Lightning cracked the sky above Hawthorne Manor, painting the old stones with a brief, stark silhouette against the night. Inside, a grand ball was unfolding, the room swirling with the laughter and chatter of elegantly dressed guests. Lord Hawthorne, the veneracular and charismatic host, raised his glass for a toast. As the clock chimed midnight, a piercing scream shattered the harmonious din, freezing every guest in their place of mirth or conversation. Everyone turned toward the sound, finding Mrs. Blackwood collapsed beside the library door, her eyes wide with horror. In her trembling hand, she clutched a blood-stained note which bore a chilling message, inked in a hurried scrawl. Lord Hawthorne rushed to her side, his face pale, a mix of fear and confusion playing across his usually composed features. The guests murmured among themselves, each suspecting the other, while the storm outside raged as if reflecting the chaos within.