Somewhere deep beyond the woods you know there stands a house that should not be there. Winds whip and whirl around it, surrounding the peculiar structure in a vortex of dead leaves and twigs and other things. The shutters clang against their windows. The house is entirely dark, save for a single flickering light in the topmost room. Inside the house that should not be there, someone is reading. ⠀
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The emaciated figure looks up from its book. It turns its head towards the window, looking out into a dark, restless night. It gets up from the chair, filling the room with a dry, clacking noise. To the side, the crow that was perched on top of an old bookcase rustles its feathers at the sound, its meditative reverie broken. It turns one baleful eye towards the skeletal figure now standing in front of the window, against the darkness.⠀
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“Can you feel that, friend Calcifer?” it asks, its voice barely above a whisper.⠀
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“Can I feel what, Osseous?” asks the crow, somewhat testily. It had been thinking about the particularly satisfying breakfast it had earlier in the morning, and it didn’t appreciate the interruption.⠀
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“The Changing,” Osseous says. “The Turning. The Darkening of the Year.”⠀
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The crow makes a small croaking noise before flapping towards the window. It pecks against the glass once, twice, thrice before looking out. “Seems to be arriving earlier and earlier each year,” it says. “Are you sure?”⠀
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“Oh yes,” says Osseous, long dead, keeper of this vast grave, this library of secrets and mysteries and horrors. “I can feel it in my bones.” ⠀
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And its orbits light up then, shining like beacons in the night, welcoming whatever wanders within.
“It is coming.”
ricardo reading 