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There were few things Nancy Moore wished more than to close her eyes and have a dreamless night of sleep. They had been getting more frequent, the dreams of the sea and the dark and of things so strange she could not name them. She had heard the stories of men who came back from the war changed, not by bomb or bullet, but by death. Something in war spoiled the brain, made sensible men lose their minds, not unlike how a fruit rots first on the inside. Nancy had fought no war and yet she felt changed, too.
Nancy came from a small town less than a three-hour ride from Boston, Salty Riverside, born and bred. They called it such because the river that cut the town in two had a high salinity despite being far from the sea. It was a quiet, small place and the only thing that brought anyone to it—besides the beautiful landscape of hills and streams and trees—was the university at its heart. Miskatonic was an ugly thing, high towers enveloped by high walls. It had stood for five hundred years, but most doubted it would stand five hundred more, for the foundation was old and ill-tended. Even so, that was where Nancy found a job. She taught half a dozen courses around Art History, telling tales of people long gone to students that didn't look much alive, either.
Such an old campus carried many heavy burdens and the main building, where Nancy held her lectures, was perhaps the unfriendliest of them all. Too dark and somber, even during the day, most graduates avoided lingering outside their dorms come evenfall, for many odd things casted shadows in the darkness. She thought her students childish, and yet quickened her pace all the same.