Episode 1

The insistent, almost frantic chirping of Eleanor’s phone alarm was the only thing that could pry her from the tangled sheets of her modest city apartment bed. Mornings in her tiny, sun-starved space were usually a hurried ballet of burnt toast, lukewarm coffee, and the clatter of keyboards as she chased down leads for the local online news outlet. Today, however, felt different. A palpable stillness hung in the air, a premonition that hummed beneath the usual urban din.

Eleanor, at twenty-seven, had cultivated a life of self-reliance, a deliberate severance from anything that hinted at her enigmatic past. Her parents had been wanderers, free spirits who had passed on little more than a peculiar surname and a childhood dotted with fleeting addresses before their sudden, unexplained disappearance almost fifteen years ago. Since then, ‘family’ for Eleanor had been a nebulous, ill-defined concept, a word whispered in hushed tones by distant relatives she barely knew, none of whom ever offered concrete details or a stable hand. She liked it that way, mostly. Independence was her shield, curiosity her sword.

She pushed herself up, stretching until her spine popped, and padded over to the small, cluttered desk that served as her command center. Amongst the stacks of dog-eared books on investigative journalism and the scattered research notes for her next piece on municipal corruption, lay an anomaly. A thick, cream-colored envelope, its edges crisp, its paper heavy and expensive, lay starkly against the chaos. It bore no stamp, no postmark, and no sender’s address. It had simply… appeared. On her doormat? In her mailbox? She couldn't recall seeing it before she'd collapsed into bed last night, exhausted from a late-night stakeout.

Her brow furrowed. No return address. The front, however, was impeccably hand-addressed in flowing, almost calligraphic script: Eleanor Vance. Personal and Urgent.

A ripple of unease traced its way down her spine. No one sent letters anymore, certainly not like this. Her journalistic instincts, honed by years of sniffing out anomalies, immediately flared. This wasn't junk mail. This was intended.

She picked it up, feeling the weight of the card stock, a subtle, almost imperceptible scent of aged paper and something else… something faintly metallic, like old iron or distant rain. With a growing sense of trepidation, she slid a finger under the sealed flap and broke the wax seal, which bore an intricate, unfamiliar crest: a stylized raven perched atop a twisted oak.

Inside lay a single, equally heavy card. The message, brief and stark, was typed with an antique font, almost like a telegram:

ELEANOR VANCE. BLACKWOOD MANOR. URGENT FAMILY MATTER. YOUR PRESENCE REQUIRED. IMMINENT.

No signature. No date. Just a stark address: Blackwood Manor, Deepwood Forest, County Farrow.

Eleanor read it twice, then a third time, her mind racing. Blackwood Manor. The name conjured images of gothic novels and dusty, forgotten histories. She vaguely remembered a hushed mention of a "Blackwood branch" of her family from an aunt she’d met once, fleetingly, at a long-ago funeral. A branch severed and rarely spoken of. This letter felt less like an invitation and more like a summons.

"Urgent family matter," she murmured, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. What family? The one that had never bothered to acknowledge her existence? The one that had left her to navigate the world alone? A bitter laugh escaped her lips. This was either an elaborate prank or something deeply, unsettlingly serious.

She tossed the card onto her desk, deciding to ignore it. She had a deadline, a leaky faucet, and a mountain of laundry. The past could stay buried. But as she moved about her apartment, the letter's starkness clung to her thoughts like an oppressive fog. Its mystery gnawed at her, a professional itch she couldn't scratch. The urgency. The imminent. The unspoken. It was a story begging to be investigated, a puzzle demanding to be solved. And deep down, a part of her, a part she rarely acknowledged, yearned for answers about where she came from. Perhaps, she thought, Blackwood Manor held the key to her parents' past, to the blank spaces in her own narrative.

Reluctantly, she opened her laptop. A quick search for "Blackwood Manor, County Farrow" yielded surprisingly little. A few old, archived articles from local historical societies mentioned a "reclusive Blackwood family" of considerable ancient lineage, known for their vast, isolated estate and an almost obsessive privacy. Nothing scandalous, nothing overtly sinister, just a pervasive sense of old money and deep-rooted secrecy. There were no pictures, no recent news, just vague allusions to a family that had faded into legend. The scarcity of information only heightened her intrigue. It was as if the manor itself resisted being cataloged by the modern world.

She looked at the letter again, the elegant script now appearing almost menacing. An urgent family matter. What could be so urgent it required a summons from a family she didn't know, to a place that barely existed on the modern map? Was it a death? A will? Or something far stranger?

A shiver, unrelated to the chilly morning air, ran through her. It was a cold, creeping sensation, like stepping into a shadow. This wasn't just a story; this felt like an entry point into something profoundly unsettling. Her instincts screamed caution, but her curiosity, the very core of her being, pulled her irresistibly forward. She was a journalist, after all. And this, she realized, might just be the biggest story of her life. Or the last.

Eleanor began to pack, her movements deliberate, almost mechanical. Not just clothes, but her sturdy hiking boots, a reliable flashlight, a compact camera, and a small, worn notebook with a pen always at the ready. She booked a taxi, a long-distance fare that raised an eyebrow or two at the dispatch, but she offered no explanation. The further she got from the city, the more the familiar urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills, then dense, ancient forests. The sky, once a cheerful blue, now seemed perpetually overcast, a heavy grey blanket draped over the landscape. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. Each mile felt like a step back in time, away from the familiar and into the unknown. The unspoken invitation had set her on a path, and there was no turning back now. The manor awaited.

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