Mistress' Turn
You stand at the door. It is heavy, oaken, crossed with iron straps. Pierced solely by a tiny grille at eye level, displaying the merest hint of a glow from within. Buried in the cold stone basement of the old manor, its appearance alone fills you with trepidation, to say nothing of the step you intend to take when the door opens. The air is clammy, moist. You shiver in your thin shirt and bare feet. You gather your resolve and raise a hand to strike the iron knocker in the center of the door. Just as your hand is about to grip the metal ring, you hear - ...