Rain battered the ancient manor’s windows, while inside, eleven guests gathered uneasily, unaware that doom hovered nearby, unseen, silent. The grandfather clock chimed eight times as the lights flickered, and anxious glances were exchanged amid murmurs of the storm’s ferocity. Lady Fairchild smiled through pearl-red lips, her voice too sweet, masking something darker, as she beckoned everyone to the drawing room. Colonel Harrow, rigid in his seat near the fire, fingered his watch-chain nervously, gaze darting toward the shadowed hallway repeatedly. No one noticed the butler, Mr. Grieves, who moved soundlessly past the velvet drapes, carrying a silver tray trembling slightly. A clap of thunder masked a sudden, muffled cry—just one—but it was enough to freeze everyone’s blood with dread. Sir Edwin dropped his glass, shattering crystal on the floor, and the silence that followed was heavier than the storm’s fury.