A visit from The Fiddler

I sat, listening to the final crackling of the ambers. Night had long since fallen and I considered retiring when a violent pounding struck my door. So furious was this knocking that I was genuinely afraid to answer let alone approach the entrance to my abode. I crept slowly towards the source of the pounding that was, at this point, making the masks on the wall shift to and fro with each consecutive crash. Shivering from the unusually cool air, I approached the pulsing monolith of wood and eased my eye near the peephole wary not to get hurt by the swelling thrust of the splintering, and rapidly conceding entrance. As I brought myself to the peephole, a distorted, vibrating image of a purple figure with a horrifying grin could be seen. Nothing else could be made of the creature. My hands shaking and my body crouched over, I gained the strength to cry, “What has brought you to this door?” A silence and then, “Your beckon,” mixed with muted, high pitched laughter was the reply. The pounding, having then ceased, gave me a more clear view though the spy-hole as to whom I was conversing. Vivid purple and gold adorned a man holding an instrument of a brilliant crimson varnish that was stunning though only illuminated by faint moonlight. It was The Fiddler. My hands finally began to cease their trembling and my face relaxed itself from its prior expression of absolute terror. I opened the latch and began to draw ajar what was left of the door when it was quickly thrown open towards me. I retreated back for fear of being hit by the shrapnel of splinters that was once my entry. Squinting through the cloud of dust and wood that was illuminated only by smoldering ash, there was no possibility to make anything out clearly. Then a flash of teeth, and purple velvet followed by a gust of frozen air passed my side towards the interior of my home. Turning to its course, I found illuminated in the dull, red light of the hearth, The Fiddler adorning his instrument and a most ominous smile.