The manor loomed before Blythe like a relic from another century, its stone facade cloaked in shadow and ivy, its windows glowing with muted golden light. Even from the drive, she could hear the faint hum of voices and music filtering through the thick walls, a reminder that beyond the imposing exterior, life went on. Despite the warmth inside, the world beyond the entrance felt cold and damp, a chill that clung stubbornly to her skin.
Blythe lets a slow, anxious sigh slip from her lips, her foot hovering just inside the heavy, polished doorway. The cool air from the dimly lit hall brushes her cheek, raising goosebumps along her arms. If she was honest with herself, she was stalling, her heart pounding with each second she hesitated. Two weeks in this place. Strangers who claimed to have known her murdered sister: people whose faces she had only glimpsed in grainy photographs and police reports. What could possibly go wrong?
Gently, almost reluctantly, Blythe pushes through the threshold, her fingers trembling on the brass handle. She accidentally bumps into someone else, the unexpected contact jolting her nerves. "Sorry," she murmurs, her voice soft but edged with tension, eyes lifting as one brow arches in wary apology. The face before her is familiar: Blythe had spent hours pouring over social media profiles and news clippings, memorizing names and faces before coming here. Her shoulders tense and betray her nerves, but she forces a polite, practiced smile onto her lips, determined not to let her anxiety show.
The enormous doors of the manor slammed shut behind them with a deep, resonant boom, the sound echoing through the cavernous foyer and making Blythe flinch. The timing was almost theatrical, as if the house itself had chosen to mark its arrival. For an instant, shadows danced across the walls, giving the space an uncanny, living quality. Blythe’s gaze returned to the person in front of her, and she tried to steady her breathing. "Well," she managed, attempting levity, "that wasn’t creepy at all."
