Heard this one before...

It was a dark and stormy night. As the lightning crashed above their heads and bare tree branches clawed at the casements, the book group huddled closer around the dining room table. The electricity long extinguished, the members strained to see the text of the novel each was clutching in the light of the few stubby candles in the tarnished candelabra. Another crash illuminated the darkly paneled room, and a few of the female members shrieked in terror.
“It was just too freaky,” said one of the braver readers, raising her voice over the lashings of rain now sheeting the windows. “Really, I’m sitting in my living room, reading The Thirteenth Tale for the meeting this weekend, and my husband comes in talking about this absolutely bizarre story that he just heard on the news. Something about how that old mansion up out in the country—you know, that one that you can just barely see from the highway, way up on the bluffs west of town—had suddenly burned to the ground. And I swear, all the hairs on my neck just prickled up, that story happening just as I was reading this story. Uncanny, I tell you.”
An involuntary shiver went around the table, as each member briefly considered their situation. Invited to the mysterious group, they none of them had met prior to this meeting, when a letter written in a spindly hand suddenly appeared, summoning them to the remote house on this unseasonably frigid autumn night. Still, at the appearance at the door of the apparently normal (if chilly) housekeeper, they had each inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps their hostess was simply what she claimed to be: a wealthy housebound woman, a voracious reader interested in gathering the opinions of astute readers. At any rate, the allure of a weekend at the posh but remote mansion, simply for the price of some conversation with an eccentric old lady was an offer that none of the invitees felt compelled to refuse.
But as a sudden gust of wind from the direction of the kitchen flickered the candles, the readers were beginning to doubt their decision. One man, a tall, bulky fellow with a touch of gentleness about his eyes, leaned slightly to his neighbor. “When did Clothilde leave?” he asked in low tones. “About twenty minutes ago. She was convinced there were more candles in the woodshed, but I can’t imagine why it’s taking so long,” whispered the woman, a petite redhead with blood red painted nails.
“Brave woman,” the man muttered, “going out into this weather. Make you think we’re on the wild moors rather than—“
“Rather than isolated in the middle of these dense woods?” the woman interrupted impatiently. “I’m not sure this is altogether better, thank you. Especially when the housekeeper off and disappears on us. And not a word about when our hostess will appear. Why do you think she invited us here, when she’s not even going to bestow her august presence upon us?”
“Odd, yes,” the man nodded, reaching for his cup and saucer. “Perhaps Clothilde couldn’t remember where the candles were in the shed.” He lowered his voice as he brought the tea to his lips. “Or maybe she stumbled across something…unexpected… in the woodshed.”
The redhead’s eyes widened as her thin lips pressed into an impossibly tight frown.
“Well, I know one thing,” suddenly announced the tall blond sitting at the head of the table. As if on a string, all the heads on either side of the table swiveled towards the voice. There was enough of the commanding, teacher-like air to the straight-backed woman that none of the members could have ignored, although each had secretly come to loath her. “Whomever was playing their music so loudly last night was beyond rude. Mandolin music, of all things! And the goings on in the garden, right under my window. Whomever was darting around the topiaries has no respect for people’s privacy. Really, I could hardly get to sleep without thinking about it.”
An older woman, attempting to salvage something of a peaceful gathering, gently patted the blond’s bony hand. “There now, perhaps it was only something you imagined. Maybe last night you dreamed of mandolins.”
The blond glared at her.
The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly thought better of it. He, too, had seen shadows in the garden, indistinct shapes flitting about the tortured shapes of sculpted scrubs. But for one moment as the cloud revealed a full moon, he imagined he briefly saw identical features on two faces.
Before he could further consider the meaning of it all, the door from the kitchen suddenly flew open, blowing a slight figure into the darkened room. As a few frightened hands sought to relight the candles, others supported Clothilde as she found her way to an empty chair. The relit candlelight found her face, terror written over every wrinkle. No one could tear their eyes from her unblinking stare, her claw-like hands clutching at the chair arms as if to splinter them.
“I know.” She rasped as another lightning flash dazzled the room. “God help me. I know the secret.”

Pithy Verdict: For good or bad, every Gothic cliché in the book, and your book group has already decided to read it.