In the shallow light of a waning moon, Maia stood at the edge of Whitfield Manor, a decaying relic of a bygone era. The chill in the air wrapped around her like a shroud, and she felt a familiar weight in her chest. It was a weight she had carried since the world fell silent. Her loss—the specter of a child she would never cradle—haunted her daily. For the past six months, she had poured herself into her work as a paranormal investigator, as if to exorcise her grief, but the shadows weren’t merely those she chased; they were the permanent residents of her heart.

Whitfield Manor was infamous in the local lore—an abandoned mansion where the line between the living and the dead blurred into night. It had been built over two centuries ago, a statue of splendid architecture now crumbling beneath the weight of memories and malevolence. Tales of sightings, disembodied whispers, and, most terrifying of all, the ghastly figure of the Grim Reaper, had drawn many thrill-seekers, and had drawn Maia, as well.

Tonight, bathed in shadows, she held her breath and stepped inside. The air was thick with age, a miasma of dust and despair, and the floorboards creaked beneath her as if warning her to turn back. But Maia had stopped listening to warnings. Every corner of her life had become a hushed echo of what could have been; ghosts of her own creation. The sensation of being monitored prickled along the nape of her neck, as if the house itself bore witness to her approach.

As she traversed the dim corridors, pausing at the yawning doorways, she recalled the legends that had been passed down through generations. The Grim Reaper was said to appear to those who had unfinished business, those...