“The town of Duskwell lies not upon any map, but rather festers within the folds of memory, where forgotten griefs rot in silence. Its streets wind like mourning veils, and every door you pass remembers how you died.”

For now Duskwell is a reflection of the sins the world forgot. However it’s reaching like a ghost through a mirror, trying to pull us through.

You’re safe. Until you read a town myth and recognize your own home.

Documenting the memories of Duskwell and the recollections of the people who reside there is a sin against against every faith on earth, against every god to whom men pray. places such as these are best left not forgotten, but never known At All.

The Ashcreek Motel

Tone: Loneliness
Atmosphere: Flickering neon, perpetual vacancy, echoing with quiet things not quite gone.
Expanded Description:
Once a stopping point for travelers who’ve long since forgotten their destinations, the Ashcreek Motel exists in a kind of waiting. The rooms are always recently vacated, always slightly warm, always just cleaned—and yet, no one ever sees the guests arrive or leave.

The cleaning lady at Ashcreek Motel always knocks twice. The echo knocks back, slower.

Whittler’s Path

Tone: Dread
Atmosphere: Chokingly still woods, old trees that lean closer when you're not watching.
Expanded Description:
This forest trail hums beneath the silence, a pressure behind the ears that worsens the deeper you go. Time loses meaning here—footsteps vanish behind you, and dusk falls no matter when you started walking.

The boy ran from the creature, never looking back. But each morning, the footprints still circle the bench.

Needle Hill Cemetery

Tone: Obsession
Atmosphere: Tangled roots, gravestones leaning like whispering conspirators.
Expanded Description:
The cemetery was officially closed decades ago, but something there insists on expanding. Graves multiply in the night, names you almost remember etching themselves in stone that wasn’t there yesterday.


I told the gravestone I didn’t believe in ghosts. It’s been following me ever since.

Sycamore Crossing Bridge

Tone: Grief
Atmosphere: Eternal drizzle, fog-cloaked silence, the taste of metal on your tongue.
Expanded Description:
Though it spans nothing now, people still visit the bridge to cry, to whisper regrets, to throw away objects that return heavier than before. Names spoken here linger in the air like mist, clinging.


She whispered his name and threw the locket. When it splashed back into her hands, it was full of teeth.

Trillium Mall (Condemned)

Tone: Frenzy
Atmosphere: Plastic consumerist rot, looping music warped beyond recognition.
Expanded Description:
Even closed, the mall feels open—hungry. Storefronts reflect forgotten identities, and the escalator still runs, but never ends, humming a tune no one remembers learning.


I thought I was alone until I saw myself in every store window. All of me were smiling.

Holloway Nursery School

Tone: Guilt
Atmosphere: Sticky silence, pastel rot, ghosts of laughter curdled by memory.
Expanded Description:
No one talks about the incident, and no one agrees on what it was. Yet the chalkboards still carry half-finished words, and the toys are always in use when no one's in the room.


I opened the cubby and found my name above a jacket I never wore. It was still warm.

Duskwell Travel Bureau

Tone: Irony
Atmosphere: Perky decay, cheerful music just off-key, posters that smile too wide.
Expanded Description:
There is only one brochure: Nowhere is Further Than You Think. The receptionist hasn’t been seen in years, but the bell still rings, and if you listen closely, it rings your name.


The welcome packet said I’d never leave Duskwell. That was four homes and three lives ago.

Dutch’s Gas & Grocery

Tone: Nostalgia
Atmosphere: Fluorescent and flat, like time itself is running on backup power.
Expanded Description:
Dutch hasn’t aged since the Eisenhower administration, or so folks say. The coffee’s always fresh, the freezer’s always humming, and Dutch always knows what you’re about to need.

Two-Sentence Horror:
The man at the counter called me by name and told me my total before I said a word. I paid, but when I looked at the receipt, it was dated five days from now.

Marla’s Diner

Tone: Denial
Atmosphere: Fixed smiles, ticking clocks that don't move, booths always open but never empty.
Expanded Description:
The jukebox plays songs no one chooses, and the Daily Special never changes. Marla always greets you by your mother’s name, and her coffee always tastes like what you lost.


I asked for my eggs over easy, but Marla brought me a plate I hadn’t seen in years. It was my mother’s last meal.

Duskwell Post Office

Tone: Confusion
Atmosphere: Echoing halls, humming walls, paper that rustles even when untouched.
Expanded Description:
Mail comes in, but no one sends it. There’s a slot for letters written in dreams, and the PO boxes whisper when you're not looking at them.


I opened my mailbox and found a stack of letters addressed in my handwriting. None were signed.

Duskwell Library

Tone: Curiosity
Atmosphere: Musty air, shivering light, and shelves that rearrange while your back is turned.
Expanded Description:
The books here do not stay where you left them. Some describe futures not yet lived, while others erase memories as you read—careful, or you might forget how the story ends.


I read a book about a man who couldn’t remember killing his brother. When I got home, mine was gone.

Sheriff’s Office

Tone: Control
Atmosphere: Too-clean silence, cameras that seem to blink, paperwork that fills itself out.
Expanded Description:
Sheriff Brooks keeps a perfect record—of things you haven’t done yet. The jail cell has no key, because it’s always waiting for someone who walks in willingly.


Sheriff Brooks asked me what I’d done. I hadn’t answered yet when he nodded and locked the door.

Your home, your room, your family, your identity. They’re only yours as long as you remember.

Duskwell Barber & Bait

Tone: Resignation
Atmosphere: Scent of old clippings and river rot, metal on metal, eyes always watching from the rafters.
Expanded Description:
Charlie gives good cuts, but never speaks during them. Afterward, the birds gather to hear him whisper names into their wings.


He asked how I liked it before the scissors touched my head. The mirror showed me smiling—I wasn’t.

Redburn Family Pharmacy

Tone: Suppression
Atmosphere: Fluorescent overload, sticky tiles, and aisles that don’t lead the same way twice.
Expanded Description:
Prescriptions appear in your name for symptoms you haven’t admitted yet. Shake the bottle and hear your own heartbeat inside.


I handed her my insurance card and she smiled like an old friend. “You’re the one who can’t forget,” she whispered, and slid the box across the counter.

The Bleeding Tree (Town Center)

Tone: Awareness
Atmosphere: Black bark, crimson leaves, a silence that listens.
Expanded Description:
They say the tree wasn’t planted—it arrived. Its roots crack pavement and memory alike, and its sap stains things no rain can wash clean.


I touched the bark and felt my heartbeat slow. When I pulled away, my name was already carved there.

Charlie’s House

Tone: Stagnation
Atmosphere: Brown shingles the color of dried tobacco, windchimes made of fishing lures, curtains that don’t open anymore.
Layout Description:
A shotgun-style house, long and narrow, with no upstairs and a basement that used to be for storm shelter—but now feels more like storage for thoughts no one finishes. The front room is his cutting space, but it smells more like fish than hair. Most of the house is walked-through, not lived-in. The back door sticks, and no one remembers ever seeing it open.

  • “No one remembers Charlie moving in, but his truck’s always been parked at the same crooked angle.”

  • “The inside smells like salt and hair. The kitchen’s floorboards are tacky, but not from food.”

  • “One room is just mirrors—framed photos turned backwards.”


I saw Charlie through his window, cutting someone’s hair by candlelight.
He was alone.

Marla’s Trailer (Diner Owner)

Tone: Grief in Motion
Atmosphere: A rusted Airstream behind the diner, parked half in gravel, half in wildflowers. Always smells faintly like syrup and spoiled milk.
Layout Description:
Single hallway layout with a tiny kitchen and a living room that doubles as a shrine. The baby monitor is always on, though no child has ever been seen. The bathroom mirror is cracked diagonally, like someone tried to split the reflection in two. One window is boarded up from the inside.

  • “She keeps a crib in the bedroom. No one’s sure if she ever had kids.”

  • “Every night at 11:23, the trailer rocks like someone slammed the door. Marla just lights a cigarette and waits it out.”

  • “There’s a dent in the wall shaped like a head. She won’t patch it.”


I tapped on Marla’s door and asked if she was alright.
She said, “That ain’t me in there,” and lit another cigarette.

Postmaster Allen’s Cottage

Tone: Order Cracking
Atmosphere: White picket fence, hand-painted mailbox with no address, lace curtains always drawn. A dog barks—but no one’s seen it.
Layout Description:
Cozy single-floor with three rooms that don’t connect the way they should. The guest bedroom only opens from the inside. The hallway has one too many doors, and one closet hums faintly if you stand very still. Tea is always ready—but only one cup is poured.

  • “Allen doesn’t lock his doors. He just insists you knock first, twice, exactly.”

  • “There’s a room in the house filled with unopened mail. None of it addressed to him.”

  • “The clock in his kitchen is stuck at 4:02—but his watch never is.”


I stayed for tea, and Allen showed me a letter with my name on it.
I hadn’t written it, but it ended with my handwriting and the words: Don’t trust him.

Sheriff Brooks’ Ranch House

Tone: Isolation Behind Authority
Atmosphere: Brick façade with a wraparound porch. Neat lawn, but the porch swing creaks even when it’s still.
Layout Description:
Two-story ranch with precise furniture placement and dust only where it’s meant to be. The basement door is locked with a chain that’s newer than the house. Every room has at least one item labeled: a key, a name, a date. There are no mirrors.

  • “The sheriff has no family photos. Just one big frame with a black square where the image should be.”

  • “You can see the holding cell light flicker through his back window. But the jail’s on Main Street.”

  • “Some nights, three boots sit by the front door. He lives alone.”


I brought a pie to thank him for helping with my car.
He asked if I wanted to come inside—or just wait like I had last time.

The children were born after the residents of Duskwell stopped sleeping.

The Redburn Family Home (Victorian Estate)

Tone: Suppression Through Elegance
Atmosphere: Ornate stillness, where grief and legacy are pressed into every velvet curtain and bone-dry rose.

Overview:
The Redburn Family Estate stands on a slight rise east of town, just beyond the bend in the road where shadows linger longer than they should. Encircled by wrought-iron fencing wrapped in thorny vines, the house is a massive three-story Victorian with turreted corners, gabled windows, and a widow’s walk that faces nothing in particular—just empty fog and tree lines that shift slightly each season.

Despite its grandeur, the house feels strangely muffled, like it’s trying not to be noticed.

Exterior & Grounds:
The paint is always fresh—a cold, eggshell blue that never seems to chip, even through winter storms. The front lawn is trimmed weekly, yet no gardener is ever seen. There are no weeds, but neither are there insects. The rose bushes surrounding the property bloom year-round, blood-red even in snow, and never drop a single petal.

A stone path winds from the iron gate to a grand double door carved with symmetrical vines and a barely visible family crest: a mirrored tree, with roots as dense as its branches. The initials IM&J are etched in a heart just beneath it, though some claim they weren’t always.

Behind the home, an overgrown orchard sits in careful rows. Some of the trees bear fruit, though no one picks them. A broken swing hangs from one low branch, always facing the house.

Layout:
The home contains three full floors, a sealed attic, and a subterranean basement that isn't shown on the original blueprints.

  • First Floor:

    Foyer: Marble-tiled and silent, with a chandelier that hums slightly when no one’s speaking.

    Parlor: Overdecorated with untouched antiques. A phonograph plays soft classical music, but only when the door is closed.

    Dining Room: A long mahogany table seats twelve, though only two chairs are dust-free. The table is always set.

    Kitchen: Pristine and unused. A copper kettle sits on the stove, filled with dust instead of water. There are cupboards locked from the inside.

    Study: Books that crumble if read aloud. A globe that spins gently when someone enters. A photo of the family once hung above the fireplace—it’s gone now, but the wall behind it is darker.

  • Second Floor:

    Master Bedroom: Lacquered furniture, powder-scented air, gloves lined on hooks like artifacts. Her bed is always made but never looks slept in.

    Caleb’s Room: Sunlight always seems to touch his pillow, even at night. His closet door never quite shuts, and inside hang clothes that no longer fit, pressed and waiting.

    Guest Rooms: Each holds the smell of someone who left too recently or long ago. One was claimed by Ma, and has a mirror that refuses to reflect you alone.

    Bathroom: Clean but off—water runs warm even on the coldest setting. A cracked tile reveals something black underneath, but it’s not mold.

    Nursery: The mobile above her crib never spins, but the shadows on the wall move anyway. She never cries—not once—but her mother swears she laughs when no one’s in the room.

  • Third Floor (Unlit):
    The staircase groans if ascended past the second floor. The third floor is kept dark. Sometimes footsteps can be heard pacing above, though the dust on the stairs is never disturbed. The air grows heavier the higher you climb.

    Mason’s room: Maps of Duskwell—some real, some wrong—cover the walls, with strings pinned to places that don’t always exist. The mirror by the bed shows things behind you that aren't in the room.

    June’s Room: Her room is a collage of torn magazine smiles, glittered notebooks that rewrite themselves, and a closet with every outfit imaginable. The lightbulb flickers when she lies—but it flickers often, and always in rhythm.

    Tess’s Room: The walls are papered in floral pastels, but the sign on the door has someone else’s name. Under her bed are sketches of faces not her own, each one drawn with more care than the last.

    Elliot’s Room: Books without titles line his shelf, and one always lies open to a page you recognize from your own dreams. He sleeps with the window open—even in winter—and whispers names in his sleep.

    Josie’s Room: His room is full of plush toys, all facing the door with stitched smiles and watching eyes. He repeats things no one said out loud, and once whispered your name before you introduced yourself.

  • Attic (Locked):
    A narrow pull-down ladder, painted shut. Local lore suggests it holds portraits of every Redburn that ever lived—and a few that didn’t.

  • Basement (Hidden):
    The basement was never on the blueprints, yet every generation remembers sealing it—just not how it reopened. The stairs groan like they’re remembering footsteps that never came back up.

    Sadie’s Room: Crayon scrawls cover every surface: walls, bedposts, even the ceiling—most are smiling, but one watches you leave. Her music box plays a lullaby that speeds up if you're scared.

4. “Ashes of Angels”

He baptized a newborn in the well behind the church,

And pulled him out humming with teeth like a birch.

4. “Ashes of Angels”

He baptized a newborn in the well behind the church,

And pulled him out humming with teeth like a birch.