The house was colder inside than the storm outside.
Claire pushed open the heavy oak doors and was greeted with the scent of dust and mildew, like a tomb sealed shut for decades. Her flashlight beam caught the edge of a grand staircase, portraits lining the walls—faces blurred with age, their eyes seeming to follow her.
"Hello?" her voice cracked in the silence.
Only the storm answered.
The air carried a strange vibration, as though the walls themselves were humming, whispering in tones just beyond comprehension. She turned a corner and stopped dead.
At the end of the hallway, a single door stood out from the rest. Unlike the others, it was freshly painted black, with a heavy brass lock bolted shut. Scratches marred the wood around it—long, desperate gouges, as if someone had tried to claw their way out.
Her skin prickled.
From the other side came a sound. Soft. Wet. A dragging noise, like fingernails slowly trailing down the back of the door.
Claire froze, breath caught in her throat.
Then, clear as day, she heard a voice. Whispering her name.
"Claire…"
⚡ That's the hook. From here, the novel can unfold with layers of mystery—why the house is tied to her family, what lurks in the locked room, and whether the voices are human, supernatural, or something far worse.