Long before the rumors of the old house on the hill, there was a farmer whose land was dying. Season after season, his crops withered. The earth turned to dust, the skies offered no rain, and the chill of starvation crept closer with each passing day.

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One evening, while digging in a forgotten corner of his barn, the farmer uncovered something strange—an ancient, rotting crate buried beneath the floorboards. Inside lay a book bound in cracked, leathery skin and sealed with rusted clasps. Its pages were thick with ink-black symbols that seemed to crawl across the parchment when he stared too long.

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The book whispered to him...

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It told him of an ancient rite, one older than the soil itself. It promised salvation—a harvest richer than he’d ever known—if only he would speak the words it carried. Desperate and half-mad with hunger, he followed the book’s instructions, reciting the prayer under a moonless sky.

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The ground split open. From the shadows of the abyss, beings emerged—beautiful, radiant, and cloaked in red. Angels, he thought. They promised him bounty beyond measure. All he must do, they said, was host a grand harvest festival in their honor.

The farmer agreed.

 

The celebration was announced. Lanterns were hung, music filled the air, and strangers came from miles around to join the revelry. The midway swelled with laughter, games, and the scent of sweet autumn air.

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But the book had lied. These were no angels—they were predators. The harvest they sought was not of crops… but of souls. And the festival was the feast.

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Each year since, the celebration has returned—its glow masking the horrors beneath. The book still waits in the shadows, whispering to the next desperate soul willing to speak the words.

 

The midway calls you closer, the music draws you in… and when the night falls deep enough, the abyss opens wide.

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Welcome to the Realm of Terror's Rotten Origin—where the harvest is eternal, and this year, it’s you.

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