“So what’s feyleaf like?” I ask Veppi. He’s retrieved his pipe and is puffing away as we walk across the fields to the farmhouse.

“Pleasant,” says the otter. “Calming. Helps to control the anger. Keeps the wild beast caged, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You don’t strike me as someone with anger issues,” says Misty.

“Exactly! Proves the feyleaf is doing its job.”

“So what happens when you lose your temper?” Andraya asks. “You threaten to nibble people’s ankles?”

Veppi laughs. “Something like that, yeah. My memory is a touch fuzzy as you know. I don’t recall many specifics from the time before I was birthed by that box. But I do remember that my anger was a violent kind of problem.”

“Aw,” says Misty. “Too cute. Thinking of you getting angry, chest all puffed up. Putting up your little paws like a fluffy boxer.”

Veppi gives a quick smile, but I think he’s taken offence at Misty’s comments.

All the while, the oppressive atmosphere of Three Farms smothers us. We may try and ignore it with idle chatter and small talk, but that sense of doom is ever present. Andraya’s rousing song lifts our spirits as she sings it, but it's a short lived respite, gone with the last chorus.

----------------------------------------

We arrive at the farmhouse to find it in disrepair. It’s a dry stone building made of blocks of grainy pink granite. The walls look like they’d survive an earthquake, but the window frames are rotten and there’s glass missing from some of them on the top floor. The thatched roof is old and dirty, and there’s a large patch of it blackened by fire. A collapsed chimney bothers the left side of the house, spilling large stones to the ground below. No one has been arsed to clean it up. The large wooden door hangs on one hinge, and would be a cheery shade of red if the paint wasn’t so chipped and faded.

“Looks like a do-er upper,” I say as we approach the door. “Few licks of paint and some DIY and I reckon I could flip this no problem.”

“Flip it?” Asks Misty.

“Ignore me. I’m just babbling to hide my nerves. Anyone else feel like they’re one scare away from a heart attack?”

“Yeah,” says Veppi. “If I was wearing any pants, I would have shat them by now.”

We all pause by the door. It’s clear none of us wants to be the first one through that dark breach.

“Can you feel it?” Andraya asks. “That sense of wrongness?”

“Yes. There’s a presence,” says Misty. “There’s something in anguish. Whatever’s here wants us to go inside, but will never let us leave if we do.”

I don’t like the sound of that at all. My mind fills with images of being trapped in the house of the Blair Witch staring at a corner. I get a compelling desire to turn around and hike back to Brackwater. “What happens if you abandon a quest?” I ask. “Hypothetically speaking.”

“You lose XP,” says Andraya. “Remember the tingle when you gained experience? Imagine the reverse of that. It doesn’t feel good. ”

“And Koldarus is likely to get all chokey again,” says Misty, “if we don’t turn up with his money as promised. Besides, there’s something in pain here, something that needs our help. We need to see this through.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we abandon the quest,” I lie. “I just wanted to find out what would happen if we did.”

“That’s good to know,” says Misty. “Give me a moment to mix something.”

She conjures a large bottle of thick green glass. As she shakes it, ingredients appear inside, which soon turn to liquid after a few magic words are spoken. Misty blows on the bottle and then hands it to me.

“Now you Doon,” she says.

“Do I drink it?”

“No. Not yet. You must blow on it.”

“Really?”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Yes. Blow on the bottle, and then Andraya and Veppi must do the same. Quickly now, or it will curdle.”

Who am I to argue with a potions expert? I do as I’m told and blow on the glass, then pass to Andraya who copies me. Then it’s Veppi’s turn and he hands it back to Misty once he’s done as instructed.

“Good,” says Mistle. “Now we drink it.”

“What is it?” Andraya asks.

“Persephonica. It’s a wine that lets you commune with the spirit world. If there are any ghosts here, we’ll be able to talk to them in the language of the dead.”

“I see,” says Andraya, before taking a large swig and grimacing. “Got quite a kick to it.”

She passes the bottle to me and I gulp down a mouthful. It tastes fortified, like a sherry or Buckfast. “This is going to get us pissed too. Are you sure it’s a good idea? Can’t be doing our wisdom or subtletly stats any good. Mine are zero already. This brew will send them into minus numbers.”

Misty takes the bottle from me and hands it to Veppi. “You too otter,” she says and he eagerly takes a drink from it before passing back to Misty who finishes it off.

“Not bad,” he says. “Could do with more alcohol in it. Plays nicely with the leaf.”

“There,” says Misty. “We’re ready. Don’t worry about your stats Doon. Drinking this Persephonica might give us the option to talk our way out of any fight. It’s worth a small sacrifice in numbers.”

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We step through the front door and into the kitchen. It’s dark and cold, with all the welcoming atmosphere of a damp cave. There’s an upturned wooden table and the floor is littered with broken crockery. Either there’s recently been a Greek wedding here, or something malevolent has been playing frisbee with the bowls and plates. One of the walls is peppered with cutlery, stuck fast into the stones as if they’ve been shot out of a blunderbuss. In the corner, there’s something small and dead that’s attracting a large black clot of buzzing flies.

“Ach that smell,” says Andraya, pulling up her shirt to cover her nose and mouth. “Fucking horrible.”

“Yeah, it’s hurting my eyes,” I say. “Let’s not hang about.”

“Can you hear that sound?” Misty asks. “Like someone sobbing?”

“Maybe they’ve been told they’ve got clean this place up,” I say. No one laughs. “Coming from the floor above us, right? I guess we should go and investigate.”

We find the staircase in the hallway on the other side of the kitchen, and ascend it with trepidation rather than enthusiasm. Not wanting to announce our arrival, we climb on tip toes, Scooby-gang style, wincing at every creaking step.

We reach the landing at the top of the stairs and see three doors. There are two on the left, and one at the end on the right. The sobbing is louder here, but it’s difficult to pinpoint which door its coming from. Now that we’re up here, it almost sounds like the crying is coming from back downstairs.

“Should we split up and take a door each?” Andraya asks.

“Fuck no,” I reply, and Misty nods as if she’s thinking the same. “Sticking together is the golden rule when you’re in a haunted house. If you split up, that’s how they get you. Pick you off one by one.”

“Alright,” Andraya says. “This one first.”

We brace ourselves as she opens the door nearest to us on the left. We peer into a small square bedroom that’s been half filled with black feathers. It looks like the aftermath of a goth pillow fight.

Misty looks at Andraya. “Anything to do with your guy?”

“Too drab,” she says. “Might be a ritual. My guess is it’s some kind of chaotic manifestation. An ethereal mistake.”

I nod like I get what she means. “Yeah, I was going to suggest that too.”

We move on to the next door. Misty presses her ear to it and listens. “I think it’s in here,” she whispers. “I think the crying is coming from behind this door. It’s difficult to be sure, but we should be ready.”

I take the lead this time and yank open the door with one hand, my sword ready in the other. This room is more akin to the kitchen. There’s no chaotic eiderdown, just a bedroom in disarray. A sorry looking single bed is stuck fast to the ceiling, its covers draping down from it like curtains. There’s a message scrawled in green paint on the floor.

NO MORE

“Goblin blood,” says Misty. “And that message is written in Gjallar, the tongue of the dead. If it wasn’t for the Persephonica, we wouldn’t be able to read it.”

It’s clear there’s no crying spirit in here, so we move back to the landing and head to the final door. Before we reach it, what I’d guess is a goblin comes out of the room and starts taking off its clothes. It’s not quite opaque and it seems to shimmer, as if we’re seeing in through a heat haze.

It’s a pathetic looking sight, stick thin and malnourished, like an abused concentration camp prisoner. It’s crying as it disrobes and there’s a split second delay between the moving of its lips and the accompanying sobbing sound. It’s as if its wails are being broadcast through hidden speakers.

“No more,” it cries, in a voice filled with anguish and echo.

The creature turns its back to us, and shows us its wounds.

“Fucking hell,” says Veppi.

Its back is a mess of vicious cuts and deep scars, a journal written in cruelty.

“You poor thing,” Misty says. “Who did that to you?” She looks like she’s about to start crying too.

The creature turns around and points at Andraya.

“No,” she says. “We’ve never met. I would never-”

The ghost goblin screams then. It’s an unworldly primal blast of anger and rage, an assault that leaves my ears ringing. Dust begins to swirl around it, a kind of spectral vortex that builds, spinning faster and faster like its own personal tornado. The spirit holds an arm up above it, and a curved sword materialises in its hand.

“Stop!” Misty shouts. “We want to help you. We don’t mean you any harm.”

But the ghost doesn’t listen. Its hollow face a picture of sorrow and rage, it shoots out towards us, spinning into battle like a Bakugan brawler, a dead dervish intent on our demise.

So much for talking our way out of it.