The night is young in Bodie, California. Here and there, people scurry to and fro-women, huddled in tight groups, ignoring the leers and obscene comments from drunks loitering about, wild cats are chased by wild dogs down dark alleys, and families lock their homes and stores up tight for the night.
Thunder rumbles in the sky and rain begins to fall like a heavy sheet against the earth. A quarter mile outside of town, a young woman stands beside a freshly buried grave and weeps.
“Collin...“She whispers as her mourning dress is soon drenched. Her hands are limp by her sides as rainwater mixes with her tears and her vision blurs.
A clap of thunder startles her and she moves as if to flee from the cemetery, but instead collapses before her husband's grave in a fit of grief and fury. The woman’s face turns to the sky, her eyes accusing as she shouts,”“Why God? Why Collin?” Emily Rosewater pours her heart out into her screams of frustration and sorrow that rival even the powerful rumblings of lightning in the gloomy sky.
“He was good, ya hear? He was good! You give him back! You give Collin back to me right now! ” She beats at the ground, mud flying in all directions, uncaring for her apparel or if anyone sees her. Let them see.
Nothing.
No answer.
No Collin.
Emily continued to rage a battle with God from dusk till dawn among the rampaging of a thunderstorm and the silent judgments from those laying in the surrounding graves, all the while waiting for a miracle that never came.
A few states over, in the city of San Antonio, a sealed letter is being delivered to an extravagant two-story Victorian-styled mansion squeezed between two similar buildings.
The mailman checks the address and begins a short march up the clean steps to the front double doors. Henry Clarke, a middle-aged man with a strong faith in the Lord, hesitates when he reaches out a hand to grasp the sinister clawed door knocker. He often times believes he has a certain knack for sensing things that are a little...off. And this moment is one of those times.
The whole house, overall, looked like a normal, rich person's home-the lawn manicured to perfection,the porch swept and decorated with comfortable outdoor furniture, curtains opened enough to reveal gilded furniture and pristine conditions inside, not a single item out of place. Still, Henry the mailman shudders as he feels a heavy force pressing upon his heart, almost like a living being trying to consume his spirit. Hurriedly, he slams the knocker with three polite enough taps and steps back, eyes flitting from door to windows, waiting for a sign of life.
Minutes pass before Henry hears shuffling feet and the sound of a chain being pulled back. Quickly, he rights himself, hand already stretching to hand the envelope over. The door creeps open, and though the sun is shining brightly against Henry's back, not a single ray of light seems able to penetrate the darkness beyond the door's threshold.
Squinting to see who opened the door, Henry jumps a little when a deep voice booms out,"What do you want."
"Uh..I..A letter." Henry clears his throat, face heating up, and tries again. "I have a letter addressed to a Mister Jones. There's no return address, so I-" A pale, bony hand appears from the dark interior of the front entrance and snatches the letter from his hand. The front door slamming in his face is the only thanks Henry Clarke receives. Releasing a sigh of relief, he shoulders his mailbag and hurries to his next destination. The hair at the nape of his neck tingles when he passes the wrought iron fence and he spares a single backward glance to see a shadow moving behind a curtain. He pauses. Was that a ghost? Henry turns back around, studies the window a few seconds, then shakes his head and moves on down the bustling street.
A brooding figure in a second-story window watches the retreating mailman before turning to address his butler, an albino giant of a man.
"Well?"
The silent servant steps forward with a silver tray. The master wastes no time in ripping the letter open and scrutinizing its contents.
After a few minutes, he smirks and turns to face the back of a high-backed armchair by the hearth in the dim study.
"He did it. Now what?"
An aging hand appears over an armrest with a glass of whiskey and twirls the contents as the owner of the hand muses over the next course of action.
"Is everything prepared for the trip?"
"Yes, father."
A beat of silence. "Good, you'd better be going."
The son went, ordering a servant to bring his hat and coat while others scurrying out the door with the last of his luggage. And so the fun begins, he thinks, as he climbs into the dark carriage, dark thoughts swimming in his mind.
