Follow Ellis’s scribbled clue into the servants’ wing—maybe there’s a hidden path out, or maybe Simon Weaver is waiting in the dark.

Sneak behind Mr. Grieves’s portrait and take the hidden stairs upward. Face ghostly whispers and the house’s twisted secrets on floors no one dares walk.

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The Crooked Foyer

The Door That Vanished

Squeeze into the dumbwaiter and pull yourself up—whatever’s waiting up there has to be better than facing Simon here.

The Forgotten Servants’ Wing

Shadows of the Servants’ Wing

Push onward to the attic, ready for whatever secrets or ghosts Mr. Grieves has left behind.

The Architect’s Secret Stairwell

The Architect's Stairwell

The Moonlit Attic

The Whisper in the Attic

The Overgrown Back Lawn

The Laughter Behind the Mask

Harper Ellwood

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Simon Weaver

Ellis Raynor

Mr. Grieves

Archie Davenport

You are Harper Ellwood, and for months, something’s moved in the dark—a whisper brushing the nape of your neck, a cold stare from behind the curtains. Every shadow twists your gut. Two months of paranoia has sharpened your senses until every creak in the house feels personal. Now you wake up in a mansion that shivers with secrets, determined to trust no one but your own pounding heartbeat. Walls close in. Memories flicker like dying bulbs. You must outsmart the madman, survive the night, and lose yourself only in the moment you escape.

He is the breath on your window at midnight. Simon Weaver isn’t tall or menacing—he could vanish into a crowd, but in the mansion’s warren of hallways he becomes the wolf behind the door. He waits, plans, listening for footsteps and the tiniest mistakes. His voice is a whisper behind every locked door, a promise that you’ll never leave. His obsession with you is the thread pulling the whole house tight.

Ellis Raynor’s voice drifts to you through ancient vents, a lifeline from someone hidden deeper in the maze. You never see her clearly, only glimpses—a flash of sneakers, a laugh that croaks with hope. She’s survived here longer, scribbling cryptic clues and warnings in forgotten rooms. Maybe she’ll help you or maybe she’ll lead you astray. In this place, trust is as slippery as the shadows.

His photo hangs crooked in the foyer, eyes following you. Mr. Grieves was the mansion’s original architect, desperate for perfection—so desperate his madness seeped into every blueprint. You hear him sometimes: a groan in the pipes, a sigh behind a sealed wall. He may be gone, but the house listens to him still, and sometimes, if you stand very still, you can almost hear him promising release… or warning you away.

Archie Davenport was the first kid who tried to spend a night in the mansion—and never walked out. Now, he is the story that haunts your small town. Inside these walls, he’s more rumor than boy, glimpsed in broken mirrors and dusty corners, his voice urging you to hurry, hurry, hurry before it’s too late. He helps you only when it amuses him, adding another twist to the maze.

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Too-Tired Survivor

Predator in the Shadows

Maze-Runner’s Layered Mismatch

Architect’s Ageless Shadow

Whisper of a Lost Boy

Harper's outfit speaks to sleepless nights and raw nerves, pieced together for comfort and movement rather than style. She wears a faded, oversized olive-green hoodie with worn cuffs, the kangaroo pocket stretched from nervous hands absently tugging at its threads. Underneath, a heather-grey T-shirt peeks out, threadbare at the collar and marked with an old, cracked print from a long-forgotten summer camp. Dark, skinny jeans, knees faded and fraying, bear a fresh rip from a recent escape—dirt smears streak one calf. Her battered canvas sneakers, once white but now scuffed and dirt-stained, are loosely laced and quick to kick off if she needs to run or duck behind furniture. Around one wrist is a homemade friendship bracelet of blue and green floss—frayed but precious—which she twists when anxious. Harper carries a worn canvas messenger bag covered in enamel pins and patches, its flap heavy with safety pins holding together tears. Her hair, tangled and hastily raked back into a messy ponytail with a cheap black elastic, reveals stray pieces constantly falling into her darting, tired eyes. The only jewelry she wears is a thin copper ring on her thumb—subtle, almost invisible, but a quiet talisman against the dark.

Simon’s clothing blends into the mansion’s half-light, chosen to be as forgettable as the man himself. He wears a buttoned-up black windbreaker, the polyester shell glossy in places with ingrained grime and bearing stains along the cuffs, zipped to the chin as if to hide within it. Underneath, a thin, stained charcoal turtleneck clings to his sallow frame, the neck stretched from nervous hands tugging at it. His dark, ill-fitting slacks hang off his bony hips, the hems frayed and muddied, pockets bulging with keys, a crumpled notebook, and a rusted penknife. Heavy, mud-caked work boots with cracked leather soles help him move soundlessly along tiled floors and rotten carpets. A battered, faded grey baseball cap—swiped from some forgotten place—shields part of his greasy, stringy hair and casts deep shadows over his piercing, cold eyes. Simon wears a cheap plastic digital watch with scratches on the screen; it beeps at odd, unsettling intervals. Around his neck is a thin black cord with a worn bronze key, its significance known only to him—he fingers it often when lost in thought. His pockets also contain a stained handkerchief and a battered pack of matches, both items occasionally glimpsed in fleeting gestures.

Ellis dresses in whatever she’s scavenged, forming a mismatched but practical ensemble marked by resilience. She wears a too-large plaid flannel shirt in faded navy and red tones, the sleeves rolled unevenly above her thin wrists and patched at the elbows with mismatched denim. Beneath, a dirty white tank top hangs loosely over baggy olive cargo shorts held up with a piece of frayed orange paracord, one pocket bulging with scavenged odds and ends—a stub of pencil, a crumpled note, a piece of broken glass. Her legs, scraped and bruised, are semi-hidden by mismatched knee-high socks: one cobalt blue with a red stripe, the other grey and full of small holes. Ellis's sneakers are off-brand and paint-splattered, one lace replaced with a strip of knotted shoelace from another pair. Around her neck, she wears a charm on a faded leather cord—a tiny, chipped enamel cat—her anchor in the mansion’s endless nights. On her fingers, colored rubber bands serve as makeshift rings, a subtle rebellion against monotony. Her platinum hair is clipped haphazardly back with a bitten plastic barrette, loose strands framing her gaunt, mischievous face. A battered army-green backpack rides one shoulder, adorned with tiny keychains and a sewn-on patch of a grinning cartoon ghost.

Mr. Grieves’s attire flickers in and out of focus, blending nineteenth-century formality with the decay of time. He wears a long, tattered frock coat—once deep burgundy, now faded to ghostly purple-grey, its edges dissolving into ethereal mist and tatters that drift as he moves. A high-collared, ruffled white shirt peeks from under the coat, its front streaked with dust and spectral grime, the cuffs loose and floating around bony, translucent wrists. Heavy, pinstriped formal trousers hug his impossibly long legs, the weave sometimes shimmering with a moth-eaten translucency. His shoes are classic black leather, scuffed and shadowed, their shape warping at the toes as if unfinished. Around his neck sits a faded blood-red silk cravat, knotted elegantly but so worn it seems part of his flickering form. Wisps of auburn hair blend into the shadows around him, and wherever he stands, dust motes seem to swirl in unnatural patterns. He carries no visible accessories, but a slender, bent silver fountain pen sometimes manifests in his right hand, gesturing with unseen blueprints. Any jewelry is long-vanished, save for a battered signet ring, occasionally flashing on his translucent finger, engraved with the mansion’s crest—a symbol that glows softly when the house wishes to speak through him.

Archie appears in the clothes he wore the night he vanished, now blurred with the pale distortion of memory and haunting. His simple white graphic tee, bearing the faded outline of a vintage rocket ship, is rumpled and torn at the hem as though snagged during a frantic chase. A red-and-navy checkered flannel overshirt hangs loosely, sleeves rolled halfway and buttons mismatched, drifting open with every spectral movement. Dusty blue jeans sit loose on his frame, the knees ripped, one stitched clumsily with white thread—evidence of old, patchwork repairs. On his feet are beat-up high-top sneakers with neon green laces, one shoe dangling untied and sometimes half-transparent. Over one wrist is a woven friendship bracelet, colors bright against the muted blur of his apparition, and he often fiddles with it absently. His coppery hair sticks out in uneven tufts, haloed in spectral light, and his wide, brown eyes sparkle with mischief even when hollowed by shadow. Protruding from his back pocket is a dog-eared comic book, the cover glimmering in and out of focus. When the light is right, an old digital watch with a cracked face flickers at his wrist, forever stuck at 2:17—the moment he crossed the mansion’s threshold.

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Follow Ellis Raynor’s whisper and search behind the dresser for her hidden message.

Ignore Ellis’s clue and use Archie Davenport’s advice—search the room for a crawlspace escape.

Ellis’s furtive help sparks a thread of wary trust (+1 Relationship: Hopeful Ally).

Harper’s defiance deepens Simon’s obsession to break her (+1 Relationship: Dangerous Foe).

Mr. Grieves takes a cryptic interest in Harper, watching her movements closely (Relationship Unchanged: Enigmatic Observer).

Archie’s mischief shifts from mere amusement to investment in Harper’s fate (+1 Relationship: Reluctant Helper).

THE STALKER

Imagine the shadows creeping closer with every passing night. Now step into the battered sneakers of Harper Ellwood, haunted for months by the gaze she feels yet never sees. When the world outside her window vanishes, replaced by silent corridors and locked doors, survival is no longer just a schoolyard dare—it's the only thing left. The rustle in the hallway, the handwritten notes, the echo of footsteps behind every wall—none of it is a nightmare. The mansion’s secrets writhe beneath its floorboards, the stalker’s obsession twisting reality into a frenetic game of hide and seek. But Harper knows what you know: escape means unraveling the fears stitched through each room before the house becomes her tomb.

THE STALKER

THE STALKER

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