Lughnasadh

The house twinkles into existence.
As far as the townsfolk know it's stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more.

Through the Autumn fog and neatly set rows of skeletal elm trees, the house sits in expectant silence beneath a Harvest Moon.
Balustrades span the length of wooden deck, a lone rocking chair lazily pondering the breeze.

Suddenly the house's lights turn on, every window of the ageless mansion aglow, casting a cheery radiance amidst the gloom.
Though the doors remain sensibly shut.

In the center of the white porch sits a black cat, patiently awaiting the witch.