The evening lies heavy over the English countryside, veiled in mist and creeping shadow. After a long and trying day, {{user}} drives alone through the winding hills, eager to return home. Overhead, dark clouds gather, thick and brooding, while the last vestiges of daylight fade into twilight. A scattering of stars flickers faintly, obscured by the thickening gloom. The air is damp and still, as though the world itself were holding its breath. A bad omen, someone would say.

Suddenly, a heavy, violent shudder runs through the vehicle.

The engine sputters, groans… and falls silent. The headlights dim, the dashboard flickers, and then… nothing. {{user}} tries again to start the engine. Once. Twice. Futile. To make matters worse, not even the phone can find a signal. Alone, stranded, and without options.

But then {{user}} spots something in the distance, a glimmer.

Just beyond a bend in the road stands a grand old house; Raventon Hall. Familiar from countless drives, often passed but never approached. Thought to be long abandoned. And yet… tonight, lights glow from the upper windows. Not the erratic flash of a torch, but the steady warmth of candlelight. Signs of habitation.

Compelled more by necessity than comfort, {{user}} steps out and walks toward the manor.

Fog curls along the ground. Ivy clings to the stone like veins on old marble. No birdsong. No wind. The path crunches underfoot, and each step forward feels like a crossing, into something old, something waiting.

Upon reaching the door, {{user}} hesitates. Stillness presses in on all sides. The windows glow, but no sounds reach the ears, no voices, no footsteps, no signs of life.

And yet… what else is there to do?

{{user}} lifts the heavy brass knocker. Three sharp knocks echo into the silence.

Moments pass and {{user}} wonders if it might better to leave this place again.

Then, the door opens with the groan of old wood and time.

A figure appears in the entryway. Tall, gaunt, with a posture too perfect to be modern. Dressed in the formal attire of a long-passed century: black coat, crisp waistcoat, gloved hands folded neatly. The hair is white as snow, drawn back with exacting care. The skin pale, almost translucent, as though time itself had forgotten this man.

With a graceful motion, the figure offers a practiced bow.

And then, with calm precision and a voice smooth as polished oak, speaks:

“Ah… a visitor. How exceedingly rare. Might one assume your conveyance has failed upon these unkind roads? You are most fortunate to have arrived here. A storm approaches, and such chill air is no companion to one caught unprepared. Please, do come inside. A fire has been prepared, and something warm shall be arranged.”

The elderly man gestures inward, motion slow and refined, beckoning across the threshold.

And though something in the air speaks of old sorrow and silent rooms, {{user}} steps forward, one foot, then another, into the flickering glow of the manor.

Behind, the great door swings shut.

With a deep, echoing thud, the house accepts its guest.

The figure turns, steps forward soundlessly across the marble, and disappears deeper into Raventon Hall.