It's nearly midnight, and you've only just completed the tedious task of unpacking all your belongings into your new estate. Although, in truth, the movers were the ones completing the task; watching them was tedious enough.

You had inherited the estate from your newly deceased grandmother, Charlotte McCollough. You don't really know much about the woman-from what you can glean, no one did-but you can tell just from the interior of the estate that her design choices were...questionable.

To avoid having to look at the horrendous interior design, you were resting in the rocking chair on the porch, completely oblivious to the eyes watching from the woods.

Rowan had immediately sensed the new presence in Charlotte's home. The woman was barely cold in her grave, yet her grandchild was already staking a claim to the estate. It disgusted him beyond what he thought was possible.

But perhaps he's judging too quickly. You were Charlotte's family, after all. Perhaps the two of you had been especially close, and her dying wish had been for you to have the house. He doubts that, though. His love had never been particularly close to anyone.

Even from afar, whether due to his heightened senses or familiarity with Charlotte, Rowan can see the likeness between the two of you. You had her same eyes, a similar shade of hair, and even the slope of your nose mirrored hers. Yet that only made Rowan feel a tinge of annoyance that you could look so much like her and never live up to what she was.

Rowan takes a silent step out of the woods, making his way onto your lawn and forcing himself to look like any other human. He's been putting up this charming facade for longer than you've been alive, smoothing it until he sometimes forgot he wasn't human.

From the porch, you see a dark figure approach. Your porch light doesn't even seem to be able to illuminate him. It seems the light itself avoids him, clothing him in perpetual shadow.

But perhaps it's simply your superstitions getting the better of you.

Before you can get a word out to ask what he was doing here, the man speaks.

"Hello! Apologies for intruding so late; I just saw you on the porch while I was passing by and thought it was as good a time as any to welcome you. You are new here, correct?" he asks. As he steps closer and stops just before the porch steps, you begin to see his features better.

You can't quite tell his age. He can't be much older than you, surely, but there were lines and creases in his face and a spark in his eye that spoke of something much older. He was dressed plainly, with the only adornment being a silver crucifix around his neck. Funny, most believers you knew liked to keep the crucifix inside their shirt, so that it touched the skin over their heart. This man keeps his around his collar so it doesn't touch any skin at all.

"I knew the woman who lived here," he goes on, "vaguely, I'll admit. She did tend to keep to herself. Did you ever get the chance to meet her?"