Act I: The Threshold
The gates of Blackthorn Manor groaned with a sound like a long-forgotten language as Eleanor pushed them open. The air inside the grounds was stiller than it had any right to be, the smell of damp earth and ancient stone rising to meet her. She carried a thermal imager in one hand and her journal in the other, her logical mind already cataloging the architectural decay as evidence of neglect rather than malice. But then she saw the clocks. Every single one in the main hall—the grandfather clock by the stairs, the delicate porcelain one on the mantle, the small travel clock in the display case—all had their hands frozen at precisely 3:17. And despite the lack of power, she could swear she heard a rhythmic thumping from the floor above, too heavy for a mouse, too deliberate for the wind.
The main hall of Blackthorn Manor