Sam Krieg

I've sold almost a hundred million books. That number baffles even me. It's not like I write for anyone but myself. I'm not what you'd call a populist. Murder, rape, incest, infanticide; sick, twisted and cruel characters suffering similar fates. Monsters — human and inhuman — haunting desolate spaces. A world controlled by misanthropes, torn asunder, reduced to bodily fluids. And still people keep reading. Says a whole lot about the state of the world, doesn't it?

My head isn't a good place for a visit, but you read one of my novels, that's exactly where you're going. I've got a mean streak a mile wide, and the things I've seen make me loathe mankind. If we were to be wiped out tomorrow, all of us, I'd say not a minute too soon.

Are you here for a signature? I'll make it out to "Christ almighty," since you're so intent on dying for our sins.

Can't say I'm surprised to find your type in this place, at this point in time. I've been writing about your world for decades, and the secrets speak to me, torture me, in my dreams. My only relief was with the keyboard. Or a bottle. But the madness would always catch up with me, always pull me back, and i don't have the capacity for ignorance. I can't unsee what I've seen, I can't give back what I've learned. I can't come home after a long day at the office, beat the kids, fuck the wife, and pass out in front of the ball game with a case of Bud. I envy the sheep and their infinite capacity for ignorance. You know what they say: Idiocy is bliss.

Kingsmouth was founded by the Illuminati. This whole community — the entire island — was built by cabalists. They claimed they picked this place because it was isolated, easy to protect. Bullshit.

There's power here, begging to be released and the Illuminati, they tried their best. In their arrogance they believed they could tame it, use it somehow. That's why the entire island is riddled with esoteric markings and archaic symbols, with tunnels and secret rooms. They dug deep. And what they found scared them. They wised up, eventually, moved on to bigger and better things, left the town to rot.

Those who remained... Well, who would they leave behind? Not their best and brightest, I can guarantee you that. Those people, they kept feeding on the power until it permeated everything. The town, the forest, the school... That's what brought me here. To succumb myself in evil. To understand it. Learn about it. Write about it.

But it seemed to have faded, like the paint on the picket fences. This place seemed no more cruel than any other small town on this blighted continent, filled with pettiness and jealousy and murderous thoughts, but human. Boy, was I wrong. I'd say I got more than I bargained for, but you might think I got exactly what I deserved — and you'd probably be right.

The day the fog rolled in, I stood up here in this ivory tower and watched it all. It came like an avalanche, like a tsunami, obscuring everything in its path. First the shoreline, then the fields, the forest — the town. It lingered for a while, before receding. There was no one left. The fog took them, all of them.

At least, that's what I thought at first glance. Turned out there were others who escaped the fog - somehow. Me — and the sheriff, she was paying a friendly visit — I was above it all. It didn't touch us. That night, it was deathly quiet. The fog around the island obscured everything, sight and sound. One or two people tried to leave. They walked into that thick mist, and all we heard were the screams.

The next morning — with the dawn — came the townsfolk, returning from the sea, like one of my stories. Followed by what the Wabanaki once called "the pale men." The Draug. That's when I decided to stay put and keep writing. There's a strange inspiration to be found in imprisonment.