That house is haunted, they say.

You walk by it every day and there's always just something a bit...off.

No one has lived there for years. It's fallen into ruin.

But the shutters sometimes open of their own accord.

The doors inside slam.

The children tell stories of a friend's cousin's sister's friend's uncle's nephew's cousin twice removed who went missing there and was never heard from again.

Some say it's haunted by a ghost, reliving their last grisly memories over and over.

Some say it's haunted by a clan of vampires, or a coven of witches.

Others say the strange noises and things that move on their own are actually the work of a psychic.

The last psychic who went in ran out screaming and clawing at her eyes.

...But you like this sort of thing. Anything weird, anything unnatural, anything that couldn't be explained by science or religion, you were there.

You enter the ruins of the house and feel at home.

In a second-story office held together by cobwebs you find a row of filing cabinets rusted shut by the years. A freezing wind blows through the shattered windows and tosses a broken cymbal-monkey into the first cabinet, knocking the drawer open.

Inside, you run your fingers through the yellowing personnel files, and pull out the first one...