Episode 1 The Arrival
The rain fell in soft sheets over the sleepy town of Ravendale, painting the cobbled streets in shades of grey. Thick fog clung to the hills like a ghost unwilling to let go. A single car made its way up the narrow road, its headlights cutting through the mist.
Aarav Mehta, 27, leaned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the GPS. The voice crackled again:
"You have arrived at your destination."
He stopped the engine and stepped out. Before him stood Blackthorn Manor — a towering, decaying mansion swallowed by ivy and time. Its windows were dark, but something about the place felt… aware. Watching.
He took a deep breath.
"Looks like we're going to be spending some quality time together," he muttered.
As a historian and writer, Aarav had seen dozens of British-era buildings across India and Europe. But this one was different. It wasn't just history that lingered here — it was something colder.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. Wooden floorboards creaked underfoot. Chandeliers hung like skeletal hands from the ceiling. A grand staircase loomed ahead, splitting the darkness like a monument to forgotten luxury.
He set down his bags and flicked the light switch. Nothing.
"Figures," he whispered.
Using his phone flashlight, he explored the drawing room — a massive space with faded wallpaper, covered furniture, and a grand piano coated in a blanket of dust. On the wall hung a portrait: a man in Victorian clothes with sharp eyes and a cruel smile. The nameplate read:
Lord Ambrose Blackthorn.
Aarav stared at it for a long moment. Then he heard it — a faint whisper. He spun around. No one.
"Probably the wind," he told himself, but his voice lacked conviction.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, each step groaning like a warning. The hallway stretched endlessly, lit only by the pale light of his phone. As he passed a cracked mirror, he paused.
His reflection blinked a second too late.
A chill ran down his spine.
"Nope," he whispered, backing away. But something made him look again.
In the mirror, behind his reflection, stood a figure — faint, almost invisible — a girl in a white dress, hair over her face.
He spun around. Nothing there.
The phone slipped from his hand and landed with a thud. When he picked it up again, the mirror was empty.
"Okay. Tired. Jet lag. Overactive imagination," he muttered, trying to convince himself.
He entered one of the bedrooms and lit a candle he found on the nightstand. The room was surprisingly well-kept, with an old bookshelf and a fireplace. On the mantle, he noticed a small, locked wooden box. Strange symbols were etched into its surface — ones he couldn't recognize.
He made a note to inspect it tomorrow.
As he lay down, the wind outside howled louder. Then — three knocks. Not from the door. From inside the wall.
He sat up. Silence.
Then again — three knocks, deliberate, steady.
Aarav grabbed the candle and approached the wall. The knocking stopped.
"If this is some kind of welcome, it's not working," he said aloud.
As he turned to go back to bed, the mirror in the hallway cracked with a loud snap, as if punched from the inside.