My Dearest Arleta,
These last few weeks since the incident, have been the hardest of my life. The search down the mountain for supplies and scrap, away from your touch, and home. These miles have disappeared beneath my boots like the stars from the sky on that fateful night.
The necklace of leather and antler that you gave me as a charm against the unknown in these lowlands, has served me well as a worry stone in these lonely nights. The rough surface of the bone reminds me of the feelings of the trauma ward. Setting the broken bones of our family, the aftermath of our last stand.
I will never forget the price that the Longwalkers exacted from us. I will do everything in my power to regain that lost blood, those lost souls, those children, mothers, and grandfathers.
Lovelaces.
I will find worthy successors for the name. I will re-invigorate the mountain top with new and strong blood. My Compatriots all are filled with the same fire of desire. We will survive this winter and come back to the mountain top with workers, doctors, and farmers.
Love, Beaux Lovelace
Good Tidings Matilda and Softer Lovelace,
It has been brought to my attention that much ado about the cattle’s hardshell polish has been on the wind. Particularly wind that y’all have been inhaling. What goes in, must come out, as they say. Small black birdies have whispered that to me on more than one occasion while I am tending the stalls during dusk service as of late and I must say, I am displeased. Never would I have imagined you would stoop to such a low.
While I can empathize with your ludicrously lackluster lacquer on your side of the fenceline, I would kindly ask that you return Beth, Elizabeth, and Bettie at once. Your jealousy is no excuse for snail-lifting. Our harvest of their slimes is going to be delayed for a week! Please reconsider this course of action as per our previous conversation at the fenceline and consider yourselves chastised!
Consequently concerned, Constance Lovelace
P.S. I am willing to share slime lubricants and jellies, if that sweetens the deal. Please just return my girls in one piece and no cracks. They have been blue-ribbon shellies four years in a row now! I am so worried. The whole barn seems stressed.
Warmest wishes,
Even as the long night approaches again I write to my family to wish them well preparing for the season. I still regret that my mistakes mean I can not be with y’all in person. I miss the comforts of family, food, and a warm fire together. Enjoy them as you should, and do not let my absence detract from the joy of family as it should be.
I don’t know if the news would have reached your ears already, but Jack has fallen. It happened during the indulgence recently, though I do not have firm details to pass along. I felt it my duty to make sure that it is known to the family.
What other news there is here is just rumor and feelings. The Warden is not forthcoming with us in any meaningful way. Yet there are disruptions to the routines and patterns that have been steady previously. It feels like something is soon to change, but as to what I can not say. While I could wish that it might yet result in my release and return home, considering all things I think it is an unlikely outcome given the magnitude of circumstances that resulted in my arrival in the penitentiary. I do not wish to distress you with false hopes, but keep an ear out for changes at the penitentiary. Well you may hear of them before I do given how things work here.
As usual I have included what minor offering for the ancestors I could make this year. Wood scraps were difficult to obtain, but I hope the abundance of time spent whittling to make it pleases the ancestors.
May the hearth fire burn warmly, the candles be steady in their glow, and family sustain you through the long night.
Your son, Daniel
Greater Tidings Mitty and Soffy Lovelace,
Never in my life have I been more appalled than I am by your actions against these poor innocent creatures. They do not even have TEETH! Their dispositions were as justifiably sweet as the jellies and lubricants made from their secretions. When Julius brought this heinous act--directed me to the scene of the crime-- bloody baby-blue shell polish could be seen scattered amongst what looked like hammered remains, I fainted. So Mitty and Soffy Lovelace I invoke your childhood names because that is how you are acting -- like spoiled babies with thick heads and no self-control! This was a gruesome act on your own property, as if we wouldn’t find out.
As I pen this, my fenceline is being heightened and reinforced. You have disrespected me for the last time. Keep my name out of your mouths. May all your crops rot. May all your loaves fall.
Bewildered and bamboozled, Constance Lovelace
P.S. I heard other livestock is missing from other homesteads, slashed and smashed about in the middle of the night. How could you? If you were hungry just ask us. We have never denied you before, or you denied us when in need. How could you go so afoul? I hope you are proud of yourself.
Madame Barrowsung,
I write to you now in the candlelight of the Long Night come premature to warn you of its passing. This dawn the Unrise muted morning and the bells of The Church confirmed what I knew to be true when I cracked my eye to darkness.
Fortunately, the roof of your estates remains in goodly repair as do your grounds and tenanted lands. It is the staunch belief of the Mother Immaculate that this darkness is merely a test of our conviction - and not to be feared.
At the encouragement of the Mother, the staff of the Barrowsung estate will light every candle tonight in the windows of the homestead and beat back the darkness when the Longwalkers turn their hellish eyes towards our town and - as the Man of the Marsh tells it - our morgue.
Do not fret for the state of your home and your lands, my lady. We will keep your holdings well in-tact while you travel the Greater Lonestar, be it against mundus or mortis.
Yours in Service, Agarta Lovelace
Cornicorpus Lovelace,
With trembling fingers I seek the wisdom of the man who committed greater folly than any achievement I could in my lifetime. As the Lights of my, once your, town diminish; I too grow cold and still as the Long Night.
When you chose to do battle against the archons of the Long Night did you fumble and fail? Was your path the right one but executately ungracefully?
As I stare into the supreme darkness that robs us of ourselves, darker I think than the Mortis where the self may be the Light - I wonder why a predator would not simply kill me when I show it my stomach, padded by years of good harvest.
But I suppose that is Faith, supreme and simple. You survived your Incident to build what would become the home of my family. I will survive this and build a better future still.
Rest easy, Grandfather. The windows of the house may be dark tonight; but the house will stand at dawn.
In Life and in Service, Gregori Lovelace
To Whom It May Concern:
Members of the Lovelace Family,
This is our third attempt to contact you regarding the mortis terminus (“Morgue”) established at Widow’s Peak. Per the establishing charter of the San Saba Territories, all morgues within the region are subject to inspection and maintenance by representatives of the LONE STAR GRAVE COUNCIL. It is imperative that our specialists are able to see to the care and upkeep of your morgues. This is for the safety of your family and your neighbors.
The last representative we sent to speak with you was threatened with violence and was made to egress with haste.
I hope that we can resolve this matter professionally, An improperly kept morgue can and will cause needless suffering.
-Mr. K Directing Auditor, L.S.G.C.
To the family of my beloved Constance Lovelace, I regret to inform you that she has been torn from the light and plummeted into the Undercroft. It was never about the snails or the other cattle. Nothing is coming for the cannery or the nog or the cookies. It is so much worse. The very dirt beneath my feet seems to be twisting up a foul, dirty look my way as I light this candle, I know the risks. We all do, now. I cannot let her be forgotten. I cannot let her be swallowed up by the darkness. The Beast comes. Wants to grind up our bones for oil--oil that burns hotter than any leviathan worms from the Dune Sea the Sainthoods rave on about. Oil to light his lantern. The family persists. The love will endure. This flame will not be snuf- . . .
(The rest of the page is partially burned, waxed, and blood splattered. A big portion is missing.)
Dearest AnnaLynn,
I awoke to darkness this morning. The sun has left us. Father is worried, but pretending. But I see the shadow in his eyes. A worry. We gather food in the pitch black. It is so thick that it swallows the light from our torches. Heavy frost covers the ground and the pond is a sheet of glass. I watch as Father frets along the shore line, needing the fish but unsure if the new sheet of ice will hold his weight to retrieve them. Weighing the danger of falling in to the danger of starving without them.
I try to keep the little ones occupied. But they see the shadow behind my laugh as surely as I see Fathers. There should be song and celebration for the Winter Lights.. instead.. it is quiet, muted. The singing does not travel far. It is a new hardship, and I must believe we will endure it as we always have before. We will find a way.
I hope the sun shines upon you wherever you are today, my dearest Annalynn.
Yours Forever, Cara
CHORE LIST
Light our lanterns in accordance with tradition to shut out the dark and honor the Winter Lights.
Harvest all grain remaining on stalk and sheaf that your siblings may not go hungry.
Tend to the critters and beasts in our care, show them love and give them shelter and succor within our barns.
Give prayers to our forefathers that they may know we live in accordance with their traditions and spare us their discipline in the Long Night.
Put away dry firewood to keep our stoves and hearths alite.
Mend all fences and see to the barricades, that we might protect our families from the Long Walkers.
These chores were to be done before the coming of the dark, with the Long Night early upon us, our family and guests will have to be undertake with vigilance and care.
All must be done for the good of the family.
Father Josiah
My Beautiful Annalynn,
We are beset by some evil. It is not merely a darkness. It is a cloud. A mist that is choking us slowly- not with poison, but with fear and despair. Father ventured out to bring in the cattle and he has not returned. It has been hours, and I have heard strange noises from the deep dark. not the familiar moans or shuffle of the undead. Something new. Something awful. Something lurks at the edges of the lights. I can see it stalking and I am certain that it is stalking me.
It looked at me. I saw no eyes, but I felt them. I cowered in the warm glow of many candles but knew with utter certainty that the light would not save me.
I am scared. Father has not returned.
What will I tell the children?
Yours, Cara
Attn: Jack Nichols
Prudence Penitentiary
San Saba Territories
Jack,
It’s been a quiet year since I last wrote, and I continue the tradition once more. I’ve lit the Winterlight candles in the window every night for the last week, and I’ll continue keeping a light on for you as long as I can, throughout the dark winter.
The harvest was strong this year, with a surplus to go around for all. The Elders elected to invite others for the festival this year, but I still worry. They may not have let me forget when you left, but I’m still a part of this community and you know how the Quiet Folk gossip.
It reminds me of the harvest the year you left, so it’s hard not to be filled with a bit of hesitation and worry. Twice brought, twice fraught.
I forgive you, son, and I hope I get to tell you this in person. The traveler I’ve found to deliver this letter promises he will get it to you, even inside that horrific institution. But this type of task is never certain, so I worry nonetheless.
Your friends still wait for you, in the dark. I can see their eyes, outside in the shadows, whispering for you. They haven’t forgotten you, even if the rest of the town pretends they aren’t there. I see the door knob rattle on dark nights, but they know I keep candles lit and I won’t stand such foolishness.
I hope you return before the Long Night. I hope the shadows know I’m waiting for you, a silly old man, clutching a pillow in the night and hoping they haven’t learned to open the window.
Hurry home, Jack. Dad
My Dearest Jonathan,
I miss you. I miss you every day, and every night, and especially every Long Night.
The Longest Night is over, and you still have not come back to me. All these years, I have waited. When you left, we knew you might never come back, but sometimes I feel you are still out there, watching me.
I see you in the flowers of spring. I see you in the leaves of fall. I see you in the dark eyes that peer into my home at night, waiting for the candles to go out. I hear you in the birds. I hear you in the sounds of the trees swaying. I hear you in the footsteps outside the house as I lie in bed. I hear you in the claws against my door. I hear you in the screams of those who stay at the edge of the light.
I will leave this letter at the offering table, and hopefully, the hands that pick it up and accept it are yours. Until then, I shall collect all the offerings I can, and make sure you are remembered.
I miss you. I wait for you.
Tonight I turn off my lights.
Ever yours, Agatha Lovelace
To The Families Whom It May Concern:
It is I, Julius Ferrer-Lovelace, bearing grave news and a graver omen that has just landed at my doorstep. Matilda and Softer Lovelace have been put asunder and now rest in pieces beneath the soil. Before their most brutal passing, I saw with my own eyes the most unusual tracks leading a scurry further into the wood. Bloody footprints! I have seen my fair share of crimes of passion, wild Armordillo stampede, or even a whistlers out in the trees, eyes all shining before they swoop down on field mice. But the way I discovered their bodies mutilated and torn asunder? These weren’t no field mice and those eating these ladies weren’t no whistlers either. It wasn’t no zed either, they don’t hunt like this did.
Keep your loved one’s close, folks, as these are trying times upon us.
J. F. Lovelace