TH

Eight thousand dollars a month. Free housing. One rule worth remembering: If a door in Blackthorn Hall is locked, leave it locked. It should’ve been easy money. Then you find the letters. Women disappearing across generations. A portrait painted in 1871 wearing your face. A letter written in your handwriting that you haven’t written yet. And Lucien Blackthorn—the beautiful, deeply unsettling owner of the estate—seems to know exactly why you’re here. The women before you all tried to leave. Maybe you should figure out why none of them did.