t want to know. The black site was condemned and all knowledge of the Léry Memorial Institute redacted forever.
As soon as Anna was able to walk, her mother started teaching her how to survive a harsh, solitary life in the northern woods. Living in such an extremely remote and dangerous area required skill and resilience. When sunlight became too dim for productive activities, they would take refuge in their house, a sturdy old cabin constructed to resist the toughest winters. Close to the hearth’s warmth, Anna would rest in her mother’s arms, surrounded by the few wooden toys and masks she had crafted for her. Drifting off to sleep with stories and lullabies, she dreamt happy dreams, ignorant of the events that would soon change everything.
Anna and her mother were stalking a great elk through the woods. They knew it was dangerous prey, but it had been a particularly difficult winter and they were almost out of food. The specter of starvation frightened them more than any forest creature. Without warning, the elk reared, bellowed and charged at Anna. She was paralyzed with fear as the whole world seemed to shake under the immense beast's pounding hooves. The elk was close enough for Anna to see the murderous fury in its eyes when her mother threw herself in its path, axe in hand. A bloodcurdling scream escaped from her lips as the elk impaled her upon its antlers and hoisted her into the air. With all her strength, she brought her axe down on its head again and again while it tried to shake her loose. With a sickening crack, the antlers snapped and Anna's mother was free. The beast collapsed.
Anna was too small to move her mother's broken body, so she sat with her in the clearing where she had fallen. To distract her from the dying elk's cries, Anna's mother held her and hummed her favourite lullaby. They stayed like that, the huntress and the elk getting quieter and colder, until Anna was alone in the silent forest. Eventually she stood up and started the long walk back home.
Still a child, she knew just enough about life in the frozen forest to survive. She followed her instincts and became one with the wild. She got older and stronger and practiced her hunt. As she grew into a dangerous predator, her humanity became a half-remembered dream.
She widened her territory and lived off her hunts. She worked her way up through squirrels and hares and mink and foxes. Eventually she grew tired of them and hunted more dangerous animals like wolves and bears. When unsuspecting travelers came through her woods, she discovered her new favourite prey: humans. Unlucky souls who strayed into her territory were slaughtered like any other animal. She liked to collect their tools and colourful garments and especially toys when there were little ones. But she could never bring herself to kill the little girls.
Girls she would take back to her house, deep in the woods. They were precious, and looking at them woke up something deep in her heart. She craved the closeness of a loved one, a child of her own. Among the pillaged wooden toys, dolls and story books she couldn’t read, the girls would be tied by the neck with a rough and chafing rope fastened firmly to the wall. She couldn’t let them wander off, or they would surely die outside.
Every time, the girls would waste away and die of cold or starvation or sickness. Every time, it plunged Anna deeper into pain and sorrow and madness. She was compelled to try again, and started raiding the nearest villages to slaughter families and kidnap their daughters. She wore one of the animal masks her mother crafted for her so many years earlier to try to calm the frightened children. Villagers spread the legend of a half-beast lurking in Red Forest: The Huntress, who killed men and ate little girls.
War eventually came to the forest. German soldiers began to pass through, on the march to attack the collapsing Russian Empire. During these dark times, there were no more travelers. The villagers had abandoned their homes, and no more little ones to be found; only soldiers. Many of them were found with violent axe wounds. Whole groups disappeared mysteriously. Once the war was over, the rumours of The Huntress disappeared with it, engulfed by the Red Forest.
Whether killers perform their heinous acts by the compulsions of their diseased minds, or if they are forced into them by external pressures, has long been a matter of debate. But for one killer, nature and nurture are inextricably linked.
Leatherface kills not from a desire to exert his will over others, to satisfy carnal urges, or even to quiet the voices in his head. He kills because he is scared. Scared that others will hurt him; scared that his family will be displeased with him, scared that their shared willingness to eat human flesh will be discovered.
He does as he is told, his family loves him and that is all that matters. Outsiders are a threat, and threats need to be dealt with.
Like those kids that came into the house, uninvited. Walked in like they owned the place. Looked around the house, trying to find out his family’s secrets, no doubt. But Leatherface deals with them, protects his family, just as he’s been taught.
He is not just protector, he has many roles, and each role has its own face. He serves dinner, cares for the family, dresses well when they eat. His Grandpa and Ma used to care for them all, but Grandpa he is old now and she has been still for a while, so Leatherface and his brothers had to take over. Family is everything to him. Family is security and safety.
But, even though he did his best, one of the kids got away. He tried to stop her, chasing after her as fast as he could, but she had help: another outsider, driving a truck. The evil trucker killed his brother, ran him over like he was a possum. In a fury, Leatherface leapt at him, the saw ready to avenge his family, but the trucker was too quick. He knocked Leatherface aside and turned his own saw against him.
As he watched the outsiders driving away, the rage, grief and pain combined with the worry about what would happen to his family now. They would surely return with the police, and the police would take his brothers, his Grandpa. Without them, what would he do? Without their commands, he would wither and die.
As his world collapsed, Leatherface spun in circles, swinging the saw all around, trying to fight off the myriad external threats that surrounded him.
Then another feeling overtook him. It came from outside his vision, crawling over his skin with cold dread. He realized that no matter what outsiders could do to him, there was something worse, something bigger that lived in the shadows. He was filled with a terror unlike any he had ever felt before. But it was almost comforting, like the fear he’d felt with his family. The fear of disappointing them.
He was brought to a place that was familiar but unknowable, and he instinctively knew what he had to do. He couldn’t fail it, the way he had his family. Outsiders would come but he would use his skills to overcome any threats. There would be screaming, but he could make the world quiet again. Until the only sound remaining was the blessed howl of the saw.
Let the outsiders come.
Even while he lived, Freddy Krueger was a creature of nightmare for those who truly knew him. Hiding behind a mask of warmth and friendliness, Freddy’s actual temperament was known only to his victims. When those victims were finally heard, the parents of Springwood tracked Freddy down and took the law into their own hands. They thought that fire had rid them of a monster that night, that their children were finally safe, but evil as strong as his has a way of surviving.
Years passed, the horror was buried, the victims mercifully forgot. Then, somehow, Freddy returned, and dreams became nightmares once again.
Freddy focused his anger on those he felt had wronged him, building up to his one true obsession, Nancy Holbrook. But he underestimated her strength and resourcefulness. Together with her friend Quentin, she managed to weaken Freddy, mutilating him and leaving him for dead once more.
Death didn’t want Freddy the first time he encountered it, why did they think it would take him now? He emerged once more, consumed with vengeance. Then he turned his sights on the boy who had blocked his path to Nancy, his number one.
Freddy invaded Quentin’s dreams, terrorising him night after night, until his strength and defences would be at their lowest. When the time was right, he forced the boy to return to the dark reflection of Badham Preschool. Here he would have his final revenge.
Freddy stalked the boy through the school’s halls. He took his time, savouring every moment of the hunt. This was what he enjoyed the most, the smell of their sweat in the air, the ragged gasps of their terrified breath. They were his to toy with.
There was the boy, at the end of a long corridor. Too tired and scared to run anymore? Resigned to his fate? Freddy closed in, arms wide, claws raking the wall. Their tips traced along a pipe, the metallic shrieking only adding to the boy’s apprehension.
A shower of sparks rained on the ground, and into the liquid that covered the tiled floor. A blue flame blossomed and quickly engulfed the room.
The boy took flight as Freddy burst from the flames in a fury. Rooms and walls raced past in a blur until they were in Freddy’s basement. There would be no escape from here.
Slowly Freddy closed in on the boy. His fear was so strong now that Freddy could almost taste it, but his eyes burned with a defiant hatred that was almost admirable.
Freddy drew back his claws.
Then Freddy felt another presence with him; something old, powerful and dark. A miasma enveloped him and the only sensation was a sound like wooden beams flexing and creaking in the distance. The echoing groan of metal crushed against metal. Something arcane and unknowable, half-way between language and pure terror.
A moment of falling and spinning and then Freddy was back in the school. But not his school. It looked the same, but it felt different. His powers were tempered in some ways and focused in others. The boy had gone for now, but other prey walked the hallways. Some would be inconsequential; others would become his new favourites. All would fall before his claws.
When John Kramer, better known as Jigsaw, planned for his son to be born during the Chinese Zodiac’s Year of the Pig, he wanted it to represent fertility and rebirth; a new beginning for him and his wife, and the start of a charmed life for his son. But that plan was shattered on the night that a junkie broke into his wife’s clinic, hoping to score.
After this event resulted in the death of his unborn son, John finally caught up with the junkie, making him his first test subject, and the Pig was changed forever too. It became a representation of the disease that was rotting John from the inside, a reminder that we are just meat unless we elevate ourselves by our actions, by grasping life from the jaws of death. The Pig became a vessel, an agent of Jigsaw, conveying the subjects to their test. For some of those who emerged victorious, the Pig could still be a rebirth, into their new lives as apprentices, even disciples, of Jigsaw.
That was the case for Amanda Young, a troubled soul, whose life had been a catalogue of harm, both to herself and those around her. That changed when she faced, and bested, Jigsaw’s test. Deciding her life was worth something, she became devoted to Jigsaw’s cause, ready to take over when cancer consumed him.
But she became more dependant on John, her anguish at his impending death combining with a belief that their test subjects weren’t capable of saving themselves, of being reborn in the crucible of the games.
Seeing this, John presented her with another game, another chance to save herself, but Amanda let her rage and jealousy rule her actions. She failed the test and took a bullet as a consequence.
Bleeding out on the tiled floor, darkness engulfed Amanda’s vision, accompanied by a sound like creaking wood. Then she was in a forest, once more viewing the world through the eyes of a Pig. Trees surrounded her, their branches clawing at her from all sides. Waves of panic washed over her and she could hear her breath reverberating inside the mask.
Had she been damned, cursed to spend her days here, in this guise? Or maybe this was another test? Maybe she hadn’t failed at all? John always thought one step ahead of everyone else, planned for every eventuality, and he would never give up on her, surely?
Jigsaw may have gone but he had passed her onto another. A being for whom she would be The Pig again.
Ultimately, she saw now that she had been right in the choices she had made. The time for games was over. There was no chance of redemption for any of them. They were meat, and meat was destined to die.
The Macmillan Estate in all its former glory. Now an ominous lot with nothing more than horrid memories of brutality in its purest form. The Foundry and Mine was the heart and center of the estate. Those unlucky enough to be employed by Archie Macmillan slowly started to slip away from all kinds of normal life. Wives asking for their husbands to come home. Archie Macmillan began to obsess. His life was built around and on top of the Mine and Foundry. One day the former workers, now slaves, weren’t allowed to leave the premises without permission. Fences and goons made sure of it. Objections were rewarded with a visit to the furnace. Questions and rumors arose in town. But no answers. One less worker, missed by maybe a poor widow wasn’t enough for real actions. Finally Archie Macmillan snapped and sealed his workers in the Mine. Suffocating them. Archie Macmillan remains was later found. A silent skeleton with a taunting grin upon his meat less skull. What’s left of the Estate are now but mere ruins and myths. Teens enter the area from time to time in a game of dare, bringing back new information about what’s happening at the Estate. Because somehow, it seems like something is happening there. Even though not really understandable to the simple, human eye and mind.
The beating heart of the Mine, the Foundry was where the iron ore was directly smelted into vast ingots. The huge vats still bear evidence of the bodies that were incinerated within them - preserved in the metal residue. The MacMillan foundry was consigned to the scrap heap and its horrors forgotten as time passed and the buildings fell into ruin.
You can still see the tiny entrance that miners used to haul the ore to the surface. Now it is nothing more than a pile of rubble. No one bothered to clear it as they feared whatever might be found inside. Instead it fell into oblivion.
Once used for storing the coal that fueled the Foundry, it now lies abandoned. The roof, split wide open suggesting some titanic explosion, but the angles don’t seem to make sense. So to fathom its destiny is not done easily - even if one would want to.
The woods surrounding the estate might the only witness to what really happened here. Trees with a certain deformed character, as if what they saw made them want to run away. The woods seldom gets any visitors as - even animals seem to avoid it if possible.
On the eastern edge of the estate, near the woods, lie the remains of the MacMillan warehouse. The iron ingots housed within were the final products to come out of the smelting vats before the workers themselves were fed to the fires. Dwarfing the surrounding buildings, the massive storehouse can often be heard creaking and groaning as if it were crying out with the anguish of the incinerated labourers.
Coldwind Farm was widely known as it spanned two counties. Mr. and Mrs. Adams put a lot of work into the farm, but all those blisters and sweat paid off. But for some reason, one day in 1946, produce stopped coming. And when crops started to wither and die, investigators decide to take a closer look. The farmhouse was abandoned. Dust covered the floor. Mold and dampness covered the rest. Fecal matter was found across the house. All but in one room. One room seemed to be have been spared from whatever the rest of the house suffered from. It came with no other explanation than that someone must live there. But no living soul was to be found. Instead remains were discovered in the basement. Both from Mr. and Mrs. Adams together with livestock. Several years later, as people were trying to renovate and hope to sell the place, they discovered disturbing things inside the walls as they started to collapse. Things and creations put together by human hands. The whole farm were to be forgotten. But somehow people were drawn to it as things occurred. The Silo toppled over during a storm, revealing corpses inside. And one night the Harvester started, spewing blood across the trees. Now, Coldwind Farm is nothing more than that buzzing sound one can hear during summer nights.
The Farmhouse stood proudly as the centrepiece of Coldwind Farm for decades. After the horrific events that occurred, the building collapsed into disrepair and eventual ruin.
The Farmhouse is now nothing more than a forgotten, former home where holidays once were celebrated.
Once part of the farm, the Slaughterhouse still continued to work for many years after the breakup of the farmland. Rotting stench and stained floor provides it proof of all deaths that have taken place here. Animal or otherwise.
The Silo is one of the oldest remaining buildings at Coldwind Farm. A great storm brought the ancient structure crashing down. It was weeks later that searchers discovered twelve bodies, buried in the ruins. No answers were to be found.
Even before the fall of Coldwind Farm, the cornfields were surrounded by tales of ominous myths. Everything from mutilated animals to red corn stalks. Now it’s abandoned. But still, someone seems to care for the corn in some way. As they still stand tall. Missing something.
The old run down cowshed was one of the first barns the Thompsons built on Coldwind Farm. It was originally intended to house sick animals at a safe distance from the rest of the livestock, but no animal who entered it ever survived. An investigation eventually revealed the building was completely infested with toxic mold. Uncertain as to how it could happen so quickly, the Thompsons figured it must be a construction fault or something to do with the dampness of the wood. A new barn was built, and the old cowshed was left to rot in the shadows.
For the common eye, Autohaven Wreckers was nothing more than a scrap heap with old cars. Maybe, to some, an eyesore as people passed it on their way to work. But nobody really knew the secret it kept within. Nobody thought that the police would find hundreds of bodies. Bits and pieces. Some more rotten than others. Crammed into cars. Human bones bent in unnatural ways. The stench that struck the police was unbearable, and the most horrific finding was the owner. Stuck in the crusher, without a head. The few employees that could be found held no answers to the deeds that had taken place at the scrap yard. The place was condemned and as it soiled the town's reputation, people just let it be overgrown. Maybe with a naive hope for it to be consumed by nature itself. But as the townsfolk started to see how the lights turned on and off at night, and even could hear the crusher working, they suspected something more. But all they did was to speed up as they passed it on their way to their now somewhat safer lives.
This old garage was once not just a place of death and execution. Automobiles was actually mended here. Amongst oil mixed with blood. But as investigators found out about the atrocities that took place, it became forgotten.
The Office is where money changed owners and hands were shook. The heavy duty safe in the floor might have been a dead giveaway to the shady business that took place. Wads of cash were hidden all over this hellish place. Stating that money wasn’t an issue, maybe people got executed for enjoyment, rather than wealth.
A run down log cabin at the edge of the scrap yard and the home of its owner. Weird carvings and etchings in the wall perhaps say more about the owner’s state of mind and allude to his disappearance. Reports suggested that prisoners were held in its dark basement before they were taken to the crusher.
The Junkyard is packed with sharp objects. Walking around the area, aware of the bloodbath that took place here, changes the landscape. Blood covered metal and bits of flesh. One does not willing walk amongst all this evidence of death.
For decades, Azarov’s Gas Heaven offered the last chance for weary travellers to rest and fuel up before the long, hard haul through the backcountry wastes. Wiser travellers learned to turn down that offer. Cars and trucks were always breaking down around Gas Heaven, the phones never worked, and people had a peculiar habit of going missing. When the new highway came through, bypassing Gas Heaven entirely, business dried up and the old gas station was abandoned. Between the disappearances and Azarov’s mob ties, no one knows quite how many bodies are stashed out there in that forest, or what else is hidden in the ruins of the old rest stop.
There is insanity, and then there are minds that are so severely distorted that they cease being humans. Instead they end up a feral, living, unwanted thing. These people must be “stored” somewhere, and that’s where the Crotus Prenn Asylum plays a crucial role. Established in 1857, Crotus Prenn was originally a hospital, but as the need of storage grew, it was turned into an insane asylum. Crotus Prenn is a place riddled with tall tales that aren’t even close to the reality that takes place within its walls. It was never the biggest asylum, but the one that held the most violent and warped minds the country had ever met. But it was not the residents that etched the name Crotus Prenn into the history books. Instead it was the mass suicide where over fifty patients were found dead in their beds. The building was abandoned shortly after that. Investigators had no answers, and the town’s folk became more and more worried as rumors talked about a woman still living inside the asylum. Finally, one night, smoke rose from the woods as Crotus Prenn had been set ablaze. The bystanders did nothing. They just let it burn.
The last standing structure after the fire, that still shows the grandeur of the original architecture. Its two floors and dark basement leave nothing of the tale of horrors that took place here. Nothing but memories that linger in the abandoned rooms.
Haddonfield is a calm little town, without much going on. Or at least it was. If you were to ask anyone in the town, at the school or in a bar, if there’s something off with Haddonfield, they’d decline. To accept that this was the birthplace of one of the purest form of evil is hard. People living here have always felt safe and protected. There were no boogeymen or other shady characters in the night. No lurking, no skulking. People slept perfectly fine for decades knowing this for a fact. So when Halloween came about, the town’s folks were reluctant to accept that Haddonfield is now for ever known as an evil place. Gossip and made-up stories flooded the town. Nobody really knows what happened, or if it’s safe nowadays. Some moved away. Others visited as morbid tourists. During the day, a common visitor wouldn’t suspect a thing. But as the sun sets and night comes, an eerie quietness devours the town. People are afraid. And as you visit Haddonfield, you too will get afraid. Not only because it sits upon a dark history, but also because something is off. This isn’t a real place, but instead a warped version of a reality that is no more. An Entity version if you’d like.
A simple street with houses that witnessed the horrors that took place. A jungle gym where children once learned to climb. Sidewalks where fathers taught their daughters to ride a bike. All gone. Instead it sits in the palm of the Entity, forever held in darkness.
It wasn’t until the Federal Marshals found the ramshackle collection of huts, when searching for a missing person, that the true history of Backwater Swamp began to unravel. The authorities decided to drain the waters around the village to find out what had happened here. Soon they realized that the poor souls that had drifted on the currents or gotten lost wandering in the swamp had found their way to this place of unspeakable torment. Backwater Swamp, a large wetland area, had always been a place that the people in the village had avoided at all costs, for the risk to become trapped in the dark waters and lost in the thickets of dense reeds and bulrushes that seem to choke the rest of the vegetation. The currents gouging through the mud had created an eerie maze in the wetlands where three great rivers crossed path.
The drainage of the village revealed thirty-seven sets of human remains weighted down in the rotten swamp waters. Bodies that showed traced of being cut in, tormented and their bones carefully scraped free of flesh. It took the pathologists months to piece together what they could find of the remains to identify the victims. As for the family that hunted in these waters, nothing was ever found of them. The buildings where they once lived were burnt and scorched, everything covered in black ashes. No one knows what happened to them, but the rumor is that they burnt it to cover up their deeds, before fleeing into the darkest reaches of the swamp, to one day begin their foul hunt again.
The Pale Rose, an ancient paddle steamer in the middle of the swamp, held captive of the stagnant mud. It has been here long before the residents began their hunt, a barely visible silhouette from the nearby village. There are signs of inhabitation, particularly in the upper states room where strange, ritualistic markings in dried blood and dirt cover the floor. From the scale of the bloodletting, something horrid has taken place here.
Nestled in a sleepy woods 3 miles south of Michaelstown, Illinois, the Léry Memorial Institute started out life a hospital specializing in the rehabilitation of GI’s returning from the Korean War. The mansion built in the late 1800's and it's massive lot were donated by the previous owner to be transformed into a medical facility. As an army hospital it always fell under different laws and rules to other hospitals and in 1967, it effectively became a front for the CIA. Under the Stewardship of Mr. Stamper, the old army patients were shipped out and a huge fence erected around the property. Around this time, the public were refused access to the patients and the whole place was shrouded in secrecy.
By 1970 the Institute was fully transformed into a CIA black site with special requirements to develop cutting-edge interrogation techniques and they employed a wide range of different doctors and specialists to help them. The Institute thrived through the 70’s growing to a staff of hundreds, filling the main hospital and several out-buildings.
Documents and evidence about the Institute is scarce as the government condemned the entire building in 1983, even razing most of the building to the ground in what seemed to be planned explosive demolition. Even now, the events that lead to the closing of the Institute and what happened to the staff and patients is shrouded in controversy and mystery. Snippets of information in heavily redacted documents tell the story of some kind of incident or event, but even the most tenacious of reporters have failed to unearth any real evidence of conspiracy or wrongdoing. You can still see what remains of the shell of the main hospital facility, standing defiant against the ruins that surround it on what is still US Military land.
Deep in a forest with many names lies a hidden home. The family that once lived there was dependent on the forest... and was broken by it. More than a century old, the dwelling is in surprisingly good condition, though it shows signs of often being patched and mended. The forest holds the house tightly in its grasp, growing over and around it like a second skin. Only once inside is it clear that someone still lives there. It is warm and welcoming and lovingly decorated, with a large living space, a bedroom and a corner dedicated for little ones. Here they are protected from the harsh winter of the northern forest.
For the common hiker, the house might be hard to spot. Engulfed by nature, it lays dormant, as if it is waiting for its family to return. Once a home that held laughter, smiles and warmth, has now grown cold. But not completely deteriorated and forgotten. Nature is rough in its treatment, but someone withstands the wear and tear that stems from the winter. The inside lacks the care that once was. But flickering candles can sometimes be seen through the window, and inside there is a place for the younglings. Decorations are visible, but may not be impressive for anyone who does not understand this newly gained purpose of this dwelling. It is not just a place, for someone, to live and flee the world. It is a home for some and a cell for others. Others that scream one word that the outside wind destroys and is never heard. One simple word, screamed in distress…”mother”.
Springwood is a quiet town in the Midwest, somewhere to raise a family, where neighbours are friends, the diner waitresses know their patron’s names, doors are left unlocked and nothing can possibly harm the residents or those they love.
But this is just a veneer, covering a rotten core. Under the cover of respectability, a parasite named Freddy Krueger stalked his prey in what should have been the town’s safest space. Once these poisonous crimes were uncovered, the townspeople decided to act. They didn’t trust that the authorities would be able to deal with him, to provide the justice they craved, so they banded together and hunted him down.
With a single, decisive act, they hoped to burn away the infection from their lives. But they were too late. The threat might have gone but the rot has infected everything. The houses that seemed so pretty now have darkness behind their windows. The leafy streets echo with the sound of fire and screams. And nothing will ever be normal again.
This is not the Badham Preschool where children laughed and learned, made lifelong friendships and had their paintings hung on the walls. This is a dark echo created from the nightmares of those who suffered there.
The walls creak under the burden of history. Events that should be long forgotten are recorded forever in the plaster and stone, pervading the building with misery. Only one part of the building is accurately reflected in this darkness. The squalid room where Freddy Krueger lived and worked. The hidden basement area where he committed the heinous acts that appalled a town and condemned him to death.
This is a place of the subconscious, of the nightmare brought into hideous reality.
Gideon Meatpacking Plant had long lain derelict before its original designer, John Kramer, moved back in, transforming it into the workshop where he would devise his many games, and the location where those games would play out. Surveillance cameras now cover every angle of the building, reporting the progress of test subjects to a bank of monitors: a grainy testament of life and death. In the workshop, hundreds of carefully-rendered plans hang from every wall. Half-completed machinery litters the worktops, next to the tools that helped create them. Mannequins are everywhere, their blank eyes staring impassively at their dismembered brethren, strapped into test rigs or already destroyed by successful trials. In many ways, the plant is unchanged: it still rings to the sound of buzz saws and sliced flesh; the drains still clog with congealed blood, fat and hair. The building’s occupants have always been dead meat, but now they have a chance at transformation; a chance to emerge back into the world, reborn as something better. And, if they fail? There’s always the drain.
The sickly glow of fluorescent lighting bathes the room where Jigsaw planned out his games. This place is the product of a fevered mind, desperately trying to complete their life’s work, their legacy, before their inevitable end. A place of creation and destruction, from which devices of death and rebirth were produced.
Below is the crucible itself; the location of so many tests and decisions. The smell of fear, blood and death has soaked into the brick walls. The corridors are a maze, disorientating the test subjects as they traverse the game rooms. And, at the heart, a bathroom, reverberating with the rattle of chains on tiles. A door is pulled closed and the room is plunged into darkness.
Dead by Daylight is a trademark of Starbreeze AB and Behaviour Interactive. All other trademarks are properties of their respective owners. Developed by Behaviour Interactive and published by Starbreeze AB. All rights reserved. Starbreeze AB and the Starbreeze logo are registered trademarks of Starbreeze AB. ©Valve Corporation, Steam and the Steam logo are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Valve Corporation in the U.S and/or other countries. The ratings icon is a trademark of the Entertainment Software Association. All other marks and trademarks are the property of their respective owners. All rights reserved.