Ravenloft Dungeons and Dragons Campaign

The mist comes when it wants. Not when you're lost, or when you're scared, but when it's ready. It rolls in on silent feet, cold as a crypt and thick as wool, swallowing the road behind you and the horizon ahead. By the time you feel it on your skin, it's already too late. The world you knew is gone. The world you've found is wrong.
Here, the sun rises grey and never warms the stone. The clocks all tell different times, and none of them are right. The people in the villages know your name before you speak it, and they look at you with pity, not because they know what you've done, but because they know what's going to do it to you.
The roads don't lead where they should. They curve back to places you've already been. The forests breathe. The statues weep. There's a castle on the horizon, but you can never seem to get closer to it, until the night you find yourself before its doors, open and inviting you in to never return.
And in the dark, something is always watching. It wears many faces: the host who offers you supper but never eats; the child who plays with dolls that look like you; the reflection that waves back a second too late. It is patient. It has all of eternity to decide what it wants from you.
You will hear your name on the wind. You will see faces you buried. You will knock on a door, and it will open, and you will wish to God it hadn't.
Welcome to the Land of Mists.
There is no way out.
There never was.