HOW THE SERIES STARTED
One night when alone, I dozed, rosary in hand, though I was dreaming until roused by the rustle of sheers that lapped between drape folds mimicking tongues out of a dark gaping mouth.
The clock on the bedside chest read midnight, its red-light brightly pulsating as if from a beam that I traced from floor to wall where he hid in shadows. I thought he was my deceased beloved, but the face was unfamiliar, the grin unfriendly. The cat, lazing on top of the bedspread by my feet, hissed, jumped, and ran out the bedroom door. No one heard my scream or my heart pounding into my head.
“Evil begone,” I shouted when his voice soft as the breeze thundered into my mind: “I am not a vision, spirit, or magic, fear me not, let me confess how I came to be and what I do.”
Every night I was alone, he came. My only choice became to face him and listen or go insane. He told me stories of a new world unfolding not from Sanctity but from the pews of religion and technology. He said, “God, man, one of the same. Names and places changed to protect innocents even though there are none.”
He displayed carriages of flesh weaving sins into blessings as people rode to destruction on good intentions and holiness defile in time and blood. “There are no mistakes, the day is one sphere, and the night is another.”