It was winter—just winter, the kind that bites your cheeks and turns breath to smoke. But this winter was different. The letter arrived in a black envelope, sealed with wax, summoning me to Avilon. My grandparents, the ones my mother warned me about for years, wanted me home for Christmas.

I didn’t hesitate. I packed my bags, ignored her frantic calls, and boarded the train north. Sixteen years of silence, and now this? I wasn’t about to let it slip away.

The mansion loomed against the snowfield, gothic and silent. Grandmother Elspeth greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and eyes like frozen glass. Grandfather Silas didn’t speak. He just watched.

That night, I wandered. The house was too big, too quiet. I found a door hidden behind a tapestry, warped from disuse. Inside, the air was thick with dust and something darker—old perfume, dried ink, and beneath it all, the metallic hint of blood.

A journal lay open on a desk. My name was written inside. In my handwriting. But I’d never seen it before.

And then, a whisper: You’re late.

I turned. The door had vanished.

Now, a choice: scream for help, dig deeper into the journal, or demand answers from my grandparents at breakfast.