Red

Gotta say, you made a hell of an entrance. Where do you keep that horse you rode in on? Ah, I’m just yanking your chain. It’s no coincidence what’s happening here, and happening now, with us and with you lot. All our legends and traditions speak of watching over this land. Of suffering the hardships. Not a lot of bridges in these parts for water to go under. There’s a whole lot of slights and hurt that never got sounded out, never really left this place. My brother got himself killed for it, and could be that was some kind of mercy. Bearing a purpose is a big heavy weight. The purpose passed onto his daughter, Ami, and the tribe turned her out for her troubles. That was half a lifetime ago. Part of me thought what’s happening now was gonna happen then. The storm clouds had gathered, and all. Moral of the story is, evil’s one tricky son-of-a-gun.

“A mad dog won’t raise any pups.” That’s what my pop used to say. Yeah, I never saw myself as the fathering kind despite sitting in as Santa for as many Kingsmouth Christmases as I can count. That’s more gut than paternal instinct, in every way. But when Ami’s parents died… Her mother went too early but natural, her father was murdered by bad men. Left it for me to bring her up right. Her brothers too, Frank and Joe. One out of three… Coulda been worse, I guess. Don’t mean to say I favored her, but she was special. Had my brother’s gift, to channel the voice of our ancestors. She just needed…encouraging. What was left of the tribe, of her family, they wanted no more to do with tradition. We’re no longer on speaking terms, us and them, and mostly that suits me just fine. I’m spoiled for company. But it was never easy for Ami. Responsibility sure is a sack of rocks, even in better times. Hah. Better times, relatively speaking. Weighed her down half her life. Sure am proud of her. I guess this old dog’s not all mad after all.

We got a few live ones out here besides us and the schoolhouse, damn lucky – or unlucky, depending on your point of view. Take Eleanor Franklin. Keeping to herself in that empty Adams Family mansion for years, stewing on bad blood. Sure as hell doesn’t like the sight of me and my kin. Or anyone else, for that matter, unless it’s a cat. Damn shame, I hear she was a ray of sunshine in her day. But most everyone involved with that mine never comes away quite right. Then you got Sam Krieg, the author. Man doesn’t write romances for a reason, the miserable bastard. We got bets on him coming out of this one with a story about saving the day, maybe with an empowered Native American squeeze, too. You won’t find him setting foot outside the old lighthouse. I’d just slide his food and booze order under the door, until he got his hands on a rifle. Now I leave it out of range and he can bill me if it goes bad. How all of them escaped the fog, I don’t know. I’d like to think there’s rhyme and reason to it all, but I suspect it’s just pure, awful luck.