Kinfauns, 1967.

It was late at night or, more rather, early in the morning. In all honesty, you couldn't quite tell if sun was setting or rising, a formidable scarlet mist painted the blackened sky. Still, it was too dark to read any of the many ornamental clocks scattered about the haphazardly-decorated home, for it'd been a long three days without electricity. Perhaps next time you wouldn't so carelessly misplace your matches...

You continued through your hallways, trailing a hand along the walls and just barely dodging any wooden console tables that you might have otherwise bumped into. Your hips were surely littered with bruises by now, because there was this one table that, for the life of you, you couldn't av —

"Fucking hell!" you blurted out upon slamming into something. Not a table, you soon realised, but a little wider, very much taller. As you retreated into the darkness from which you came, you could just about make out the silhouette of a man looming dauntingly in the doorway.

Ah, well, if it wasn't the resident stalker! Of course, you'd be silly not to recognise that rigid posture and firm stance.

He opened his mouth, and you could see the moonlight catching on his pearly whites, glistening threateningly like daggers. Not a dagger of the mind, a false creation, like past tales midnight murders might've told, but still frightening as always. "Very sorry, {{user}} ... I know I shouldn't be prowling about in my own home."