Darkness, immeasurable, ever residual darkness. Drifting through the space of broken years, conscious birthed at the sub level. The hazy place between heaven and hell, life and death; purgatory. Only another glint among the flames burning ever brighter in the mind’s eye.

There it is. The old brown two story house with its gloomy windows, shrouded by the thick pastels of night and milky glaze of the moon. Candles burn inside the windows casting shadow specters against the walls inside.

Smoke billows from the red brick chimney on the left side of the house, the side nearest the dark woods. The night grass stirs with the south wind spraying the fresh dew into the air. Slowly but surely the clouds pass overhead, a moving picture forever bound to be ignored.

A wolf cries sharp in the distance feeling the pain of the cool gray moon. No creature dares a venture to the dirty brown house, for mystery is a wonder, a fear that lies there.

Whispering through the hollows of the old oak trees the wind rushed forth to tap at the windowpanes, and urge the slow fire settling into its coals deep within the shaft of the smokestack. The warmth kisses the cheeks of the children sleeping silent and drifts down the hall to cool the hot brows of the lovers in motion. All the while the wind passes through blowing along a fragrant essence willing to see.

Inside the house on the still bottom floor an old worn out rocker knocks against the wood paneled wall. The dull sound echoes through the large quiet house spilling its tone to those up above, listening and waiting for something to go wrong. Another percussion spills into then night, the clamor of forks falling to the well polished floor.

Upstairs a candle is lit to a lantern and passed over the starched white sheets of a sweat soaked bed. The man pulls his woolen britches on and turns the flame up high, inching closer towards the closed door.

Again the house is quiet save for the light footsteps of the man passing down the steps quickly, skillfully, sure. On the floor shines a pile of worn silverware dull from everyday use.

“Hello,” He whispers but receives no answer. This is when he hears the tapping at the front door.

Slowly and carefully he turns the flame way down low walking from the kitchen to the hallway, to the foyer further on. Outside stands a shadow shivering in the moonlight, the figure taps once more hurriedly this time.

The man reaches for the brass knob, cautious of this late night visitor and the weary of the confused condition of his home. Yet he grasps the door knob, turns the key and pulls the door…