Continuation of Forgotten, My Love.
A dirty bed with an old pipe frame. A typewriter. A note from a mother to her daughter.
The wood planks creak beneath her feet, the windows breathe through the shattered glass. The air inside is old and damp.
A sound can be heard coming from somewhere inside the cabin, if only a whisper of wind.
Behind the bedroom, the small hallway turns to a cellar. A lantern glows a mysterious light. There is an ominous presence here that looms over everything the shadows touch.
A crank handle lies atop wooden boards used to cover a hole, but there is no winch.