There doesn't appear to be an intruder, as such. The knocking continues, sporadically, as they wander a veritable maze of dingy, decaying corridors. Portraits half-destroyed by mold and age cover the walls like wallpaper in some places; empty frames, awaiting canvases or even glass, lie scattered on the floors of rooms Ekkehardt glances into, and then passes by. There's a pervasive, prickling feeling of cold, not helped by the fact that rain is actively seeping into the hallways in some places - and the occasional discovery of a hole torn into a mansion wall, turning interior into exterior. (No damage happens the same way twice. Some don't even seem human; claw marks or eerily perfect tunnels.)

Whoever the owner was, they were an eccentric, decorating this way even before death. That much is certain.