Prologue

Eleven fifty-five. Almost midnight. Enough time for one more story
One more story before twelve. Just to keep us warm. In five minutes
It'll be the 21st of April. One hundred years ago, on the 21st of
April, out on the waters around Spivey Point, a small clipper ship
Drew toward land. Suddenly, out of the night, the fog rolled in
For a moment, they could see nothing, not a foot ahead of them
And then, they saw a light. By God, it was a fire burning on the
Shore, strong enough to penetrate the swirling mist. They steered a
Course toward the light, but it was a campfire like this one. The
Ship crashed against the rocks. The hull sheared in two. The mast
Snapped like a twig, and the wreckage sank with all the men aboard
And at the bottom of the sea lay the Elizabeth Dane with her crew
Their lungs filled with salt water, their eyes open and staring into
The darkness. And above, as suddenly as it had come, the fog lifted
Receded back across the ocean, and never came again. But it is told
By the fishermen and their fathers and grandfathers that
When the fog returns to Antonio Bay, the men at the bottom
Of the sea, out in the water by Spivey Point, will rise
Up and search for the campfire that led them to their
Dark and icy death. Twelve o'clock. The 21st of April