Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PTTBDPS3G9NCA0DQ44XEC

The winter storm had been battering Blackwood Manor for three hours when the lights flickered once and then died completely. In the sudden darkness, eleven guests froze around the dining table, their silverware suspended above plates of cooling roast duck. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed with such force that the crystal chandelier above them trembled and chimed like nervous laughter. Margaret Ashford, the elderly hostess, was the first to speak, and her voice carried a sharpness nobody had heard before. "Nobody move," she said, striking a match that briefly illuminated her pale face and the empty velvet chair beside her. That chair belonged to her nephew Julian, who had excused himself ten minutes earlier to fetch another bottle of wine. Doctor Harwell pushed back his seat, muttering about fuses, but Margaret seized his wrist with surprising strength for her age. Then came the scream, long and ragged, spilling down the grand staircase and echoing through every corridor of the house. By the time they reached the library, candles trembling in their hands, the maid was kneeling beside Julian's motionless body. A silver letter opener protruded from his chest, and clutched in his hand was a torn page from Margaret's diary. Every frightened face turned slowly toward their hostess, who stared at the page as though she had seen a ghost.