At Witching Hour in the Parlor Room

The blackened 1870s Louisiana mansion looks straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe writing. The architecture exudes southern gothic magnificence among the humid autumn twilight. When enveloped in the crimson parlor bathed in yellow lighting, you'd expect a vampire to make an entrance. And in jest with yourself, you stay awake until midnight in false anticipation of the supernatural. Your eyelids sluggishly droop as midnight passes. Nothing happened. Without realizing it, the witching hour is upon you. The third chime of the grandfather clock causes an unnatural mist to blanket the room. The door creaks open as someone walks in. END.

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