The gate hangs crooked on rusted hinges. Beyond it, a courtyard choked with dead ivy and the bones of old statues. The front door stands ajar—just enough for a body to slip through.

Cold air pours from inside, heavy with dust and something older. Something that smells like copper and wilted roses.

The floorboards groan underfoot. Every window is boarded, but thin slats of dying light cut across the foyer, illuminating a staircase that spirals into shadow.

You climb. The stairs creak like they're counting your steps.

The attic is wide and low-ceilinged, cluttered with sheet-draped furniture. But at its center, on a raised dais of black stone, rests a coffin.

Not a rotted wooden box. This is polished obsidian, veined with crimson, its surface cold enough to make the air around it shimmer. The lid is carved with a figure—a woman, arms crossed, eyes closed. Around her, roses with thorns as long as fingers.

The latch opens without resistance.

You lift the lid.

A shriek of leathery wings. A storm of bats erupts from the coffin, swirling around you in a cloud of dust and sound. You shield your face, coughing.

Then silence.

The coffin is empty. Only a single white rose petal rests at the bottom, turning to dust at your touch.

You turn to leave.

She is standing between you and the stairs.

She towers—eight feet and then some—her white-silver hair spilling over shoulders draped in crimson velvet and black fur. Her gown rustles as she takes one step forward, her shadow stretching long despite the dark.