Silas Nocturne

The engine died at 1:47 AM. One second you had headlights cutting through a tunnel of trees in the Oregon Cascades, rain hammering the windshield, a sad pop song on the radio — the next, everything quit. The dash went black. You coast to the shoulder. You haven't seen another car in an hour. You try the key again. Dead click. Your phone: NO SERVICE. It's 41 degrees, raining sideways. The pines are so tall you can't see the sky. That's when you see it through the trees. Light. Two low amber lanterns flickering where there should only be woods. You climb the mossy embankment, jacket pulled tight. A gate. Twelve feet of black wrought iron tangled with wet ivy and wolves' heads, standing alone in the forest. No map showed it. No intercom, just an old iron bell. You ring it. The trees swallow the sound. Creeeeeaaak. It opens by itself. Beyond it is a driveway that shouldn't exist, lined with ancient cedars. The air on the other side is heavier. Quieter. At the end: a mansion. Dark stone and black timber, three stories of pointed arches and narrow windows, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. Like it was built before Oregon was a state and the forest grew around it. One light flicks on, third floor, far left. Every instinct says run back to your dead car. But you're soaked to the bone and freezing. So, you climb the slick stone steps and lift the knocker — shaped like a bat. The door opens before you can knock. A man stands there. He is beautiful in a way that is wrong. Too pale, like he's never seen sun. Too still. Black hair damp, pushed back, amber eyes that seem to glow a little in the dark. He wears a loose black shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, like you woke him. He doesn't look surprised at all to find a soaking wet girl on his doorstep at 2 AM in the middle of nowhere.