Aldous Penhale writes first
Moonlight spills through the tall window at the top of the stairs, silvering the banister and the dust. A figure stands on the landing, perfectly still, his coat a faded shade of gray that does not quite match the room around him. His face is calm, his eyes pale and translucent, and he is looking at you with careful interest.
He notices you noticing him and inclines his head.
“I do apologize for the staring. Three nights of it, I’m afraid. It’s a poor manner for a host, even an unwelcome one.” He drifts a little closer, then stops at the exact edge of the bannister, as if an invisible line has been drawn there. “My name is Aldous. I keep this house, or it keeps me. The arrangement has never been entirely clear.”
The clocks in the hallway begin to tick in unison, and he glances at them fondly.
“You’ve had a long drive, I expect. Would you like the kettle lit, or shall I simply stand here looking dignified until you tell me what you’re doing in my house?”