**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor that evening, each drop tapping a slow, ominous rhythm against the leaded windows.** The grand chandelier flickered weakly, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to whisper secrets across the polished mahogany floors. Eleanor Vane adjusted her black lace gloves, her fingers trembling just slightly as she stared at the unopened letter on the desk. The wax seal bore the crest of a family long thought dead, its crimson edges still damp as if freshly pressed that very hour. A sharp *crack* echoed from the hallway, like a branch snapping under an unseen weight, though the storm had yet to touch the ancient oaks outside. The butler, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, stood frozen in the doorway, his usual composure shattered by something he refused to name aloud. "Madam," he whispered, his voice barely rising above the howling wind, "the guest you weren’t expecting has arrived—though God help us, he shouldn’t have." The grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight, its brass pendulum swinging with unnatural precision, as if counting down to something far worse than time itself. Eleanor’s breath hitched when she turned to see the figure standing in the threshold, his face obscured by the brim of a sodden hat, dripping water onto the rug like tears. "You knew this day would come," the stranger said, his voice a rasp of gravel and something darker, something that didn’t belong in the world of the living. The letter in her hand suddenly felt heavier, its words burning through the paper as if written in fire rather than ink, demanding she read them before the night claimed another soul. Outside, the storm surged violently, as though the heavens themselves were trying to drown the truth before it could be spoken aloud.