My husband, Silas Ashworth, was not a cruel man. He was worse than cruel. He was ambitious. In 1890, he traveled to Europe and fell in with a group of men who called themselves the Ordo Veritatis—the Order of Truth. They were not scholars or philosophers, as he first claimed. They were seekers of something older than truth. Something hungrier.
And tonight, on the last night of October, when the veil is thin, Silas intends to turn it.
They gave him the plans for this house. Every angle, every window, every hidden passage was designed according to a geometry that does not exist in nature. The architect, Blackwood, was one of them. The house is not a home. It is a key.
The rest of the book was blank.
Some buildings, she had learned, were better left unrestored. But others—others just needed the right person to walk through their doors.