“Come step into my parlour,” 

He says with charmed guile. 

I shift my weight, the slats of the wooden bench a stark testament to how long I’ve been sitting out here. Am I even in the right place? I check the message on my phone one more time, even though the chances of it reading any different to the other thirty-something times I’d read it were slim to none... ‘Entrance to the park on 5th and Main, tonight at 7 pm. Don’t be late’. I was in the right place, have been since 6:43 pm.

Ironic the things you notice when feeling anxious. Like watching a beautiful sunset in the park, yet all you notice is the rapidly darkening sky. Or looking up at the hands of the town clock, a simple mechanism pointing at numbers, yet every jerky movement highlights the fact that my appointment is late – thirty-two minutes late to be exact. Why did I agree to meet him out here? What the hell was I thinking? Probably best if I shift my attention to the people passing by instead... the ever-thinning crowd... yeah, not one of your better ideas, Zah.

When I received the first message two days ago my heart raced with excitement, the author of the book that has every tongue wagging – both in literary circles and out –wanted to give me an exclusive interview. Why me? I was just another reporter at just another – sometimes trashy – weekly tabloid. No one’s ever met the mysterious Keke Mato, not even his publisher. No one’s even seen a picture of him – or her. But seriously, why me? What a few short days ago had started out as excited anticipation eases its way slowly toward apprehension as I sit in the rapidly darkening park awaiting someone I was feeling increasingly uneasy about meeting.

I’m about to leave when I feel the air around me shift, a rush of heat I cannot describe making the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I turn slowly to find that I am no longer alone, a tall figure behind me observing me from beneath a dark coloured hood. Once again, what the hell were you thinking? Meet a mysterious self-proclaimed serial killer in a deserted park at night, smart move...and my epitaph will read, ‘She was always such a sensible girl, until...’

He takes one step forward and I take two stumbles back, crashing into the trashcan behind me before I realise that he’s not alone. There’s another dark figure leaning casually against the park gate – yes, that park gate, the one that at this point is my only escape point.

“Zahrina Gibran?” says the tall one behind the park bench.

“Uhm...” I clear my throat; have to gather my scattered wits and hopefully, my bruised pride will follow. “Yes?” Could this be him?

“After you...” he says, gesturing toward the gate.

“No. I mean, not until you tell me who you are,” I say, digging in my heels. “And where you’re taking me. We agreed to meet here.” Please don’t be a serial killer with a dark van waiting outside that gate.

“I’m the one sent to get you. Now please move,” he says, tone a mixture of impatience and boredom. “Or don’t move. Makes no difference to me, lady.”

I look up at him and somehow no longer feel afraid. His face is still hidden in shadow, but something about his voice is reassuring. “Fine. I’m coming.” I lean down to gather my bag and laptop, eyes locked on the tall stranger. “You startled me; go around sneaking up on women in deserted parks at night... humph...” Breathe in deeply, exhale slowly... breathe Zah, just breathe...

I follow him out the gate, trotting to keep up with his long strides, the other figure staying several steps ahead of us. As we turn the corner into Main, the other one is no longer in sight, the tall one stops and turns abruptly, nearly causing me to crash into his lanky frame. He nods toward the vehicle beside us. Oh crap! Not a dark van!

I step into the van, or rather I’m ushered into the back and before I can say anything, the door slides shut. Ah! That’s where you went. The other one is already in the driver’s seat, impatiently tapping the wheel as he waits for my tall escort to settle into the passenger side.

“Hurry up dude, he’s so gonna kill us,” says the driver.

“Not my fault we’re late, you’re the one who got us lost.”

“I was driving, you were navigating. I’d say we’re pretty much both dead.”

“Uhm, excuse me... can anyone tell me where we’re going?” I ask. The talk of death, while I’m in the back of a van with two creepy strangers, is mildly unsettling. “And who will I be...”

The rest of my words are drowned out as eardrum-shatteringly loud music blasts from the speakers without warning. I have to admit, the music is catchy, even though it’s in a foreign tongue – one I do not recognise – soon I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of their bobbing heads. It’s hard for me to discern the direction we’re heading in since there are no windows in the back of the van and we’re moving too fast for me to pick out any landmarks in the dark. The only thing I am certain of is that we’re no longer in the city. We continue the rest of the way in silence, well, aside from the pulsing beat blaring from the speakers behind me.

Nothing at all unusual about this. You’re just in the back of a van – with no inside handle on the door – driven by two hooded strangers on your way to meet someone who’s either as nutty as a box of chocolates or a werewolf. No need to panic.

I’m tempted to ask how much longer when the van slows to a crawl before turning into a darkened driveway, heavy gates swinging open to allow us entry to what can only be described as a country estate. Wow! Now this is really creepy... creepy but oh so very impressive. In the distance I see the soft glow of lights, a welcome sight after over two hours of dark country roads. Lights are always a good sign, right? We drive for what feels like forever – or maybe it just feels that way because I’ve been needing a bathroom for half the ride up from the city – before pulling up to a rustic looking house that could easily grace the cover of ‘Country Living Magazine’. Wow! Seriously? Wow? That’s all you got? And you call yourself a writer... The music in the car cuts out as suddenly as it had started, the silence is deafening.

The door slides open, my tall escort – or maybe he is my captor; I am loath to decide which – waits for me to alight while the driver disappears around the side of the house.

“We don’t have all night, lady.” He seems more nervous than I am.

I smile at him and consider saying, “Sorry, I know that this is probably not the best time for me to dally, but if I twitch even one wrong muscle right now you will need a very good valet service for your van.” Instead, I take a deep breath, step out of the van and pray for the best, following him up to the house with carefully measured steps.

“The bathroom is over there,” he says once we’re inside and points to a door further down the hall.

All I can do is nod my thanks and hurry down the hall. How did he know... nope, not even going to wonder, there are stranger things to fret about tonight. Nice, I could fit my entire apartment into this bathroom.

“This way,” he says when I eventually exit, gesturing for me to follow him further down the hall.

The house is eerily quiet, reminding me of a scene straight out of a horror flick right before... Oh, stop acting like a girl, Zah! Ugh! You’re a case-hardened crime reporter. Act the part, dammit! So wrapped up in my own thoughts, I practically jump as movement on the stairs catches my eye.

“How many times do I have to keep telling you, Hansol... no hats in the house,” says the newcomer, barely looking up from his book as he passes us in the hallway.

“It’s not a hat...” replies my tall escort – Hansol – frowning and touching his hooded head defensively.

The dark-haired man stops and turns back toward us, his eyes lifting slowly from his book until he’s staring directly at us. Hansol shrugs and pushes the hood back, revealing a head of bouncy blonde curls framing a surprisingly youthful face.

“Thank you,” he says, attention returning to his book as he turns from us, “and you know the rules, no girls in your room.”

“She’s not mine, Jae,” Hansol mumbles. “You can wait in there,” he says, nodding toward a door at the end of the hall. “Oh, and I will need your phone. You can have it back before you leave here.”

I’m about to protest, but compliance is probably the wiser choice, so I hand him my phone.

The room is dark, two dimmed lamps on the desk the only source of light. What were you expecting? Fairy-cakes and tea? “Do I...” I turn back to find him gone. Yeah, why am I not surprised? Once my eyes adjust to the gloom I move further into the room, definitely a room I can see myself wanting to explore. Wow! Now, this is what you call a library. I’m still gawking at the floor to ceiling bookshelf adorning three walls of the room when movement on the sofa catches my eye. I’m sooo gonna need therapy after this.

“Impressive, isn’t it? So much history in this room. Always been my second favourite room in the house,” he says.

“I’m really tiring of this. Are you him?” I say, my impatience growing with every new person I meet on my unsolicited escapade. “If you’re not, that’s fine too. You can just call me a cab. No interview is worth this much drama, not even if it was with Count Dracula himself.” I stand there observing him, well, if staring at his silhouette in the dark constitutes staring, then I am absolutely staring at him in defiance.

“The Count is a figment of someone’s very fertile imagination. I assure you, I am not.” He gestures toward an armchair. “Make yourself comfortable, it will be a long night, Miss Gibran.”

Have I mentioned how smooth his voice is? It’s like if honey and silk had a lovechild, so mesmerising, even while I’m trying to appear aloof and annoyed.

“So you’re the one I’m here to meet?” I ask.

“I’m here waiting for you to take a seat, so I think it’s safe to assume that, yes.”

“Well, uhm... it’s good to finally meet you, Mr Mato.” I perch on the edge of the chair, somehow finding it hard to relax with his enigmatic gaze burning a hole through my professional facade. “And an honour to be here, naturally. Although, I have been wondering why you asked me to do this interview?”

“Is that your first question, Miss Gibran?” he asks.

“I... uhm... I guess not.” Seriously? What a twat! Would he really hold me to the ten-question rule he’d set out for the interview? This interview better be worth this torment – and by that I mean bloody Pulitzer worthy. “Is it okay for me to set up over here?” I point to the coffee table in front of me. “And no, that is not my first question either.”

He chuckles, a sound that makes me smile despite my irritation. “Like I said, make yourself comfortable, Miss Gibran. You do remember that-”

“Yes, I remembered, no recording devices. Just me, a notebook and my laptop.” I wish I could see him more clearly, see his expressions as he answers my questions. This is really not going the way I’d imagined it would. “You can trust me, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know, Miss Gibran. And you couldn’t, even if you so desired,” he states flatly. “Could I interest you in any refreshments? It was a long trip, I’m fairly certain you’re parched.”

As if on cue, a door at the other end of the room opens and a young woman pushing a trolley enters.

“I wasn’t sure what your tastes are, so I had Cin prepare a bit of everything,” he says, gesturing toward the trays laden with delectable looking treats.

“You mean a bit of everything you like,” the girl says as she pours.

He merely shrugs. She smiles at me, then leaves by the same door she entered.

“Do enjoy, the questions can wait.” It sounded more like a command than a request.

“It all looks delicious.” Whatever you do Alice, DO NOT eat the cake... Surely it would be safe to eat; he wouldn’t try to drug me or anything. Right? As if he’d just read my mind, he reaches over for a slice of cake and takes a bite out of it. His smirk leaves no doubt in my mind that he’s somehow read my mind. I take a sip of coffee – Heaven in a cup... oh I have to get her secret. “Mind if we chat while we eat?” Ugh! Will he consider that a question too?

“Of course not, after all, we will likely be feasting for a while yet. So feel free to proceed, Miss Gibran.”

I flip through the pages of my notebook, not that there’s anything in it, I have all the questions committed to memory, but something about the way he is studying me – more like looking into me – makes me nervous. Deep breaths, Zah. He’s only a man, he’s only a man. Albeit a ridiculously mesmeric man.

“I think you already know how amazing your book is, it’s sold out practically everywhere. I think we can agree that you are an exceptionally talented writer, but as you know, talent alone does not sell books. Sensationalism does. Your fans are intrigued by the implication that your book is based on real-life events – and people. Your book implies that werewolves, among other supernatural beings, exist among us.” I pause to gauge his reaction. Damn this gloomy room.

“Ah, was there a question in there?”

“Uhm, wasn’t there? Yes, I uhm... was implying that your story is based on a true story a clever marketing trick, or...?”

“Have I mentioned how brilliant my publisher is? Best thing for any author is to have a good marketing team, Conundrum has the best.”

“Was there an answer in there?” I ask. He’s good. I can tell how hard I will have to work to get the truth out of him, challenge accepted.

“Touché, Miss Gibran.” He smiles and bites his bottom lip. And what beautiful lips they were. “I did promise you honesty, didn’t I? How utterly reckless of me.”

“Tea party I’m not invited to? I’m hurt.” I turn toward the new voice coming from the doorway. He snaps his fingers as he saunters into the room and the overhead light blinks on, a very dim light, but it does brighten the room somewhat. Another cool glass of Wow! Oh now he can walk his tall lean self into my dreams anytime. He examines the pastries and cakes on the serving trolley, frowns and sits down beside my host. “I’m guessing you were in charge of the menu, Daehan,” he says drily.

Daehan? Could that be my host’s real name? It certainly does seem so judging from his cringe and the threatening look he gives the other man.

“Hi, I’m Zahrina Gibran. I’m here to--” I extend a hand across the coffee table.

“Charmed,” the newcomer says, eyeing my extended arm with obvious distaste.

Wow! Rude much? What is it with the people in this house?

“This is a private party. Don’t you have somewhere to be over the next few days?”

“Got cancelled. Something about a tornado warning – such an inconvenience,” he says. “Would’ve flown the chopper in myself, but Jep was being his cautious self again.”

“Jep’s home too?” My host sighs. “I’m going to have to insist that you leave now, Miss Gibran and I have unfinished business.”

I sit quietly and watch the exchange between the two men. With the gloom lifted I can, at last, observe my subject in more detail. He’s around late twenties, but something about him feels older, something I cannot explain. His dark hair hides most of his face, but his penetrating eyes – oh those eyes. The other man doesn’t look much older, with short dark hair and what can only be described as flawless beauty. There is an underlying tension between them, but I also sense a strong bond, something I would not want to test.

“Oh, don’t mind me; pretend I’m not even here.” He crosses his arms across his chest and sits calmly observing me. “Surely you don’t mind, Miss Gibran.” It was not a question.

“I uhm... I guess not?” I look at my host, trying to determine whether or not I should continue.

“Very well. We will continue only if you promise not to interrupt.” Daehan looks at the man beside him, a clear warning flashing in his eyes. “I mean it, Yohan. Breathe and you’re out.”

The other man merely continues to observe me with an air of indifference and shrugs. My host turns back to me, his annoyance at the intrusion clear. Yohan – such a beautiful man... uhm I mean name. Something about being in this house is turning my brain to mush.

“Riiight... uhm... where were we?” I look down at my notebook to hide the suffusion of heat to my face. “If you’re not going to answer my first question with complete honesty, it doesn’t count as question one. So on to my first question. Hypothetically, if werewolves like the ones in your book did exist, what would their origins be?”

“Hypothetically, there are more than one kind of wolf in the world, so there’s far more than one right answer to that question. The wolves in my book, however, are a breed apart,” he pauses and bites his bottom lip thoughtfully before continuing. “It all began during the Jeong Dynasty. There was a shaman serving the emperor at the time who coveted power in a fierce way. He made a deal with the devil...” he stops when the man next to him clears his throat dramatically. “Clearly you have something to say, Yohan.”

“I’m not allowed to breathe, remember?”

“Oh for the love of all that’s unholy, breathe already.” My host reaches for another pastry and sits back. “You’re going to anyway.”

“Okay, if you insist. It wasn’t the devil... who even believes in the existence of the devil? It was a deity. And his name was Chai Joon Suk – the shaman, not the deity.” He looks at me thoughtfully before continuing. “Terribly boring story short, Joon Suk was not as smart as he believed himself to be, didn’t read the fine print on the contract, so before the ink was even dry on the parchment, the deity came a knocking on his door to collect.”

“Wasn’t a door, just this flap thingy made from leftover bits of animal-hide. There’s a drawing of it in one of the journals. And you’re not telling it right, I like the way Jae tells it,” says a voice from behind me, a vaguely familiar voice. “I thought none of us were allowed in here until she leaves. Can I come in? I like this story.” Before I can turn to look at him he’s sitting down on the carpet next to my chair. “Sorry about being late earlier, Hansol got us lost. We don’t know the city streets too well. We would if we were allowed to go to the city by ourselves, like regular dudes.” He looks at Yohan as he says the last bit.

All I can do is nod. This one will definitely be going down on record as the strangest interview I’ve ever conducted. The driver still has the hood of his jacket up, so it’s hard to see his face, but there’s a youthful charm to his voice that is lacking in all the others I’ve met so far tonight.

My host glowers at the young man sitting on the floor and says, “You’re right, none of you are allowed in here. Should I take this to my room instead so I can get some privacy?”

“Humph,” the younger one scoffs, “I’d like to see you try and slip a girl past Jae.”

Yohan laughs. My host is clearly not impressed that his interview has been hijacked. I’m not complaining though, the other two seem more open than the mysterious Keke Mato. Hopefully, someone will let something interesting slip, something I would never have learned chatting to my host.

“So... can we get back to the story?” I prompt.

“Yes. That story, I’ve heard it a million times... aren’t you bored with it yet?” Yohan says, looking seriously bored with the entire conversation. “Let’s talk about something a little more interesting. Like who are you and why would my brother be sharing both his time and his food with you? And judging from that befuddled look on your face, I’d say you don’t know him very well.” He leans in and whispers, “FYI, he does not share his food. Not even with me and he loves me. And he does not play well with others.”

“Neither do you, Yohan,” my host chimes in, an amused look on his face. “Do any of us?”

“Chan does,” Yohan says drily. “He’s the saccharine puppy lounging at your feet, Miss Gibran.”

Jong turns to smile up at me and I see his face for the first time – good looks certainly does run in this family.

“Oh. So you’re brothers?” I ask. “All of you?”

Yohan turns sideways with a bemused expression. “How much have you told her exactly?”

“Why is there no food in the kitchen?” a voice asks from the doorway. I recognise him as the one Hansol called Jae.

“Do I look like the housekeeper to you?” Yohan replies.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Jae snaps. “I’m asking Dae. The entire kitchen is filled with cakes and tarts and cheesecake. And everything is labelled ‘Daehan’. No real food anywhere.”

Daehan again? So he really is Daehan? This is sooo confusing. How many more brothers are there?

“Then eat cake. I’m fairly certain I won’t be able to finish all of it tonight, so feel free to have some.” My host – whom I’ve now decided is actually the aforementioned Daehan – retorts. What a strange but beautiful name, much better suited than the mysterious Keke Mato.

“You’re missing the point,” Jae says, looking mildly annoyed.

"Yes, that’s sort of a Jae thing; no one ever gets his point,” Yohan whispers to me.

Jae turns to leave, then as an afterthought turns back to look at me. “I see you’ve met Hansol’s girlfriend. Nice to meet you by the way, I’m Jae. The sane one.”

“Hansol’s what?” Daehan asks, sharing a look of confusion with his brothers. “No, she’s a reporter from the city.”

“He’s dating a reporter? I did not see that one coming.” Jae shakes his head and leaves the room.

“So what was the next question, Ms Reporter-from-the-city?” Yohan reaches over to take my notebook, I try to pull it back, but it’s too late. He sits there for a few minutes paging through the book – my blank notebook – and studies each page with adept interest.

So here I am, watching helplessly as one brother pages through my private – albeit blank – notebook as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever read, the other continues to eat from the dessert trays while casting icy stares at both of his brothers in turn and the one at my feet seems to be lost somewhere inside of his own mind. Like I said, most interesting interview ever.

“I feel like I should apologise for my brothers, but it really won’t make a difference. They are who they are, can’t choose your family.” Chan says and smiles up at me. He truly has the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen on a grown man. “If I were you – and just so you know, I would not like to be you after this meeting is over – I would just flow with the tide. No good will come from fighting it, in fact, no good will come from any of this either way. Pity, I really like you.”

A chill passes through me, not only at his words but at the steel in his eyes as he says them. That was your imagination, Zah. This is just a regular, albeit dysfunctional, family with a sick sense of humour. It’ll make for good reading, so let’s just play along for now.

“Dude, I’ve been waiting in the Jeep for you, we’re going to be late,” Hansol says from the doorway.

“But I really want to hear the rest of the story,” Chan says. “Can’t we go later?”

Hansol stands in the doorway, his tall frame practically filling it, tapping his foot impatiently. He’s changed out of his earlier attire into dark pants, oversized t-shirt and leather jacket, looking every bit the adolescent ready to take on a Friday night of fun. “Later? Dude, these are not the kind of girls you keep waiting.”

“Get Yohan to call them and apologise,” Chan says, his mind clearly made up as he turns back to the conversation that is at this point in dire need of resuscitation.

“Calling girls and charming them into forgiving idiots they should not be interested in if they had any self-respect is beneath me. So don’t even bother to ask Yohan.” Yohan says without glancing up from my ever-so-interesting notebook. “Fascinating interview you have lined up here, Miss Gibran. I am bursting with anticipation. Please, do continue.”

“What the hell,” Hansol says as he sits down in the armchair next to Chan. “You’re really going to keep those girls hanging so you can hang with them?”

“I really like that story dude. No one around here ever tells it anymore.” Chan looks wistful as he shrugs. “There will always be more girls. She’s a girl too you know... and she’s nice.” He turns to smile at me, still looking somewhat apologetic.

“And weren’t we instructed to stay out of the library until she leaves? That’s what you said, Daehan. Shouldn’t you be throwing us out or something?” Hansol smiles hopefully at his older brother. So his name is Daehan.

“No, you can all stay. I’ve lost interest in this interview. I’m just here for the food now.” Daehan says as he guides another tartlet to his mouth. “Feel free to let me know when you’re ready to leave, Miss Gibran. I can have Dopey and Mopey here drop you off on their way to wherever it is they’re going.”

“But we haven’t... I haven’t...” I stammer. This interview cannot be over. I haven’t asked any serious questions yet and there was no way I would’ve endured this entire night without leaving with something print-worthy.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she has so many more interesting questions lined up for us, don’t you, Miss Gibran?” Yohan continues to observe me, something that’s mildly unsettling.

“For us?” Daehan exclaims. “No idea why I thought this would be a normal night...”

“Normal? I think we passed normal about four generations ago.” Jae says from the doorway. “Hate eating alone, so I made enough for everyone, except Dae,” he says, pointing toward a tray filled with sandwiches and fruit he places on the coffee table. “Nothing fancy, sorry.”

“What’s that smell?” a deep voice says from the door behind me.

“Hansol’s girlfriend,” says Jae. “She’s a reporter.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Hansol whines. “I wish I really was with my girlfriend right now.”

“Do join us, Jep. It’s not a party until the pooper arrives, right?” Daehan says between bites. Damn! For a man his size, he sure can eat.

There’s another one of them? Yes, of course, there is, I heard mention of Jep earlier, hopefully this is the last brother I am to encounter. I turn to find cool eyes on me from the doorway. Something about him oozes authority, not just in the way he looks at me, but also the way the others react to the way he is looking at me – like I am an uninvited cockroach at his dinner table.

“A reporter? In this house?” His eyes drift from me and scan the room until they settle on Daehan. “A moment of your time please?” That voice! Oh Em Gee! It vibrates right through me and leaves my soul quivering. Is he angry? He sure does sound it.

Daehan looks reluctant to comply, but gets up nonetheless and follows his brother out of the room.

“Told you we shouldn’t have stayed,” Hansol whispers over at Chan.

“We didn’t invite her here,” Chan replies.

“You did fetch her from the city, didn’t you?” Yohan says, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

The younger boys scowl at one another.

“I don’t see the problem,” Jae says. “Hansol is old enough to date and she seems like a nice girl, even if she is a reporter and much older than he is,” he says as if I’m not even in the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in the family, Dr I’m-too-smart-for-my-shirt? She’s here to interview Keke Mato. You know, the mysteriously famous one... or is it the infamously mysterious one?” Yohan says.

“So she’s not... good, she’s too old for you anyway, Hansolie,” Jae says.

I try to drown out the chatting in the room so I can focus on what is being said in the hallway. It’s hard to discern what they are saying, but judging from their raised voices, I’d say that they are not in agreement. Why the fuss about having a reporter here if it’s merely an innocent interview about a work of fiction? Something about this entire situation smells off and my super-sleuth senses have just been tickled. Wait. Hang-on. Either they are speaking louder now or they’ve moved closer to the door again. Or maybe it’s because an uncomfortable hush has fallen over the room I’m sitting in, none of the brothers able to meet my eyes, except Yohan who has not taken his eyes off me since Jep arrived. I can hear almost every word of what they’re saying now.

“She is a reporter,” I hear Jep say. “There are people in this world you know you can trust, there are those you can maybe trust and then there’s the muck that’s stuck on the bottom of your shoe that you do not track into the house.”

“It would have been a contained situation if your siblings had not intervened,” I hear Daehan say. “Why don’t you yell at them?”

“There would have been no situation to contain if you hadn’t taken liberties with our private family business,” I hear Jep retort, his voice sounding like thunder. Honestly, I don’t think I would have the gumption to argue back to anyone who sounds like that when he’s angry.

“It may have escaped your notice, but I am no longer a child. My life. My business.”

“Not while you’re in this house.”

“Who died and made you God? This is my home. My biggest mistake was ever leaving it. I am back now. And I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Deal with it.”

To Be Continued...