There is a house in the suburbs, on a little street off from the main byways and highways. It’s a small yet well-to-do house; immaculate lawn with exquisite topiary, thick hedge with a high gate, wrought cast iron. An old house? Perhaps – if it is, it is well-preserved There is something about it that attracts the eye while still retaining its modesty. If this house was a person, it would be an elegant lady, quietly confident, possessing a humble pride.

And that, naturally leads us to consider the occupant of this remarkable yet unassuming house. An elegant lady to match? Indeed, an elegance and grace that is natural, unconscious, free of artifice. Some ask, is she beautiful? Well, that depends. If your taste runs to the sultry torch-singer, the wanton vamp or the alluring temptress, then she is not for you. Hers is the beauty of the rising sun over the harvest-field, cleansing the good earth of tenebrous Night; she is the blessed herald of a new day.

She is a woman of perhaps merely a score of years, dressed in simple blue gingham. She often wears an apron; for two of her many activities are cooking and baking – she also tries her hand at crocheting, knitting, sewing and needlepoint. Occasionally she reads from aged leather-bound books, their titles inscribed in gold.

We, the people of this city, know this due to our careful observation of her in the little house. But do not think of us as Peeping Toms! Heavens, no! It is curiosity rather than lechery that drives our interest.

It is a mystery how she always has food, always has yarn, always has freshly-cut firewood for the fireplace in winter. No one delivers there, there is no tradesman’s entrance and no one has traversed the gate. At least, not more than once.

There was one, some miscreant or ne’er-do-well; the police kept a close eye on his activities. It is unlikely he entered the maiden’s estate for any benevolent purpose; no, clearly some dark and dirty deed was upon his mind and within his black heart.

Within a few steps of penetrating the garden, while he was fully possessed by his felonious thoughts, they say something came from the sky and took him. Some said it was a bird, but what birds of that magnitude fly at night? Some speak of the flap of leathery wings but what bat could grow to such a size?

Fanciful tales and stories of the gullible and ignorant? Not so! For the police discovered and identified the intruder later in a nearby alley, after some reassembly of his dismembered remains. It seemed the pieces of the luckless interloper were not to the thing’s liking, for they were gnawed but not consumed.

After this tale escaped to run through the city, none even thought of trespassing upon those guarded demesnes, the enigmatic beauty enjoyed her hobbies without interruption. Nothing seemed to bother her; she seemed unaware of the world outside her house.

There was an exception to this; there is always an exception to every rule.

The dark stranger came often to visit the princess in her unassailable fortress. No one sought to molest him as he walked slowly yet inexorably towards the high gate. He wore a dark duster with a black broad-brimmed hat, there was not much of him to say, but many endeavoured for an eyeful. Some spoke of an aquiline nose, a strong jawline, smouldering eyes. Was he handsome? Well, that depends. If your taste is for the fresh face of the healthy athlete, the noble features of the true aristocratic gentleman or the strong and dutiful look of the dedicated policeman, then he is not for you. His is the handsomeness of the dangerous lure of darkness, the dread yet somehow inviting unknown blackness, the destroyer of the Day, the bloody-handed bringer of eternal night.

He is possessed of a singularly sinister and saturnine countenance but no leathery-winged beast snatches him aloft. Instead the sweet maiden rushes to the door and opens it before he can even knock. She greets him with a squeal of delight; claps her hands if she was a girl half her age, gives the dark stranger a warm welcoming hug.

He seems impassive and shuts the door and they both retire to the dining room, where the lady of the house has prepared a meal. She eats delicately, engaging the dark stranger in animated conversation. His back is to the window but it seems he is slowly eating and not talking, listening to his companion gush.

After the meal is finished and the dishes cleared away, it is time for the games. Board games, card games, party games like charades; all seemed to delight the maiden to no end, laughing and joking with the dark stranger no matter who seemed to be winning.

The hour grows late and the young lady grows tired; she is vibrant and vivacious in her companion’s company but there are limits for us all. Her eyelids flutter and the dark stranger, no matter his nefarious and probable diabolical acts without the house, is a true gentleman within.

He stands and she knows their evening is at a close; she is pained, she does not wish him to leave! But leave he must, he strokes her hair ever so gently, caresses the line of her face ever so tenderly, one imagines why he leans down so close to her is to administer a soft kiss on those darling lips. Her eyes close and she smiles, some sensation has invoked a vision within her.

He leaves, shutting the front door behind him, leaving the maiden to her sweet dreams. It has always been so, nothing changing but there is no pattern to these visits we can discern.

This is the mystery, because this strange, incongruous tableau has played out month after month, year after year, decade after decade and century after century. The woman keeps her beauty, her age an eternal score of years and not a day more. As to the dark stranger, who can say?

None know why this happens or continues to happen. Some foolish folk have attempted to accost the dark stranger – for myself and folk of wiser minds such an action could only lead to one’s doom. He never hurries from them, however, his slow measured pace takes him around a corner, the half-wits race to catch him … and he is gone, there is no one there.

Only darkness remains.