Pacific, Missouri

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.