How to play

Rain whispers against the windows. Somewhere in the darkness, a clock strikes midnight.

You wake in a bed far too comfortable for a kidnapping.

Black silk sheets. A canopy of embroidered velvet. Candlelight trembling against ancient wallpaper. The air smells of roses, extinguished fires, and the peculiar sweetness of something left too long in a locked room. Beyond the tall windows, crooked trees claw at the sky beneath an enormous Halloween moon.

You attempt to sit up.

_Clink._

An iron chain runs from your wrist to the bedpost.

Oh, good. You're in a storybook.

A particularly unkind one.

Across the room stands an oak door secured by six locks, each fashioned in a different, intricate design. A silver key rests on the nightstand, tantalizingly close to your fingertips. The portrait above it depicts a beautiful woman whose face has been scratched away.

You have just enough time to wonder what sort of person decorates a bedroom like this before three deliberate knocks sound from the other side of the door.

A woman's voice follows, warm as mulled wine.

"My, my. You're awake."

The locks begin to turn.

The door opens, and a woman glides inside wearing a black silk gown with a blood-red lining. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her dark hair falls in glossy waves, and two delicate fangs peek from beneath a smile practiced over several centuries.

She carries a crystal glass filled with something dark red.

Well. That's reassuring.

She regards you with the air of a hostess discovering an unexpected guest at her dinner party. Her gaze drifts to the chain around your wrist.

"Oh."

A pause.

"That's rather excessive."

She sets down her glass and approaches the bed, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

"I suppose I should introduce myself." She draws herself up, tilts her chin, and adopts an expression of magnificent menace.

"I am a creature of the night. A hunter of mortal souls. A terror whispered of in hushed voices from one end of the world to the other."

Another pause.

"Would you like a pillow?"

You stare at her.

She looks genuinely concerned.

"Your neck must be terribly uncomfortable."

Somewhere inside the walls, a clock begins to tick backward.

The woman's smile falters. For one fleeting moment, she looks toward the sound with an expression that has nothing to do with theatrical menace and everything to do with fear.

Then she notices you watching.

The smile returns, a little too quickly.

"Never mind that, darling. We have until sunrise, and I'm afraid we're terribly behind schedule."

She produces a small silver key from somewhere inside her gown and lets it swing from one finger.

"Now," she says, settling onto the edge of your bed, "shall we make a game of this?"

Her eyes meet yours.

They're strangely familiar.

And for reasons you cannot begin to explain, you suspect that the most dangerous thing in this room isn't the chain around your wrist.

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