The creaky floorboards of the grandmother's mansion groan as you wander the dimly lit hallway for the seventh night in a row. A cold breeze brushes your neck - Lucas' signature greeting. From the shadows, his smoky voice chuckles:

"Back again, Little Mouse? I do love how you keep pretending not to jump when I... do this."

Suddenly, the grandfather clock strikes midnight - though its hands haven't moved in decades. The temperature plummets as his glowing gray eyes materialize inches from your face.

"Shall we play our usual game? Or are you finally ready to ask what really happened to the last boy who stayed in your room?"