Oh, this is why I love this place around Hallowe'en. Okay! Okay, I can do this. Alright. Here we go.
At first the town just seems perfectly themed, eerie and spooky but without any of the camp that can ruin the atmosphere of a good haunted set up. That does make it too good to be true, though, right? At mean, even the best spook rides or haunted houses have that point where you can see through the illusion. With mixed parts thrill of adventure and mortal terror, the town's true nature starts to become apparent, and I'll have to survive.
It'd take too much time to wrap myself in bandages like a mummy, and without a vampire's powers one chance brush with a mirror would give me away. The best bet is gonna be to rub some dirt on my clothes, mess up my hair, and do the zombie shuffle. It works for a while. Zombies are at the bottom of the pecking list when it comes to monsters, so they can go unnoticed by the big nasties around town. It works so well that I decide to linger a bit, check out the spooky scene since it's likely I'll never have the chance again and who'd believe me if I told anyone about it?
The problem comes with feeding, though. I'm still alive, and I can't say I've developed the hunger for brains. Unfortunately, real zombies can sniff those out like bloodhounds, and it looks really suspicious to see one of the walking dead shuffling nervously away from a slavering crowd of its kin.
It's suspicious enough to catch the notice of one of the local covens, and before I'm ghoul food there's an unlikely rescue in the form of a circle of flying brooms bearing incanting witches. With the undead at bay they get a good look at what they've found, and certainly more can be gained from the rare, living mortal in their midst than a snack for the local maggot-brains.
That's how I come to be in their lair, filled with strange smoke, flickering firelight, and the smell of bizarre magical materials, chained and tied and left to their care. There's a lot to be harvested from the hapless wanderer unlucky enough to find herself here; rare spell ingredients like the freshly bottled sound of laughter or a woman's tears. As greedy a coven as this, they don't hesitate to keep me in hysterics for as long as they possibly can, taking advantage of the vulnerability of my tattered zombie getup. There's no way of knowing how long I've been suffering, and as my hysterics begin to blend in with their wicked cackling a little voice in the back of my mind wonders if this is how the coven grows.
