It is a dark and stormy evening. Rainfall pitter-patter pitter-patter comes pouring down, washing away the fresh stain of a beautiful new roof.

Imagine, for a moment, the most run-down shack of a building you've ever seen. Now, picture that building growing, morphing from a run-down shack into a veritable run-down mansion! It isn't impossible to imagine such a building, but decrepit mansions are at least an order of magnitude rarer than decrepit sheds.

Yet to make matters even more curious still, imagine that run-down mansion, despite its visible disrepair, has had a brand new roof installed, with shiny new architectural shingles. Only completed just this evening, in fact! In the pouring rain.

Wouldn't that sight, that contrast of roof and crap-mansion, look... strange?

Lodged deep, deep in the woods, this odd structure juts forth in the clearing, disturbing the now-untamed wilderness around it. Once a fine manor built on behalf of a certain recluse noveau riche, it retains only a sliver of its former glory. "A sliver" would happen to be a literally true statement: entire wings of the hulking structure have since collapsed, and only about four tenths of the main hall (luckily built of sterner stuff) remain structurally sound. This place is rotting at its core, and left almost entirely behind by the world around it.

Except, you know, the new roof.

One might wonder why such a grand, yet decrepit and disused, building would receive a pointless "facelift" in its eleventh hour. It's not like a new roof would help the damn thing sell, is it? Through the fallen and holey walls, you can see all the way through the building in some places! Looking around, the answer may not be far.

Feet and meters away from the mansion, a pale man stands implacably in the cold rain. He happens to be dressed from head to toe in overly old-fashioned finery, complete with a deep navy cheviot suit jacket, which is a suitably strange choice of outdoor wear for a man who owns such a strange locale.

In theory, "a jacket," even a fancy one, sounds like a great outfit for keeping off the rain. Perhaps the pale man is simply so rich that he doesn't have anything more weather-appropriate? In reality, once the wool and cotton blend soaks through, you'd get even wetter and colder than you would without it. Not to mention, having to deal with the extra weight, the itchiness, and the hours of work hand-drying the jacket, since that'd be the only way to get it clean without destroying it or risking the wetness ruining the dyes...

The pale man seems to care little about any of that. He maintains a distinctly regal state of being: he is slight, as though he's never had to work labor a day in his life, but he's not so thin as to be anorexic. He has a natural frown, with high cheekbones that accentuate the expression well. Most importantly, he displays absolutely no concern for much of anything happening around him. He just stares up at his shiny, lacquered new roof, watching with a frown as the pattering raindrops scatter the (bargain brand) protective sealant.

The man is also marked by the intense stillness of his body, how he stands so perfectly rigid, not even shifting his weight from leg to leg as he gently twists his head to scan across the roof. His frown is something of a relief, then, because without at least this little hint of emotion, one could mistake the man for a robot pretending to be human (entirely unconvincingly).

Regardless, he makes for strange royalty. The rest of his physique accentuates the inherent strangeness: he's pale, perhaps even albino (given his alarmingly reddish-pink irises, pale skin, and bleach-white hair) and for all a king is supposed to be stoic and intense, most of them would still at least bother to shiver if they were soaked through and stuck out in the cold.

One might also expect the roofing crew to be creeped out and avoid this pale man like the plague, and at least this time they would be at least partially correct. For some reason, even as his crew makes a wide arc on their trip between the mansion and the van, packing supplies, the crew boss stands just next to the pale man. Alarmingly unphased, he seems happy to be talking with the pale man.

Who is this strange, brave man, what things make him tick? The crew boss is... some guy wearing a poncho. He his rain-hood up and the covering is doing its job well, though he still shivers from the cold anyway. The man is otherwise unremarkable, about "average" in looks, brown-eyed, brown-haired, with a round face and no overwhelmingly distinct features. He's decidedly less pale than the pale man, though that doesn't say much, he's a bit overweight and if anything in particular stands out, it's that he sports a thin moustache, and that his face lends itself to a very natural smile. A natural smile is always useful in business.

He wears such a smile now, pointing here and there, every so often making terse remarks about how his team could do this, couldn't do that, so on and so on. The pale man's gaze steadily follows these gestures, and chiming in every so often to ask a question or comment blithely on what a good job they did despite the circumstances.

Yet as mundane as that conversation may be, the oddness lingers. The roofing crew is making record time on cleaning up their mess, and leaving absolutely nothing behind. The better the job got done, the less likely they had to ever come back. Why were they so panicked? Just the creepy pale homeowner? Not in the slightest- after they took their first break, the men had realized that all of them, every single one to a man, had some strange story to tell. In the span of a few hours, they had strange feelings, heard strange noises and saw strange things, not only in the deep, dark woods, but also from the mansion itself. Two people had ladders crumple under them, three claimed to have seen something large and furry leering at them from the cusp of the clearing, one went missing for half an hour, only to show up with shallow cuts on his legs, and say that he found himself in a chair in the mansion's garden and that he didn't remember how he got there...

It didn't help that they were so far from society; this place was reclusive enough that, even before centralization and urbanization initiatives evacuated a solid chunk of the countryside, this place had been at least half an hour from the nearest suburbs by car. Now it was nearly an hour drive to the closest charging station, and the whole trip would be through the dark, dark woods.

"I believe that should be about all," the man in the poncho concludes, "it is a shame about that hole there, but the roof has no greater than a few planks' gap everywhere else, yes?"

The pale man shakes his head gently. "No matter," he sighs, "You've explained well enough. More than well enough, I am impressed by your achievements with these... working conditions. Could I convince you to leave behind some shingles, if I might give it a try it myself?"

The crew boss starts, as if he had been in a daze. He blinks at the pale homeowner, hums politely. "No, if you have a shiny new roof, no one cares enough to ask questions, if you call the ambulance because you hurt yourself trying to add some shingles, they wonder how you got them. You catch my drift?"

The pale man taps at his sleeve idly, crossing both arms over his waist. After a moment's deliberation, he nods. "Perhaps adding them would be more trouble than it is worth, then."

"Thank you. Oh, if only you'd get the rest of this place fixed up, we could..." The crew boss coughs conspiratorially. "Call me first, ah? My brother does walls and floors on the cheap..."

The pale man tilts his head. "I will have to clear further work with my adjuster, but you have my gratitude. I will call you first, naturally."

It appears as though even strange pale men in fancy suits can't reliably pry money from the grubby hands of their legally acquired, state-backed insurance policies... As if there were a single brain-dead insurer in any country that would take on the burden of a decrepit old mansion like this! Yet the pale man had indeed offered a considerable cash deposit, even as he had not offered his own name in this entire exchange. In other words, this was a shady cash job from a shadier source.

Normally the crew boss would at least verify a few points of contact for self-protection reasons, but somehow it had slipped his mind. Regardless, it was best for business, and safest, to always play along. "Yes," the crew boss laughs, "I wish you luck with that. They only paid for the roof, after all this damage?"

"Oh," the pale man deadpans, "you know how they can be, I must pay you your due." His hand twitches as he speaks, fingers curling and uncurling, but otherwise he doesn't move. The moment drags on, and the crew boss blinks at him, confused. After a moment, the pale man's arm drops to his side akwardly.

"Nevermind, I do believe I am satisfied. I should indeed pay you the rest of the money, and I shall call you if I ever need more work," the pale man says, which to the crew boss seems rather redundant, though this time the pale man's words sound just a tad forced.

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Still, the pale man's left hand slowly lifts from his side, and though the crew boss never spotted it, he had somehow obtained a rather large wad of cash money. The crew boss snatches it unhesitatingly.

Checking the denominations and quantities of the bills with remarkable acuity and speed, the crew boss smiles. "Pleasure doing business with you!" Palming the wad and slipping it into his pocket, he looks back at the homeowner, ready to make the final goodbyes...

Then a wave of nausea hits him, and everything changes.

The homeowner doesn't look new or unfamiliar, but the crew boss begins seeing him in an entirely new light. Screw being the "pale man," he was far stranger than he thought, paler than the thought, and considerably less emotive. Only a moment ago the crew boss could have sworn the man across from him had been smiling and excited about how good his new roof looked, but now he seemed deadpan at best, annoyed at worst. If his face has anything written across it at all, it's far from friendly. A narrow, dangerous expression...

The pale man takes a step back and gestures at the sky casually, as if he was only now noticing the miserable weather. "Look at all this rain. Knowing the forest roads, it would be for the best if you left."

The man in the poncho slowly nods. His natural self-preservation alarm bells, wherever they had been hiding, are out in full force now. Ever so carefully, so as not to hint at the chills running down his spine, he breaks eye-contact with the pale man's bizarre, reddish-pink eyes. How long have we been making eye-contact?

The pale man was right, it is dark now, and rainier than he thought too. So dark the crew boss should have split the job in half and finished the rest tomorrow, in fact. Why hadn't he? The homeowner seemed so excited about the roof, he had said to himself before. It would be a shame to come all this way twice, let alone disappoint him in the process! What had he been thinking? It was so totally unlike him to prioritize a finished roof over his or his team's health. So uncharacteristic that he had a hard time reconciling it, now.

Worse, he finally notices the way that the sodden rain has ruined the dirt track through the woods, which will make getting back to civilization a nightmare... Then he notices how far he's standing from his crew, and the way they're crowding supplies in the back of their white half-back van, all yards and yards away, and he notices how the last few of his men, are gawking at him like he's crazy for standing anywhere near the creepy pale man. Then he notices how truly chilly the night has become, and how hard he's shivering.

Even if the storm is making the clearing darker than it should be at this hour, they still have a long drive home ahead of them. By the time they make it half way back to civilization, it will be well and truly nightfall. The woods are no place for people to be at night.

The crew boss is reminded of early years sitting by the fireplace, relaxing there with his mother and grandmother. Listening to stories about what would happen if he got lost while he tromped through the forest near their family home, those stories of folk legends, and about all the creatures of the dark.

He finds himself breathing quicker, his thoughts running a mile a minute, slurring together. Is this a reasonable fear, he wonders. He was feeling fine until now, wasn't he? Was this some sort of blood sugar problem, like that one ad on TV?

More instinctually, the gap between the inattention and comfort he exuded only moments ago, to his present state of anxiety and panic, was the exact thing turning his paranoia into full-blow terror. He feels like a deer caught in headlights. It's a kind of terror that is hard to hide, as it happens.

"Is something wrong?" the pale man intones. Startled, the crew boss turns- the pale man looks so angular now, were his features always that sharp? More importantly, he notices as the pale man's eyes narrow... he snaps his gaze down towards the ground, breaking eye contact once more. Now in sight, he notices that the pale man's his arms have wandered back in front of his waist, fingers curling and uncurling, curling and uncurling...

The gesture would look awkward for most people, and it felt to the crew boss like it was merely an "antsy" thing of habit before, but seeing it now shoots needles down the crew boss' spine. My, mister homeowner, what long, sharp fingernails you have.

Shaking off his wayward thoughts and fears, he manages to drag back out one of those award-winning smiles. "Oh," he hums, "I just noticed how, uh, how dark it was."

"You're sure that's all that you noticed?" The pale man's eyes seem more red than pink now, those dilating pupils dyeing most of his eye...

"Yes," the crew boss gasps quickly. Again with the eye contact... When did I even look up from his hands? This time he's careful not to look away, instead just focusing on how comfortable and unterrified he is and repeating that thought over and over in his head. The pale man seems to be waiting for something more- almost involuntarily, the crew boss thumps a fist on his forehead, as though he had simply forgotten. "Oh, and it's muddy, too!"

Then the pressure vanishes. He feels relieved as the pale man smiles at him... It's an odd thing. The crew boss doesn't see a smile on the man's face, but he feels like the pale man is smiling. Then he notices something more alarming: how has he been seeing the pale man's features so well in the dark, especially those eerie red eyes? Now that the crew boss is finally thinking straight, he realizes he shouldn't be able to see the man's finer details in the slightest.

The dissonance is rough, and the man feels a bit of a headache coming on.Instinct kicks in and he turns away from the pale man, finally breaking that awful eye contact. He quickly waves back at his crew to give the signal to finish loading up.

He mutters his way through some last goodbyes and niceties and heads off quickly for the van, first at a gentle walk, then more of a jog, nervously groping the wad of cash in his hands.

"The van isn't getting any closer," his palpitating heart says, "you're already trapped and dead for your foolishness, just like grandma always said!"

Working his pace up to something that is nearly a sprint, he turns to look over his shoulder, and he spots the pale man standing stock-still in the rain where he left him. The homeowner just stands there, implaccably, watching the crew boss try to leave. The crew boss accidentally makes eye-contact again, looking deep into the pale man's vacant, eerily lit-up features...

"Boss," a voice says. "Boss?"

A hand grabs his shoulder suddenly, and the crew boss whips around, panicked. It's, it's- one of his boys, hauling the last of the boxes of nails. Air whistles through the crew boss' teeth as he inhales sharply "You okay, boss? You've been standing there a while now."

The crew boss blearily peers around the other man's wide shoulders, and realizes that he's already standing near the van- right next to it, in fact.

He grunts at the man inarticulately and practically leaps into the driver's side of the van, slamming the door shut behind him.

Fumbling with his pocket, he waves the keyfob at the ignition, quickly running through his "pre-flight routine."

The mirrors adjust, and he hits the button to syncs the navigation, watching out the window as the last couple of crewmen- including the one he just slammed the door on- hop inside the van.

Yet every time he turns or looks outside, out of the corner of his eye, he can still see that pale man. Standing there, staring at him, at them. It's dark enough now that he shouldn't even be able to see where the pale man is, but he can pick out his every feature, or at least he feels like he can.

Biting his tongue, the crew boss hits the ignition button. The MG sputters and crackles. The lights cut on for a moment, and just as quickly fizzle out. Panicked, he presses it again and again.

The lights cut on, then fail again.

He looks out the van's window again, spotting that strange figure in the distance. Why does it feel like the pale man is getting closer?

The lights don't even cut on.

The lights cut on, and fail again...

On the fifth attempt the generator finally, thankfully, sputters to life. He pulls his still-trembling hand away as his mounting anxiety slowly fades and promises to himself that at least some of this job's money would go to fixing up the goddamn van.

Now safe in his own, working vehicle, a lot of his anxiety fades. There's no need to be so frantic! The job was good money, and the homeowner had been so polite! So what if he looked a bit weird, and made people feel a bit funny when they talked to him for too long? Why, it had been rude to leave without a decent goodbye- that wasn't a good way to treat a new client!

In fact, he should at least say goodbye now! From the relative safety of the van, that is to say.

The crew boss moves to roll the window down, smiling in the general direction the pale man was before... just as the van's highbeams finally kick on, joining the ambient lights, and he decides to stop trying to roll down the window.

The pale man did in fact get closer. Considerably closer- he's only standing a few yards away now, and he's closer to front of the van than the back, as though he had been slowly skirting his way around it. When the light catches him, the man stands there smiling sheepishly, looking momentarily like a kid caught in the candy jar.

Languidly, the homeowner smiles and waves. His smile feels so friendly and disarming, but through the glass it's entirely unconvincing to the crew boss' own two eyes. Too wide and toothy. Similarly, the way the man waves is almost mechanical, like he's some clockwork toy, only just wound up. Insincere. The smile, especially, seemed to widen as the crew boss gawks at him, turning manic, then to something inhuman.

Aborting any idea of a last goodbye, the crew boss slams the van into into reverse, whips the wheel around, and speeds away as quickly as he can manage.

The van leans awkwardly, with the dramatic turn but he at least succeeds the maneuver: he spins the vehicle around, kicking up mud in his wake. It's an impressive turn, given the circumstances.

Some of the boys in the back complain about the sudden G-force, but as their own side-windows sweep around with the motion, and they get brief look at that smiling, vicious pale man, their plainted objections change to nervous, approving silence.

The crew boss' brain tells him to slow down, to be careful, but despite himself, he presses down harder and harder on the gas... It's like this that the men speed away into the night, finally ending the saga of ill-advised roof repairs.

Sheer inertia snatches one last forgotten shingle off of the van's crossbar, plopping it into the muddy trail. The discarded shingle helps complete the aesthetic of the brand new and unpleasantly rugged tire track mounds that the fleeing men leave behind, in their frantic escape efforts.

Most days, the crew boss would worrywart over whether the homeowner might sue over ruining their driveway, go apologize, gladhand...

This job, though?

The only thing he can think about right now is how, in the name of "discrete money," he hadn't told anyone where he and his crew would be tonight.