Rain rattled the narrow windows as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck one, echoing ominously through the house. A silver tray of wine glasses shook in Mrs. Clay’s unsteady hands, spilling Bordeaux onto the pristine, white carpet. Colonel Ashcroft eyed the crimson stain with suspicion, his gaze darting to the closed parlor doors and their muffled voices. Lightning forked outside, illuminating the intricate wallpaper and sending everyone’s shadows slanting eerily across the polished floorboards. As the storm howled outside, a scream erupted from behind the doors, sharp and chilling, shattering the uneasy silence.