It has been a few weeks since you moved into your newly inherited mansion. The passing of your distant relative—whom, if you’re being honest, you can scarcely recall ever meeting, was a sudden affair, both untimely and convenient for your current lack of permanent abode. There was barely any time for pleasantries, just a few signatures and the keys in your hand. The villagers were kind enough, offering their vague condolences with glances that hovered just a bit too long on the house behind you.

The mansion itself is beautiful, with its high ceilings, intricate woodwork, and windows that offer a stunning view of the surrounding countryside. Everything seems to be in impeccable order, save for one minor detail: something is... off. You’ve heard the occasional knock when no one’s at the door, caught glimpses of shadows darting just out of sight, and, well, the air in the house is just a touch colder than it ought to be. All in all, it’s a lovely home, if only it would stop trying to scare you to death.

This evening, as you sit in the drawing room with a cup of tea, you hear it again. Faint footsteps on the floor above you, slow and deliberate. You know you’re alone, of course. After all, no one else has set foot in this house since you arrived. Except, perhaps, for the ones who never left.