The air inside Blackwood Manor crackled with energy, thick and suffocating, as Mr. Sinclair’s laughter echoed off the decaying walls. Sarah’s flashlight flickered, casting jagged shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. Across the room, Lila stood frozen, her face pale as she stared at her father—the man who had raised her, now a stranger draped in shadows and ambition.
“You think you can stop me?” Mr. Sinclair sneered, his voice reverberating with an unnatural timbre. “The ritual is already in motion. The power of Blackwood will be mine by sunrise.”
Sarah’s mind raced. The diary’s final entry burned in her memory: “The key to the secret chamber is not an object, but a person. A descendant of those who are pure of heart, bearing a mark…” Her eyes darted to Lila, whose hands trembled at her sides. Was she the key? Or was it someone else? The question hung in the air, sharp and urgent.