Someone important died in the night. Eddie was most certain of such predictions when sunup came, and his stomach was full. The bowels he'd devoured in the night came up, and out the moment he registered the taste of them. Bile had come to a common adornment in his room. The worth of the dead he expels from his mouth that morning comes to be known later in the morrow.
When he lumbered from his room, down the steps and out of the inn, he found himself amongst a crowd. The general store just steps away was in ruin; what parts of old Josephine remained were left to the buzzards. The devil inside him purred as Eddie caught mockery of the Lord's Prayer written in her blood. He turned from the gruesome sight before the spectre inside him could force a grin to his face.
The walk to the printers is quick; Eddie has no wish to stay in the light of the God this morn. The horror of before sits heavy on the minds; Eddie's downtrodden demeanour is no different to the mournful fear of the others. Eddie would never have considered Josephine important, but somebody had.
The curfew is revised. No man—whether they be male, female or gender free—is permitted to loiter on the streets past sunset. Lawmen are posted on every street, and for some weeks the devil rests.
Then comes the unease. The devil's limbs push at Eddie's skin, demanding to be free. "We need to run." Run where? He has never deigned to understand the creature before, and he shan't deign to do so now.
Then comes the priest. The priest is you. You come upon a pale white horse, and dressed like a herdsman. You are a man of towering height, with an easy smile and kinder eyes. You come upon the inn as Eddie is set to leave for his trade. "Howdy, sir," you tip your ten-gallon hat to him, you smile, and Eddie is smitten; the devil is not.