Old Man Night

On an autumn afternoon, where the clouds hang over the world like a great duvet, an old man came to town. He was first seen among the trees, as they blew this way and that. Slowly he would climb down before stumbling through the street, his bones creaking with each step, and his winded breathing deep and shallow. He was a grandfatherly sort of figure, but not the kindly one who tells you he's proud of you or that he will teach you how its done. No he was the kind that your father always complains about visiting, and the kind of man he has sworn to be nothing alike. He was the kind of man you warn your sister not to visit without a friend, and that you only let your kids visit on a holiday.
This old man, whose skull could be sketched by looking at the skin that barely stretched over it, walked through town, at a pace that was slow enough to see when watched, but quick enough to catch you by surprise when you weren't paying attention. He was blind in one eye, a white pale orb slightly hidden under his bushy eyebrows. His painted raven hair hung wild over his head, in an attempt to hide his age, yet the little white spots, from where he forgot to properly dye it, revealed the truth for all to see.
When he passed by you could smell his breath, like charcoal and ink, liquorice and blackberry muffins, and decay and pitch. Everywhere he walked the world fell a little bleaker, a little lonelier, but also a bit more cozy, and a bit more homely. Each house he passed by lit up their candles and chimneys in acknowledgement of his visit, and to keep him away.
Every day he comes a bit earlier, at a more inconvenient time. But no matter how much people complained, he came all the same. His name was grandfather Night, and with him came the moon, the stars, and utter darkness.