Hollowmoor Manor

You wake in a locked bedroom of Hollowmoor Manor. The front door is sealed three ways — an iron keypad, a brass padlock, and a chained bolt. Somewhere in the dark, an old woman in mourning drags her feet across the floorboards, listening.

This is Granny, grown cruel. Every seal hides behind a chain of puzzles: find the four portraits and scratch their numbers in the order the diary dictates. Wind the gramophone and replay its five-note melody on the wall of bells — a wrong note rings through the whole house. Hunt down three glass fuses to wake the powerless cellar, then crack the study safe's lights-out lock. Nothing is handed to you; the manor makes you work for every inch.

She hunts by ear. Sprinting, slammed doors, snapped bear traps, tripwire bells — every sound you make draws her in. Crouch through the creaking halls, kill your flashlight when her eyes glow at the end of the corridor, and hide in a wardrobe while her ragged dress whispers past the door. Three times she can catch you. There is no fourth.

Traps litter the route: rusted bear traps that clamp your ankle and shout your position, tripwires that ring the house awake, floorboards tuned to betray you. And the manor itself jumpscares you — faces in mirrors, books that hurl themselves from shelves, a figure at the end of the hall that is gone when you blink.

When the last seal breaks, the front door screams open — and so does she. Run.