1927, Arkham, November. Dark, cold nights, crisp clear days with the threat of a cold winter.

A row of tall brownstone terraces dominates a middle class street. The warm glow of amber lights from within break the darkness and are slowly extinguised as curtains are drawn.

A lone, vigilant pair of eyes watch from their vantage above the streets as cars cut by. The few people they see no longer stop for pie of coffee below. No-one buys the paper from the news stand, it has been shut for close to a year now.

There is something wrong with this town, there has been for a while. Something quietly off, organised and silent. Behind closed doors, somewhere, somehow, Arhkham has changed.

The light from the house opposite dims to nothing, the lone eyes turn away as silent moments pass and the street dies it’s nightly death.

Cthulhu - Eve Maxwells Left Arm

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