Beginning credits play: Transylvania 1887
INT. DEATH HOUSE – NURSEMAID’S SUITE – NIGHT
After credits, Background music shifts: 3. Waltz for Klara - Curse of Strahd Soundtrack
The air is still, suffocating, too heavy to be merely forgotten dust.
Fleetwood steps toward the bed, his breath slowing as his eyes lock onto the restraints nailed onto it—barbed wire, twisted into cruel bindings for hands and feet.
Silverleaf moves toward the mirror, her reflection flickering as she approaches—
Then—movement within the glass.
The apparition erupts into view, grotesque, suffering, mutilated beyond recognition. A skeletally thin young woman, pale and lifeless, her fingers and toes removed, her eyes sewn shut, her lips and teeth torn away. Knife-thin scars line her body, etching stories of agony, her hair hacked to uneven stubble—a careless, violent afterthought.
Everyone backs away from the mirror. The apparition twists, shifting, half-reaching—
SILVERLEAF: (Strangely sad) "What did they do to her?"
The apparition does not attack, but hovers in the mirror, almost expectantly.
CLARION : (soft, amazed, steady but gentle) "Can you hear me?"
The spirit gives a visible sigh, its form trembling slightly, the movement so achingly human in its defeat. Then—it nods.
Clarion inhales, steadies herself, and presses forward, voice softer, carrying an unspoken promise of patience.
CLARION: (gentle, deliberate, but firm) "We don’t mean you harm. Can you understand us?"
The spirit tilts its head slightly, the torn remnants of its expression unreadable— Then—another nod.
CLARION: "Can you speak?"
The spirit shakes its head, slowly, deliberately, then lifts a trembling hand—pointing toward its ruined mouth.
CLARION: "Do you know what’s wrong with this house?"
Clarion keeps her tone careful, but now tinged with deeper curiosity, a new angle of caution settling in.
CLARION: "Are you Mrs. Durst?"
The spirit stiffens, fear flickering through its ruined expression—
Then, hurriedly, shakes its head.
Greegan tilts his head, his usual sharp grin absent, replaced by something quieter—something careful.
GREEGAN: (soft, deliberate, unexpectedly gentle) "Are you Klara?"
The spirit hesitates for only a breath—then nods.
GREEGAN: "There was something between you and Mr. Durst, wasn’t there? (He pauses just a breath) "He wrote a waltz for you."
Klara looks away.
CLARION: "That wine in the kitchen… the flowers… the herb. That was for you."
SILVERLEAF: "I read the paper in the library - Klara asked for time off… because of her condition."
GREEGAN: "The herbs didn't help."
CLARION: (knowing) "She didn't take them. She was in love. She wanted it."
GREEGAN: (Looking fearfully back at the mirror) "Somebody wasn't too happy with that, I take it."
SILVERLEAF: "Lady Durst doesn't look very happy in that portrait downstairs. She wasn’t happy with… the baby her husband was holding.”
Klara lifts a trembling, ruined hand, pointing toward the closed door, her expression weighted with sorrow, her mutilated gaze unreadable but aching. Greegan steps forward, his movements slow, deliberate, his usual swagger absent. Then—he stops. A sound emerges, drifting faintly through the wood of the door.
A young woman. Humming. A waltz. The melody is soft, haunting, lingering.
Waltz for Klara.
The humming stops as Greegan approaches the door. He opens it, and draws back - not sure what he is seeing.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – NURSERY – NIGHT
Backround Music changes: Oblivion
Glowing, blood-red runes cover the room, arranged in concentric circles around the crib in the middle. Strange, flesh-like tumors slither along the floor, pulsating slowly. And in the air, the ghostly cries of an infant. Felonious steps back sharply, his breath hitching, his usual smirk wiped from his face entirely. His hands twitch, unspoken calculations racing through his mind—these runes, this ritual, the implications clawing at his thoughts.
FELONIOUS: (low, horrified, voice edged with quiet alarm) "Even Bargle wouldn’t touch this, and his scruples are about as useful as a scroll of detect rain indoors."
CLARION: "It's what Patriarch Sherlaine called the Black Speech - a supplication to dark powers. Ones I don't know, and names I will not utter in the presence of… that!"
Clarion steps closer to the crib, her breath steady, deliberate, watching the runes pulse—
Then, she breathes the name carved into the headboard, soft, reverent—
CLARION: "Walter."
Greegan crouches, eyes narrowing as he spots something beneath the crib, a small, pale object nestled between the pulsing tumors on the floor. He reaches under, fingers brushing against something cold—something small, something unnatural.
He pulls it free— And drops it immediately, his body tensing. A human finger. Tiny bite marks riddle its flesh, the edges chewed ragged by something with small, sharp teeth.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – NURSEMAID’S SUITE – NIGHT
The party steps back, retreating from the nursery, the air heavier now, weighted with revelation and quiet horror. Clarion turns to Klara’s spirit, her voice steady despite the unease settling in her chest.
CLARION: "Do you know how we can put an end to all this?"
The spirit nods. In the mirror forms a vision of the hidden door Greegan found earlier. Beyond it—stairs spiraling upward into utter blackness. They look at one another, knowing now where they have to go, and leave the nursemaid’s chamber for the balcony, and the stairs leading up.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – ATTIC HALL – NIGHT
Background Music Shifts: Exploring the Death House | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Music | 1h D&D Dark Exploration Music | Loop
The stairs groan beneath their steps, each ascent pressing into the thick layers of dust and cobwebs clinging to the walls. They reach the attic door—closed, but unlocked. Fleetwood pushes it open, stepping into the wider hallway beyond, the air thick with abandonment, the walls lined with several doors, each leading deeper into the unknown.
One, however, stands out. Held shut with a giant rusted padlock, the presence of it is deliberate, protective, withholding.
Greegan eyes it first, instinct whispering that whatever waits beyond that door was meant to be contained.
Then—a sound. A low creak, splitting through the quiet. One of the unlocked doors shifts, its wood bending, hinges straining— And slowly opens on its own.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – ATTIC BEDROOM – NIGHT
The air remains thick, heavy with abandonment, the presence of the dust-choked room pressing inward.
Silverleaf steps closer to the window box, eyes narrowing as she studies the doll, the lacy yellow gown, the frowning expression seemingly frozen in time. Then—realization clicks.
SILVERLEAF: "This doll—it’s the same one. The one the little boy was holding in the portrait downstairs."
GREEGAN: "It all goes back to that bloody thing, doesn’t it?"
He picks up the music box, lifting the tarnished container, inspecting the aged exterior, the fine detailing of its craftsmanship. Then—he opens it.
Something falls loose, dropping from within. A bloodstained skinning knife. It clatters to the floor, the red staining its steel long dried but undeniably real. Greegan jerks back slightly, nearly dropping the music box itself, his breath sharp, as he checks what else has fallen out. A key. Several scraps of parchment, yellowed with time.
Greegan steadies himself, picking up the pages, scanning them with sharp intent.
One—a floorplan, detailing the layout of the house in painstaking precision.
Another—a list of unfamiliar names, all written beneath a single, chilling heading:
"RECRUITMENT."
INT. DEATH HOUSE – ATTIC CHILDREN’S ROOM – NIGHT
Background music shifts: Rose and Thorn | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Dramatic Music | Loop
Greegan flips the key between his fingers, muttering to himself, stepping toward the padlocked door, his movements steady, deliberate, carrying an unspoken certainty.
GREEGAN: "Where there's a lock, there must be a key, aye?"
The key turns in the lock, the padlock clicks open. Greegan pushes the door inward, revealing a cold, dust-choked room, its furnishings once meant for children but long abandoned. A bricked-up window stands between two small beds, their wooden frames coated in layers of dust and neglect. Closer to the door—a toy chest, its sides painted with windmills, faded but still intact. A dollhouse sits beside it—a perfect replica of the dreary house itself, placed with eerie precision. Greegan notes small figures inside - that resemble himself and his friends.
Cobwebs drape over everything, smothering time beneath their strands. Then—the center of the room. Two small skeletons, their tattered clothing painfully familiar.
CLARION: (sorrowful) "The children."
Fleetwood places a hand on her shoulder, meant to be comforting. It isn't. Not to her, and not to him.
FLEETWOOD: "I—I could have… protected them. If I'd been here then." (His fingers twitch, tightening as if they could still break down that door—if time allowed him to rewrite history) " I would have. I would have died before I let them wind up like this."
GREEGAN: "I know what you mean. For once I'd put my thieving skills to something worthwhile. I'd have stolen them from those monsters they called parents. Taken them… hell, any where's better than here."
Then—a whisper. Soft. Delicate. Unnatural. A sigh—barely audible, barely real, but curling into the air like fingers wrapping around their throats. Then—apparitions take form.
Over the skeletons, over what remains, shifting into fragile shapes—children.
A girl, no older than twelve, her hands clasped together, her lips slightly parted, her spectral form flickering softly, like candlelight on the verge of dying.
A boy, eight, smaller, delicate, clutching a ghostly version of the misshapen doll, his grip unyielding.
Then—Rose floats forward. Her face unreadable, layered in sorrow, in acceptance. She presses her hands together, exhales softly—then speaks.
ROSE: "You found us."
Then—Thorn lifts his gaze.His voice is quiet, but it carries.
THORN: "Will you stay?"
SILVERLEAF: (With customary bluntless) "I think that would be a bad idea."
CLARION: "How did you come to be in here, like this?"
Their forms flicker, shifting, curling under the weight of the question.
Thorn lowers his gaze, hands twisting together, his voice fragile—barely above a whisper.
THORN: "They locked us in here."
Then—Rose speaks. Her voice is careful, deliberate—but beneath it, the echoes of long-buried grief twist their way into the air.
ROSE: "We were supposed to wait for our parents to come back… but they never did."
Then—Thorn clutches the edge of his ghostly form. His voice wavers, trembling like candlelight in a dying wind.
THORN: "And we got so hungry."
FLEETWOOD: (Anger ready to explode) "Why in Halav’s name would your parents have locked you in here?"
Rose and Thorn exchange glances, their spectral forms flickering, shifting, as if the question itself weighs against their fragile existence. Thorn lowers his gaze, fingers twisting together, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragging against the silence.
THORN: "They said the house wasn’t safe."
ROSE: (Fractured, knowing) "But it wasn’t safe because of them."
CLARION: "Is there any way to set you free?"
Rose and Thorn exchange glances, their spectral forms flickering, shifting, curling inward slightly—as though the question itself changes something. Thorn lowers his gaze, voice fragile but steady.
THORN: "Our bones… If they’re buried, away from here, we can rest."
ROSE: (Hopeful and sad at once) "Will you do it?"
FLEETWOOD: "We will, I promise. But first we have to get out of here ourselves."
Rose and Thorn exchange a glance, their translucent forms twitching—shivering—as if the very idea of escape is foreign to them. Thorn lowers his gaze, hands twisting together, his voice fragile but certain.
THORN: "The house won’t let you leave… until it’s done with you."
ROSE: "You have to face it."
FLEETWOOD: "That's what we do. Just tell us what."
Rose and Thorn shift slightly, spectral forms flickering, like candlelight at the edge of extinguishing.
Thorn lowers his gaze further, fingers tightening around nothing—nothing but the weight of his words.
His whisper is barely audible.
THORN: "The heart of the house."
Rose lifts her gaze. Her spectral form flickers, and when she speaks, her words settle into the air like an omen.
ROSE: "Walter."
Quick flashback to the nursery - Walter's crib, covered in dark runes and pus-filled tumors.
CLARION: "What.. happened to Walter?"
Rose and Thorn exchange glances, their spectral forms flickering, twitching, curling inward. Thorn lowers his gaze, fingers tightening, his whisper barely audible—but it carries.
THORN: "Mama didn't like him. They took him away from Ms. Klara."
ROSE: "He’s still here."
CLARION: "Then we must find him."
FLEETWOOD: "His cradle was empty. Where is he now?"
Rose hesitates, shifting slightly, uncertainty flickering through her translucent form.
ROSE: (soft, apologetic, edged with quiet fear) "I know… but I’m not allowed to go there."
The words hang in the air, weighted, charged with something unseen.
Fleetwood straightens, jaw tightening, his stance shifting into something deeper, something more solid—
A warrior’s resolve. His voice is firm, unyielding, but not cruel—only certain.
FLEETWOOD: "I’m sure I'm not allowed either. But I’m going—and I’d like to see anyone… or anything… try to stop me."
Clarion kneels, lifting Rose and Thorn’s bones gently, handling them with reverence, with care, with the quiet promise that they will not be forgotten. She sings, voice soft, measured, weaving the notes of an old Thyatian lullaby through the room’s silence.
The children drift ahead, their forms soft, flickering, leading them into the next chamber.
The room opens before them, filled with dust-choked furniture, shapes obscured beneath white sheets, frozen in time. Chairs, coat racks, standing mirrors, dress mannequins—all silent witnesses to whatever was left behind.
Near the iron stove, something rests beneath one of the sheets— An unlocked wooden trunk, waiting.
Silverleaf runs her fingers over the fabric covering the furniture, feeling the weight of years settled into the cloth. Greegan steps forward, flipping his dagger absently, standing before the trunk.
ROSE: (edged with quiet fear) "Please don’t open it."
THORN: (barely above a whisper) "You don’t have to look."
But Greegan presses forward anyway, his movements deliberate, steady, carrying the weight of choice.
He lifts the lid. And finds her.
Klara’s mutilated remains lie within, her form long decayed but unmistakable, her suffering sealed beneath the weight of abandonment.
The children begin to cry, their voices thin, aching, curling with grief that has never truly left them.
Greegan stiffens, his breath sharp, his fingers curling against the trunk’s edge—almost dropping it, almost breaking beneath the weight of it.
GREEGAN: “Why do I always need to look?”
CLARION: "Oh, Klara."
Greegan steadies himself, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, and then—speaks.
His voice is low, steady, carrying quiet grief and unspoken anger.
GREEGAN: "My mam—she nursemaided for a family in Threshold for a while. A wealthy one. Good folk they were, treated her right. And she always took care of their wee ones, same as me. Made sure they had food, they were warm. Safe." (He pauses, glancing toward Klara’s broken form, then toward Rose and Thorn) "Klara deserved better. You all did."
Rose clutches Thorn’s hand tightly, pressing her forehead against his hair, their forms flickering, trembling, curling into quiet sorrow. Rose moves suddenly, her spectral form flickering, twisting toward Greegan—
And then—she’s inside him.
Greegan stiffens, breath hitching, fingers twitching against his dagger—then relaxes, his stance steady but different, his movements no longer entirely his own.
.Then—Greegan moves. Not aimless, not tentative—with purpose. His hand touches the wall, as if guided, as if knowing— And the wood shifts. A hidden door creaks open, revealing a rickety wooden staircase spiraling downward into deeper blackness.
Greegan rolls his shoulders, smirking slightly—but this time, the grin does not belong solely to him.
GREEGAN (ROSE’S VOICE LAYERED SOFTLY BENEATH HIS OWN): "Well. Guess we’re going."
Fade to black
End credits play: House of Doom