There is an enchantment over everything, and it has been there long enough that nobody alive remembers it going up. It keeps the awakened and the unawakened in separate rooms of the same house. It is the reason you can walk past something with too many joints and think nothing of it.
It is also failing.
Where it thins, the Mist comes through, and what the Mist does to a city is not fog and atmosphere. It is a door held open. The things on the other side have been waiting a long time and they are not patient by nature, only by circumstance.
Seven books sit in this world. Three in the present day, in a Portland, Maine that looks exactly like the real one until it does not. Three more run backwards across four hundred years to explain how the man at the centre of it got that way. One novella stands off to the side with a war goddess in it.
There are two ways in, and neither is wrong →