#2 Not without misgivings, you get out of your car and, bracing yourself against the bitter wind, walk up to the front door of the house you have found.  The pathway is cobblestone, cracked and grown through with grass, obviously untended despite the light in the window.  Large cedar trees line the pathway, preventing you from seeing much of what lies around you, creating a tunnel vision including only the heavy wooden door which is your ultimate destination.  Your imagination fills in all that which has been rendered invisible to you, conjures up images of ghouls and goblins and frightful creatures with poison claws and needle-sharp fangs all gathered in the thick shadows just on the other side of the wall of green; you try to shake it off, tell yourself that such fear is merely the product of one too many nights spent watching late-night horror movies with friends, but the feelings persist, bearing a weight of reality beyond normal nighttime terrors.  You quicken your walk, desperately praying that you are walking away and not towards the source of these fears. Arriving at the door, you look for a doorbell but do not see one, only a large brass knocker at the center of the elaborately carved door.  It is an ordinary-looking knocker, fortunately -- if it had been shaped like a gargoyle's face or something equally in keeping with the surroundings and your feelings, you think you might have turned back after all -- and before your anxiety can get the better of you, you reach up, lift the knocker, and give the door three quick, sharp raps with it.  The sound echoes around you, far more than it would normally, and the sound somehow manages to overcome the roaring wind and the creaking of branches and rustling of leaves created by it to become the only thing you can hear.  The unnaturalness of it recalls to your mind the reason you are out here in the first place, but instead of wishing the thought would go away, you find yourself wondering if you can stop this unnerving sound the same way you stopped your friend's fall.  Suddenly, the echoing pounding stops dead, cut off in mid-thump, and your heart nearly stops with it.  You don't have the time to dwell on this new development, though, for nearly instantly, surprisingly, the door opens, mere seconds after you had knocked.  You jump back a step, but manage, just barely, to keep from running away. Back lit by the gentle orange glow of firelight, a middle-aged man stands in the doorway.  He is tall, at least half a foot taller than you, though not very strongly built, and fierce of expression.  The shadows emphasize, instead of hide, the lines on his face, creases cut into the flesh, robbing it of what might at one time have been handsomeness, giving him the look of an ancient shaman, an impression strengthened by clothes he wears.  He is attired in an old smoking jacket covering him nearly from head to foot, showing only the laces of a tie-shirt at the throat and soft boots on his feet, an outfit somehow giving you the impression of a druid's robes or a priest's frock; what you notice the most, though, is the heavy medallion hanging around his neck, nestled on his chest, seeming to glow with a radiance of its own, engraved with strange symbols circling around its edge.  Strangely, though, this one odd accouterment seems to you the most natural one, though you have never before seen its like.  You almost reach out an touch it, but the frown on the man's face makes you reconsider. You open your mouth to speak, to explain your predicament and ask the quickest way back to town, but before the words leave your mouth, the stranger's mouth curves up into a smile, and he steps to the side and extends his hand inward in obvious invitation. "Welcome," he says warmly.  "I had hoped you would arrive soon.  Please come in."