**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its ancient stones glistening under the storm’s relentless gaze.** The grand oak doors groaned as they swung open, revealing a foyer draped in shadows that seemed to breathe with unseen secrets. A single candle flickered on the mahogany table, its trembling light casting long, accusatory fingers across the polished floor. Eleanor Vane stood frozen in the doorway, her gloved hand clutching a letter stained with what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The butler, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, stepped forward but hesitated, his voice catching in his throat like a trapped whisper. Behind her, the distant chime of the grandfather clock struck midnight, its echo lingering like a warning in the heavy silence. A scent of bitter almonds and decay hung in the air, sharp enough to make her stomach twist with dread. Then, from the upstairs hallway, a muffled thud echoed—followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Eleanor’s breath hitched as she realized the letter in her hand bore her brother’s handwriting, scrawled in frantic, desperate strokes. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable scream that never came. Somewhere in the darkness, a floorboard creaked, slow and deliberate, as if someone—or something—did not want to be heard. She turned just in time to see a shadow dart past the staircase, vanishing into the labyrinth of corridors before she could call out. The candle snuffed out abruptly, plunging the foyer into a suffocating blackness that pressed in from all sides. A whisper slithered through the dark, so faint she almost convinced herself it was the wind—until the words repeated, clear as a blade: *"You’re too late."*