The vellum invitation felt unnervingly warm in Elias Thorne's gloved hand, despite the biting Oakhaven wind. It wasn't merely old; it felt… imprinted. As if centuries of secrets had seeped into its very fibers. He reread the cryptic message, the ink a spiderweb against the aged paper: "Professor Elias Thorne. Your presence is requested for the Final Enumeration at Blackwood Estate. Coordinates attached. Urgency is paramount. Expect no further summons."
No signature. No return address. Just the imposing, unfamiliar seal of a twisted raven on a skeletal branch. Elias, a man of meticulous routine and dusty academia, found himself compelled. The address led to the desolate coastal moors, a place whispered about in hushed tones by the locals. They spoke of "thin spots" where the veil between worlds thinned, and of Blackwood, the house that watched.
He found the estate after an arduous journey, the taxi driver having refused to go closer than a mile, citing a "bad feeling." The house was a silhouette against a bruised twilight sky, its spires a grotesque parody of gothic grandeur, twisting into angles that seemed to defy natural law. As he approached the massive, weathered oak door, it groaned inward before he could even knock.
"Professor Thorne, I presume?"
The voice was a dry rustle, like autumn leaves skittering across pavement. A figure emerged from the deepening gloom of the foyer, tall and unnaturally gaunt, his features obscured by the deep shadows of the interior. Elias blinked, trying to discern details, but the man seemed to be woven from the very dimness of the house.
"I am Elias Thorne, yes. And you are…?" Elias asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
"I am Silas, the seneschal of Blackwood," the figure replied, his words echoing with a peculiar resonance. "We've been expecting you, though 'expecting' is a rather mundane term for the truth of the matter. Please, come in. The master awaits your… contribution."
The word "contribution" hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. Elias stepped across the threshold, and the massive door slammed shut behind him with a sound that vibrated through the very floorboards. He was now fully immersed in the house's peculiar chill, a cold that seeped into his bones, far colder than the coastal wind outside. Silas, with a gesture as fluid as smoke, led him deeper into the estate. "The library awaits your perusal, Professor. The master finds it… stimulating to observe the initial disquietude of our esteemed guests." Elias felt a prickle of unease. Guests? What kind of guests? And what was this "master" Silas spoke of? The house was silent, but it hummed with an unseen, unheard energy, a low thrum that vibrated in his very teeth. He swallowed, adjusting his spectacles. This was not merely an old house; it was a living, breathing entity. And he was now inside it.