Dunwich

Dunwich is a village in the lonely hill country of the upper Miskatonic valley, reached by a road that most travellers are glad to leave behind. Its houses are decaying, its church steeple is broken, and its families have married among themselves for too many generations.

The rounded hills above the village are crowned with circles of tall stone pillars. Locals say old rites were held there long before the Puritans arrived, and that some are still held on certain nights of the year.

The whippoorwills of Dunwich are said to gather at the houses of the dying, calling in rhythm with their breath, waiting to catch the soul as it leaves. When they fall silent, the family knows the soul has escaped them. When they burst into loud chattering, it has not.