The house on Hobb Hill was a fascination in his youth, an ominous looming fascination that overshadowed Allsbrook. Even in the yellow light of day the manor was enshrouded in a darkness whose icy tongue slithered down your spine.
The years had taken the adventure out of Professor Montgomery’s life, replaced with the melancholy of tired routines. A promising career begun with a thesis inspired by the hauntings of Hobb Hill had come to a shuddering halt. Even the paranormal community had begun to laugh at him.
Standing before the black iron gate, smelling the rot of the browning grass and black mud where cobblestones formed a path, he had to admit the truth. Never once had he set foot in Hobb Hill Manor. But today he was an invited guest.
Black branches like long black talons begging to rip into his flesh, shivered from an old gnarled oak. For the briefest moment he thought it alive. The cold wind of the New England fall played tricks on the mind.
Hung from the doorknob by a noose of red twine, a brown envelop fluttered in the breeze, his name on the front.

Professor Montgomery,
Please accept my apology. Our staff have been dismissed and our home is in disarray. Come inside. We will speak in the study.

Barely a candle was lit, save the flickering yellow light dancing beyond the door straight ahead. The study, he assumed.
Cracked and shattered mirrors, their debris crunching beneath his heels, littered the dimly lit hall. Likewise, each statue had been defaced, leaving headless limbless hosts warning him to flee, flee or accept your fate.
“Professor!” a voice strangled with age called as he carefully pulled on the door. “We’re one shy, but there’s no reason we can’t make a start of it.”
Ira Westmoore, the lord of Hobb Hill, beckoned him from his wheelchair. He sat at the end of a long table surrounded by bookcases of dusty tombs and dustier shelves. A young woman with short blonde hair tickling her shoulders sat beside him, her face bloodless, hands tightly clasped before her.
Another man with a black moustache and five o’clock shadow sat with his fedora politely on the table. What stood out most was the scar that bisected a cloudy glass eye. The look of war was upon him.
The final guest was a gruff little dwarf. He sat upon a heap of books to see over the polished wooden table. His incisors were capped with gold.
Unsavory characters, except for Westmoore. But what upset him most were the revolvers strapped on their hips.
“Please, Professor. Take a seat.”
“Mister Westmoore,” he said politely, “Call me Monty.”
Monty…
A gold pendant shone brightly as the pale girl turned her eyes toward him. A green jewel caught his attention, a large emerald as deep as the crashing seas.
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