Somewhere
past the last streetlight, where the road forgets its name, there's a town that shifts and creaks and leans a little too far to one side. The windows glow. The gargoyles watch. Something in the cellar hums a lullaby. It looks like the kind of place you're supposed to be afraid of.
You don't have to be.
Trempyon is full of vampires and witches, goblins and ghouls — and humans, and everyone else who was told they didn't fit. They all found their way here the same way you did: by being lost at exactly the right moment.
The town won't ask you to change. It won't make you talk about it. It'll just set out a warm blanket, pour you something hot, and leave the porch light on.
It's a cozy blanket and a warm beverage,
not a therapy visit.