The Veil Is Thinning
" have seen what waits beyond the threshold. It does not sleep."
I write this by candlelight because the lantern oil draws them closer. The moths, yes — but not only moths. Things that wear the shape of moths the way a man might wear another man's coat.
The Veil has always been thin in the Wicked West. Every hexslinger knows this. Every preacher who has watched their congregation speak in tongues they never learned knows this. But it is getting worse.
Three settlements in the Dusthallow Basin have gone silent this season. Not abandoned — silent. The buildings stand. The tables are set. The food has gone to rot. But the people are simply gone, as if the land swallowed them between one breath and the next.
I have walked the old ley lines. I have pressed my ear to the cracked earth and listened. What I heard was not silence. It was patience.
If you are reading this, I urge you: do not travel the Basin roads after dark. Do not answer voices that call your name from empty rooms. And if you find a door that was not there yesterday — for the love of whatever god still listens — do not open it.
The Veil is thinning. And what waits on the other side has been waiting a very long time.