Arrival at the Mansion
In the remote village of Eldridge, at the end of a road nobody used anymore, stood the Holloway Mansion. It had been empty for thirty years, but the villagers still crossed the street rather than walk past its gate. They talked about lights that moved from room to room with no one to carry them, about sounds like furniture being dragged across bare floors at three in the morning, about a cold that clung to the place even in the height of summer.
At the village tavern, old Mr. Higgins leaned across the bar toward a group of young travelers, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Mr. Higgins: You don’t want to go near that place after dark. My father knew a man who went in on a dare. Came out three days later — hair gone white, never spoke another word as long as he lived.
Sarah: It’s just an old house, Mr. Higgins. Falling apart and full of rats, probably.
Mr. Higgins: That’s what they all say. Right up until the house decides otherwise.
[A gust of wind slams the tavern door shut. The candles gutter.]
