After the sudden death of her husband, a grieving writer relocates her two children to a forgotten ancestral estate on the outskirts of Illinois, hoping for a fresh start — but the decaying house harbours a century-old evil tied to her bloodline, and every night at exactly 2:13 a.m., something inside the walls begins knocking to be let in. The year was 1910, and the wind sweeping across the desolate plains of the Illinois countryside carried a bitter, unyielding chill that stripped the warmth not just from the flesh, but from the very soul.

For Judy, perched atop a weary roan mare, the cold was a familiar companion. It had settled deep within her bones six months ago, on a bustling New York street, when the screech of carriage wheels and the sudden, violent impact had taken her husband, Thomas, away from her forever.