The rain had started as a whisper against the windowpane, but now it was a relentless drumming—a steady, hollow beat that filled the old house with unease. Claire sat alone in the study, the dim glow of the fire doing little to dispel the encroaching shadows that pressed against the walls. She had inherited Blackwood Manor six months ago. A sprawling estate that had belonged to her grandfather, a man she barely remembered. She had come with the intention of selling it, but something about the place had drawn her in. The house had secrets, and she wanted to know them. The locals had warned her not to stay. They spoke of strange noises in the night, of figures glimpsed through darkened windows, of whispers that did not belong to the living. Claire had dismissed their warnings as superstition—until the night she found the staircase that should not have existed. The house had three floors. She had counted them herself. But as she wandered its halls one evening, tracing her fingers along the ancient wood, she had discovered something impossible: a hidden passageway behind the library shelves. It led down—deep beneath the foundations. Now, she stood before the secret stairwell, a candle in her hand, its flame dancing wildly despite the absence of wind. The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly metallic. Something was waiting for her in the dark. She stepped forward.