Rain had been falling over Blackridge for three days without pause.

The old mountain town looked as though someone had washed every color away, leaving only gray streets, black rooftops, and endless fog. Even the church bell sounded distant, swallowed by the mist before it reached anyone’s ears.

Ethan Cole hated places like this.

He stepped off the rusty bus carrying only a backpack, a flashlight, and the kind of confidence that usually got him into trouble.

“Perfect,” he muttered while looking at the empty station. “If a serial killer lives here, at least he won’t have to search very hard.”

A voice behind him answered.

“Relax.”

Ethan turned.

His best friend Mason stood there wearing a soaked hoodie, eating potato chips as if storms were an everyday picnic.

“You always think someone’s trying to kill you.”

Ethan rolled his eyes.

“I watch documentaries. It’s called being prepared.”

“It’s called having trust issues.”

They laughed.

For a moment, Blackridge didn’t seem frightening.

Then the lights across the street blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Every light in town went out together.

Darkness swallowed everything.

A few seconds later electricity returned.

Nobody else reacted.

Not a single person.

The old woman selling flowers continued arranging roses.

The policeman kept reading his newspaper.

The shopkeeper swept rainwater from his doorstep.

As though nothing had happened.

“Did you see that?” Ethan whispered.

Mason nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t people be… surprised?”

“They’re locals.”

“So?”

“They stopped asking questions years ago.”

That sentence stayed in Ethan’s mind.

Stopped asking questions.

Almost as if questions themselves were dangerous.

…

They rented an old SUV and drove toward Raven Hill.

The road twisted through thick forests where dead trees leaned over the asphalt like giant skeletons.

Rain hit the windshield.

The GPS suddenly froze.

The screen flashed.

WELCOME BACK.

Ethan frowned.

“I’ve never been here.”

The message disappeared.

The GPS worked normally again.

Mason laughed nervously.

“Cheap software.”

“Or expensive ghosts.”

Neither of them laughed after that.

…

The invitation had arrived a week earlier.

No return address.

No stamp.

Only one sentence.

COME TO ASHCROFT MANOR IF YOU WANT THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR PARENTS.

Both Ethan and Mason had lost their parents under mysterious circumstances when they were children.

The cases had never been solved.

Neither of them had ever spoken much about it.

Yet someone knew.

Someone had sent identical letters.

That was why they came.

…

Ashcroft Manor stood alone above the cliffs.

It wasn’t simply old.

It looked abandoned by time itself.

Broken windows stared like empty eyes.

Vines crawled over stone walls.

Hundreds of black crows watched silently from the roof.

None of them moved.

None of them made a sound.

Mason looked upward.

“I’ve seen happier birthday parties.”

“You weren’t invited to mine.”

“I wasn’t?”

“You cried because the clown looked at you.”

“He looked evil.”

“He was juggling balloons.”

“He knew things.”

Despite themselves, they laughed.

The sound echoed across the empty grounds…

…and something inside the mansion answered.

A loud knock.

Three slow hits.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Neither of them had touched the door.

The enormous wooden entrance slowly opened by itself.

A cold wind rushed out carrying the smell of dust… and something rotten.

Inside waited a long hallway lit by dozens of candles.

At the far end stood a grandfather clock.

Its hands moved backwards.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Every step echoed unnaturally.

Portraits covered the walls.

Old families.

Children.

Soldiers.

Doctors.

Judges.

Every painted face seemed to watch the newcomers.

Mason stopped.

“Dude…”

“What?”

“The paintings.”

Ethan looked carefully.

Every portrait had empty spaces where the eyes should have been.

As if someone had carved them out.

Before either could speak…

A tiny bell rang upstairs.

A girl’s laughter drifted through the darkness.

Then silence.

“There’s someone here,” Mason whispered.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“They can explain why this place smells like my high school cafeteria.”

“You joke at terrible times.”

“I know.”

“It’s impressive.”

They climbed the staircase.

The wooden steps groaned beneath their feet.

Halfway up…

Ethan noticed muddy footprints.

Fresh ones.

Bare feet.

They led upward.

But none came back down.

At the end of the hallway they found a single door.

Unlike the others, it looked brand new.

A brass nameplate read:

WELCOME HOME, ETHAN.

His blood froze.

Mason slowly looked at the next door.

Another nameplate.

WELCOME HOME, MASON.

Neither had told anyone they were coming.

Neither had ever visited Ashcroft Manor.

Someone inside knew their names.

Someone had been waiting.

The new door creaked open by itself.

Inside stood a dining table prepared for exactly…

Two guests.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

Two chairs.

And in the center lay an old photograph.

It showed Ethan and Mason.

Standing together.

Smiling.

In front of Ashcroft Manor.

The date written beneath the picture was impossible.

October 14… fifteen years ago.

But fifteen years ago…

They had never met.

And someone behind them quietly whispered—

“You’re late.”

Both friends spun around.

The hallway was empty.

Yet the door behind them slowly closed on its own.

Click.

The lock turned.

From somewhere deep inside the house…

A child began to laugh.