*Chapter 1: The Letter*

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, and it ruined Evelyn Hart’s life in 47 seconds.

She knew it was bad news the moment she saw the crest. Black wax seal, silver “B” pressed into it. No one used wax seals anymore unless they wanted to feel important. Or dangerous. Her hands were still damp from washing dishes when she picked it up, and the envelope felt heavier than paper had any right to be.

Evelyn opened it at her tiny kitchen table, with cold coffee in one hand and a resignation letter in the other. She’d been planning to quit her job at Morrison & Co. that morning. Three years as an accountant, and she still got yelled at for 50-cent discrepancies. Her boss, Mr. Morrison, had called her “replaceable” yesterday. Today was supposed to be her last day of being replaceable.

The letter said:

> _Miss Evelyn Hart,

> Per the will of the late Alistair Blackwood, you are hereby summoned to Blackwood Manor on the 15th of October to discuss your inheritance.

> Failure to attend will result in forfeiture.

> — Elias Blackwood, Executor_

Evelyn read it twice. Then three times. The words didn’t change, but her stomach did. It dropped like an elevator with cut cables.

Alistair Blackwood. The name rang a bell, faint and distant, like a memory from childhood. He was her grandfather’s old business partner. She’d met him once when she was eight, at a funeral she barely remembered. He’d been tall, with silver hair and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. He’d knelt down, given her a silver locket, and told her, “Keep this. One day you’ll need it.”

She still had the locket. It was in her jewelry box, tarnished and forgotten under old earrings and a broken watch. She hadn’t thought about it in years.

“Inheritance,” she muttered, pushing the letter away like it might bite her. “Right. Probably a debt.”

Her phone buzzed. Her sister Chloe.

_You alive? You missed your exit interview._

Evelyn typed back with shaky fingers: _Resigning. Going to see a dead guy’s lawyer._

Chloe replied instantly: _WHAT. Is this about money?_

_Doubt it,_ Evelyn typed. _But I’m broke. Might as well go._

She looked at the date on the letter again. October 15th. Four days away.

Blackwood Manor was three hours outside the city, in a town called Hollow Creek. Population 1,200. Known for two things: fog, and rumors. Her grandmother used to say Hollow Creek was the kind of place where people didn’t leave, and people didn’t talk about why.

Evelyn got up and paced the small apartment. The walls felt closer than usual. Her job was miserable, her savings were gone, and her love life was nonexistent. What did she have to lose by going?

She pulled out the locket. It was heavier than she remembered, cold against her palm. The engraving inside was faded, but she could still make out an “A.B.” and a date from 1998. The year her grandfather died.

A coincidence? Probably.

But Evelyn Hart had never believed in coincidences. Not since her mother disappeared when she was twelve, and the police said it was probably just a runaway.

She folded the letter and put it in her bag.

She’d go. Not for money. She didn’t believe in free money, and she didn’t trust people who gave it without strings.

She’d go because something about that locket and that name felt like a door she’d been told not to open.

And Evelyn Hart had never been good at leaving doors closed.

Outside, the sky was turning gray. Rain was coming. Somewhere, in Hollow Creek, Blackwood Manor was waiting.

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