In the small town known as Jordan Village we keep our secrets as well as anyone and hide our ghosts within the shadows of our memories. We only speak of them in hushed whispers when a nor’easter comes calling on Winter’s Night and the doors are locked solidly against what remains outside.
This evening my room is warmed solely by a blazing fire and lit only by candlelight, the electricity long gone out. The wind is howling like the banshee outside my window and the snow is piling up in great blowing drifts upon the front the door as a storm buries the small town I have returned to.
Winter’s Night has come early to Jordan Village and I have a tale to tell.