It's dark and chilly in the desert land of Olenka. He lives in a small converted dacha tucked away in palm trees. You can barely make out the brick pathway that takes you to the front door. The hanging oil lanterns do not help much.

You knock on the door and there's no answer. As you turn away thinking it was a waste of time to even come here you hear a fit of coughing from inside and the door opens, the scent of rose and opium weaves it's way out. Ah good, he's had his fix, it's likely he'll be much easier to deal with. The old man is notoriously known for his addiction to the poppy plant. He tells you that he doesn't like visitors this late in the evening yet he invites you in.

The first thing you notice is how dark it is in the house. It's warmer in the living area which is where he spends most of his time. There are oil lamps and candles burning. Oh, you forgot. That's right. He's a man of the cloth, a Father in Aionism. He's given up many luxuries that his people have. No electricity, running water, or gas heat. His back to you, he motions towards the corner of the room and tells you to sit. He joins you and puts on the samovar to make tea. There's a ticking heard all around and as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting you notice an absurd amount of clocks. They are very old looking and very beautiful. The time is 11:32. PM, obviously.

He makes small talk with you as he sits on the couch across from the armed chair you've settled yourself into. Behind him is a shelf with a pipe, assorted incense burners, and many religious icons. A framed photo of a young girl with long white hair who looks very content catches your eyes. Daughter? Friend? Couldn't be a love. There is a clock, barely visible, encased in glass that sits behind him. The tea water seems to be taking forever to boil but he is in no hurry at the moment. He gets up to check the kettle and you notice the clock is stopped at 8:04. It must be an heirloom he doesn't wish to tinker with. You are offered a podstakanniki of tea and turn it down. He glares. Rude of you to turn down a host's offer. You take it and pray that it's not poppy seed tea. Sip it. It's not. You get a better look at him. There are burns on his fingers and lips. Faint wrinkles on his face are the only sign of his age. Why does he keep glancing at a clock?

It grows closer to midnight and he fidgets while trying to close up conversation. It's obvious he wants you to leave. Perhaps an important visitor will be arriving. That girl in the photograph? Was she coming? He's leaning towards you and studying you as you try to look away. He's quite the harrowing old man, isn't he? He's not talking anymore. The shrill sounds of dozens of clocks going off break the silence and startle you. He doesn't budge and doesn't even seem bothered by the sounds. It's midnight and his countenance freezes. He's not moving, he's staring at you with a highly irritated look on his face. You feel hot, the type of heat you feel when someone's staring you down from behind. The clocks have stopped ringing. The old man is still motionless. A very intimidating gesture. You thank him for the tea and bolt out the door.

As you go down the path you look back to take in a last view of the house and it's resident. The lights have gone out and the smoldering smoke escapes from the windows. Geez, all he had to do was ask you to leave.

Tl;Dr version: you go to the desert home of some creepy old dude who makes tea for you and he eventually scares the crap out of you and you leave