The Macmillan Estate in all its former glory. Now an ominous lot with nothing more than horrid memories of brutality in its purest form. The Foundry and Mine was the heart and center of the estate. Those unlucky enough to be employed by Archie Macmillan slowly started to slip away from all kinds of normal life. Wives asking for their husbands to come home. Archie Macmillan began to obsess. His life was built around and on top of the Mine and Foundry. One day the former workers, now slaves, weren’t allowed to leave the premises without permission. Fences and goons made sure of it. Objections were rewarded with a visit to the furnace. Questions and rumors arose in town. But no answers. One less worker, missed by maybe a poor widow wasn’t enough for real actions. Finally Archie Macmillan snapped and sealed his workers in the Mine. Suffocating them. Archie Macmillan remains were later found. A silent skeleton with a taunting grin upon his meatless skull. What’s left of the Estate are now but mere ruins and myths. Teens enter the area from time to time in a game of dare, bringing back new information about what’s happening at the Estate. Because somehow, it seems like something is happening there. Even it's though not really understandable to the simple human eye and mind.

The MacMillan Estate is located in part of New England, most likely Pennsylvania due to the Coal Tower and Ironworks of Misery levels. The Trapper resides here, and his identity is Evan Macmillan, Archie's son. All of the maps feature industrial transport materials; steel wire spool, cargo boxes, and wooden palettes. Brick walls line the perimeter and offer the survivors limited cover. A wooden shack can be found on every map, though it shows signs of abandonment before the killer presumably claimed it.



The beating heart of the Mine, the Foundry was where the iron ore was directly smelted into vast ingots. The huge vats still bear evidence of the bodies that were incinerated within them - preserved in the metal residue. The MacMillan foundry was consigned to the scrap heap and its horrors forgotten as time passed and the buildings fell into ruin.


You can still see the tiny entrance that miners used to haul the ore to the surface. Now it is nothing more than a pile of rubble. No one bothered to clear it as they feared whatever might be found inside. Instead it fell into oblivion.


Once used for storing the coal that fueled the Foundry, it now lies abandoned. The roof, split wide open suggesting some titanic explosion, but the angles don’t seem to make sense. So to fathom its destiny is not done easily - even if one would want to.


The woods surrounding the estate might the only witness to what really happened here. Trees with a certain deformed character, as if what they saw made them want to run away. The woods seldom gets any visitors as - even animals seem to avoid it if possible.

Coldwind Farm was widely known as it spanned two counties. Mr. and Mrs. Adams put a lot of work into the farm, but all those blisters and sweat paid off. But for some reason, one day in 1946, produce stopped coming. And when crops started to wither and die, investigators decide to take a closer look. The farmhouse was abandoned. Dust covered the floor. Mold and dampness covered the rest. Fecal matter was found across the house. All but in one room. One room seemed to be have been spared from whatever the rest of the house suffered from. It came with no other explanation than that someone must live there. But no living soul was to be found. Instead remains were discovered in the basement. Both from Mr. and Mrs. Adams together with livestock. Several years later, as people were trying to renovate and hope to sell the place, they discovered disturbing things inside the walls as they started to collapse. Things and creations put together by human hands. The whole farm were to be forgotten. But somehow people were drawn to it as things occurred. The Silo toppled over during a storm, revealing corpses inside. And one night the Harvester started, spewing blood across the trees. Now, Coldwind Farms is nothing more than that buzzing sound one can hear during summer nights.






The Farmhouse stood proudly as the centrepiece of Coldwind Farm for decades. After the horrific events that occurred, the building collapsed into disrepair and eventual ruin.

The Farmhouse is now nothing more than a forgotten, former home where holidays once were celebrated.


Once part of the farm, the Slaughterhouse still continued to work for many years after the breakup of the farmland. Rotting stench and stained floor provides it proof of all deaths that have taken place here. Animal or otherwise.


The Silo is one of the oldest remaining buildings at Coldwind Farm. A great storm brought the ancient structure crashing down. It was weeks later that searchers discovered twelve bodies, buried in the ruins. No answers were to be found.


Even before the fall of Coldwind Farm, the cornfields were surrounded by tales of ominous myths. Everything from mutilated animals to red corn stalks. Now it’s abandoned. But still, someone seems to care for the corn in some way. As they still stand tall. Missing something.

For the common eye, Autohaven Wreckers was nothing more than a scrap heap with old cars. Maybe, to some, an eyesore as people passed it on their way to work. But nobody really knew the secret it kept within. Nobody thought that the police would find hundreds of bodies. Bits and pieces. Some more rotten than others. Crammed into cars. Human bones bent in unnatural ways. The stench that struck the police was unbearable, and the most horrific finding was the owner. Stuck in the crusher, without a head. The few employees that could be found held no answers to the deeds that had taken place at the scrap yard. The place was condemned and as it soiled the town's reputation, people just let it be overgrown. Maybe with a naive hope for it to be consumed by nature itself. But as the townsfolk started to see how the lights turned on and off at night, and even could hear the crusher working, they suspected something more. But all they did was to speed up as they passed it on their way to their now somewhat safer lives.










This old garage was once not just a place of death and execution. Automobiles was actually mended here. Amongst oil mixed with blood. But as investigators found out about the atrocities that took place, it became forgotten.


The Office is where money changed owners and hands were shook. The heavy duty safe in the floor might have been a dead giveaway to the shady business that took place. Wads of cash were hidden all over this hellish place. Stating that money wasn’t an issue, maybe people got executed for enjoyment, rather than wealth.


A run down log cabin at the edge of the scrap yard and the home of its owner. Weird carvings and etchings in the wall perhaps say more about the owner’s state of mind and allude to his disappearance. Reports suggested that prisoners were held in its dark basement before they were taken to the crusher.


The Junkyard is packed with sharp objects. Walking around the area, aware of the bloodbath that took place here, changes the landscape. Blood covered metal and bits of flesh. One does not willing walk amongst all this evidence of death


For decades, Azarov’s Gas Heaven offered the last chance for weary travellers to rest and fuel up before the long, hard haul through the backcountry wastes. Wiser travellers learned to turn down that offer. Cars and trucks were always breaking down around Gas Heaven, the phones never worked, and people had a peculiar habit of going missing. When the new highway came through, bypassing Gas Heaven entirely, business dried up and the old gas station was abandoned. Between the disappearances and Azarov’s mob ties, no one knows quite how many bodies are stashed out there in that forest, or what else is hidden in the ruins of the old rest stop.

There is insanity, and then there are minds that are so severely distorted that they cease being humans. Instead they end up a feral, living, unwanted thing. These people must be “stored” somewhere, and that’s where the Crotus Prenn Asylum plays a crucial role. Established in 1857, Crotus Prenn was originally a hospital, but as the need of storage grew, it was turned into an insane asylum. Crotus Prenn is a place riddled with tall tales that aren’t even close to the reality that takes place within its walls. It was never the biggest asylum, but the one that held the most violent and warped minds the country had ever met. But it was not the residents that etched the name Crotus Prenn into the history books. Instead it was the mass suicide where over fifty patients were found dead in their beds. The building was abandoned shortly after that. Investigators had no answers, and the town’s folk became more and more worried as rumors talked about a woman still living inside the asylum. Finally, one night, smoke rose from the woods as Crotus Prenn had been set ablaze. The bystanders did nothing. They just let it burn.








The last standing structure after the fire, that still shows the grandeur of the original architecture. Its two floors and dark basement leave nothing of the tale of horrors that took place here. Nothing but memories that linger in the abandoned rooms.

Haddonfield is a calm little town, without much going on. Or at least it was. If you were to ask anyone in the town, at the school or in a bar, if there’s something off with Haddonfield, they’d decline. To accept that this was the birthplace of one of the purest form of evil is hard. People living here have always felt safe and protected. There were no boogeymen or other shady characters in the night. No lurking, no skulking. People slept perfectly fine for decades knowing this for a fact. So when Halloween came about, the town’s folks were reluctant to accept that Haddonfield is now for ever known as an evil place. Gossip and made-up stories flooded the town. Nobody really knows what happened, or if it’s safe nowadays. Some moved away. Others visited as morbid tourists. During the day, a common visitor wouldn’t suspect a thing. But as the sun sets and night comes, an eerie quietness devours the town. People are afraid. And as you visit Haddonfield, you too will get afraid. Not only because it sits upon a dark history, but also because something is off. This isn’t a real place, but instead a warped version of a reality that is no more. An Entity version if you’d like.








A simple street with houses that witnessed the horrors that took place. A jungle gym where children once learned to climb. Sidewalks where fathers taught their daughters to ride a bike. All gone. Instead it sits in the palm of the Entity, forever held in darkness.

It wasn’t until the Federal Marshals found the ramshackle collection of huts, when searching for a missing person, that the true history of Backwater Swamp began to unravel. The authorities decided to drain the waters around the village to find out what had happened here. Soon they realized that the poor souls that had drifted on the currents or gotten lost wandering in the swamp had found their way to this place of unspeakable torment. Backwater Swamp, a large wetland area, had always been a place that the people in the village had avoided at all costs, for the risk to become trapped in the dark waters and lost in the thickets of dense reeds and bulrushes that seem to choke the rest of the vegetation. The currents gouging through the mud had created an eerie maze in the wetlands where three great rivers crossed path.

The drainage of the village revealed thirty-seven sets of human remains weighted down in the rotten swamp waters. Bodies that showed traced of being cut in, tormented and their bones carefully scraped free of flesh. It took the pathologists months to piece together what they could find of the remains to identify the victims. As for the family that hunted in these waters, nothing was ever found of them. The buildings where they once lived were burnt and scorched, everything covered in black ashes. No one knows what happened to them, but the rumor is that they burnt it to cover up their deeds, before fleeing into the darkest reaches of the swamp, to one day begin their foul hunt again.



The Pale Rose, an ancient paddle steamer in the middle of the swamp, held captive of the stagnant mud. It has been here long before the residents began their hunt, a barely visible silhouette from the nearby village. There are signs of inhabitation, particularly in the upper states room where strange, ritualistic markings in dried blood and dirt cover the floor. From the scale of the bloodletting, something horrid has taken place here.

Nestled in a sleepy woods 3 miles south of Michaelstown, Illinois, the Léry Memorial Institute started out life a hospital specializing in the rehabilitation of GI’s returning from the Korean War. The mansion built in the late 1800's and it's massive lot were donated by the previous owner to be transformed into a medical facility. As an army hospital it always fell under different laws and rules to other hospitals and in 1967, it effectively became a front for the CIA. Under the Stewardship of Mr. Stamper, the old army patients were shipped out and a huge fence erected around the property. Around this time, the public were refused access to the patients and the whole place was shrouded in secrecy.

By 1970 the Institute was fully transformed into a CIA black site with special requirements to develop cutting-edge interrogation techniques and they employed a wide range of different doctors and specialists to help them. The Institute thrived through the 70’s growing to a staff of hundreds, filling the main hospital and several out-buildings.

Documents and evidence about the Institute is scarce as the government condemned the entire building in 1983, even razing most of the building to the ground in what seemed to be planned explosive demolition. Even now, the events that lead to the closing of the Institute and what happened to the staff and patients is shrouded in controversy and mystery. Snippets of information in heavily redacted documents tell the story of some kind of incident or event, but even the most tenacious of reporters have failed to unearth any real evidence of conspiracy or wrongdoing. You can still see what remains of the shell of the main hospital facility, standing defiant against the ruins that surround it on what is still US Military land.

Deep in a forest with many names lies a hidden home. The family that once lived there was dependent on the forest... and was broken by it. More than a century old, the dwelling is in surprisingly good condition, though it shows signs of often being patched and mended. The forest holds the house tightly in its grasp, growing over and around it like a second skin. Only once inside is it clear that someone still lives there. It is warm and welcoming and lovingly decorated, with a large living space, a bedroom and a corner dedicated for little ones. Here they are protected from the harsh winter of the northern forest.
















For the common hiker, the house might be hard to spot. Engulfed by nature, it lays dormant, as if it is waiting for its family to return. Once a home that held laughter, smiles and warmth, has now grown cold. But not completely deteriorated and forgotten. Nature is rough in its treatment, but someone withstands the wear and tear that stems from the winter. The inside lacks the care that once was. But flickering candles can sometimes be seen through the window, and inside there is a place for the younglings. Decorations are visible, but may not be impressive for anyone who does not understand this newly gained purpose of this dwelling. It is not just a place, for someone, to live and flee the world. It is a home for some and a cell for others. Others that scream one word that the outside wind destroys and is never heard. One simple word, screamed in distress…”mother”.

Springwood is a quiet town in the Midwest, somewhere to raise a family, where neighbours are friends, the diner waitresses know their patron’s names, doors are left unlocked and nothing can possibly harm the residents or those they love.

But this is just a veneer, covering a rotten core. Under the cover of respectability, a parasite named Freddy Krueger stalked his prey in what should have been the town’s safest space. Once these poisonous crimes were uncovered, the townspeople decided to act. They didn’t trust that the authorities would be able to deal with him, to provide the justice they craved, so they banded together and hunted him down.

With a single, decisive act, they hoped to burn away the infection from their lives. But they were too late. The threat might have gone but the rot has infected everything. The houses that seemed so pretty now have darkness behind their windows. The leafy streets echo with the sound of fire and screams. And nothing will ever be normal again.








This is not the Badham Preschool where children laughed and learned, made lifelong friendships and had their paintings hung on the walls. This is a dark echo created from the nightmares of those who suffered there.

The walls creak under the burden of history. Events that should be long forgotten are recorded forever in the plaster and stone, pervading the building with misery. Only one part of the building is accurately reflected in this darkness. The squalid room where Freddy Krueger lived and worked. The hidden basement area where he committed the heinous acts that appalled a town and condemned him to death.

This is a place of the subconscious, of the nightmare brought into hideous reality.

Gideon Meatpacking Plant had long lain derelict before its original designer, John Kramer, moved back in, transforming it into the workshop where he would devise his many games, and the location where those games would play out. Surveillance cameras now cover every angle of the building, reporting the progress of test subjects to a bank of monitors: a grainy testament of life and death. In the workshop, hundreds of carefully-rendered plans hang from every wall. Half-completed machinery litters the worktops, next to the tools that helped create them. Mannequins are everywhere, their blank eyes staring impassively at their dismembered brethren, strapped into test rigs or already destroyed by successful trials. In many ways, the plant is unchanged: it still rings to the sound of buzz saws and sliced flesh; the drains still clog with congealed blood, fat and hair. The building’s occupants have always been dead meat, but now they have a chance at transformation; a chance to emerge back into the world, reborn as something better. And, if they fail? There’s always the drain.









The sickly glow of fluorescent lighting bathes the room where Jigsaw planned out his games. This place is the product of a fevered mind, desperately trying to complete their life’s work, their legacy, before their inevitable end. A place of creation and destruction, from which devices of death and rebirth were produced.

Below is the crucible itself; the location of so many tests and decisions. The smell of fear, blood and death has soaked into the brick walls. The corridors are a maze, disorientating the test subjects as they traverse the game rooms. And, at the heart, a bathroom, reverberating with the rattle of chains on tiles. A door is pulled closed and the room is plunged into darkness.