The moon hung high and pale over Jackson, casting long shadows against the snow-draped rooftops. The town had quieted for the night — families tucked in, patrols rotating in rhythm, the buzz of nervous conversation from earlier now dulled by fatigue.
Inside one of the spare cabins that Arthur had come to call his own, a small lantern burned on the table. Its warm flicker cast dancing light over the open pages of a worn journal, the familiar loop of Arthur Morgan's pen scratching steady against the paper.
He sat hunched, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revolvers on the table beside him, satchel open just within reach.
His hand moved slow, but his thoughts raced.
"I've seen strange things in my time… but what I saw out there today — them infected… the way they moved… the thing that watched us — that weren't just sickness. That was somethin' older. Somethin' meaner."
"I remember nights back at camp when the boys would tell stories 'round the fire. Tilly talkin' about spirits that followed her people. Pearson ramblin' on about curses and haunted mines. Even Uncle had one or two tales, though his always stunk of whiskey and lies."
"But one story stuck with me… somethin' Javier mentioned one night, when we were up near Roanoke Ridge. Said there were places out there where the land don't forget. Where you can feel eyes in the dark — even when you're alone."
"Didn't believe him. Not really. Not 'til now."
He leaned back slightly in the chair, exhaled through his nose, and flipped to a blank page. Then he wrote:
"Things I've Seen That Shouldn't Be:
Blackwater, 1898 – Found bones laid out like ritual, up in the caves. Symbols carved into stone. Dutch said it was some cult. Felt older than that.
St. Denis Vampire – Thing walked like a man, moved like shadow. Killed five before I found him by the chapel. Left it a corpse, but it bled cold. Not like a man. Journaled that one same day. Folks in town said they still feel it, even after.
Stranger at the Cabin – Eyes that glowed. Man said he was older than the state itself. Asked me about judgment. Never saw him again.
Today, Jackson Patrol – Infected. Torn bear. Cold air but fresh tracks. Watched. Followed. Not animal. Not man."
Arthur rubbed his temple. The journal sat heavy in his hands, like it carried more weight now than ever before.
He glanced down at the satchel — still somehow full of fresh rounds, clean food, dry tinder. As if the world refused to let him go back to being just a man. He hadn't coughed once since arriving. No fever. No sickness. No blood in his breath.
He muttered under his breath, voice just above a whisper.
"You pulled me outta death's grip… and now you expect me to stare down somethin' worse than it?"
Silence answered.
He dipped the pen again.
"This world may be broken, but it ain't dead. And long as I got breath, I ain't either."
Outside, the wind howled across the rooftops.
Inside, Arthur turned one last page.
He drew a crude but detailed sketch: the infected bear, its torn flesh, and the shape he thought he saw in the trees.
No name. No title.
Just a question written under it:
"What else came through with me?"
The cold wind whispered against the timber of Jackson's cabins, and the crunch of Arthur's boots on fresh snow was the only sound in the quiet stretch of evening. Lanterns dimmed in windows. Patrol towers glowed soft behind frost-covered glass.
Arthur stood outside Joel's cabin for a moment, knuckles flexing. He hesitated—not out of fear, but weight. There was somethin' in his chest he hadn't felt in a long time. A need to know.
He knocked.
The door opened.
Ellie stood there, her face surprised but not unkind.
"Hey… it's late."
Arthur nodded once. "Ain't mean to bother none. Just… need to talk to Joel. Real quick."
She looked past her shoulder.
Joel stepped up, rubbing at his wrist. "Arthur? You alright?"
Arthur shifted the weight of the thought. "That book... the one you showed me. The one written by Jack Marston. I'd like to read it, if you don't mind."
Joel didn't ask why. He only nodded. "Yeah… yeah, sure." He turned and reached up to the shelf, pulling the old, leather-bound volume down. Its spine was cracked, the cover worn. He handed it over gently, like it was something sacred.
"Take your time with it," Joel said. "There's a lot in there."
Arthur gave a quiet thanks, tipped his hat to Ellie, and turned to leave.
Back in his cabin, the fire burned low in the corner. Arthur shut the door behind him, set the book on the table, and eased himself into the chair. He let his fingers run along the worn cover.
"By J. Marston"
He flipped open the first few pages, scanned the table of contents. Some names familiar. Others he hadn't heard. But there it was—plain as day—his own.
"Chapter 2 – Arthur Morgan: The Man Who Tried to Save Us All."
He paused, breathing out slow, then kept going.
For over an hour, he read—quiet and still, like a man unraveling his own memory through someone else's eyes.
There were pages about Dutch. About the fall of the gang. About Arthur's sickness. How he turned against Micah. How he helped John and Abigail escape. The writing was clumsy in parts, clearly the work of a boy trying to make sense of men far too big to understand. But it was honest. Raw.
Then… something odd.
A side chapter, separate from the rest. Not labeled as part of the main story. A title that looked freshly inked into the back of the book, like it hadn't been there when Joel first showed it.
"Night of the Undead"
Arthur blinked. The pages beneath were clean, crisp, too clean for their age.
He read on.
The story unfolded like a fever dream: an outbreak in the town of Blackwater. The dead rising from graves. Friends turning on each other. John—alive, hardened—fighting tooth and nail to protect his family once again. A cursed mask, ancient rituals, the undead sweeping across plains that once held outlaws and dreamers.
Arthur stared.
"This… this can't be right…"
But it felt true. And that scared him more.
He flipped toward the final chapters. The ink there was different again—thinner, rushed.
It spoke of John's final stand.
How the Pinkertons found him. How they surrounded the ranch. How he walked out that door, gun drawn, to give Abigail and Jack time to flee.
Arthur's throat clenched as he read the last line:
"My father died as he lived — standing against the tide. Not a perfect man. But a good one."
The room felt colder. Arthur stared at the page long after he'd finished it.
He reached for his own journal, fingers stiff with a weight not even time could wash away, and began to write.
"Jack… you done good, boy. You kept my story. You kept his. And I see now the cost of it all. You didn't forget. Not one bit."
"I thought I'd lost everything. But I reckon now… I've still got somethin' left to do. For all of us."
His hand slowed, and the last thing he wrote that night was just a single line:
"What if the past ain't done with me yet?"