In Pennsylvania, the land remembers how to bleed — and it remembers how to whisper your name. The hills hum with the cries of soldiers who never made it home, their voices curling up from the soil like mist, eager for someone new to join their endless march.
The old coal towns lie broken and hollow, their mines still breathing deep underground, pulling at your footsteps with slow, steady hands. The asylums — the ones left to rot in the woods — haven’t gone silent either. Some nights, if you listen closely, you’ll hear the doors creak open… and the soft shuffle of someone who never found the exit.
Along the rivers and the graveyards, the fog slithers low, licking at your heels, daring you to wander just a little farther from the living world. Lantern lights bob out in the forests, swinging in the dark, inviting you closer with every sway.
In Pennsylvania, the battle isn’t over — it just changed its rules.
Here, the dead don’t haunt the living. They recruit them.