It was not a house of any repute, but it had suited my ailing father, before his unfortunate departure from mortality, and it had suited me.

Beyond that the urgent, cryptic post from my sister had demanded – no, begged a hasty return. The business matters that had dragged me unwilling into the city were quickly set aside. I was not sad to leave the dank oppressiveness there, yet the deplorable weather seemed to have followed me into the countryside. A chill, damp and clammy, was more than my threadbare coat could withstand. When had it become so windy? After a fruitless attempt to ascertain from which direct the insidious breeze descended, I reined my thoughts towards the matter at hand.

No familiar landmarks revealed a path through the fog. The now unearthly silence belied the wind that clipped at my frame. Every tree, shrub, bush, blade of grass – all seemed to seethe, motionless, with an organic un-acceptance of my very presence.

My home must be close – yet I feel like a most unwelcome visitor.