From, Blood’s History
The house is not what it seems, nor has it ever been.
Her bones were laid down in 1640 by my father. Over the centuries I have added on where my father left off. The Blood Farm is a structure I cannot seem to control. There are rooms which are stable, of course. The kitchen and my bedroom, the main library and the room of armaments. Others, though, are best left alone and ignored. My mother’s sewing room is one of them.
A great deal of her hate and spite continue to reside in the room. Some relatives, in the past, ignored my admonitions and my warnings, much to their regret. Two men died in the room, their hearts pierced by needles. A young woman was scarred heavily about the face, causing her to subsequently offer herself up to the Gallows tree by the pond.
Some nights I find it best to go armed through the house. On rarer occasions, it is safest to stay in my room until the unknown creatures wandering the halls put themselves abed.
Lately, I have taken to locking the sewing room, an act which has cut down on the random dangers. But it is a temporary solution at best.
Despite being dead, she always finds a way to destroy the locks and set her monsters to roaming.
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