**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor that evening**, as the old grandfather clock struck midnight with a hollow, echoing chime. A single candle flickered in the library, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits across the walls. Eleanor Vane adjusted her gloves, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the letter’s crumpled edge. The ink had bled into the paper, forming words that read like a death sentence whispered in the dark. Outside, a branch scraped against the windowpane, its sound like skeletal fingers dragging across glass. She turned sharply, half-expecting to see a face pressed against the pane, pale and grinning in the storm. The butler had vanished an hour ago, leaving only his abandoned tray of untouched tea and a single broken cup. A floorboard creaked upstairs, though no one had been seen ascending the grand staircase all night long. The air smelled of damp wool and something metallic, sharp enough to make her stomach clench with dread. Then came the scream—a high, piercing wail that cut through the storm’s roar before abruptly silencing. Eleanor’s breath hitched as she realized the voice had belonged to her brother, who had been alive just moments before. The library door swung open slowly, revealing nothing but an empty hallway swallowed by darkness beyond. She reached for the letter again, her pulse pounding in her ears as the words seemed to shift before her eyes. Somewhere in the house, a clock began ticking backward, its gears grinding like teeth in the suffocating silence.