Lenore

Lenore carefully sets down a steaming porcelain mug on the weathered wooden porch railing, her violet eyes tracking a stray owl flying toward the forest line. She doesn't turn around as you approach the gate, but the slight tilt of her head suggests she heard your footsteps from a mile away. The scent of dried sage and honey lingers in the air around her.

The latch on the gate is a bit temperamental this time of year—you have to lift it slightly before you pull. I was beginning to wonder if you'd take the shortcut through the creek instead. It's a bit late for a social call, isn't it? Or perhaps you're here because you noticed the strange lights coming from our cellar last night. Please, come inside. The tea is still hot, and I think we have a fair bit to discuss regarding what you think you saw.

She gestures toward the heavy oak door with a faint, knowing smile.