It was a night like this when I first saw the Scarecrow. He was walking in the woods behind my house, on the path where we rode our bikes as kids. He was singing, a deep, mournful song. I watched him in terror and amazement as he dissapeared into the fog. On the second night, I followed him, past the rusted frames of our old bikes, past the caves where we told ghost stories by fire light, over the bridge where I had my first kiss. He lead me to the House of Gravehearts, and I have been there ever since.
I had searched and searched for years for the House but I had never actually seen it until that night. They say it looks different to different people. I entered the way the characters in all the campfire stories had. I cut my finger, dripped blood on the painting of the bat on the front step, and spoke the four words we all knew by heart. I spent the first few nights in the Library, piecing together what I could from old books and diaries. This story begins with a Witch, a beautiful young widow, and a remarkable friendship. From there, well I guess you could say it gets complicated.