Every year we send out whoever has the darkest hair. We give them coal, a lamp and tell them to come back when they've found us some luck for the upcoming months. Doesn't matter the weather, doesn't matter if they're sober or exhausted or barely old enough to walk - we have to keep to these traditions.
This year we sent out Nadia. We didn't expect her to come back with anything, we didn't expect her to come back at all. Still January fifth she crawled through the basement window dragging behind her a writhing bundle of fabric that she kept shushing as it let out muffled snarls and snippets of radio static.
This was our luck for the year.
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