When The Night Falls

The Night. It is tradition. I will not break tradition.

I am not sure how long the town has stood, but it is old - I know this. Decrepit buildings and dilapidated docks stretch far into our little lake, some collapsed, forgotten, some still used daily by the fishermen going up and down, sunrise to sunset... even those most trafficked still on the brink of collapse, somehow held together by ramshackle boards and old rope. More are forgotten than not. A simple life for simple people.

They bring me the fish, I clean and ready them. That is my place, my purpose in this simple life.

I have been told that The Night is the most important night. It determines the prosperity of our little town until its next coming. I think it is superstition but who am I to say? I am young and the elders… they know best. I have not yet seen an unfruitful year. Something must be right.

Every year the lottery takes place and one villager is named The Herald. They say it is an honor to be chosen. I suppose I should feel honored then.

After my name was drawn from the barrel, the elders of the village came to me. They wrote a list of rules. They are simple enough:

- Keep the lantern light low

- When the Visitor knocks, do not answer– the Stranger must answer

- Do not leave the inn until daylight

The rules sound strange, but it is tradition and I will not break tradition.

There is some planning but nothing that I need worry about. They tell me that I just need to do the Herald’s duty. The rest is provided.

I am nervous. I have never been honored before.

The elders come to me on the morning of, in order to offer their encouragement. We cannot break the tradition, they remind me. I know this. I will not.

The Night creeps slowly forward.

There was no fishing today, only preparations for the celebration of The Coming. As dusk falls, the villagers return to their homes. Except for me, I do not return home. I am not in my warm bed by my warm fire. Instead I am at the inn, sitting behind the bar, The Stranger seated nearby. We make idle conversation. He does not know.

I feel sorry for him but tradition will not be broken. Not tonight. Not by me.

I know it is time when the wind quickens and the rain comes suddenly. The curtains have not been drawn so that I know, so that I can see. The fog creeps up the shore. It slithers its way across the ground, slowly, unnaturally rolling forward. The lanterns sway in the breeze, halos of light encircling them as the rain drizzles from the dark sky above, slowly and steadily becoming more. It still gives me chills after all these years, the suddenness of it all.

The Stranger does not seem to notice. He is busy with food and drink.

My heart hammers. My mouth parches. My skin prickles.

It comes loudly and suddenly. Three slow raps on the wooden door. The sound echoes and seems to linger.

The Stranger says something but I do not hear the words. The crackling of the fire has become the snap of a whip. The rain outside has become a waterfall. The wind on the shutters has become a tornado.

He stands, his chair screeching across the floorboards. I watch him, words caught on my tongue.

The door is thrown open, the wind sending droves of rain onto the floorboards. The Stranger steps out, looking left and right. He turns, confused, as I run to the door and slam it behind him. The lock clicks into place and I sink to the ground.

A single knock before the screams come, blood curdling. They are not his. The Visitor. It is here.

What have I done?

I close my eyes against the darkness and my ears against the screams. They do not stop until dawn.

Five knocks and I know it is safe. The Elders, they are suddenly there before my eyes speaking words of congratulations I do not want to hear.

I hope I am never honored again.

The Night. It is tradition. I will not break tradition.