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[indent][indent][color=lightgray][center][sub][b]“She's the angel of small death and the codeine scene;
with her straw-blonde hair, her arms hard and lean.”[/b][/sub][/center]

The radio on the old ferry hummed softly as the old man looked at the island in the distance. Queen’s Island, some called it. The eastern Abenaki called it klahigan, an ominous name if there ever was one. Upon it stood the township of Starkhaven, though its denizens liked to call itself a “rural city”.

It was no Portland. Hell, it wasn’t even a Lewiston. But it was home.

Upon the ferry stood a small group of visitors. Starkhaven didn’t get many of those, for whatever reason. Archibald Mithers, an frail-looking man of advanced age stood on the ferry alongside them as the ship continued its course. The silhouette of the Priswell Estate Hotel stood in the distance. In his youth Archie thought it a magnificent place, but he knew its secrets. He knew Starkhaven’s secrets.

His old, grayed eyes looked over to some of the guests. They looked to be the strange bunch. As far as he could tell they were a bunch of punks with their tattoos and posture. He counted at least a half-dozen, but there had been a few others that had arrived on the previous ferry line to Queen’s Island and the one before it. This was the last one. He used to memorize every visitor's face, but he had lost that dog inside him years ago. For many reasons. There was a sigh that left him as he pressed his hands against the ferry’s bow-side railing.

His lips moved into a weak smile as he looked to the nearest one, “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

A girl with fire red hair almost didn’t notice he said anything, stammering herself before correcting herself. “Oh, sorry, I… I was zoned out. It does look fascinating, I’ve never stayed in a hotel before.”

“It’s an experience.” The old man remarked. A double meaning. “We shall be there rather soon, I’d wager. You’ll like it here. You all will.”






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