Wolvercraft Manor.
Nestled among steep hillsides and thick forests, Wolvercraft was a French-styled stone chateau of unrivalled beauty. Tourists from France, England, Normandy—all over the world—arrived on the island of Ashvall to explore the Wolvercraft estate. They’d marvel at the Romanesque gardens, the water fountains, and the terraces, but it was the house that captured their imagination. Charming, gothic, monstrous, Wolvercraft Manor was blanketed in white fog and veiled in constant gloom. Century-old trees lined the impressive driveway. The manor’s cathedral-like architecture reached up to the sky in tall peaks, coiled with the intricate sculptures of gargoyles.
Furniture was tidy. Books were neatly stacked. Every room, hall, and stairway rivalled the great manors of Europe. Tourists laughed in delight. Envisioned themselves living the grand life. But at night, something lonesome wandered Wolvercraft’s empty rooms. It lurked in the shadows.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hunting.