September 26, 1871
We’re close now—I can feel it. The line between sleep and waking grows thinner each night. I keep drifting into visions, never quite sure which world I’ve returned to when I open my eyes.
Last night I stood barefoot in a field of black thorns under a bleeding sky. A stone altar rose from the earth. Something writhed atop it, bound in red silk and thorns. I recognized the chant being spoken around me. It was the same that poured from the train tracks back in Pilot Knob.
And then I saw her—Kate, but not me. Older. Wilder. Painted in ash and marked in blood, she smiled and placed her hand on my heart.
She whispered:
“You’re almost ready.”
When I awoke, the palm of my hand was smeared with red ink—fresh, and still damp.
But the pen never left my bag.
