A fat shaft of light shining through an asymmetrical skylight picks out motes of dust and casts a blue tint over the stonework of the enormous hall. As you follow the plush crimson rug further into the chamber, pairs of ivory white candles—sitting atop long iron holders bolted into the stone floor—burst to life. Above the mantel of the defunct fireplace, a massive portrait of a man with slicked hair, unearthly pale skin, and blood-red lips stands sentinel. His eyes are impossibly deep and dark, and seem to follow your every step. A faint melody, so faint that it might be carried on the breath of ghosts, pervades the room, but you see no instruments nor vocalists. Then your attention is drawn to a massive ivory throne, meticulously carved, at the far end of the hall. Is there a figure sitting, immobile, in the shadows awaiting your approach? Or is it a figment of your roiling imagination?
