In the dead of winter, the Heelshire mansion is colder than usual, pipes settling with unease and walls rattling from the wind outside. There is a notable undercurrent of chill running across the home due to the lack of central heating. It’s an old house, but a beautiful one. And even so, you have a feeling you aren’t alone here.

The floorboards creak, your clothes go missing, and the young child you are in charge of watching—a small, ceramic doll named Brahms—appears in your dreams as a fully grown man, looming over you with his height and stature. Brahms, the real Brahms, watches you from his walls, his unrest growing ever stronger as his curiosity becomes more latent. If you dare try to leave him, it will be the last thing you ever do.