Prologue: Mist and Snow

A house poised upon this northern outcrop of granite stood one winter's night in the company of ravished trees as the snow rode the wind in an ephemeral mix of ice and motion. It raced on invisible currents, changing directions and spiraling skyward in an unpredictable dance before resigning itself, floating peacefully down to its final resting place.

The headlands were covered with its thick remains, a white shroud, ruffled and humped like the backs of white whales surfacing in a frozen imitation of the sea. On this immaculate palette, a square of golden light appeared only a few hundred yards from the cliff. A lamp had been turned on and shone from a second floor window of the house, piercing the gloom like the one eye of a Cyclops.

Inside the master bedroom, a man wrote at a timeworn mahogany desk, his pen moving frenetically across a page. The air-thick with purpose-molded around his arm and guided its erratic motions, turning them into communicable fact. Ink coalesced into words that would finally bring about the end of all his misery and the beginning of justice.

When finished he set down the pen, leaned back against the chair, and sighed deeply. Like the letter he had written, the gesture was a release of stress, anxiety, and fear. This was what he had wanted to do for so long but never had the evidence needed to bring about a certain conviction. It had taken months of patience, light sleep, and diligent work through every minute, every hour, and every day that rushed past to mock him.

He was glad to be in the house, at rest. It comforted him, gave him the peace of mind to concentrate and complete the task at hand. The fire, still bright and hot, cast a welcome glow on the room and a heat that covered him like syrup, stuck to his clothes, and melted away the cold. He could hear the snow falling outside, the clink, clink of icicles as they broke in the frigid wind gusts that occasionally rattled the frosted windows.

His eyes closed, weighty with exhaustion, attempting to drag him into sleep kicking and screaming. Not now, he pleaded. She needed to come home. Not now. Then the inevitable tunnel of white light would solidify out of his vision, beckoning him until his head fell forward only to startle him awake again. If he could just talk with her and show her the letter before he sent it to the police. She had already known most of what he would write, and she believed him, unlike any other person whom he once called a friend. Nonetheless, he wanted her to see it on paper.

Her image danced in and out among his darker thoughts. How did he ever marry such a woman? Only the work of a loving god could have brought her to him.

There had been mistakes in his past relationships through high school, complete with unnecessarily bitter ends, resentments, frustrations, and the desperate conviction that with each passing girl he was only confirming that he could never get it right and that he would probably be alone forever. Then he met her.

She attracted him at once, but he immediately saw how different she was compared to the type of girl he was usually with. Those girls, who dressed to attract the opposite sex and flatter themselves, were the kind who cavorted with the most admired students and lived like leeches, sucking up whatever popularity could be achieved through the merits of those strapping and conceited youths. In his school's social strata, he had been a level below the jocks but had enough good looks and personality to try his hand at winning the trendy girls for himself. He wanted to conquer and display them simply to prove he could.

But with her everything changed. She humbled him. Her moderate status, thanks to a winning smile and earnest sincerity, never made her too proud. When they dated, their peers accused him of his old tricks, going after her for ulterior motives, most likely because she came from a wealthy family. Even if money wasn't his motivation, people were sure the relationship would never last. He would tire of her eventually.

He never tired of her. She loved him into humility and authenticity, and he clung to her like a lifeline. It was like this well into their marriage.

Now more than ever, he wanted her beside him, longed to sense her approval and her relief that it would all be over. Despite his attempts to shield her from the brunt of the storm, her unease had grown as steadily as his own. If there was one regret, it was causing her to share in his misery. At least now absolution for both of them was written down like scripture on the page.

A soft cry broke his thoughts.

The child monitor's static hum betrayed no other noise from the room next door. The clink of the occasional icicle, the flecks of snow hitting the window, the crackling hiss of the fire filled in the silence, but nothing else.

Though possibly imagined, the noise brought with it a certainty of imminent disaster. He knew, in that moment, that something terrible had or was about to happen. He jumped to his feet and darted from the bedroom, leaving the chair tossed back on the floor, a testament to panic. Moving his hand to the light switch of his son's room, he was almost too afraid to flip it, afraid to see what had happened to his little boy. But there was no other choice. Light flooded the room.

On the bed and surrounded by pillows was his son, perfect in sleep, occupied only with the sucking of his thumb. He was three years old and a handful for his parents but also a joy. Every broken dish, every spilled meal, every frantic search when he wandered off was worth it. It was hard to believe-looking at him now-that his vigorous life was tamed, at once helpless and confident. The child had, during some part of the night, kicked away his blanket, so the man tucked it up around his shoulders and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

How irrational to have run to the boy as if there was a fire. The man was irritated and embarrassed. Was he trying to play the hero again? Did he want to face danger so he could dismantle whatever threatened his family? Admittedly he missed that feeling, but times had changed. He could never go back to that life. There was a new one starting for him, with a new job where he could pick up the pieces and forge the path ahead. No more danger. No more playing the hero. The fear that gripped him before and moved him into an involuntary response of action was just a glitch. His son was fine, and he could go back to his desk, reread the letter to double check for mistakes, and finish his hot chocolate.

As he turned out the lights, a chill crawled up his spine and sent shivers over his body in waves. It should have felt warmer. He wasn't used to heating a house so big, with as many rooms and hidden niches as it contained. It must have cost the family a fortune just to keep themselves warm on the often desolate and wintry island. He had checked the thermostat only a half an hour ago, and it had been set high. Along with the fire it should have been enough. He crossed his arms and rubbed his hands up and down them.

A hot shower would help. By the time he was done his wife would most likely be home. A shower felt like the warmest and most relaxing alternative before bed. The volume on the monitor could go up quite a bit, and he was sure that if he brought it in the bathroom he would hear it over the noise. He drank the rest of his hot chocolate, replaced the empty mug on the desk, and grabbed his towel from the closet.

The gentle sound of running water filled the master bedroom. A cloud of steam began to squeeze and curl its way from underneath the bathroom door and rise up to the heavy wooden rafters that crossed the cathedral ceiling, where it vanished like ghosts ascending from their graves. A gentle humming, which soon turned into cheerful singing, came from the man in the shower, his voice echoing in the steamed and tiled room.

Twenty minutes later the shower turned off with a bang. The shower doors slid open. The man, still humming a tune, stepped out of the tub and began to dry himself off.

He wondered if his wife was home yet, or if he had to wait longer for the news that burned to get out. He had thought about that letter while he showered, repeating its words and wondering if everything had been well written. It had to be good enough, he decided. Having finished the task, he never wanted to think of it again. All the obsessing over whether he put in too little or too much was unnecessary stress. He had forced it out of his mind and concentrated instead on the pellets of hot water massaging his back, turning his muscles into jelly.

He put on his robe and took one last look in the foggy bathroom mirror, pleased with what he saw. He brushed his hair neatly to the side and moved into the master bedroom.

The figure lunged from the shadows like a coiled snake lashing out at prey. There was no time for surprise. The noose was flung around his neck and pulled tight. When he tried to push back against the bulk of his attacker, he found there was no strength left in his limbs. They were drained of their energy as if stones were tied to his hands and feet. While in the shower he noticed a growing weakness but had attributed it to fatigue. Now with the realization that he could not fight back, came the realization of why. The hot chocolate. He had been drugged.

The rope was yanked upwards, cutting into his flesh. There was nothing he could do but hang there, a dead weight that-at just over 160 pounds-was not too difficult for his murderer to handle. The rope had been hung around the rafters of the bedroom's ceiling, and after that first mighty tug was quickly tied around the closet doorknob. Though he wished it was all a dream, that he was sleeping in the shower and would wake up from this new nightmare, he knew the truth. He was most certainly going to die.

Had the hangman's knot been properly and calmly placed to the side of his head behind the ear and had he fallen with a jerk from the height of a gallows, the man's neck would have snapped mercifully, sending him to his Creator before he even knew he lost his last breath. But his neck did not break as he ascended into the air. Despite his drugged state, he had the strength to kick out once in protest, like a fish flopping about in its throes of death. It was no use. He was too weak for further struggle, which would only serve to make his final moments on earth a pathetic defeat.

He resigned himself to the inevitability of death. He wasn't afraid, but he was surprised that he could still feel such vitriolic anger. He should have expected this. He had-in truth-been asking for it, like running ahead of a bus that was sure to catch up with him. But now that he faced it-and at the hands of a known enemy-he knew that the bus had not run him down from behind. Rather it had been one block ahead, waiting around a corner before pulling out to strike him down. There was the checkmate, the end of the game, and the frustration that came with losing it. There was nothing left to do but lay down his king and die.

The burning began in his chest, driving him mad with desperation for air. Thrown into involuntary convulsions, his body tried unsuccessfully to force him to breathe. Then, as suddenly as it began, the burning stopped. His eyes, about to burst from his head, finally relaxed. His vision dimmed along with his thoughts, replaced by an explosion of purple and yellow lights. Then with a final prayer for the child in the other room, the white light he had seen earlier at his desk beckoned him again into blissful rest.

Below the hanging man, a specter flitted like a mist across the room. Lit only by the flickering glow of the hearth, its shadow was thrown upon the wall and danced about in a celebratory show of victory. When the body had expended its last evidence of life, the figure placed a chair behind it, making sure it would appear kicked away. It glided to the desk and hovered decisively for a moment before taking up the letter, which was then carried to the fireplace and thrown upon the dying embers. The ghost stood with its gaze fixed upon it, making sure every piece of paper, every trace of ink was consumed by fire until nothing remained but ash. 

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