text: [Themes: Horror, Lovecraftian, changing environment, Lovecraftian, academic NPC, body horror, incest, Lovecraft, city, self-mutilation, horror]
  
  > Describe the surroundings
  The gentle creaking of hawsers and the hollow slap of water beneath the wooden pier provide a faint counterpoint to the endless, rhythmic surging of the sea. The fishing industry (like the paper industry) has all but died away in Anchorhead; nonetheless there are still a few boats tied to the pier. A path leads back through an opening in a chain-link fence to the northwest; otherwise, it's just you and the ocean.
  
  > Go southwest
  The decayed remains of an old slaughterhouse stand here, now little more than a shell of crumbling brick and gaping holes, surrounded by a clearing of yellow, sickly grass. A path leads northeast, back toward the road; to the west, a gaping hole that might once have been a doorway leads into the rotting building.
  
  The forest is unnaturally quiet here, you notice; there are no birds calling, no leaves rustling or branches creaking; even the whippoorwills have fallen silent. All is still, holding its collective breath in an expectant hush.
  
  > go west
  The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.
  
  There's something odd about the ground here; some faint marking or pattern.
  
  An old rusty meat hook sticks out of the ground nearby, its point half-buried in the dirt.
  
  Over in the far corner, a tattered sheet of drawing paper lies discarded on the ground.
  
  > take it
  The crossbar fits in your palm, leaving the hook part to stick out between the third and fourth fingers. It's a heavy sucker, nearly fifteen inches long from handle to point, made for hauling around carcasses with a minimum of ceremony. You wouldn't like to think what this could do to a living person.
  Taken.
  
  > take it
  (the newspaper)
  It's the "Weekly Arkham Herald". Anchorhead, apparently, is not large enough to warrant its own newspaper.
  (slipping the strange black disk into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  
  > take it
  The drawing is of a pair of crudely rendered figures, scrawled with dark, heavy lines that occasionally punch right through the paper. The two figures are holding hands. The one on the left is a smiling woman with long, straight hair; the one on the right...
  
  Well, you don't know. Frankly, you'd rather not speculate. An octopus on human legs, maybe, if you could believe any healthy child would conceive of such a thing. Above the first figure is scribbled the word "MOMY"; above the second, "WILAM (ME)".
  (slipping the towel into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  Taken.
  
  > move the plywood
  You dig your fingers under the edge of the plywood and, straining as hard as you can, manage to slide the heavy cover off the top of the well and onto the grass.
  
  A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
  
  > examine the bear
  (slipping the meat hook into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  You pick up the teddy bear. It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
  It is old and threadbare, its fur worn through to the stuffing in some places. Stitched onto its behind is the name "Jeffrey".
  
  > Go upwards
  You painstakingly climb out of the old well.
  
  Beyond the south wall of the old slaughterhouse, there is nothing but a tangled thicket so dense as to be impenetrable in every direction except to the north, where you can slip back into the ruined slaughterhouse through a hole in the wall.
  
  Rising from the midst of the underbrush is a squat circle of stone: the top of an ancient well.
  
  A rotting circle of plywood leans against the side of the well.
  
  > go north
  The roof has collapsed, leaving the interior open to the sky; the floor is nothing but bare, beaten dirt. Gaps in the bricks lead east and south. Although nothing stands now but the tottering, crumbling stonework (and that only barely), you fancy you can still detect a faint miasma of death -- a palpable, chilling reminder of the bloody work which once went on within these walls.
  
  There's something odd about the ground here; some faint marking or pattern.
  
  > examine the pattern
  The marks in the dirt are tracks of some kind, but not of any animal you're familiar with, unless there's a lame elephant loose in the New England woods. The prints are large -- quite a bit larger than your outspread hand, and vaguely round. They criss-cross the ground in every direction. Whatever made them obviously lives here, or at least visits quite often.
  
  > Go east
  You are about to step back through the eastern wall when a noise makes you stop. In the woods outside, to the east -- something is there. Something breathing. Something huge.
  
  A branch cracks sharply; and another. It's coming this way.
  
  > go east
  The forest grows denser as you go, crowding thickly up to either side of the road. The groping, tangled branches block out what little sunlight there is left. Your footsteps are muffled; whispering leaves and the slow drip of water are the only sounds you can hear. Beyond the watching trees, the shadows are impenetrably thick. The road stretches interminably, north to south.
  
  At the edge of the forest, on the west side of the road, stand the rotted stump and twisted sapling from your dream.
  
  The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
  
  > Go north
  The gently winding lane makes its way through the birch woods south of town. New England foliage is famous for its splendid colors in the fall, but the oppressive weather and pervading murk have leached these trees of most of their tint. The road continues south into the increasingly dense forest, and in the other direction heads back to town. A paved walk also leads east through the trees.
  
  A small group of townsfolk has gathered up at the north end of the road. As you approach, still breathless from your encounter with the thing at the slaughterhouse, they turn toward you -- and that's when you notice that the one in the lead has an axe in his hand. And the one behind him has a pair of garden shears.
  
  A couple of men move over to your left, and several more step out of the forest behind you. All of them carry weapons or nasty farm implements of some kind, and all of them look as though they're just about ready to put an end to a certain over-curious, outsider woman who doesn't know enough to keep her nose out of things better left undisturbed.
  
  > go to the east
  You dart past the men on your right, making a break for the church. The townsfolk hover around the entrance to the churchyard but do not follow you, confident that there is no way you can escape.
  
  A low, wrought-iron fence, its spike-tipped bars bent or leaning at crazy angles, surrounds the overgrown yard of this dark, abandoned church. A gap in the fence leads back west, while a bare path beaten through the groping weeds leads around the church to the southeast.
  
  The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
  
  > Go southeast
  The path bends northeast, around the side of the church.
  
  The forest encroaches right up to the iron fence here, some of which is literally buried in the tangled underbrush. There are no doors on this side, although a wooden trap door over by the corner of the building probably leads into a cellar. A path leads southwest, around to the front of the church.
  
  In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
  
  > break the padlock with the hook
  (first taking the meat hook)
  (slipping the newspaper into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  You raise the meat hook high over your head and bring it squarely down onto the padlock. The rusted metal casing splits open, the hasp falls loose, and the padlock, now nothing but a broken shell, slides to the ground.
  
  > take the padlock
  (slipping the tattered drawing into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  You pick up the broken padlock. It's little more than a twisted hunk of torn metal. You'd hardly even guess it was ever used as a padlock.
  
  > open the door
  You open the trap door.