Chapter 1

The old security camera, rust-streaked and askew, stared blankly from the crumbling stone pillar.

"Alright, Ghost Gang, we're past the main gate," Jack Riley whispered into his headset mic, his breath fogging in the chill New England air. "Grayson Manor. Five years since Emily White vanished. Five years of rumors."

His high-powered flashlight cut a swathe through the overgrown driveway, illuminating the dark, hulking silhouette of the main house.

The live chat on his screen, streamed from his producer's tablet, was already a torrent of negativity.

*User_CTX482: Emily White? That spoiled brat who partied her trust fund away? Good riddance.*

*HauntedHater69: She probably just ran off with some dude. Drama queen.*

*TruthSeeker_1: Jack, don't waste your time. She was bad news.*

The comments scrolled, a river of scorn.

Jack frowned. The narrative around Emily White had been set in stone long ago: unstable, attention-seeking, a stain on the prestigious Grayson name.

"Easy, folks," Jack said, his voice even. "We're here to explore, to see what's what. Not to judge, not yet."

He knew the numbers, though. This stream was already pulling in massive views precisely *because* of the controversy, the public's morbid fascination with the fallen heiress.

He adjusted the harness holding his own camera. "I'm just here to show you what this place is really like. No spin, no agenda."

He held up a small, carved wooden cross. "And if anything 'unsettling' decides to show up, well, you know I'm prepared."

A few positive emojis flashed in the chat, mixed with more derision.

*GhostFanatic_7: Yeah Jack! Get 'em!*

*Realist_MD: A cross? Seriously? What a joke.*

He ignored them, focusing on the imposing front door of the manor, its paint peeling, one of its ornate knockers missing. The air hung heavy, thick with the smell of damp earth and decay.

He pushed. The door groaned, then slowly, reluctantly, swung inward with a screech that echoed into the cavernous, dark foyer.

Jack stepped inside, his light dancing over cobweb-draped furniture and dust thicker than a winter blanket.

"Damn," he muttered, the word lost in the oppressive silence.

Miles away, in a sleek Manhattan penthouse, Noah Grayson slammed his fist on the polished mahogany bar.

The crystal glass in his other hand shattered, red wine splashing like blood.

"Emily," he hissed, the name a curse on his lips. "Why won't she just stay gone? Five years, and she still haunts us."

He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating his handsome, tormented face. The smoke curled towards the ceiling.

He jabbed a number on his phone. "This livestream... it can't reach Sophia. She can't hear Emily's name again. It... it upsets her too much."

A soft hand touched his arm. Sophia Grayson, his adopted sister, stood behind him, her large, innocent eyes wide with concern.

"Noah, darling," she murmured, her voice a gentle caress. "It's alright. People die. I've... I've moved on."

She looked at the phone screen in his hand, displaying Jack Riley's live feed from the old estate.

"Emily hurt me, yes," Sophia continued, her lower lip trembling. "But she paid the price. We have to look forward. I don't want to dwell on the past, on her mistakes."

An older man, Mr. Grayson, Noah's father, emerged from his study, his face a mask of cold fury.

"That girl! Good riddance she's dead!" He snatched the remote, turning up the volume on the large screen displaying the stream.

He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, downing it in one gulp. "An embarrassment. Five years and still making trouble. Let's see what new circus this is."

Back in the decaying manor, Jack's voice was laced with confusion.

"What in the world...?"

The walls of the grand foyer were not just peeling; they were covered in strange, dark stains, almost hidden beneath creeping ivy that had forced its way through cracks in the stone.

He motioned for his cameraman, Dave, to get a closer look. "Zoom in on that, Dave."

The camera lens focused on a patch where the ivy was thinner. Beneath it, unmistakably, were what looked like old, blackened bloodstains.

The live chat, momentarily stunned into silence, erupted.

*OMG_WTF: Is that... BLOOD?!*

*SkepticSam: Probably animal blood. Emily was crazy enough.*

*GossipGirl99: I heard she was into some weird cult stuff before she disappeared.*

*DarkHumorDave: Maybe she redecorated with her own 'art'. Lol.*

*TrueCrimeFan: She had that meltdown online, claiming depression, then poof. Someone probably got tired of her act and did her a favor.*

*LOLMaster: A favor! Good one!*

Yes, very funny, I thought. My death became their entertainment.