Gabriel Mills visited on November 9, 1938, and asked for the key. Never, in my life, have I refused it to him, nor did I do it then.
Regardless of your religion, or lack thereof, there are certain undeniable facts about this life. One of them, and I should know, is that there are beings far more powerful than us who walk this earth.
Gabriel Mills is one of them.
I have heard some people refer to him as an angel, although he has never laid claim to the title (and he has scoffed at such declarations). What I do know is I choose not to be around when he brings out the horn.
Why he keeps it at Blood Farm is another matter entirely.
Early in 1642, he made a deal with my father to keep the instrument with us, and that he would visit us upon occasion. Usually, it was to herald in some horrific event, and November 9 was no different.
He asked me to walk with him to the shed, and there we unlocked the door together. Gabriel took out the horn, sat upon the stairs, and put the instrument’s mouthpiece to his lips. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let out one of the saddest sounds it has been my misfortune to hear.
I shall never forget the sound, nor shall the world forget what it ushered in.
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