The dead keep the keys. Sneak room by room, hide when she comes, escape before dawn.
You wake in the dark of Hollow Manor, and the front door is locked.
Five keys stand between you and the night air — brass, iron, silver, oak, and the master key that no living hand should hold. Each one sleeps deeper in the house than the last, in a library that drinks sound, a dining room still set for guests who never left, a nursery where something sings to the walls.
She walks the halls. The Lady in Grey drifts room to room in her tattered burial gown, and the house tells her where you are. Run and your pounding feet carry down every corridor. Light your lantern and she sees the glow beneath the doors. Crouch low, keep to the walls, and if the cold comes — slip inside a wardrobe, hold your breath, and wait for the whispers to pass.
Eight letters hidden. Five keys. One door. And she is very, very patient.
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