I arrived at the coastal city of San Marianne, a little south of Monterey, some time after midnight.

Unaccustomed to worming down nameless roads by moonlight, I found the journey to be singularly terrifying. Antiquated farmhouses huddled against lone hills like children burying their face in their mother’s skirts, if such loathsome children stared at lost souls with hateful and unblinking eyes.

No, I did not stop. The map was less than useless but I was afraid that if I stopped for directions at such a hideous places, that I might not ever leave again. Who knows what accursed lineages lurked outside the bounds of proper civilization? Would their inescapable abnormalities be catching? What about the madness that frequently visited upon such inbred and abhorrent stock? I could not stop. Such blasphemies are for the strong of heart and I do not count myself among them. Even recounting such possibilities makes me feel faint.

I could only venture forth, drawn onward by my mother’s pen and my father’s funeral.