Hollowmere House stands at the end of a road that is not on any map. Every autumn its hostess, Lady Imogen, sends out a single letter. This year it reached you. The house changes depending on who you talk to and which doors you open. Rooms you anger stay angry, and secrets you uncover stay uncovered. Finish dinner, find out why you were invited, and decide whether you are leaving before sunrise.
The letter arrived without a stamp. Cream paper, black wax, your name written in a hand that hasn’t been taught in a century.
“Dinner at eight. Do bring the lantern — the road is dark, and the house prefers guests who can see.”
By the time you reach the gate, the windows are already lit. A black cat waits on the top step, as if it has been told to.
The door opens before you knock.
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