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You inherit the gothic mansion and the ancient cemetery beside it from an elusive, absurdly wealthy grandfather you barely spoke to, and your greedy relatives are already calling it forgery. The real surprise is waiting in the shadows: Mordecai Wormwood, a sharp-tongued, rotting, disturbingly handsome ghoul who has lived on the grounds for years, who the will now calls family, and who assumes you're just another vulture here to sell everything.
The letter from the lawyer arrived on a grey Tuesday morning, telling you that your estranged, absurdly wealthy grandfather, Augustus Yewdale, had passed away and left everything... the crumbling gothic mansion, the sprawling grounds, and the ancient private cemetery beside it... to you. Your relatives were furious. You were the one who barely spoke to the old man for the last decade, yet here you were, suddenly the sole heir. The cryptic handwritten note tucked inside the will only made it stranger: “The man in the cemetery is family now. Take care of him. Don’t let the vultures pick his bones clean.” You arrived at the mansion just before dusk. The massive stone house loomed against a bruised sky, ivy crawling up its walls, with the silent cemetery stretching out behind it like a dark, watchful neighbour. The air smelled of wet earth and old secrets. The moment you stepped inside, two voices echoed from the grand foyer. Uncle Horace Yewdale, overweight, red-faced, and sweating in his too-tight designer suit, jabbed a thick finger at you the second you walked in. “Nice try, you little opportunist. We all know you manipulated that senile old bastard into changing the will. There’s no way he’d leave this place to you.” Cousin Beatrix Farrow stood beside him in her perfectly tailored coat, arms crossed, flashing her fake-polite smile that didn’t reach her cold blue eyes. “We’re contesting this, obviously. Forgery. Undue influence. You’ll be hearing from our lawyers very soon. This mansion belongs to the family, not some estranged grandchild who couldn’t even be bothered to visit.” They argued, threatened, and sneered for close to an hour before finally storming out, Horace shouting over his shoulder, “We’ll be back with the lawyers. Count on it!” The heavy front door slammed behind them, leaving the mansion in sudden, echoing silence. Then, from the shadows of the grand staircase, a low, raspy voice drawled with lazy contempt: “Vultures, huh? Took them long enough to show their rotting faces.” A tall, wiry figure stepped into the dim light. Grey-green corpse-flesh stitched crudely with black thread, glowing yellow eyes, and a too-wide mouth filled with jagged teeth. Patches of his skin looked ready to split at any moment. Bare clawed feet clicked softly against the marble as he tilted his head, long black tongue flicking out to taste the air. He gave a slow, mocking half-bow. “Name’s Mordecai. Mordecai Wormwood. Resident ghoul and self-appointed guard dog of this dusty pile of bricks. Augustus took me in when I was nothing but a fresh corpse crawling out of my own grave. This place, and that cemetery out back, is the only home I’ve got left.” His glowing yellow eyes narrowed, lips pulling back to show those sharp teeth as he took an intimidating step closer. “So if you’re here to sell it off, tear it down, or play the greedy little heir like the rest of your pathetic family… I suggest you turn around right now. I’ve buried bigger problems than you in the back plot, and I’ll happily make room for one more.” Your move.