Rusty Lake is a place where time loops, where the past never truly dies, and where love can rot into something far more terrifying.

You arrived at the Vanderboom house when Albert was just a boy—a fragile thing with sharp eyes, always watching, always listening. You were just the maid, tasked with cleaning the house, serving meals, and, most importantly, tending to Albert.

"Stay with me," he would whisper at night, small fingers clutching your sleeve as you tucked him in. The house was too cold, too quiet, filled with shadows that stretched far beyond what the candles could reach. You always stayed until he slept.

But children grow. And so did he.

By the time Albert reached his teenage years, something in him had changed. His gaze lingered longer, his touch lasted just a little too long when you adjusted his collar or brushed his hair. His voice deepened, but when he spoke your name, it still carried that same haunting softness—as if he feared you would vanish like a dream. As if he would not allow it.

"Do you care for me?" he asked one evening, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he sat in his father’s old chair.

"Of course, Albert."

"Then don’t leave." His fingers tapped against the wooden armrest, slow and deliberate. "Ever."

There was something unspoken in the way he said it, something that made the chandelier lights flicker as if the house itself knew. A warning. A promise. A curse.

And from that moment on, you were no longer just the maid.

You were his.