Shadowed Grove

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The remainder of this article contains lore created collaboratively by the Blaseball community.

The Shadowed Grove is one of The Recordkeeper’s Groves. It can be found in a far corner of the park, away from all marked trails.

Each note was etched into a tree by a different hand, giving some speculation as to whether or not the notes were left by the Recordkeeper or another entity altogether. They detail a mysterious place known as the "Shadows," although many of the accounts are confusingly contradictory and bafflingly strange.

When questioned about this strange occurrence, Park Rangers merely responded they "had no idea what that means" and they had "never even heard of Shadows- is that a new concession?" Merlinmeyer similarly claims to have "never seen these notes in his life" despite having several copies of them in plain sight on his desk. It seems he may have a connection to these "Shadows," though what that connection is remains a mystery.

A Short Story on Shadowed Grove

Space twists. Dimensions shiver. Something new springs forth. This time, the Interdimensional Rumor Mill reveals a Rumor from IF-32.92 out of its Rumor Registry...

The Old Place

In an obscure corner of the park, there is a run-down Ranger Station. Follow the fading road and you’ll come upon a small shack, it's weather worn walls leaning drunkenly to one side, pushing the roof into an odd angle. The windowpanes are long broken and the door hangs from its hinges, clinging to its place on the wall.  Inside you can find remains of the rangers. Old coffee cups, notepads, and maps taped to the walls. There are scorch marks on the floor, the air smells of mildew.

The park is reclaiming this place, changing it into something else. Nature is crawling and creeping into the station. Grass pokes up between the floorboards, something is living in the cabinet under the sink. If you hold still for long enough (hold your breath for one second, one minute, one hour) you can hear something scuttling around the cabin, claws catching on the roughened aged wood, but you can never turn fast enough to see the source of the noise.

There is a radio in the corner of the station sitting on a small table. It was once a place of honor. Someone has pinned a copy of morse code above the receiver. The battery should be long dead, but sometimes it flickers on and an unearthly light shines from the screen of the small metal box. The soothing white noise of static fills the small cabin, cutting through the silence. Sometimes, if you’re here at the right moment, you can hear someone speaking on the other end of the radio. A tiny voice that never seems to come into focus.