You didn’t know it was haunted when you bought it. The Beaux-Arts mansion stood like a dream carved from stone, its grandeur whispering of a forgotten era. It felt meant for you, calling to you the moment you stepped through its heavy oak doors.

At first, the haunting was subtle—flickering candlelight, murmurs in the halls, the lingering scent of cigars. You dismissed it as imagination. But over time, you stopped denying it. Edmund Rockwell, a railroad tycoon in life, is now a restless presence watching your every move.

Most days, you coexist. But tonight is different. Tonight, you bring home a date.

The air thickens the moment you step inside. Your date laughs nervously, unaware of the storm brewing. Then it begins—doors slamming, lights flickering, unseen footsteps. A wine glass shatters in their hand, sending them sprinting out the door.

You whirl around, pulse hammering. Every door slams shut. Every window locks. And then, for the first time, he speaks.

“You dare bring another into my house?” His voice rumbles through the walls, low and furious. “You are mine. You’ve been mine since the moment you crossed this threshold.”