He had been watching all afternoon and into the evening and so far as he could tell there had been no movement in or around the house. From this distance, where the meadow butted into forest, he wasn’t quite able to see the finer details in the fading light but now that darkness had fallen he believed that he could creep closer for a better look.

Tharen had heard the stories the old men told when they had had a few drinks and were in the mood to frighten their juniors: a witch lived in the wood on the outskirts of their village. A crone, thirsty for virgin blood and with powers granted by the old gods of the land. She would grant wishes for a price, but they were double-edged if you weren't careful. He wasn't sure if they were true, but an old woman living in seclusion probably had something he could hock for quick money. 

Pins and needles assailed Tharen's legs as he stood from where he'd been crouched in the underbrush. He leaned against a tree and stretched to restore feeling before stepping from the tree line. One the starlight was full on him, a buzzing tingle raised the hair at the back of his neck and he gave a shudder, reaching up to run his neck. Strange; maybe he was getting cold feet?

Before Tharen could cast more doubt on his intentions he began to walk toward the brick home, keeping to the grass and clear of the pebble path lest he be heard. He kept close to the wall once he arrived, pulling a small mirror from his pocket to look through the window at the darkened room within. 

Readying his tools, he gave an experimental tug at the windowpane in order to locate the latch and as surprised when it swung noiselessly outward. A moment later, Tharen was lowering himself carefully to the floor; he was in.