The sun has disappeared and it's nearly dark. I stand alone at the end of a broken road that snakes under a canopy of drooping trees. I don't see any mansion. To find it, I will have to walk down this road and into the gloomy tunnel formed by the overhanging trees. I'm picturing the headline: "Expelled Student Found Dead in Secluded Area."

As I enter the tree tunnel, it grows so dark that I can barely see my feet. Something smells sour. Tree branches touch my shoulders as if reaching to strangle me.

After what seems like an eternity, I emerge from the trees and see the dim outline of a ramshackle mansion. My heart sinks. This is not the place. It has the wrong kind of doors, three levels instead of two, and there's nothing but dead grass where the stone carriageway should be.

In the stillness I hear the chirp of crickets. Not a single light shines from the mansion. It lies before me in the night like a decomposed body. I should leave now. But it's dark, getting cold, and I have no phone and not enough money for the bus. Perhaps I can find a blanket inside, or some canned food.

I creep toward the broken mansion as if it were a big dog, ready to bite. As I step past the entry columns, I see something wedged in the crack between the double doors. A paper of some sort. I pluck it out, stepping to the side of the porch to catch a ray of blue moonlight. It's a notice from the city, nearly five months old. Something about property taxes. It's addressed to "Richard Sinclair."

I'm convinced the place is empty, but I decide to knock, just to be sure. The steel knocker hangs askew from one screw, but it gets the job done. The knock goes unanswered, so I try the door handle. It's locked, of course. I try the handle again, hoping for a different result. Stupid. It doesn't open.

I pull my jean jacket tight around me. I'm shivering from the cold and my stomach aches from hunger. There's got to be a way inside. Perhaps a key is hidden somewhere. I check under the mat and find a brittle envelope. I carry it into the moonlight and peer at the front. The envelope has probably been out here for years, and at some point has gotten soaked. There's a single word on the front of the envelope, hard to make out…

Cassandra

I feel my heart stop. I'm at the right house, and Cassandra is real!

Relief overwhelms me as I realize I haven't gone mad. My fingers tremble as I open the envelope. The paper inside is molded and the ink has run together. Whatever message was in here is now unreadable. My heart sinks.

Then I find something else inside the envelope. A rusted key!

I hurry to push the key into the lock of the front door. It doesn't fit! I'm on an emotional rollercoaster. I just want to get off. I sit on the edge of the porch, hugging myself against the cold. I'm getting lightheaded from hunger.

Think, Emma, think. This key obviously opens something.

A different door?

I get to my feet and walk around the side of the menacing mansion. Bushes and brambles have claimed the property. I feel briers scratching my ankles.

Behind the house squats some sort of Gothic tomb, its door guarded by two stone angels, their faces veiled by vines. The tomb door has no handle, no keyhole. I feel oddly drawn to this crypt, but there is no obvious way inside.

I turn to the back of the house. Trees block the moonlight, so I trace my hand along the wall to find my way. I discover a narrow door made of rusted iron. A servant's entrance?

The door is locked. I try the key. It fits but it won't turn. Shit! I can't take any more of this. I try the key again, wiggling it a bit and praying for a different result. And this time it turns the lock! My heart races as I pull open the creaking door. A pungent scent of decay washes over me and bile rises in my throat. If there was food in here, it's gone bad.

My shivering grows more violent. I'm not sure it's from the cold. I realize my finger has curled deep into my hair. At this moment, I would trade every lock of it for a flashlight. Part of me says it would be madness to step inside. Better to take my chances in the cold and try to make it back to civilization. But another part of me realizes that the mystery of my past, the mystery of Julian, lies inside these decaying walls.

I hear my heart thumping wicked hard as I step across the threshold, feeling my way into utter darkness.

The mansion I've discovered reeks of decay. The air crawls with dust and mold and I find myself sneezing, alarmed that I'm announcing my presence to any creatures within. I inch my way through the blackness, banging my shin on some hidden obstacle. After what seems like an hour but is probably minutes, I spot a faint glow and it leads me into a kitchen where moonlight streams through a window. The vast kitchen is as big as my entire apartment. There is no running water and no electricity. The appliances look very old, perhaps from the 1950s, sturdy and unadorned. The counter is paved with slabs of marble, possibly pink, though it's hard to tell in this dim light.

There is no refrigerator, so I search through the cupboards for anything to eat or drink. All I find is a dusty bottle of wine and some homemade jerky in heat-sealed plastic. I find a corkscrew in a drawer and open the bottle. The handwritten label tells me it's a private stock Greenvale Farm chardonnay from 1927. How long does wine last in storage? I guess I'll find out.

A small sip from the bottle has me choking and spitting. It tastes like paint thinner.

The jerky is so salty that it could probably last a thousand years in storage. I've never had to chew so hard. I can feel each bite traveling all the way down to my stomach. I don't think they had heat-sealed plastic in 1927, so someone must have made this jerky more recently.

Feeling thirstier, but a little stronger, I dig through a utility closet adjacent to the kitchen. I can't tell what most of the items are, so I carry everything out into the shaft of moonlight. The only useful thing I discover is a box of long wooden matches. There may be candles somewhere in this house!

I reluctantly leave my kitchen oasis, burning a long match to light the way. I feel a moment of panic as the match winks out, but my fumbling fingers soon light another.

I catch a glimpse of something dark scurrying along a floorboard. This house has gone unattended for decades and the vermin have run amok. Perhaps I can convince them I'm their leader. Emma, Queen of Rats.

I can't see far enough in the match light to determine the size of the room I'm in now. There appears to be nothing here but cobwebs and mold. My heart leaps as I spot a treasure resting in a layer of dust along a ledge. A candelabra! I light the three stocky candles and hold them before me like a shield, venturing farther into the dark recesses of the wrecked mansion.

The ceiling suddenly disappears, stretching beyond the reach of the candlelight. I realize I'm standing in the Great Hall of Refuge d'Amoureux. Though I can't see the domed ceiling, I recognize the shape of the long dining table, easily seating thirty guests, and I see the tall windows, one of them framing the moon. Before it went to seed, the mansion must have been renovated again. That's probably when the extra floor was added. But at least this room hasn't changed.

My feet crunch on some unidentifiable debris as I cross the hall, expecting to find the grand stairs. They are right where they're supposed to be. The stairs rise to the two floors above, and a smaller staircase leads down into the basement. I'm not sure where to go from here.

I'm scared to go down into the basement. The upper floors seem safer. But for some reason I am drawn to the basement.

I take the old wooden stairs leading down. With each step, a nerve-jangling creak drifts down into the darkness.

The stench of decay grows stronger as I carefully cross the basement's concrete floor. Mountains of disintegrating cardboard boxes share space with wooden crates and a handful of old leather-bound trunks. There must be a lot of history here. I want to open all of the trunks like presents. But not now.

One of the candles sputters ominously as I press forward. The basement seems vast. I can't see its edges in the candlelight. I hear a strange noise. What is that? Dripping water?

I stumble over something. Adrenaline fires through my body as I struggle to hold onto the candelabra. I fall on my side and the candles go tumbling. I'm so graceful, like a ballerina.

The candles wink out, plunging me into darkness. Fortunately, I'm still clutching the box of matches. I feel blindly for the candles and manage to relight them, then I extend the candelabra toward the thing that I tripped over.

It's a human body, the source of the smell!

My stomach churns as I see a few shreds of leathery flesh still clinging to the skeleton. It's been here for a long time. I gasp as a rat leaps out of the rib cage and scurries into the shadows. Is this Julian's body? Or Cassandra's? I can't even tell the gender of the corpse.

I should be running away screaming! What is keeping me here?

I feel Cassandra's strength in me. She has seen many bodies, the bodies of dead soldiers and the bodies of her victims. She would not run away. So neither will I.

Swallowing my terror, I clamber to my feet and continue deeper into the dark basement. Something snags my dress. I look down, expecting to see a bony hand, but it's only an exposed nail. I free myself and continue on.

A sudden pain blurs my vision and makes my eyes water. I realize I've banged my head on a low-hanging pipe, or possibly a vent, leading from an immense rusted furnace in the corner of the basement.

Inside the furnace, I sense a presence.

A voice inside me says run. But my feet won't move. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I can't breathe. Am I having a heart attack?

Drawing on Cassandra's strength, I put down the matches, move forward, and reach for the door of the huge furnace, already slightly ajar. I slowly pull it open with a trembling hand. The rusted metal shrieks as the iron door gives way.

Inside, a figure lies on the cold floor of the furnace, covered in a thin cocoon of spiderwebs. Pale spiders, hundreds of them, scuttle away from the candlelight in a sickening wave.

My hand shakes violently as I reach down and wipe cobwebs from the figure's face. His features are pinched and pale. Is he dead? Is this another body? I lean in for a closer look. Suddenly, I recognize him.