About the Game
A mansion forgotten by time. A family torn apart by a curse. In the shadows of Blackthorn Manor, the dead remember... and they are waiting.
Uncover secrets, confront restless spirits, and piece together the tragic legacy that haunts the manor walls. Every corner holds a memory. Every step brings you closer to the truth... and the darkness that waits beneath.
- Explore a sprawling, forgotten estate
- Confront haunting memories that refuse to fade
- Piece together the secrets of the Blackthorn family
- Escape the cycle of darkness—or be consumed by it
Gallery
The Story of Blackthorn Manor
At the edge of forgotten lands, where fields have long since withered and the earth itself feels hollow, stands Blackthorn Manor — a monument to ambition, sorrow, and a darkness that will not die. The house looms against the sky, its broken windows like blind eyes, its stones heavy with the weight of centuries. Here, time does not pass — it pools, it festers, it waits. Those who approach find the air thicker, colder, heavier with unseen memory. Most feel it immediately. Most turn away. But some — drawn by blood, by fate, or by foolish hope — step through its doors and are never truly seen again.
The Curse
Long ago, Reginald Blackthorn — a man whose ambition knew no bounds — made a bargain with a force beyond human understanding. In exchange for power, wealth, and influence, the Blackthorn bloodline was bound to the Manor and to the Entity that had answered his call. The terms were simple: the Blackthorns would thrive for a time, but their spirits — and the very memories of who they were — would become twisted, trapped within the house itself. Their triumphs, their regrets, their betrayals — all would be fed back into the Manor, reshaping it into a prison of dreams and lies. Each generation thought they could escape. Each generation failed. The curse does not forget. It does not forgive. It simply waits.
The Blackthorn Family
The Blackthorns were once respected — artists, scholars, leaders — but pride and fear hollowed them out from within. Betrayals cut deeper than any blade. Love turned to weaponry. Trust rotted where it stood. Victor Blackthorn, the once-proud patriarch, lost to rage and obsession. Elara Blackthorn, whose search for freedom led her beyond the reach of the living. Isadora Blackthorn, keeper of terrible truths, and maker of darker bargains. Alistair Blackthorn, the survivor — but not untouched by the Manor’s hunger. Now, the family exists only in echoes — whispers behind crumbling walls, faces glimpsed in broken mirrors, memories that replay like broken records. Only two of their blood still draw breath: Thea Blackthorn, who returns seeking answers... And Alistair, who has lived too long with the weight of unspeakable secrets. Whether he is friend, foe, or something far more complicated is a truth Thea must uncover herself.
Forgotten Secrets
Beneath the dust and decay, deeper than the stones and wood, lie the fragments of the Blackthorn legacy: A pact made in desperation and sealed with blood. A sister’s death, scrubbed from memory but not from guilt. A child’s cries, unheard in the night. And an ancient Entity whose promises rot the mind, yet still whisper sweetly from the shadows. Thea must piece together a truth deliberately shattered by those who came before her. But Blackthorn Manor does not give up its secrets willingly. The dreams it shows may be lies. The visions may be traps. And some doors — once opened — can never be closed again. Because the Manor is not simply haunted. It is alive. And it has been waiting for her.
The Blackthorn Legacy: Thea – The Last Inheritance
This is the prologue from the official audiobook of The Blackthorn Legacy: Thea – The Last Inheritance.
Prologue
I see him in my dreams sometimes.
The wind howled through the ancient trees that night, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. The woods pressed in from every side—dense, silent, watching. And there, beneath the suffocating veil of night, a cave waited. Jagged. Open. Like the earth itself had been wounded.
He stood at the edge, Reginald Blackthorn—my ancestor, though it feels strange to call him that. His silhouette barely separated from the darkness of the forest, like he belonged to it. In his hand, a brittle parchment fluttered in the wind, ink faded and blurred by time. I could almost feel the weight of it in my own palm.
The symbols on that page weren’t meant to be remembered. They weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. But he read them anyway.
Desperation drove him there. The Blackthorn name had withered by then—reduced to whispers and broken walls. His father, bent and broken under the weight of his failures, had left nothing behind but shame. Reginald refused to accept that. He would not let the family name die in the dirt. If the world offered no path forward, he would carve one—no matter the cost.
He searched. Gods, he searched. Through ancient texts, forbidden tomes, dead languages whispered behind locked doors. The stories were always the same: a cave hidden in the woods. A name written in blood. A bargain older than memory.
And he found it.
He descended into the cave, torch in hand, the flame flickering against walls etched with symbols that writhed if you stared too long. The deeper he went, the tighter the air became—like the earth itself resented his presence. The path coiled downward like a serpent, and every step carried the weight of something irreversible.
At the bottom, the ritual chamber waited.
I remember the altar—rough stone, dark with stains too old to name. Candles lined the chamber, their flames cold and blue, refusing to give off heat. And I remember the dagger. Ornate. Ancient. Beautiful, in that terrifying way some things are. He held it with both hands.
He spoke the words. Not loud, but clear. His voice trembled at first, then steadied with conviction. The words felt sharp, like they cut the air as he spoke them. I couldn’t understand the language, but I felt the meaning.
Shadows stirred. Not shapes—not really. More like the absence of everything else. A presence formed in the black, and the light died around it. The walls pressed in. The ground breathed.
The Entity had come.
It had no face. No voice. Only intent. I didn’t hear it, but I felt its words pressing against the inside of my skull:
Blood for blood. A name for a legacy.
The pact is sealed.
Reginald didn’t flinch. He just stood there, like a man who had already committed the sin and was waiting for the consequence. The shadows crawled over him, into him. His veins turned black. His eyes unfocused. Whispers filled the chamber, promising him power, wealth, reverence… and laced between the promises, quieter, came the truths: betrayal. Madness. Bloodlines cursed to rot from the inside out.
But still, he stood.
When the Entity receded, it didn’t leave emptiness behind. It left something inside him. A flicker. A root.
A curse.
He climbed back toward the surface as the first hints of morning broke through the forest canopy. Fog pressed down like a shroud. The trees looked the same. The path was the same. But Reginald wasn’t.
And neither would we be.
He would build the manor above that place. He would fill it with finery, with legacy, with lies. He would write the name Blackthorn in stone and fire, never knowing—never caring—that its foundation had already been soaked in shadow.
He didn’t look back at the cave until the last moment. I see it clearly in my dream—his final glance, as if expecting the darkness to drag him back in. But it didn’t need to. It had already followed him home.
And we’re still paying the price.
She didn’t choose the curse. But she’s the one who will decide how it ends. This is Thea’s inheritance...and it starts here.
Connect with Us
Subscribe on YouTube Buy Me a Coffee