"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone." -- Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
Not every lord in Ravenloft is a creature of flesh and blood. Here is an entity whose skeleton is made of wood and stone. Its eyes are glass, but they are no less seeing. Its breath is the wind, but it is no less alive. This is the House of Lament, a shelter which many are welcome to enter, but few are allowed to leave.
The House of Lament is Ravenloft’s nod to Hill House, from Shirley Jackson’s novel The Haunting of Hill House. The novel is a triumph of psychological horror; the House of Lament tends to be more overt, but just as dangerous.
The house was not always as it stands today. Centuries ago, there was only the stone tower, which belonged to the castle of a Lord Dranzorg. Dranzorg surrounded himself with criminals and thugs, some fanatically loyal, most only as loyal as their lord’s purse was big. Such men, whose very being is bent toward mayhem and murder, are not at ease during peace. Dranzorg knew this. To occupy their talents and foster his own power, he sent them into a neighboring land, where they raided, pillaged, and killed.
The ruler of that bleeding land, Lord Silva, was old and weary of war. His eldest son had been killed in a previous battle, and his army was tired. Silva had only one daughter, a pale beauty with coppery hair, whose name was Mara. She was in love with an officer of her father’s guard, but she was not bespoken to him, and only her maidservant knew of their affection. The old king offered Mara’s hand to Dranzorg. In exchange for this marriage, Silva asked for an end to the maraudings of Dranzorg’s men, and a lasting peace between the two lands.
Dranzorg accepted. He had no intention of complying with any treaty, however. Instead, his men attacked the caravan escorting Mara to his lands. They bludgeoned each chaperone to the last, and kidnapped the terrified young woman. Dranzorg sent word to Mara’s father that she had never reached him. Silva, he declared, would be punished for his trickery. The warring would continue until Silva’s own blood ceased to flow.
Silva sent spies to Dranzorg’s castle in an effort to rescue his daughter. Mara’s beloved was among them. The spies were killed before they reached the keep. Had they succeeded, they would not have found her, for Mara would never be seen among the living again.
When Dranzorg’s men brought Mara to his castle, he imprisoned her in his dungeon for a night, where she slept among the rats. Then he called his stonecutters and masons forth, and declared that the northernmost tower and the adjoining wall must be strengthened. All night, Mara heard them grunting and working in the room above her, their hammers ringing, their trowels endlessly scraping. When dawn’s first light was on the horizon, Dranzorg released Mara from her prison. His men brought her to his chambers. “Did you know,” he asked, “that an offering must be made to the gods to fortify a keep?” It was a custom in those lands to entomb a cat or a stag in the walls of a castle as it was built, in order to strengthen it and bring good fortune. Mara knew well of this custom. She did not answer, suspecting what Lord Dranzorg had in mind.
As Dranzorg watched, his henchmen dragged Mara to the base of the tower, where the wall had been thickened on the inside. A small alcove with a bench lay open, cut back into the old wall, the opening flush with the new.
Bravely, Mara cursed Dranzorg and his men. and proclaimed that her father would see her death avenged. Dranzorg was amused. He ordered that her finger be pricked with a sedative, so that she would not disturb the work to come. When she collapsed, his men placed her limp body on the bench in the alcove, and proceeded to seal the wall. Mara was entombed alive.
By nightfall, her screams sounded throughout the castle. They continued through the night, and on through the days and nights to come. Each day. the men of the castle complained to Dranzorg, saying they could not bear the unholy noise, for surely the woman should have died in less than a day. Finally Dranzorg agreed. He personally opened the tomb. The screams subsided. No one lay within.
That night, as Dranzorg and his men slumbered, the members of the watch heard a woman singing in the tower. They followed the voice up the spiral stairs, climbing level after level, unable to find the source. The next morning, they were found at the base of the tower, their bodies crumpled and broken by the long fall from the top.
On each subsequent night, another man met a similar fate. Dranzorg’s men were dying one by one, seemingly by their own hand or by madness. Lord Dranzorg began to lose his own sanity. Months later, alone in the castle, he heard a woman’s voice calling his name. She beckoned softly, urging him to come to her. “I am so lonely,” he heard the woman say, He followed the voice to the tower. It led him to the still-open tomb in the wall. He crawled onto the bench and died.
Today, the castle is gone. Its tower stood fully 300 years, impervious to rain and ruin, remaining alone on the land long after the rest of the castle had crumbled into dust and had been dispersed by the wind. Admiring its strength and position, a merchant attached a great house to its side. The merchant moved his family in. One by one they died, like the lord and his men before them, and like those who would live and perish in the house thereafter.
Perhaps Mara’s spirit became one with the house, evolving from the tormented to the tormenter, until every timber and stone in the structure was the embodiment of evil. Or perhaps Mara still exists in the walls, alone and full of sorrow, and the house, wanting to comfort her, encourages the living to join her.
For in many lands it is understood that only the warm blood and flesh of the living can ease the cold misery of the dead.
Darklords establishes the House as lord and domain alike, an island in the Mists. Come Domains of Dread, it will be defined as a Pocket domain (a new classification as of that book, for domains that exist entirely within the boundaries of a single other realm) and placed in the southwest of Borca. In both cases, it’s perpetually late autumn within its borders, with a damp and chilly climate, heavy skies by day, and raging thunderstorms by night.
The house is circled by a stone wall and shallow moat, followed by a yard filled with leafless oaks and withered vines. (“Though the garden and trees are bare, it would be a mistake to call them dead.” They sometimes seem to move when you’re not looking.) The house itself is built of stone, covered in gray lichen. Dark colors, oak floors and furniture, and a general air of darkness and oppression dominate the interior. Many of the windows—which are too high off the floor to access easily—are partially or fully set with crimson panes, and many rooms on the first floor are windowless. The first floor rooms are arranged concentrically, with a small parlor at the center which can actually be cozy and welcoming when the fires are lit. The second floor rooms are an array of square rooms and suites connected by long hallways.
Confronting the House makes it clear that whatever animates the House, it is malevolent and possessive. “Usually a small group of visitors will become the unwilling guests of the house. They soon discover its malevolent spirit, as it strives to wear down the strength and nerve of the guests, eventually singling one or more of them for absorption.” The manifestations start out subtle and easily dismissed at first—tapping branches, sounds that could just be the wind, pools of cold that could be explained as drafts. Then they get more obvious—the house begins to ‘breathe’, cold spots become icy enough to do damage, doors open and shut of their own accord. Reflections disappear or are replaced by Mara’s image, nooses appear from chandeliers and maggots infest bedroom ceilings, and the House starts to communicate by painting messages on its walls—in blood.
Sooner or later, try as they might, victims will sleep in the House of Lament—at night, a saving throw must be made every hour to stay awake. The House can influence their dreams. Targeted characters often learn Mara’s tragic history through this method, and if left unguarded—or if their guards all succumb to the sleeping spell—awaken alone in the tower. Those chosen by the House often seem to age overnight. The House can also do just about anything to prevent its victims from escaping, including manipulating every structure and piece of furniture within it to attack or thwart them.
Destroying the House emphasizes the House’s invulnerability to most forms of attack—magical damage does nothing, and weapon damage just causes the House to bleed. The blood quickly turns black, but acts as gray ooze—although if enough is shed, the House can use it to create a blood elemental.
Trying to lay Mara’s spirit to rest isn’t easy. You won’t find her body in the tower tomb—only Dranzorg’s. The House wants a sacrifice before allowing an escape. “Usually, the victim is an NPC. If the victim is a PC—especially if that character sacrifices himself nobly and willingly—the house may meet its end. . . . When someone near enough in spirit or appearance to Mara’s beloved goes to her, the house will begin to disintegrate. . . . As the survivors escape, the ground will open, swallowing the last remnants of the House of Lament.”
Like many of the lords in this book, the House of Lament is meant for a one-shot—but what a one-shot it could be if the DM plays it right. It won’t provide much in the way of combat opportunities until the last act, but it’s rich with exploration and roleplaying options, especially given the House’s ability and inclination to communicate in disturbing ways. Read the novel and/or screen The Haunting for tips. It would also be a great sendoff for a departing player or character (especially a paladin, fighter, or other heroic warrior type) by letting them make a heroic sacrifice and put an end to an ancient and notorious haunting.
Gradually the haze and brush give way, revealing a bald hilltop. There stands a grim black tower, the last defiant turret of a long-crumbled fortress. Attached to this tower is a three-story manor house, weather beaten and veined with ivy, rising out of a hill like a welcoming hand. Its three stories, in a stately (if wet) red brick and tan stone, stand proud and strong against the wastes around it. A single tower rises on the house's left side, as if a point of defiance at the blasted surroundings. Black, gaping windows, brooding Mansard rooflines, archways like screaming mouths come together in clusters. And as we look at it, we feel - more than we see - human heads all over the house. Heads from a Picasso. Distorted. Features out of place, wrong. All wrong. And if the House is a Picasso... it is terror. It is despair. It is a Guernica. At the center, the features of the oldest part of the House dwarf all others. Towering, eye-like windows. Courses of stonework like lines of muscle under skin. A face drawing back in a feral grin from the jaws of the Grand Entry and its twelve-foot, carved ebony doors. A porch girds the house, its sagging roof sheltering a stout front door that stands open and emits a flickering light.
The writhing design of the carvings makes the doors look like a mouth full of black, twisting, snake tongues.
From a distance the finger-like pillars of the front gate seem like a hand pinning the visitors in place under the House's awful gaze.
Porch
The wooden steps leading up to the porch creak slightly, but still appear to be strong and secure.
The porch is creaky, covered in dead vines, and infested with earwigs, but otherwise unremarkable. An unlocked double door opens from the front of the house into area 2. An unlocked door on the east side of the house leads to area 10. Characters who succeed on a DC 12 Strength (Athletics) check can climb the porch's supports to area 19 above.
Front Door.
The PCs climb the steps to the front door. They pause, chilled. On closer inspection, the snaking shapes of the carved doors depict a Garden of Eden. At center on the knockers, a tarnished silver Adam takes the forbidden fruit from his counterpart Eve. If they lift Adam and knock heavily, there is no answer. When they look away and back the door is ajar a fraction of an inch. The knocker must've done it (or so they would believe).
Crawl Space.
Destroying part of the porch reveals a 3-foot-high crawl space below. Any 5-foot-square space of the porch has AC 13, 10 hit points, and immunity to poison and psychic damage. Medium creatures must squeeze to enter the crawl space, but Small or smaller creatures can enter unimpeded. Those who wriggle into the crawl space upset a swarm of unnaturally aggressive earwigs (use the swarm of maggots).
Treasure.
In the crawl space, just in front of the house's front door, is a grave-sized rectangle of gray dust and dead bugs. Anyone who spends 5 minutes digging in this spot finds Dalk Dranzorg's cursed battleaxe Bilestongue, a berserker axe (detailed in the Dungeon Master's Guide) embossed with excessively salivating demonic toads.
Stepping through the doorway, you feel a slight chill pass through you, and then just as suddenly, it vanishes, replaced with a sense of safety. It feels very good not to be pounded with little drops of water, although the rain still makes tinkling noises on the windows and roof. The interior smells dusty but clean, and as your eyes slowly adjust to the light, you begin to fumble for your things and get your bearings.
As they enter, the House seems to sigh a little, accepting its new charges.
2. Grand Entry
This impressive entry hall stretches two floors up, and a large, spiral staircase ascends up and away into the dim recesses of the house above. A large, crystal chandelier hangs directly over your heads, its thousands of glass parts reflecting a dull, red light from a stained-glass window high above the door. The effect is strange, like a spider's compound eyes slowly glowing and spinning around you. Rays of light filter through scarlet floor-to-ceiling curtains. Peeling wallpaper and a musty scent cling to the walls of this spacious foyer. Every piece of woodwork or plaster in the house is carved, filigreed, painted or ornamented in wild, ornate fashion. It overwhelms the eye. Magnificent animal heads carved on the balustrade and newel posts glare at them. Doors lead off in a half dozen directions. At the room's center, a bronze sculpture of an antlered eagle perches atop a marble pedestal. The statue is attached to the pedestal, which together weigh 800 pounds.
Closet:
A closet to the west holds several moth-eaten black cloaks and, on a high shelf, a heavy but empty leather hat box.
Minor Manifestation
The PCs hear a sound. Carrying through the empty halls from some distant place: a low, plaintive moan. The moaning stops. The PCs strain their ears, and then the moan again. It comes from the archway under the stairs. If they start for it, the moan stops.
Major Manifestation
When a creature enters this room, an eagle statue shudders and cracks. A round later, a wet, red peryton hatches from the sculpture and attacks.
There is nothing of interest in the foyer, except for an old, rotted umbrella in a jar by the door. This curiosity might interest some PCs, and can serve as a way to decrease tension and lull the characters into a sense of security. Note that these stairs are one of only two ways to the second floor, and this room will become the focal point for several of the phenomenon experienced later.
3. Receiving Room: A small, cozy room, this little niche holds a few benches and several coat racks along the walls. Light filters through the dust on the heavy, beveled-glass windows on the eastern wall. A thick carpet runs from the entrance, parallel to spiral stairway descending toward the grand foyer. Above, more windows permit the sunlight to suffuse the hall. Beneath the staircase is a tiny office. The walls are all of dark oak, trimmed with mahogany. Elegant lamps, their glass dim with dust, jut from the paneled walls six feet above the floor. Outside, the eastern entrance is a covered porch with short flights of stone steps rising from north and south. At the outer corners of the porch stand heavy stone pots containing soil. Once these pots held well-tended plants; now one is barren and the other, which stands in the shade, is dotted with tiny white (non-poisonous, but bad-tasting) mushrooms. The door is smaller than that at the grand entrance, but sturdy and secured by an excellent lock (-20% penalty to Open Locks attempts). The small chamber beneath the stairs harbors a simple wooden chair and a tiny desk built into the wall. Beneath the desk are three drawers, the narrow top drawers locked, the tall lower drawer latched but not locked. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust, and it is obvious this room has not been used in quite a while. It seems like the light has a hard time penetrating this room, and the pegs sticking out from the walls cast strange shadows in the low light. Aside from the pegs on the walls, which are nothing more than what they seem, this room is empty. It might be an ideal place for the party to attempt to spend the night, but a gentle suggestion from the GM might convince them to try and look for beds elsewhere.
The grand stairway rises to the herald's balcony, then doubles back to reach the second floor. It is richly carpeted, its walls decorated with paintings ranging from tiny portraits of family members to vast, sweeping landscapes and dramatic hunting scenes.
At Night
The west wind gently rattles the windows, making it seem like someone is gently rapping on them.
Minor Manifestation
Figures in the paintings seem to watch the heroes, so much so that the portraits actually change, shifting a figure's eyes or way the head is turned from one direction to another. Any player that turns their back on them gets a feeling of being watched prickle the back of their neck. Between one look and the next, the paintings seem slightly different; people and animals may have moved slightly, and those that were looking sideways may now be staring directly out of the painting. If a player turns around quickly enough, they may even get the impression that they saw movement as something quickly ducked out of sight in the painting. These movements never occur when a hero is watching the paintings.
Major Manifestation
All of the figures in the portraits appear as corpses.
4. Front Parlor
A spacious parlor that opens off of the main hallway, filled with tiny couches and chairs, this room looks as if it once belonged to a prim and proper lady. This was a sitting room reserved exclusively for womanly social gatherings and after-dinner conversation. The men, when they visited, entered no further than the first carpet, where they stood to pay their respects before retiring to their own withdrawing room. The furniture includes six armless chairs decorated with the same fabric and in the same motif as the wall fabric; two larger, stuffed chairs upholstered in a pastel blue velvet; a thickly cushioned bench near each of the southern windows; three small tables, each large enough for three or four cups of tea; and one slightly larger round table suitable for a game of cards with up to six players. On the latter table rests a folded fan and a carved teak box. The box depicts scenes of Vistani life, including traveling caravans, and wild dancing around campfires. Inside, the box is lined in padded red silk, upon which rests a tarokka deck. Sumptuous quilted fabric covers the walls of this chamber, delicately painted in subtle floral patterns upon a tasteful rose-and-gold fabric. The ceiling is sculpted in white plaster trimmed with gold paint, its elegant designs marching toward the center like the players in a masque. There, a small but elaborate crystal chandelier glitters even through the cobwebs in the faint light. Below, carpets form a soft path around delicate chairs and small tables. Leaded-glass windows stand sheltered by sun-faded draperies on the south and west walls, each forming an intimate little nook from which one could look out onto the grounds, were the panes not coated with dust. Between the western windows stands a small marble fireplace. On all four walls hang paintings ranging in size from tiny cameos to a huge landscape larger than a bed. Most depict elegant ladies. Some are in repose on a sunny terrace, others stroll through a Utopian grove, and still others sit on a boat that drifts lazily on a quiet pond. The lace has long since faded to white, and the couches smell a little musty. A tiny hand-mirror sits on one of the tables, long since corroded, its glass broken and gone. The mirror has no value, although if a character wishes to take it, that's his or her prerogative. Otherwise, there is nothing in this room.
5. Gallery
The double door, made of cold, greenish metal, is exquisitely decorated but has been neglected for a long time. Its upper section is decorated with metallic flowers that emerge from its center. In its lowest section, two rampant lions face against one another. This abandoned art gallery has numerous canvases hung on both sides of the room, barely illuminated by the dying sun. Even from afar you can see a thick layer of dust over the pictures, muting their bright colors. The room still smells of the beeswax candles that sit unlit in cold sconces, with a candle on the floor drawing your attention. Small statues line the walls, their shadows dancing across several framed paintings. As you walk, you are surprised by lively sculptures of the same greenish metal as the door depicting women in various stages of life. They are all so life-like that you fear to touch them; you study them from the corner of your eye as you pass them by. Moody landscapes and dour busts atop marble pedestals collect dust in this modest gallery. It looks as though whoever owned this house was quite the art collector. In an alcove to the east stands a larger-than-life onyx statue of an athlete wrestling monstrous, disembodied tentacles. To the west, a wall made of black stone curves into this room, an arch opening into a darkened space beyond. This room displays the Halvhrest family's art collection. The subject matters vary, and the works have suffered years of neglect. The ancient tower attached to the house abuts the room.
Statues
The statues of women are all the same woman (Mara) at various stages of her life, though the PCs may not recognize this and may think the women depicted at different women from the same family.
Paintings.
Should any character examine the artwork closely, read the following.
What looked to be simple paintings of landscapes turn out, on closer inspection, to be pictures of several macabre scenes from religious literature. There are woodcuts depicting sinners in Hell, a sand mandala with a woman's head [Mara] consuming the Wheel of Life, and Shiva destroying people by the thousands. The colors have not faded over time, and in the dim light, the images appear almost to have a life of their own. You shudder uneasily, wondering who would collect such strange artwork.
Statues.
Those who investigate the statue realize it is hollow and the figure's eyes open into the cavity inside. The statue has AC 14, 10 hit points, and immunity to poison and psychic damage. If it is destroyed, characters discover a crumbling scrap of parchment inside. It bears a short message from the statue's tormented sculptor: "Shadowed fingers. Eyes like glass. Beware the below.—L. Dolan."
Minor Manifestation
The statues of women change to Mara at various stages of her death and decay. The first few statues show her in panic and distress and then finally calm, and then her gradual decay into a skeleton.
Major Manifestation
When a character enters this room, the four busts here explode, unleashing four death's heads of the gnashing variety. If the busts have been removed from this room, choose a dramatic moment after the house wakes for them to "hatch."
Treasure.
This room actually contains several original paintings that might be considered unique items. However, the house has no plans to give them up; should a character attempt to take a frame down, he or she will find that it is nailed or bolted to the wall. If the character attempts to tear it off, see rules for damaging the house, above. If the character gets too desperate that he or she tries to cut the painting out, they slip and ruin the art. Statues can be removed, but weigh a minimum of five hundred pounds each. The four busts and six paintings in this room are well made, and each fetches 50 gp from a collector. They are bulky, though: the busts each weigh 30 pounds, and the framed paintings weigh 15 pounds each.
6. Parlor
You stand alone, tiny, in the murk of a vast vaulted Great Hall. The fieldstone of an enormous chimney occupies half the wall at one end of the room. Carved panelling, doorways, paned windows. Clusters of furniture - overwrought chairs with animal heads, splay-footed coffee tables, limbed lamps - huddle in strange, silent covens throughout the room. Everything seems to be made from a dark wood, and intricate carvings of mermaids and dolphins cover the mantle. A large couch sits on one wall, surprisingly free from the dust and dampness that seem to have affected the other furniture. Dozens of faded portraits cover this parlor's walls, the subjects' eyes fixed on a circular table in the exact center that bears an ornate spirit board.
The fireplace looms just beyond her cluster of chairs, large enough for a man to stand inside it. The noise is the faintest clatter of stone on stone, like a piece of mortar come loose. A large pile of wood, dusty but otherwise dry, sits beside the fireplace. The fireplace is full of the cold remains of the fire. All that remain are the thin, oddly shaped logs, which are on the verge of crumbling into ashes. A player who looks at the "logs" more closely will see that they actually appear to be bones and, worse, human bones at that. A prolonged investigation of the logs is not possible, as they crumble to powder at the least touch or breath - itself unusual for, if they are bone, they would require a much greater heat source to destroy them so thoroughly than would be found in a simple fireplace.
This would be an ideal place for the characters to attempt to spend the night. The fireplace is fully operational, and the flue opens with ease. The wood will build a large fire that burns for approximately six hours; more conservation-minded characters can make it last about eight. Either way, it will run out before the end of the night (and mentioning this might prompt further exploration). Should the heroes light the fireplace, they find that the flames never quite illuminate the hall. Even when the chandelier and candelabra are lit, the corners of the hall remain dark, full of slowly shifting shadows from the ever-twisting chandelier.
Night
7. Music Room
The dark wooden doors have two handles shaped like the keys of a piano, which gleam in the light of the hallway. Pressing down on the keys prompts a soft plinking that echoes through the doors as they open.
A large piano sits in the corner of a long, comfortable music room. Its lacquer top has faded with age, and the tables and chairs surrounding it sit empty, waiting for someone to come and hear it make music once again. The marbled floor is decorated in a concentric circular pattern of musical notes. Frescoes depicting a parade of musicians adorn the walls and . Men, women, and merrymakers are depicted in an endless parade. They play instruments, fly kites, and joyfully run from men dressed as devils in some sort of celebration. Each time one looks at a different section of the painting, Mara appears in the scene. She has long flowing copper hair and is dressed in a nightgown. Her gown is open and her guts are strung up around her throat like the neck of a cello.
The piano actually works, if any of the characters can play it (although it's a bit out of tune). If the heroes place a piece of sheet music in the stand above the keys, the ghostly fingers play always that piece. If, upon discovering this phenomenon, a hero intentionally changes the sheet music, the trick works . . . once. After the first time, changing the sheet music angers the House, and an ominous dirge whispers through the room. The sounds are no longer those of a regular piano, but a discordant assemblage of shrieks and crashes that are unpleasant, and perhaps actively painful, to hear. The music grows ever louder, rising in a painful crescendo that eventually causes the same effects as a Shout spell, but only to the target hero and to the grand foyer— not to any other heroes or NPCs who are present.
8. Game Room
The plain oaken door has a rusty knob that shrills when you turn it, and the mighty structure groans as you push it open. As you step into the room, a heavy, oppressive air settles around you, as if the very walls are burdened with the grief of those who suffered here. The centerpiece is an ancient billiards table, its felt a deep, dark green that almost seems to absorb the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. Beyond it, three sofas face a cold, blackened stove underneath a half-rotten bearskin rug. It looks as though the master of the house enjoyed his games; a go table, and some intricately-carved dominoes lie along the walls, and several stuffed deer heads watch you though lifeless eyes. At the far end of the room there is a crimson cabinet with an unhinged door barely closed. In a corner, a dusty chessboard is set up, the pieces locked in an eternal checkmate.
While it is not apparent to the PCs, the balls on the billiards table are arranged in a peculiar pattern, echoing the twisted rituals that Lord Dranzorg believed would protect his domain. Each different colored ball's position seems to subtly hint at the dark forces that Mara's tragic entombment unleashed upon the house.
The fallen white king, surrounded by black pawns, mirrors the downfall of Lord Silva's hopes and the overwhelming darkness that Mara's spirit brought to the house. Cobwebs connect the pieces, suggesting the stagnation of time and the unending loop of despair that pervades the House of Lament.
The shelves around the room are filled with tattered board games and brittle card decks, relics of happier times that now serve as mementos of the house's ability to lure and trap souls. The once vibrant boxes are now muted, their colors leeched away by the sorrow that Mara's lonely spirit radiates.
Above the cold, ashy fireplace hangs a portrait of a family engaged in a lively game, a stark contrast to the room's current desolation. The painted figures, with eyes that seem to plead for release, are a grim reminder of the house's insatiable hunger for living warmth to ease its cold misery.
As you linger, the echoes of past laughter and the clinking of glasses blend with the mournful wails that occasionally seep through the house. These sounds are not just remnants of the past but are the house's way of blending the boundaries between life and death, ensnaring all who dare to enter its domain. The game room, with its faded grandeur and lingering sadness, is a microcosm of the House of Lament's haunted history—a place where every joy is shadowed by the overwhelming sorrow of its cursed existence.