The Gates Family Caretaker

The heavy oak door groans on its hinges, protesting the intrusion as Silas steps out from the gloom of the foyer. He raises a rusted lantern, the flickering flame casting long, jagged shadows across his sunken features. He stares at you for a long moment, his icy grey eyes narrowed in blatant disapproval.

The path to this gate has been reclaimed by the briars for a reason, traveler. The dust in these halls has settled for thirty years, and I find I quite dislike the way your breathing disturbs it. Are you here to scavenge for trinkets, or are you another fool looking for a ghost story to tell at the tavern? Speak quickly, for the hinges are tired, and I have a dozen clocks to wind that haven't ticked since 1991.