The elderly man sat up in his study's chair and continued to read the hate mail from all the local delinquents. All of them contained some sort of message promising death. Death? Bah!

They were just kids that hated his policies and rules that, in fact, kept them safe. Kept them safe from what, though? Why, the dreaded ruffians of Salem in fact! Those conniving killers were a pain in his run, but he knew that they were just afraid of his power. Such threats would never get to him. In fact, it would only strengthen his resolve to better secure the Town.

He knew he had support, from the day he would reveal himself as Mayor, he knew he would have the town behind him. Until then, he'd just let those no-gooders laugh at the Mayor's "cowardice."

No, he wasn't a coward. He was simply waiting for the right time, and when that time came, he knew that those who opposed town would tremble. Oh, how he would savor victory!


The sun had set already. The people of the Town moved along the paths and streets of a lamp-lit Salem after the town's afternoon meeting. One figure, his hand moving to turn the doorknob to his house, had suddenly found himself in a blindfold and handcuffs. With no chance of resistance, he was hauled away under the cover of darkness. He would not be in his bed that night, nor out doing his duty. Instead, he would find himself tossed into a pitiful jail cell. Stone walls, a small cot, and a bucket were the only material inside.

After a long and dreadful wait, the barred window of the cell's only metal door let through a voice in a sovereign tone. "What is your role in this mess?" The figure, alone in the cell, sweats and looks from the cell door back up towards the bars. The voice sounds again, compelling and potent in its ultimatum, "Make your claim, or you will die here."

Handcuffed and nervous, he calls out, "I-I'm the Doctor! I was only trying to help someone!" It didn't work. He could hear the sound of a gun being taken out of its holster. The sovereign voice of the Jailor sounds again. "...I had a visit from the Doc' yesterday." The door opens. A pistol points at the cuffed figure inside the cell.

"It wasn't you."


Working as an undercover genius underneath the Sheriff, the Investigator sets off on his quest to bring the Mafia and the Serial Killer to justice. Hiding behind a mask and large fedora, he searches the night for clues towards the end of the dark days. Alone, just like how he's always preferred.

However, it seems that his time was short lived, for he never had enough evidence to convict the town Doctor of being the Serial Killer.

He had, last night, spied a large knife left all on its lonesome, on a worn wooden workbench. The Janitor had cleaned up so many bodies that he had no idea if the Serial Killer was dead or not. Eventually, he went in with all guns blazing, putting his luck on the line, accusing the Doctor of being a Serial Killer, to no avail. They lynched him, and the Investigator was surprisingly quiet after that.


The old west was wild, but it never prepared the Sheriff for what he had to face. On the run from the mafia, the battle-hardened Sheriff knew his only escape was to fly far away from his homeland, and start a new life in the quiet town of Salem. But as he took the long journey by road to this town, the mafia were constantly on his trail. He soon realised that his own business should've stayed his own, because the mafia began to kill an innocent town member each night in an effort to weed him out of hiding. But the Sheriff stood his ground, and knew that surrendering was no option - he had to fight them, and find these evil-doers through the grueling interrogations he performed each night.


As darkness falls, a young boy walks home hand-in-hand with his mother. The Medium gently tucks her son in to bed. The boy drifts off to sleep. The only noises heard that night were a knock at the door and a faint scream.

Awakening the next day, the innocent child stares in anguish at the body of the woman who raised and loved him. As tears fall from his face, he calls out, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Receiving no relief to this pain, the weeping boy staggers into the town square to share the horrific news. Returning home that night, the broken boy collapses onto his bed. Falling asleep, the boy looks up at the stars and wishes and prays to be with his mother again.

As the sun rises on Salem the next day, a young boy walks into town hand-in-hand with his mother.


An ex-captain of the Salem militia is infuriated by the increase of crime on the streets – HIS streets!

Although the Vigilante was fired for his violent and rash methods of war, he still has a strong sense of justice, or so he tells himself. As the death toll in the Town rises, his anger only grows as he finds the killer's identity obvious. That night, he makes his final, heavy decision: If the law won't take down this fiend, he'll have to do it himself. He fishes the pistol out of the end table beside his bed, loading it with his two remaining bullets. One to kill, and one for backup. He usually doesn't miss, but it pays to be cautious.

Using the shadow of night as his disguise, he sneaks into the suspect's house to find him cleaning a bloody knife. "I knew it!" the Vigilante tells himself, his lips curling in disgust at the sight. Letting out a quiet, steady breath, he raises his gun and pulls the trigger. His target hits the floor, all signs of life disappearing from his now limp body. Pleased with the results, the Vigilante slips back into his home and climbs into bed. He sleeps soundly, feeling as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

The following morning, a panicked frenzy meets him in the square. The Doctor has been discovered dead in his home after performing surgery on a wounded patient. Nausea washes over him. He has killed a fellow Town member. Self-preservation pins his lips together during the day, and misery drags his feet back home that night. He finds his gun resting on the end table, just where he had left it after slaying an innocent soul. The weight returns, crashing down on him heavier than before. One bullet left.


The Lookout knew that all of the Mafia scum and even some of the out-of-Town maniacs preferred to work in night's mask of darkness, so sure that their deeds would be unseen by the sleeping citizens of Salem. Fortunately for the hapless townies, the Lookout sneaks through the town night after night, repeatedly attempting to catch a criminal red-handed. A former night watchman, he decided that the best way to keep an eye on the criminals of Salem was to beat them at their own game.

Under the Mayor's orders, he slips seamlessly into his environment to keep a watchful eye on his slumbering neighbours for any unexpected visitors, all while keeping the attention to himself as low as possible. And tonight, his diligence has paid off: the next day, the Town beauty was found cruelly assaulted and stabbed to death by the Serial Killer at large.

Just as the Town erupts into chaos as suspicion falls onto the Escort's last client, the Lookout silences them all before putting out his findings. With his leads, the Town moves to lynch the Escort's lone visitor while he attempts in vain to denounce the Lookout as a member of the Mafia. As the suspicious visitor draws his last breath, a bloody dagger wrapped in a parchment falls out of his robes.

The Town breathes a collective sigh of relief, and the Lookout feels elated for just a moment before he slips back to his home much earlier than everyone else. In his usual focused demeanour, he watches the Town once again from the shadows.


Red cloth slips off the Escort's shoulder as she tiptoes through the door. Her silk dress worn like a blanket, wrapped around her body as a towel toga. Her bare feet sink into the glowing cream carpet as she peers into the bedroom. The windows with sills of glimmering gold, crimson wallpaper encrusted with polished rubies in repeated crosses, and a down mattress bursting with feathers. It was a far cry from the crumbling brick orphanage she grew up in, where ivy crept up the foot of her tattered cot.

A lone knife sits on the bedside table. Above the sleeping man, a gun is mounted and a plaque proudly declaring 100-0-0 hangs below. She scoffs while her cherry, plump lips upturn. All this wealth and pride, yet not a single penny for the poor who hunch over in their tents, the children wrapped in cold beached uniforms, those huddled around meager fires. Yet her scorn will be gone when he wakes, and he'll find this red angel: blessed with high cheekbones and ginger hair and a generous chest.

She stands there until he wakes and opens his top drawer with a single finger. A dollar slips over its wooden lip and, the remnants of her grudge melting away, the lady of the night slips into his bed without a hint of apprehension. Tonight, it is the Godfather. Tomorrow it could be that uptight Mayor, and the next night, that introverted Survivor. Money speaks in this town of chaos – the Escort is but all too willing to listen.


With many years at university spent honing surgical precision and biomedical research, the Doctor is an innovative combat surgeon skilled in recovering the most traumatic of injuries – even in just a single night.

When the Doctor retired into a humble life as Salem's local physician, the Mayor became suspicious of his miraculous abilities to heal people in the most critical conditions. He cut funding to the town hospital and threatened to banish the Doctor, out of fear for association with witchcraft. For his corrupt accusations, the good Doctor then swore to never, ever heal the Mayor.

Years later, far past his prime, the Doctor still secretly checks up on the good people of the Town – even if it gets him exiled. The Mafia's assaults and the Serial Killer's stabbings, even a vampire's bite or a werewolf's rage are nothing to the Doctor's medical skills and refined operating techniques. Despite this, he has one foe he cannot combat: The Arsonist.

So much to the Doctor's regret, targets of the Arsonist are beyond his reach. He can do little for patients who have been charred beyond recognition.