As I was bent down, I thought I heard a flutter. I didn't pay attention; my mind went to the hens, which sleep right next to the cabin. I took the lamp down from the wooden beam and, stroking the horse's mane, I made to leave.

Turning my eyes outward... I froze. At the doorway stood an old man, with a large, pointed, snow-white beard that seemed to stand out even more against the robe he wore. His head was tightly wrapped in a black scarf, like in images of Saint Anthony. Above his shoulders, two enormous wings shimmered, like tar. He held a pitchfork at an angle in his hands, with the prongs pointed towards me. He looked me straight in the eyes, without moving at all. Behind him, the snow made him appear even more fearful, thus emphasizing his figure in the darkness...