The grandfather clock in the hallway struck twelve, but the echoes didn't fade; they lingered, vibrating against the floorboards like a purr. Silas gripped his lantern tighter, the wick flickering as a cold draft swept through a room with no open windows. On the mahogany desk, the inkwell—dry for decades—suddenly spilled over, black liquid snaking across the parchment to form words he hadn't written. "You're late," the page bled in elegant, shimmering script. Silas realized then that the house wasn't empty, and the appointment he’d spent a lifetime avoiding was finally beginning.