There is always a part of a house that knows those that live in it, better than the people know their home. Trewarnen, this farmhouse, has held the lives and deaths of the Tregellas family. It has served as gatekeeper and acolyte.
The house has warned them, but they will not hear.
We could tell them if they would just place an ear to the ground. If they ran fingers through our tangled bones and pushed deep against our loaming fells. We, like the farmhouse, have seen them grow and birth and leave, we’ve seen new generations and oh, we’ve seen much more. We’ve seen the house as it was raised from stone, the homestead that stood before it razed to the ground. We’ve seen their visitors, the friendly and the not. We’ve seen those that lurk, what surrounds at night. Times have passed; we’ve watched in something like panic as events unfold, but what are we to do? We are witness, alone. All parts of us.
We can only be. In spring, we grow, summer, we soak. Autumn, we bare and in winter we wait. We have witnessed much more.
We have witnessed the visitor they wished for, She who they do not understand, and we have witnessed the protections they placed upon the farmhouse when She arrived.