Fallisport and her people had always known darkness, in all the forms it may have taken. They knew it as the bedfellow that made whimpering simps of even the most steadfast. They especially knew it lived within, in the place where it ran to hide from the sunrise. Ever since her founders, a motley crew of English puritans and Irishmen, first trampled native soil to stake their claim, darkness blackened her soil and the white man ate hungrily of the crop that grew. Six murders. Two weeks. The most recent- Thomas Ford- the esteemed eldest of Fallisport’s biggest names- the Ford Family. Darkness born of the blood of innocents did not discern. By blood begotten, and now by blood it would be undone. The morning came with fog. It always seemed to. A faint, yellow glow bounces through the haze as the sun begins its ascent. It’s sunday. School’s tomorrow morning. Get out of bed.