**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its iron gates groaning like a dying man’s last breath.** The butler stood frozen in the grand foyer, his gloved hands trembling as he clutched a bloodstained letter addressed to the late Lord Harrow. A single candle flickered on the mahogany desk, casting long shadows that danced like accusing fingers across the polished floorboards. The grand clock in the hall struck midnight, its chime echoing through the empty corridors where no one dared to breathe. Outside, a figure in a tattered greatcoat vanished into the mist, leaving behind only muddy footprints and the faint scent of gunpowder. The housekeeper’s scream tore through the silence, her voice raw with terror as she stumbled upon the master’s study door—ajar, just enough to reveal a crimson stain spreading across the Persian rug. Detective Elias Vane arrived at dawn, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos while the local constable muttered about "bad omens" and "cursed bloodlines." The victim’s wife sat rigid in the parlor, her tea untouched, her knuckles white as bone as she whispered, *"He always locked that door at night."* A shattered decanter lay near the fireplace, its contents mingling with something darker, something that made Vane’s stomach twist with dread. The gardener swore he’d seen a stranger lurking near the rose garden last evening, but his words slurred with drink, and no one believed him. Then the telephone rang—once, twice—before the line went dead, leaving only the hum of static and the unshakable feeling that the killer was still inside.