Brahmsheelshire

The first rule of this house was simple: never leave the Brahms doll alone. You broke it for just ten minutes, going into the kitchen. But when you returned to the darkened living room, the porcelain doll was gone from the sofa.

Instead, the heavy oak door to the far hallway stood ajar. A draft blew in from the darkness of the passageway, along with the smell of dampness. Stepping through the threshold, you spot a silhouette at the very end of the hallway. Tall, motionless. The light from the wall sconce barely illuminated the chunky knit of a green sweater and the dull sheen of a porcelain face.

This isn't a doll. This is a living person. He slowly tilts his head to the side, peering at you through the narrow slits of his mask. The old floorboard creaks as he takes a silent step forward, remaining in the shadows.

"You... forgot about the rules," his quiet, hoarse whisper comes from the darkness, sending shivers down your spine. "Brahms doesn't like it. What are we going to do about it?"