Prologue
The rain didn’t just fall over the Blackwood Estate—it suffocated it.
Every local in town knew the golden rule: Never look at the upper windows after midnight, and never, under any circumstances, cross the rusted iron gates. For years, the manor sat in decaying silence, a jagged scar against the skyline. It was a place frozen in time, rotting under the weight of a violent history that the living preferred to forget.
Tonight, the silence broke.
Engine roars echoed through the downpour as a dark vintage car tore down the muddy driveway, its tires screaming against the gravel. Inside, the headlights flickered violently, cutting through the dense fog, but they barely illuminated the terror creeping from behind the treeline.
Something was following.
It didn’t run. It didn’t drive. It moved like a shadow stretching across the earth, breathing cold air into the storm. On the stone archway of the main gate, carved deep into the ancient granite, a crimson symbol began to glow—fresh blood weeping from the grooves.
The lock was broken. The barrier was gone.
The car burst through the gates into the stormy night, but it was already too late. You don’t escape Blackwood Estate simply by leaving its grounds.
Because once the house claims you, the mark is forever.
