Lightning split the night sky as Detective Lydia Hart pulled up to the century-old, ivy-encrusted mansion on Hawthorn Hill. The air was thick, heavy with anticipation and the faint stench of decay as she approached. Covered in shadows, the grand house seemed to watch her, its windows dark, soulless eyes. The sprawling estate was silent, save for the echo of her footsteps on the aged stone walkway leading to the entrance. The Oakwood door opened before she could knock, revealing a gaunt, elderly butler who eyed her solemnly. "Detective Hart, we've been expecting you," he intoned, stepping aside to allow her into the dimly lit foyer adorned with faded portraits. Lydia walked past, her flashlight beam catching glimpses of luxury worn by time and neglect, a stark reminder of better days. A chill ran down her spine as a scream pierced the silence, coming from the upper floors of the mansion.