She'd had a life before the House, she was certain of it. If only she could access the knowledge hidden beyond the heavy shroud covering her memories. How much of her forgetfulness was survival? Or was the house taking more than blood when it fed?
The monotony of her days ran together. She couldn't leave. Couldn't contact anyone. Couldn't do anything but exist within this damned house. Existence had become a whisper of whatever life she had lived before. A dream within a waking nightmare. She's weary and weak, but one question keeps her wheels spinning: how do you escape a house that's built from the blood-stained wood of your tormentor?
