The rain lashed against the windows of the manor house, obscuring the world outside in a sheet of grey. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the oppressive weight of silence. A hush had fallen upon the room, broken only by the mournful ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. In the center of the room, sprawled upon the plush crimson rug, lay the body of Edgar Blackwood, the renowned painter and eccentric recluse. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, a single crimson rose clutched in his hand, its petals stained with a darkness that mirrored the one settling upon the room. A hush fell upon the room again, as the assembled guests, both friends and acquaintances, came to grips with the shocking truth: Edgar Blackwood was dead.