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All Hallows' Eve, 1897. The fog has closed the road, the candles are lit, and the annual séance at Vesper Hall is about to begin: heirs and hangers-on joining hands around the table while a hired medium calls on the family's unquiet founder. Then the circle breaks, the candles gutter, and someone at Vesper Hall is dead by a living hand. The heir, the medium, the solicitor with the new will in his case: every one of them came to speak with the dead. One of them came to make an introduction. The spirits are silent. Your guests won't be.
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Welcome to Vesper Hall, All Hallows' Eve, 1897. The house is older than the family's money and more honest than the family, and every year on this night the heirs and hangers-on gather at the round table to ask its founder's ghost what he did with the rest of the fortune. Nobody believes in the ghost. Everybody attends, because the séance is the one place this family is permitted to say aloud what it cannot say at dinner, and because at midnight the solicitor reads the new will. The servants move through passages behind the walls, and beyond the moor gate the fog owns everything. A few words of the house you will hear tonight. “The circle” is the séance. “The veil” is what lies between the worlds, and it grows thin tonight. “The quiet wing” is the east wing, shut since the fire. One is “in mourning,” never merely wearing black, and when the servants say “the family,” they give the words a weight no title carries. Etiquette: hands stay joined in the circle, one never questions a lady's grief, and what the medium says in trance is never repeated at breakfast. The mood is hushed and candlelit, with dread worn as decoration and the supernatural always offered, never confirmed.
Count your guests only — not yourself, anywhere from 6 to 32. Want to play too? There's an option below once you pick a number.