Another sleepless night has passed. Not that sleep would do me much good; the nightmares see to it that I remain restless. This vicious cycle has instilled within me fatigue ingrained deeply within my bones. My mission began so long ago now that I can scarcely remember my life before. It is as though I was born with it planted in my brain.

  Two centuries. For two centuries, I have chased the accursed instrument across this continent. At least a dozen times a day, I wonder why I continue. But then the memories come flooding back, clear as day.

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  The bodies. The ruins. They replay themselves before my mind’s eye. The final image of this dark and twisted show is the mandolin, its horrible eye staring into mine. At this, my resolve returns like the turning of the key that winds the spring of an automaton, driving me onward.

  I know the purpose of the thing. The creature within wishes to be free. All its will is bent on this. This simply cannot be allowed. No other outcome can satisfy me than its complete and utter destruction. Then irony does not escape me: in this attitude, the mandolin and I are the same. We would each do everything in our power to accomplish our task.

  It is what makes it—and me—so very dangerous.