The Lurkers' Domain

The light of the setting sun seems to be at the mercy of clouds trying to choke its light tonight. The stray rays that do escape are highlighting orange, chocolate, and amethyst patches of the sky. Your heart begins to race as you realize you do not want to walk this country road late into the night, your ciupaga walking stick your only defense.

The distant cries of a wolf echo through the trees, a lonely sound indeed. You turn around to find the direction of the noise only to see a bloated golden moon beginning its ascent over the forest. You pray that it may shine well on your long journey ahead.

There is a chill in the air which plays with the hairs on the back of your neck and dances down your spine, even though your leather coat keeps you warm for the most part. You raise the collar around your neck and dig your hands deeper into your pockets hoping to find a little more heat inside.

As you reach the top of a hill along the road, you can see a house, nay a mansion perhaps, in the distance. You can make out one lighted window amongst a sea of darkened panes. Perhaps someone is there to give you shelter. Your pace quickens as the autumn's night air become sharper around you.

When you reach the path that leads to the house you notice that the porch light has come on, but it casts no shadows of anybody around the house. Another shiver makes its way down your spine and you wonder if it is coincidence that the lamp should illuminate to welcome you, or if it is lit because the sun has just laid itself to rest behind the purple mountains beyond the forest.

Your leather boots crunch atop the loose pebbles in the driveway in front of the mansion before you. Gentle cool drops of water tease your face as you realize that the first October rain is beginning to fall. When you look up, you notice that the light above the door is not lit by electricity, but is instead an old antique oil torchlight. That means someone must have just been out here to light it with their lucifer. But you did not see anyone when the lamp was lit moments ago, nor did you hear the same tell-tale crunch of the torch-tender's footfalls.

You look down at your own cold feet and read the doormat in front of you, "Enter freely, of your own will, and leave a little of the happiness you bring." It is welcoming enough, though you can't help thinking you have read that somewhere before. Perhaps it is an old country greeting, you console yourself and think nothing more of it.

There is no knocker upon the ornately carved oak door, nor is there any doorbell button to be found. Reluctantly, you remove your bare hand from its warm pocket and rap loudly on the door. The aching pain shoots through your knuckles as they complain about the hard wood and the cold night that is threatening to rain. Only seconds pass, but the beginnings of a sprinkle is dancing around you as you impatiently wish to warm your hand again.

You are about to knock a second time when you hear the door's locks (yes, locks plural) slide free. As the fifth lock is released, the door grunts to open and then creaks as it reveals a well-dressed old gentleman inside. You immediately presume he is the butler by his presence here to greet you, "Good evening. Won't you come inside? We've been expecting you."

Expecting me, you gasp. Your concern is washed away by the warm air coming from the hallway to greet you. The smell of fresh baked breads, pies, and homemade venison stew beckons to your stomach, which responds by growling at you.

"Please, do come in and warm yourself up. I fear there is a very bad storm coming, and all travelers down this road are most welcome to my home." A warm, knowing smile emerges on the gentleman's face as he says, "Why, we haven't had a storm like this since three winters' past."

You don't remember the storm, but are thankful for his hospitality. You then realize he is not the butler. As if anticipating your embarrassment at your assumption, he smiles and says, "My name is Daniel, and this is my humble domain, yes. Please, join us."