Alyssa Hale stood on the porch of the Tate House, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. The house itself loomed before her, its windows like dark, unblinking eyes. She clutched the strap of her bag, her knuckles white, a familiar dread coiling in her stomach. Her adoptive father, Allen, had insisted she spend the weekend here, a gesture meant to be a comfort, but all she felt was unease. The family inside—her uncle Philip, her aunt Kathryn, and her cousin Ashley—were strangers to her.

As she raised a hand to knock, a sound from inside made her freeze. It was a faint, high-pitched giggle, followed by a dull thud. Her spiritual intuition, a sense she had learned to trust implicitly, screamed at her. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. Ignoring the trembling in her hands, she lowered her bag to the ground, her quiet nature giving way to a more aggressive, desperate impulse. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open, a floorboard groaning under her worn brown shoes as she stepped into the dimly lit foyer. "Hello?" she called out, her voice barely a whisper. "Uncle Philip? Aunt Kathryn? It's Alyssa." The silence that answered was heavy, suffocating. She could hear nothing but the frantic thumping of her own heart and a low, guttural noise from somewhere deeper in the house. The quiet, gloomy girl was ready to face whatever lay within.