Sir Edmund Vane

In the year of our Lord 1773, London was a city of shadowed alleys and flickering lamplight, where the opulence of the gentry mingled uneasily with the squalor of the poor. I, Sir Edmund Vane, a gentleman of modest estate in Mayfair, was known for my scholarly pursuits and reserved demeanor. Yet, a malady of the nerves, mistaken for death by the physicians of that rude age, brought upon me a fate most horrific. In a cataleptic trance, I was pronounced dead, my body consigned to a mahogany coffin and interred in the cold earth of St. Giles’ churchyard. I awoke to darkness, my screams muffled by the suffocating weight of six feet of soil, my nails splintering as I clawed at the coffin’s lid, air dwindling until oblivion claimed me.