I never asked to inherit the old Marlow Mansion.
It wasn't even on my radar until the lawyer's letter arrived, crisp and cold as the November wind outside my apartment window.
The house sat at the edge of Black Hollow, a town swallowed by time and whispers.
Abandoned since the 1950s after a fire claimed ten lives during what was supposed to be “The Grand Halloween Gala,” it had become folklore—a cautionary tale told around campfires.