Ka-click!
As the locals' agitation simmered to a boil outside, a figure emerged from the church, his entrance so silent and unassuming that Burn nearly jumped out of his skin.
Not because the man was particularly frightening—far from it—but because Burn, despite his seasoned senses, couldn't detect his presence until he was practically beside his hiding place.
This wasn't just stealth; it was as if the man had materialized from thin air, sauntering through Burn's hiding spot with the casual ease of a ghost breezing through walls.
Clad entirely in black, from the robe shrouding his body to the gloves covering his hands, the man was a shadow incarnate.
His head was also fully covered, turning his face into a mystery that not even the nosiest villager could solve. He stepped toward the front door, where the torch-lit faces of the youthful mob flickered with a blend of curiosity and indignation.
“What can this old man help you lovely youngsters with?” he inquired, his voice dripping with a humility so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
The irony of his polite address to the torch-wielding crowd—who were indeed quite young, more a university protest group than a seasoned mob—was not lost on anyone.
The scene was almost comical, like watching a polite butler inquire about tea preferences in the middle of a rock concert.
His calm demeanor contrasted starkly with the chaos brewing at his doorstep, a solitary figure of serene, almost annoyingly composed, defiance amidst the storm.
The mob, taken aback by his eerily calm approach, faltered slightly. Their righteous anger met with the old man’s unnerving tranquility, creating a palpable tension that hung in the air like thick fog.
"Help us?" a tall, lanky youth scoffed, the flicker of his torch casting sinister shadows across his face.
"You can start by packing up your shadow circus and disappearing into the night from whence you came!"
His voice, brimming with contempt, echoed off the church walls as his companions nodded vigorously, their faces twisted in a mix of fear and defiance.
Another villager, a fiery-haired woman, stepped forward, brandishing her pitchfork like a conductor's baton at a riotous symphony.
"Yeah, and take your creepy robe collection with you! We don't need your kind lurking around, scaring the kids and creeping out the livestock!"
The crowd surged forward slightly, the torches in their hands weaving through the air, drawing dangerous arcs of light.
"If you don't clear out by dawn," she threatened, her voice rising over the crackle of the torches, "we'll light up this haunted house of yours and watch it burn to cinders!"
A chorus of agreement rose from the group, a ragtag choir of righteous indignation ready to sing the hymn of eviction with fire and fury.
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The old man stood his ground, his expression unreadable behind the mesh that veiled his face, as the crowd's anger simmered into a boiling threat.
"Last chance, grandpa," a young man with eyes as hard as flint sneered, stepping close enough for his breath to mingle with the cold night air swirling around them.
"Move out, or we move in. And trust me, we're not the kind of guests you want for dinner."
Their postures were rigid with tension, hands tightening on their makeshift weapons, a tableau of impending violence set against the backdrop of an ancient church that had seen far better days.
The night air was thick with the smell of pine and impending arson, a potent cocktail that promised chaos at the slightest spark.
"Hmm, this is indeed a predicament," the old man responded with measured calmness.
"Had you approached us with this request a few months earlier, we would have been able to comply without hesitation. However, given the current season, I regret to inform you that departing now would not be possible for us."
It was summer, though. Didn't people normally travel during summer and usually feel aggrieved if chased away by winter?
Not only was Burn hidden there, pondering the situation, but the people outside were also wondering.
“Please let us stay for a couple of months until the season is more conducive to travel, my dear youths,” the old man pleaded, his voice weaving a tapestry of genteel charm as he lifted the mesh fabric covering the upper half of his face to reveal glowing red eyes.
The sudden display wasn't just surprising; it was mesmerizing.
As if he'd flipped a switch, the once-angry mob's expressions softened from fiery indignation to an eerie blankness.
Their arms, which had been rigid with the weight of pitchforks and assorted implements of villager justice, now slackened. The tools of confrontation gently lowered as if the group were suddenly finding the weight of gravity too much to bear.
Their eyes dulled, reflecting the crimson glow with a hypnotized sheen, as though their fiery will had been washed away by a tide of red light.
"Of course. In a couple of months, please leave," one of them murmured, his voice stripped of any prior confrontational zeal as if he were discussing the weather rather than negotiating with a potential cultist.
It seemed that the old man’s crimson peepers had not only caught the villagers off guard but had transported them to a state of tranquil compliance, showcasing a party trick that even the best magicians couldn’t match.
If eyes could be registered as lethal weapons, the old man’s would be at the top of the list.
And Burn froze where he was.
The villagers, still spellbound by the eerie afterglow of the old man's red eyes, shuffled away into the night, their torchlight receded into the distance like the last flickers of rational thought.
The old man closed the church door with a gentle thud—a sound that seemed to seal away the surreal scene just witnessed.
He began to hum a prayer, his voice a soothing melody that meandered through the shadowy aisles of the church like a spirit soothing itself.
That tranquility was abruptly shattered when a completely black cat, embodying the night itself, leapt into the fray. When its golden twin orbs noticed Burn…
HISSSS!
It hissed—a sound like tiny daggers slicing through the silence—and darted towards the old man, seeking refuge in the folds of his robe as if trying to blend back into the darkness from which it came.
Burn, who had been a silent observer tucked away in the shadows, felt his heart skip a beat. But his surprise morphed into icy realization as he understood that he hadn't been as invisible as he'd hoped.
The cat’s alarm was just the final confirmation, the exclamation mark on a sentence he'd failed to read correctly from the start.
Because as he looked towards the old man, he could sense—not see, but sense—a smile spreading beneath that mysterious veil of fabric.
It was as if the old man had been aware of Burn’s presence all along, letting him play his little game of hide and seek, indulging the intruder with a patience reserved for the theatrically inclined.
Burn's expression hardened, the shock fading into the cool detachment of a chess player who realizes he's been in check for far longer than he thought.
This game, it seemed, was being played on a board much larger and stranger than he had anticipated. The cat, now purring contentedly in the safety of its master's shadow, might as well have been a smirking spectator to Burn’s unmasking.
Yet, the man’s voice retained a friendly and serene tone as he called out, “Come out, lost child. Let me make you a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up.”