He turned the brights on, and we drove along the dirt road. A flash of lightning illuminated the house. The lights dimmed and the curtains parted. A misty out-of-focus silhouette. A fiend in human shape.

     The guest house was erected in the eighteenth century. A large white house falling into gentle ruin. The door was wide open. The wind howled about the building. He felt around for the matches. All at once the noise stopped. A profound loneliness, an oppressive emptiness. The creak of a floorboard broke the silence.

     "The time is approaching when you will be destroyed. He sleeps beneath the silver birches. He sleeps beneath the silver birches. He sleeps beneath the silver birch—"