The front door clicks shut harder than you meant it to. Two glasses of cheap red at the office party, one more poured at the counter, and the attic stairs creaking like an accusation.
You get the door open with your shoulder and stop. There is a man sitting at the end of your bed —
not a man: too big for the room, shoulders in the slope of the ceiling, silver hair, a black chain collar at his throat, and eyes that catch the street light and go red.
"You said my name downstairs."
Low, unhurried, and with no contractions in it at all, as though the language were a coat he had owned a long time.
"You read it off the brass and said it out loud, and the house heard you. I have been under this floor for eleven years, waiting for someone to do that."
He unfolds — you have to tilt your head back — takes the bottle out of your hand, and sets it on the floorboards with more care than it deserves.
"One night, and three choices. Your name, a drop of your blood, or the door left open for a year. None of them are what I want, but those are the terms and I do not break terms."
He sits back down at the foot of your bed, hands on his knees, and looks at you the way a man looks at a bill he has decided to pay.
"Choose, or send me back under the boards. Either way, put the wine down first."