Anderstone Tales: The Letter

Dec. 3, 1305,

If you are reading this and are not she to whom this is addressed, either put it into her hands, or, if you know her to be deceased, burn it. I implore you, read no further.

The contents of this letter do not proclaim praises or speak sweetnesses to you, though I wish it could. You know how much I care of you already, and in these most perilous of times, I cannot utter the name of love without her brother hate rearing his ugly head to hound me. Some of the guards here have read these letters of adoration and out of some jealousy, great as a tempest, came and broke my hands so I could write no more. That is why it has been over a year since my last letter, as I was unable to pen you anything. Thus, to utter love here, keeps me from writing to you and out of respect for they who wronged me, I shall speak it no longer.

I am writing instead to enclose to you of something that is of the darkest nature. I do not ask for rescue, nor could I be released from such a prison should those brave men find me. My legs, woman, are gone. As to why they are thus, you shall know soon.

There is a man in my cell, Thomas; though I should say, was formally Thomas. I woke up one morning to see his amber colored eyes were now gone from his person. He stared at me with these shallow graves before I came to the horrific realization. His soul has left his body and now worms and maggots feast on his body, day after day, night after night. A blessing in disguise because his stinking corpse also brought rats, larger than I had ever seen. These, I would capture and feast on when they, the guards, would deny me food.

A peculiar behavior began to happen after Thomas’ death. A woman cloaked in black steals me away from my cell each night. We have never gone to any one spot, or perhaps I am wrong. My eyes never adjusted to the dimly lit corridors by which we traveled and because of this, it felt as if we were merely walking in circles. She spoke not a word for one week, then two weeks. Upon the outlook of the third week I had mustered the courage to ask why she had not spoken thus far. She opened her mouth revealing her lack of tongue. This discover shocked me to the point of which a girlish shriek had left my lips. I must admit, I am no soldier and the sight of blood and abnormality appalls me.

The woman covered my mouth and opened the door to the nearest room, throwing me inside. I heard the murmur of two men and the dripping of what sounded like water off a roof. I approached in the shadows, trying to be as silent as I could. As I inched closer, I saw the most horrific sight. These men were the shortest I have ever seen and had all feminine feature found on a woman’s face. They looked almost identical, save for hairy knuckles, found only on the first man.

This first man I saw had in his hand a hand detached from its owner's body. His cohort took it from him and stitched it onto his canvas. A corpse. I only knew it was so because I knew the smell of rotting flesh all too well.

I gasped as I watched him add hand to arm. This gasp, I speculate, was my undoing. For, after I had done so the hairy knuckled one, cackled like a raven judging the world. As he turned to look at me I walked into the light, so that we could now see each other. The body lay on the table. I could see now it was breathing, though it looked dead. He lacked legs. It was a marvel how such a thing could exist. As I gazed at the table, the second man grabbed my face, bringing it close to him. I gazed into amber eyes that were not his own. I screamed. --

They are here; and here I end the tale and consign myself to God. I lo--