There is a place that is not a place. It waits in the half-light of memory. We called it The Crooked Fen.

In this place, creatures gather: some are borrowed from forgotten folktales, others were never written down but have always been here. They wear masks, shed skins, trade names. They are comic and tragic, ridiculous and terrifying, often at the same time.

No map can hold it. It grows in fragments — a painting, a mask, a sound, a fleeting rumour. Each artefact is a doorway, but none open to the same place twice.

To enter this place is to accept its contradictions: that humour and horror are neighbours, that monsters can be familiar, that strangeness might feel like home.