Nightfall descended upon the village of Poissy, cloaking it in a chill deeper than the mere winter air suggested. Within Dr. Lorien’s quiet home, the investigators sat clustered around a modest coffee table, their conversation a delicate dance of intrigue and polite deceit. Arthur cast wary glances about the room, struggling against an ever-present distrust. Beside him, Per studied his surroundings. Viola, serene and thoughtful, smiled gently as she observed young Quitterie Lorien, though her eyes betrayed quiet unease.
The initial pleasantries had begun innocuously enough—coffee and polite chatter—but the veneer of normalcy quickly fractured. Quitterie, bright-eyed and playful, inadvertently jostled Per’s cup, splashing lukewarm coffee onto her arm. What followed was a scream so shrill and filled with agony that it pierced through the veneer of civility and lodged firmly within the hearts of those who heard it. Arthur flinched visibly, the child’s shriek cutting through his carefully constructed defenses, reminding him sharply of screams long past—voices in trenches, drowning beneath mud and gunfire.
Viola, instinctively moving to comfort the child, noted with cold curiosity that the coffee had been nowhere near scalding. And yet Quitterie’s tender skin bore a vivid, angry burn. Dr. Lorien’s face was a portrait of bafflement and hidden fear, an expression Per recognized immediately: a man confronted by inexplicable horrors in the place he called home.
Outside, in the dying twilight, Claire and Walter had been observing the house, alert for danger. Quitterie’s scream drew them like moths to flame, sending them rushing through the biting air, pounding urgently upon the doctor’s door. When Arthur swung it open to meet their worried faces, Claire knew instinctively that something was wrong—not the ordinary sort of trouble, but the insidious, otherworldly kind that seeped quietly into the lives of the unsuspecting.
Introductions, awkward apologies, and gentle reassurances followed, thin layers of normalcy hastily patched over the raw edges of the evening. Claire’s gift to Quitterie—a small, toy airplane—proved a brief balm, and for a moment the girl’s laughter rang purely again through the sitting room, momentarily dispelling the oppressive sense of dread.
As conversation drifted into cautious inquiries, Dr. Lorien produced a letter received months prior from Lausanne, penned by an Edgar Wellington. Within its neatly inked pages lay mention of “Sedefkar,” an enigmatic name wrapped in shadows. The doctor confessed ignorance of its significance, yet his eyes lingered too long upon the script, as though struggling to recall a forgotten nightmare.
In the quiet pause that followed, Viola and Per exchanged furtive glances, minds aligning with a shared recognition of malevolent patterns: Dr. Lorien’s unhealing scar, Quitterie’s inexplicable burn, and the crippling arthritis afflicting Madame Lorien—all concentrated on the left side of their bodies. The silent, sinister symmetry was undeniable, like a dark joke whispered from below the soil itself.
While the others conversed indoors, Arthur and Claire stepped back out into the growing darkness, clutching historical blueprints of Fenalik’s long-vanished estate. Guided by dimming twilight and careful calculations, they traced faint landmarks until they stood near a gnarled tree, skeletal and stark against the dusk sky. The air felt colder here, heavier, as though some invisible presence hovered beneath their feet. Claire stamped lightly upon the frozen earth, and from below came the faintest creak, a wooden groan muffled by soil and time. Both investigators exchanged a knowing look: below them lay hidden depths—Fenalik’s forgotten cellar, a shadowy secret buried yet not truly dead.
Inside, Walter’s unease had grown steadily, driven by instinct sharpened by a lifetime confronting spiritual darkness. Finding a quiet moment with Quitterie, he examined the unnatural wound upon her arm, his practiced eyes searching for signs of demonic influence. But the burn revealed no occult glyph, no diabolical signature, merely a baffling reality defying logical explanation. Walter’s quiet prayer elicited no reaction from the child, yet his heart remained unsettled. Evil was here, subtle yet pervasive, lingering at the edge of perception.
Dinner preparations soon summoned everyone back together, and Madame Lorien herself descended the stairs, greeted warmly by her husband. The subtle twist of her arthritic left hand seemed to mock Arthur and Viola’s earlier suspicions, its very existence a silent accusation that something here was fundamentally wrong. The room filled gradually with warm aromas of roasted goose, vegetables, and fragrant herbs, a facade of comfort built hastily atop a foundation of quiet dread.
As the group gathered around the dinner table, exchanging small talk and polite laughter, the underlying tension grew tangible, an invisible presence joining their meal. Beneath their feet, Fenalik’s buried legacy lay waiting, patient and hungry, its ancient, corrupting influence already extending tendrils into the Lorien family’s lives. As Arthur forced himself to smile through the pleasantries, he could not shake the growing sense that they were dining on the precipice of a terrible revelation, that each moment brought them inexorably closer to the awakening of something monstrous beneath the rose-scarred earth.
Initial Setting and Recall of Previous Events Encounter with Dr. Christian Lorien Noteworthy Rose Bushes and Scar Quitterie’s Extreme Reaction to Spilled Coffee Observing Quitterie’s Injury Arrival of Additional Investigators Discussion of the Estate Records and Letter Childhood Gifts and Reassurances Suspicions about the House and Grounds Locating the Potential Cellar Entrance Introduction of Veronique Lorien Dinner Invitation and Observations Session ConclusionSession Notes