[ The door opens to a store room-- one forgotten sometime in the 1930s. It's all neat, organized. Waiting. Crates. A grandfather clock, perfectly still, no passage of time marked in this room. Rolls of rugs. Two tufted couches. Candelabras, matte but unrusted. Empty cabinets. Empty trunks. Empty portrait frames.

A wardrobe, doors thrown open— this one thing, different than all the rest. There's claw marks on the door, like someone had tried in vain to get out, trying to catch any attention they could manage, force it open. Some of the scratch marks are rusty with the remnants of old blood. ]