text: [Themes: Horror, Lovecraftian, incest, rape references, research, city, changing environment, academic NPC, Lovecraftian, violence]
  
  > look at your surroundings
  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.
  
  > look under underbrush
  You find nothing of interest.
  
  In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
  
  > examine the fence
  The fence is about chest-high and topped with nasty iron spikes. Weeds and ground vines wind up through the bars, most of which are bent and some of which are missing altogether.
  
  > look at the bars
  The fence is about chest-high and topped with nasty iron spikes. Weeds and ground vines wind up through the bars, most of which are bent and some of which are missing altogether.
  
  A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
  
  > take the bar
  That's hardly portable.
  
  > pull the bars
  That would accomplish very little.
  
  > go to the southwest
  The path bends northwest, around the side of the church.
  
  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.
  
  A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
  
  > go to the north
  Perhaps it is merely the effect of some unwholesome vapour rising from the murky waters of the nearby Miskaton, but the temperature along this street seems perceptibly cooler than normal, even for a New England autumn. Two dirt roads lead south and southwest, into the dense woods at the edge of town.
  
  A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
  
  > Smell film
  You can make out a shadowy reflection of yourself in the slowly rippling water.
  
  The river has an unpleasant, oily smell to it.
  
  > fill the flask with the water
  You dip the flask into the Miskaton, collecting a small quantity of river water.
  
  The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
  
  > Empty flask
  You can't pour the nothing; it's not a liquid.
  
  > examine flask
  The label is faded and mostly peeled away, but what little you can make out seems to indicate that this is not a particularly distinguished brand of spirits. The words "bootleg" and "rotgut" come to mind, probably because they are the only words legible on what's left of the label.
  
  > look in the flask
  In the flask is a small quantity of river water.
  
  > pour the water
  (the small quantity of river water)
  The small quantity of river water spills out over the ground, where it quickly trickles away.
  
  > Go upwards
  A low, irregular brick wall to the north divides this street from the steep, mud-slick banks of the sinuous Miskaton, while a rusty iron gate provides access to a precarious flight of stone steps leading down the bank to the water's edge. The street bends south here, turning into a misty avenue between the trees. The town square lies west, a vacant lot lies east.
  
  The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
  
  > take the stone
  They're hardly portable.
  
  > go north
  A dank, drafty old drinking hole lit by flickering, oil-burning lanterns. Smoke collects in greasy pools among the rafters, and shadows crowd thick around. The bar runs the length of the room to your right, while to the south a low doorway opens onto the street.
  
  Mill workers and fishermen occupy a few of the tables, drinking beer or puffing grimly at long-stemmed pipes. Each is wrapped in his solitude, soaking up the general miasma of dreary fatalism.
  
  > fill the flask
  (with the newspaper)
  (first taking the newspaper)
  (slipping the flask into the pocket of your trenchcoat to get a hand free)
  (closing the flask first)
  Taken.
  The mouth of the flask is too narrow.
  
  > Go south
  The path curves southwest, leading you into an overgrown area behind the mill.
  
  The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.
  
  > examine the foundations
  The broken rubble is all that remains of whatever building once stood here.
  
  The cold wind blows harder, tugging at the hem of your trenchcoat.
  
  > examine rebar
  The broken rubble is all that remains of whatever building once stood here.
  
  > Go southeast
  The trail heads up a short embankment and emerges from the thicket alongside the railroad tracks. The tracks run down from the northeast and past the mill, continuing southwest but slowly curving westward until they cross the Miskaton River some miles outside of town. From the embankment you can look out over the entire heath: jagged, shadowy rooftops to the south; the oily ribbon of the Miskaton to the west; and to the east, the lighthouse sentinel and the leaden waters of the Atlantic beyond.
  
  The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
  
  > examine the tracks
  They're just ordinary-looking railroad tracks.
  
  > Go northwest
  The foundations of an older structure lie crumbling in a sunken square of ground, hidden away behind the imposing shadow of the mill wall. Weeds push up through cracked and buckling slabs of concrete; twisted rebar and rusting pipes poke up like the legs of dead insects. The ruins are surrounded on all sides by dense thickets, although narrow, overgrown trails lead northeast and southeast through the underbrush.
  
  The cold wind cuts through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
  
  > Go northeast
  The path curves to the north, leading you around to the front of the mill.
  
  The road turns southwest here and runs squarely through the front entrance to the old paper mill. A gate of heavy iron bars blocks the only opening into this charred fortress, although an overgrown path leads around the wall to the south. To the north, a rutted lane threads its way past a row of dilapidated shacks.
  
  A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
  
  > look at the gate
  The gate, a twenty-foot high barricade of narrowly spaced, thick, black, iron bars, is designed to roll horizontally, sealing off the entrance to the mill compound. It is currently shut and locked. There are no guardhouses, no buzzers or intercoms, no apparent means of getting in or letting anyone inside know you want in; just this implacable gate in an unscalable wall.
  
  A flurry of dead leaves goes skittering along the ground, swirling past you in the wind.
  
  > examine bars
  The gate, a twenty-foot high barricade of narrowly spaced, thick, black, iron bars, is designed to roll horizontally, sealing off the entrance to the mill compound. It is currently shut and locked. There are no guardhouses, no buzzers or intercoms, no apparent means of getting in or letting anyone inside know you want in; just this implacable gate in an unscalable wall.
  
  > Go east
  The road heads out over a narrow breakwater jutting out into the ocean.
  
  You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.
  
  > Go east
  The narrow breakwater is surrounded by ocean. You can only go west, back to shore; or northeast, to the lighthouse.
  
  Another wave crashes against the rocks, sending a cloud of spray into the air.
  
  > go southeast
  Carefully, you climb down the rocks. The path bends northeast, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.
  
  A small outcropping of stone, just large enough for you to stand on, sticks out from the end of the breakwater. The hungry sea laps at your feet, surging over the rocks and then trickling down into crevices. To the southwest, an uneven trail leads back up the rocks, around the side of the lighthouse.
  
  Beyond the breakwater's tip, a turbulent patch of water bubbles and seethes, as if something were lurking just beneath the surface -- turning, perhaps, in uneasy sleep.
  
  > go to the south-west
  The trail turns northwest, following the curve of the lighthouse wall.
  
  You stand in a circular clearing among the stones, surrounded on nearly every side by the sea. Before you looms the ancient, massive lighthouse, a vertiginous pillar of pale brick jabbing defiantly up at the sky. The road from the southwest ends here, although it looks as though you could pick your way down the rocks to the southeast, around the structure's base.
  
  The great bronze door of the lighthouse is closed.
  
  > Go southwest
  You are picking your way across the breakwater's bare, rocky spine, where the road has diminished to little more than a pair of dusty ruts. A hundred yards to the northeast, at the breakwater's far end, the lonely stone tower of Anchorhead's lighthouse stands vigil against the ocean.
  
  In the distance, you can hear the lonesome keening of a train whistle drifting on the wind.
  
  > Go southwest
  The narrow breakwater is surrounded by ocean. You can only go west, back to shore; or northeast, to the lighthouse.
  
  > Go west
  The road carries you across a desolate heath of gray, windswept grass. To the south, the black, jagged outline of Anchorhead's steep roofs and sharp, leaning gables cuts across the horizon. The road forks here to the west and east, heading across the railroad tracks in one direction, out toward the seashore in the other.
  
  > Go east
  As the lane winds along from east to west, it narrows until the steep, jagged rooftops on either side of the street practically touch each other. To the south, a side street leads across Whateley Bridge toward the center of town, and a twisting lane leads up a hill to the northwest. A short flight of steps to the north leads down to the local watering hole.
  
  A gust of wind blows your hair into your face.
  
  > go south
  A hoary monument of crumbling, moss-eaten flagstones, Whateley Bridge is possibly older than any other structure in the entire city. Ponderously it spans the dark, torpid waters of the Miskaton River, connecting the north and south halves of the city and occasionally raining bits of gravel and mortar from its underside into the water. It looks just wide enough for two cars to pass each other between the flanking stone parapets, but you wouldn't volunteer to try it.