The Samuel B Mumford House


A building remarkably nondescript for the dread that must surely lie within. The windows are blacked out, the crevice beneath the door stuffed with rags; the place exudes no sense of life, indeed seems resonant with terror, the history of ages clinging to its weathered frame.

As though from far away, a moan, a wail, a keening or is it an endless, single, maddening note from some distant flute? pierces the air, and you shiver. It is cold, too cold. Here madness lies.