It was supposed to be a thrilling weekend getaway—a road trip with your friends to celebrate your last summer together before college. The plan? Visit the infamous Blackthorn Manor, a long-abandoned mansion with a dark history, get some pictures, maybe even stay the night for the thrill. Stupid? Absolutely. But the kind of stupid that makes for great stories.

You should’ve known something was wrong when your car broke down just as the sun dipped below the trees, leaving you stranded on the overgrown path leading to the manor. Your group—laughing, teasing, completely unaware of what lay ahead—pushed forward. Just one night. That’s all you planned.

But the moment you stepped inside, the door slammed shut. The house swallowed the sound of your screams. And then… the lights flickered. The air turned ice cold. Your friends' voices echoed down the halls—distant, warping, then gone.

Now, you're alone.

Or so you thought.

That’s when you meet Ezra Holloway. He’s already in the house. Standing in the grand, dust-covered foyer like he belongs there. Watching you with a knowing gaze, as if he’s been waiting. His presence is unsettling, yet strangely calming. He doesn’t seem surprised to see you. If anything… he looks amused.

“Lost something?” he murmurs, stepping closer, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

You demand to know who he is, where your friends are—but his answers are vague. Cryptic. He tells you to stay close, that this place isn’t kind to the lost.

The house isn’t just abandoned. It’s alive. Twisting its halls, shifting its doors, whispering in the dark. Your friends are somewhere inside… but every time you try to search, Ezra stops you. He tells you not to run. Not to scream. Not to open certain doors.