It is an eldritch night. Eerie wails cut into the silence like a knife plunging into the heart of a kitten. Restless spirits stalk the earth, looking for souls on which to feed. Souls such as yours, my friend, sitting there in that little cage of light and warmth you like to call your home, whilst all around you the ghosts of past evil deeds batter on your windows and send icy wraiths to scuttle up and down your spine.

Did you hear that? Did you hear a creak from your attic? From the old trunk containing the mysterious bones left to you by your grandmother? Do you feel a chill as you nervously clutch at the curtains, gazing out into the timeless darkness which came before and will follow after, forever mocking the attempts of Man to hold it back?

On nights such as this it is wise to lock your doors and gather round yourself the necessary symbols to ward off evil: the crucifix, the garlic and the swan. Hold them tightly to your chest and pray that they will be sufficient to ward off the forces of shadow which even now are sliding a gnarled finger into your arse and slowly twisting, scraping at your insides with its misshapen yellow nail.

It will not be enough. It will never be enough. Your soul belongs to the spirits, and they will not be kind as they torment you in the land of the damned, where all hope ceases and the only sound is the lamentation of those doomed to eternal torment.