A man wearing a long, dark robe slowly knocked on the double wooden doors.
The sound echoed through the cool night air.
A figure slowly creaked open the doors. The hinges were old and rusty, painted black but chipped at the edges.
The figure had wide eyes and yellow pupils. His head hyper focused on the mysterious man knocking at his doorstep.
“Who’s there?” spoke the figure.
The man in the robe pulled out his tarot cards. In his hands held four cards: The Lover, The Hanged Man, The Tower, and Death.
Perhaps it was the idol, the person they admired behind the robes.
“Who,” spoke the man. It was never a question of what, when, where, or how. Only who.
“Who, who?” replied the figure. The yellow pupils scanned the man suspiciously.
“An owl,” he whispered. The man slammed the door and its hinges all the way open, light filtering into the dark and empty shack.
There, in the doorway, stood the figure. An owl on stilts.