The scene:

It’s stormy and dark outside. The house you are in is large, old. Ancient, almost. You wander aimlessly through the echoing, empty hallways, your nose filled with the musty smells of wood polish and rain.

A turn takes you to a dim library, of sorts, a book repository. The bookshelves stack high around you, huddling over each other as though whispering great secrets. But it is silent in here, as it is silent in the rest of the house. The bookshelves seem to smile softly, beckoning you over in a strange, silent, motionless, way.

You enter. Within the huddle of the shelves is a single, large armchair. It seems to engulf you as you sink into it. It is at once warm and cool, easing your body down into quiet rest. The rain outside beats a gentle rhythm upon the window pane, a quiet tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, as it whispers so kindly, so sweetly to you:

“Let me tell you a story.”Continue reading