“There’s a chill in the air tonight.” I offer, “So glad you let us in, but we’ll be on our way in the morning.”
“Bah. No matter,” the old mistress dismisses. “Anyway, there’s a chill in this house every night.”
“What’s with the empty table setting?” I ask, inhaling.
“Old traditions,” she smiles, “Die hard.” As we slurp, she goes on to tell a centuries-old tale that the linen closet of the old house has a portal to hell and very often the devil himself would show up at dinner, and demand to be seated.
“Well that explains the hot sauce on the table.” Lydia chimes in when the story lulls.
“No, dear.” She purrs, “Old Scratch hasn’t come out of hall closet in sometime. ”
“No?”
“No, not since we went vegan.”
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