Raindrops were pelting Cole Gray’s leather jacket like relentless debt collectors. He wiped the water off his face, stared at the crumpled lawyer’s letter in his hand—wrinkled like a shriveled pickle—and then glanced over at the iron gate across the street. The faded plaque for “Gray Manor” had long since peeled away, leaving only a rusty imprint. When soaked by rain, it oozed a red hue, almost like blood that hadn’t been wiped clean after a stab.
“100,000 visitors a year? This crappy dump wouldn’t even get a stray cat to do its business!” Cole sneered at his phone’s camera, rolling his eyes. The livestream’s title was all flashy—“Paranormal Adventure! Mysterious Inheritance Revealed!”—yet only 37 people were tuned in. One comment popped up: “Stop showing off, streamer—go drink some toilet water already!”
Grinning, he pointed the camera at the battered gate. “Alright, folks, watch closely—you''re about to witness some real supernatural mojo!” He fished a deck of cards from his pocket, the Ace of Spades spinning between his fingers like a tiny electric fan. This trick had scammed plenty of suckers outside Vegas casinos back in the day; who’d have thought he’d have to use it to open his own door? Just as the card brushed the lock, his finger suddenly went icy cold.
“Fuck!” he cursed, yanking his hand back to find a smear of dark red on the card’s corner that reeked like rust.
The manor’s main building loomed in the rain—dark, grim, and hunched over like a limping old mutt. Cole crept into the foyer on creaking wooden floors, and as his flashlight beam swept across the ceiling, a swarm of bats burst out, nearly blanking his face.
“Welcome to Gray’s Haunted House—free entry, and if it scares you, well, too bad!” he announced to the camera, flashing a ridiculously cheesy peace sign. Suddenly, the viewer count jumped past 100, and the chat exploded: “Ceiling! There’s something on the ceiling!!”
Cole looked up—and nearly lost his mind. Dangling from a beam was a plaster angel statue, its cracked mouth oozing dark, dripping fluid.
“Guys! This is the lost art of levitation!” he blurted, fumbling to whip out a magnet hook hidden up his sleeve. With a loud clang, the statue crashed at his feet, sending a cloud of dust swirling. The chat lit up with “Streamer, you rock!” and one user named “EverydayGhosts” even dropped a yacht gift.
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Over in the study, an old, creaky desk—barely hanging together—held an envelope sealed with wax stamped with a one-eyed crow. Cole just pried the seal open with a letter opener when the blade’s tip started spitting out tiny sparks.
“Dear nephew,” he read in a trembling voice, “if you can’t get this dump to hit 100,000 visitors in a year, the place goes to the Dark Moon Society…” Outside, a thunderclap boomed, and suddenly red letters began to seep through the back of the letter: Don’t trust those bastards.
In the corner, an ancient telegraph machine started buzzing like it was possessed, spitting out a paper strip covered in sticky red words:
Task 1: Fix up the puppet theater (Progress 0/1)
Reward: Unlock the staff break room
Warning: Don’t you dare open the attic door!
“My uncle’s sense of humor is dark as hell,” Cole muttered as he snapped a photo of the paper strip with his phone—even though the screen was filled with static. Then the chat went berserk: “Behind you! Behind you!!”
Spinning around, his blood ran cold—the telegraph’s plug wasn’t even plugged in. From the direction of the attic came creaking sounds, like nails scraping on a coffin lid. Just as Cole’s hand reached for the doorknob, the whole house began shaking like it was in the middle of an earthquake. A crystal chandelier crashed with a massive bang right where he’d been standing, showering the camera with shards of glass. The last image before the stream cut off was the ceiling, covered in scratch marks as if clawed by ten cats.
Clutching the letter opener, Cole backed away as the dark hallway filled with the rustle of fabric. Out from behind an oil painting stepped a figure as white as chalk, dressed in a crisp black suit sharp enough to be a weapon, with a silver ponytail that swayed hypnotically. The guy was also holding a small silver bottle, spraying disinfectant with a sizzling sound.
“I’m Lucien DeDracula—the (sort-of) caretaker of this dump,” the man declared in a tone as cold and stiff as a coffin board. “That is, if you manage to survive tonight.”
Cole tucked the playing card back between his fingers and quipped, “What, are vampires rebranding for a second career now?”
“First, don’t call me that lame-ass term,” Lucien snapped, grabbing a wet wipe to clean his letter opener. “Second…” He suddenly materialized behind Cole, his cold breath brushing against his ear, “your old man once tried to burn this place down—with this very knife.”
Without warning, the telegraph went berserk again, spitting out another paper strip drenched in a bloody vibe:
Emergency Task: Find your old man’s eye before midnight (Countdown 01:23:45)
Lucien’s disinfectant bottle clattered to the floor. For the first time, Cole saw that arrogant guy actually look scared. Then, the attic door creaked open just a crack, and something round rolled down the stairs—
A bloodshot eyeball, with a crow’s mark etched into its pupil.