Gordon Edgley's sudden death came as a shock to everyone - not least himself. One moment he was in his study, seven words into the twenty-fifth sentence of the final chapter of his new book, And the Darkness Rained Upon Them, and the next he was dead. A tragic loss, his mind echoed numbly as he slipped away.

The funeral was attended by family and acquaintances, but not many friends. Gordon hadn't been a well-liked figure in the publishing world, for although the books he wrote - tales of horror and magic and wonder - regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists. He had the disquieting habit to insult people without realizing it, and then laughing at their shock. It was at his funeral that Stephine Edgley caught sight of the gentleman in the tan overcoat.

He was standing under a large tree away from the crowd, coat buttoned up all the way despite the warmth of the afternoon. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face, and even from her position from the far side of the grave, Stephine could make out the wild frizzy hair that escaped from the wide-brimmed hat he wore low over his gigantic sunglasses.

"What are you looking at Stephine?" a voice said from beside her. Stephine turned to see that it was her friend, Gretchen, who had accompanied her to the funeral.

"There's a man over by that tree Stephine told her, pointing to where she saw the man. The man seemed like he knew he was being watched and went back through the rows of headstones and out of sight.

"Well, I can't say that wasn't interesting," Gretchen said in her usually chipper tone.

After the service Stephine, Gretchen and Stephine's parents traveled back to her now deceased uncle's house. The gates were heavy, and grand, and stood open welcoming the four to the estate. The grounds were vast and the old house itself was ludicrously enormous. There was an extra door in the living room, a door disguised as a bookcase and when she was younger Stephine liked to think only she knew about the door and Gretchen who she told. It was a secret passageway, like in the stories she read and with Gretchen, they made up stories about haunted houses and smuggled treasure. This secret passageway would always be their escape route, and the villains in these adventures would always be dumbfounded by their disappearance. But now this secret passageway stood open and there was a steady stream of people through it, and Stephine was saddened that this little piece of magic had been taken from her. Gretchen walked up to her and patted her back, knowing how much she loved their adventures as kids.

Gretchen was Stephine's friend since forever. When she was young, a friend of Gordon's asked if it was okay if Gretchen grew up with Stephine and her family, as their work had them travel to dangerous places frequently. So, the two spent nine out of their twelve years together. Three times a year Gretchen's parents would be around, and she went to visit them. Once on her birthday, once during Christmas, and once when she started a new year of school. Gretchen had always been the fearless girl, who took charge when the situation needed it, but when she returned home from her parent's house, on her ninth birthday, she seemed different, somewhat saddened, but even more fearless than before. Gretchen never told Stephine, nor anyone what her parents had said to her.

Back at Gordon's house tea was served, and little sandwiches were passed around on silver trays and watched the mourners appraised their surroundings. The major topic of hushed conversations was the will. Gordon wasn't a man who inspired, or even demonstrated great affection so no-one could predict who would inherit his substantial fortune. Stephine could see greed seep into the watery eyes of her father's older brother, a horrible little man called Fergus, as he nodded sadly and spoke sombrely and pocketed the silverware when he thought no one was looking. This made both Stephine and Gretchen grimace.

Fergus's wife was a thoroughly dislikeable, sharp-featured woman named Beryl. She drifted through the crowd, deep in unconvincing grief, prying for gossip and digging for scandal. Her daughters did their best to ignore Gretchen and Stephine. Carol and Crystal were twins, fifteen years old, and as sour and vindictive as their parents. Whereas Stephine was dark-haired, tall, slim and strong and Gretchen being slightly taller than Stephine, brown-haired, had blue eyes and quite muscular for her age, they were bottle-blond, stumpy and dressed in clothes that made them bulge in all the wrong places. Apart from their brown eyes, no-one would have guessed they were related to Stephine. She liked that. Gretchen liked that she wasn't related at all. It was the only thing they liked about them. They left them to their petty glares and snide whispers and went for a walk.

The corridors of Gordon's house were long and lined with paintings, the floor beneath their feet gleamed and the house smelt of age. The walls and floors had seen a lot, Stephine and Gretchen were but a faint whisper.

Gordon had been a good uncle, even to Gretchen, who had taken her up as his niece without even being related. He was arrogant and irresponsible, yes, but also childish and enormous fun, a light in his eyes, a glint of mischief. When all others were taking him seriously, the two friends were privy to the nods and the smiles he would shoot their way when people weren't looking. Even as children, they felt he understood them more than most, especially Gretchen. He always seemed to know something Gretchen didn't, and never let on to what it was. They liked how he was intelligent and witty and gave no second thought to what people thought of him. He was a good uncle and taught the two a lot.

They both knew that Stephine's mother and he briefly courted each-other, but the moment he introduced him to his younger brother, sparks flew. Gordon stepped aside graciously and had gone on to have numerous torrid affairs with numerous beautiful women. He used to say it had almost been a fair trade but suspected he got the short end of the stick.

Stephine climbed the staircase, followed by Gretchen, she pushes open the door to Gordon's study and the pair stepped in. The walls displayed framed covers of his bestsellers and other manner of awards. One wall was made of just shelves jammed end-to-end with books, biographies, historical novels and scientific texts and psychology tomes, and little batter paperbacks here and there. Stephine was looking at first editions of his novels while Gretchen was peering over his desk, imagining him there, writing his books. Then, from the doorway a voice so smooth it could have been velvet:

"At least he died doing what he loved."

Gretchen, who was already facing the door, looked up from the desk while Stephine spun around and looked at the door. In the doorway was the man from the funeral, still in the overcoat, still wrapped in the scarf, still, glasses, still wearing the hat, hair still poking out from under his hat. His hands still gloved.

"Yes," Gretchen said, being the closest to the door

"At least there's that." Stephine finished.

"You're two of his nieces then?" the man asked, "You're not stealing anything nor breaking anything, so I would have to guess one of you are Stephine." His gaze kept changing from Stephine to Gretchen.

"She's Stephine, I'm not actually his niece. More of a kind of adoptive one you could say." Gretchen told the man. They took this time to inspect the man more closely. Not the tiniest bit of face was sticking out beneath his headwear and scarf.

"Were you a friend of his?" Stephine asked. He was tall, and assumable thin, but the coat made it hard to judge.

"I was," was his answer, moving his head. This is when they noticed how still he had been standing before. "I've known him for quite so many years now, met him in a bar in New York just after he had sent his first novel off to be published. He was very nervous about it."

The sunglasses he wore were pitch black, making it impossible to see his eyes. "Are you also a writer?" Stephine asked, cocking her head to insect him better.

"Me? No, I wouldn't know where to start. But I got to live out my fantasies through Gordon."

"You had writer fantasies?" Stephine asked

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I do sometimes." Gretchen said, "But I think that's only the weird ones."

"Well I guess that makes me rather odd, doesn't it?"

"Well," Stephine answered, "It would help."

"Gordon talked about you two all the time, boast about his little nieces all the time." The man said.

"Well," Gretchen said, obviously annoyed "He didn't seem to remember to tell you my name."

"That is true, but Gordon was a smart man, he had his reasons for everything."

"I guess so" she answered, feeling a bit better.

"If I were to say; strong-willed, fearless, intelligent, sharp-tongued, take charge and doesn't suffer fools gladly, who do you think I would be describing?" The man asked.

"Uncle Gordon," the two girls said in unison

"Funny," the man said, "He used the same words to describe you both." His lined fingers dipped into his coat and pulled out a gold pocket watch on a delicate chain.

"Good luck to whatever you both choose to do in your lives."

"Thanks…" Stephine said, a little dumbly.

"I would wish you luck as well," Gretchen said, trying to distract the man from her friend's poor choice of words. They felt the man smile, though they couldn't see his mouth, he then turned and disappeared from sight. Who was he?

"He didn't even tell us his name," Stephine said, huffily. Gretchen leads themselves downstairs, only to see a car drive away. They stayed there for a few moments, before returning to the extended family in the living room, just in time to see Fergus slip a silver ashtray into his breast pocket.