01 May Blue

My Dearest,

I hope this letter finds you doing well. I’ve found myself stuck in a morose languish. I hope writing to you will release its hold upon me incrementally as I’ve become unable to muster the energy to step outside this accursed hotel room. I fear the maids believe I’ve expired as the do not disturb sign has hung from the doorknob for a week straight.

I miss the sound of the waves crashing and your singing as you sit in front of the fire. I also miss the steady clack of your needles as you knit yet another masterpiece to keep us warm in the winter. I miss the touch of your hand upon my shoulder and crooked smile informing me to put my book down and come to bed. This distance is too great between us, and I was meant to stay closer to home. My constitution demands the satisfaction of your lips upon mine. These Appalachian winds carry sickness and fear. I can’t stand another breath of them. If they don’t send me home to you soon, I fear madness will quite overtake my brain.

And the dreams this place gives. A pox upon the mountain breeze and rambling wildlife. The sounds at night are enough to make the spine grow weak, and the mind dips deeply into insanity. I know you are rolling your eyes at me as you read this. Thinking I’ve only caught a case of the overdramatic. You may be right. But be it the untamed wilderness or the lack of you by my side, these dreams take root, and I cannot cast them out.

It isn’t just me plagued by the accursed things. Why just this morning, as we sat drinking coffee and dining on eggs and bacon and toast, Jeffrey confided in me that his sleep has become a tangle of dark omens. I tried to laugh it off, but inside I felt the cold steel of terror as he described the very same images I have been haunted by. The room grew quiet as he spoke, and I could see the uncomfortable faces of others that had suffered the same visions. None were willing to say anything. But I could see it as clearly as the clouds in the sky.

I was asleep. Dead asleep. No. Strike that. Soundly asleep. Better. I was dreaming. Not the recurring dream I told you about when I wrote to you last week—the one where you and I picnic down by the bay. The gulls were crying, and the gentle curve of your neck so intoxicating in the afternoon sun.

No.

I was sound asleep when I heard a tapping on my window. Being in the lodge’s third story, my sleeping brain rationalized it as a branch against the pane. My cranky frame stretched up to open the window and trim the offending twig. But as I opened the curtains, I saw no windswept limb. I saw a girl of no more than thirteen or so. And she was standing outside my window tapping upon it with a small finger.

When she saw me staring back at her, she smiled a smile that carried the warmth of the northern wind in mid-January. It chilled me to the bone to see this mockery of a smile. And I squinted my eyes to better make her out. She was no little girl, this I swear my love. Perhaps once she had been but no longer. Her skin was stretched too tightly across her skull and had a faint blue tint to it. Her lips were so dark they could have been black. And those teeth. The teeth in her mouth had been filed to sharp points like a shark any other predatory creature meant for one thing: killing.

And she stared at me with that smile that promised blood, not joy and kept tapping the window. I stumbled back from the window, and she began to moan, a sharp, keening sound that felt like rusty nails down the back of my brain. I let the curtains fall closed and hurried back into bed. And a small laugh, filled with menace and promises of pain filtered through the glass and fabric.

I woke with a start and made my way hesitantly towards the window. And as I nervously peered out, I let a soft chuckle as nothing but the treetops and moon greeted me. My heart still hammered in my chest as I lay back down and slept molested by dreams until morning.

You probably think it was the result of too much brandy by the fireplace, from smoking my pipe and imbibing with the others while sharing tall tales of the road. And I would tend to agree. You have a knack for seeing right through me like that. But then, at breakfast, Jeffrey told of the same evil little minion in his dream as well! Down to the smallest detail. We nervously laughed it off, and he burned crimson as he realized how silly he must have sounded. But I tell you, the laughter rang hollow out of my throat. Hollow indeed.

Now I sit with a shaking hand on the quill, excuse the spattering of ink on the page. We can call it the chills of early winter. Yes. Let’s do that. Not the baseless horror I felt last night and again at breakfast. But the onset of winter in a drafty lodge in the middle of nowhere.

Know my every thought is upon you, my love as we brave another week or two in this desolate place. The surveyors sent word that they have narrowed down the richest three veins for mining, and once they’ve finished, we can set our minds to laying out the plans. Then I can catch the train back to you where I belong. I believe this will be my last job for the company. I know I say that each time I head out but this time, I mean it. I’m so very tired of the road and being away from you.

In a few days, I will write you my love, hopefully with news of my return.

Love eternally

H. September the 20th, 1878

* * * * * *

My Dearest,

Good day, my love. Forgive the lateness in this letter. I had meant to write days ago, but we found ourselves amid crisis, one after another and time got away from me. I wouldn’t say I like this damnable place, truly a blight in this great nation. The natural beauty hides an undercurrent of pure evil, and I swear this.

In my last letter, I detailed that we were awaiting word from the surveyors. After days of silence, we decided to send a party to find them and see what the hold-up was. A band of the best trackers and hunters in the region says something as this land is as untamed as in the heart of Africa for sure. Filled with all manners of beast and men went feral from lack of civilization. This is the land our grandfathers and great-grandfathers first landed upon after leaving the only homes they ever knew in search of freedom and riches.

The search party sends back regular messages to let us know their progress, and so far, after days, they have very little to report. It is as if the forests and mountains opened up and swallowed the surveying crews whole. Old campfires, weeks old, they say, are the only sign they ever existed. We know the direction they were headed towards. But if they ever made it, there is trace to be seen.

The locals remain suspiciously hushed about it. Superstitious folk, the lot of them. They make the cross’s sign and hurry off when we ask questions about the woods and mountains. It is infuriating, to say the least. So we sit doing nothing while awaiting word on the missing men. Any more delays, I doubt I will make it to a city to catch the train home this year. The air smells thick with snow, and the clouds are heavy and block the sun on most days. But I keep optimistic as it is too easy to slip into a malaise up here.

On the dream front, since I wrote to you, the dreams have all but stopped. Now my sleeping head is back to being filled with thoughts of you and I frolicking in the waves and laughing and loving. I fear it was the stress of the situation and cabin fever combined.

In fact, the spirits overall are much improved besides the worry about the lost crew. But we all believe they will turn up soon enough. It isn’t the first time a crew has gotten turned around in the dense trees and winding creeks up here. The lack of stars and sun to guide them probably has them hunkered down, waiting for the proper chance to make it back. Our meals are back to being filled with laughter and lies told to sell immense laughter. It was an ever-escalating event of frivolity from men desperate to be home but willing to brave it out a while longer.

All except poor Jeffrey. The fool ended up cracking open his window during the night a few days passed. Now he is suffering from sickness brought on by the chill air in his lungs. The doctors claim he has no signs of illness, just lethargy as far they see. He mostly sleeps and drinks heavily of the tincture they make locally. A relatively strong concoction capable of taking down a bear, as the locals tell it. I took a drink of it and slept peacefully for nearly twelve hours. So I’ll testify to its strength. But don’t fear for Jeffrey; he’ll pull through this. And possibly learn to leave the window shut during the cold nights.

I must go, my love. I see the wagon pulling near the lodge and hope to hear good news. I shall write sooner, I swear. Until then, know I think of you always and long to feel your lips upon mine.

Love eternally

H. September the 28th, 1878

* * * * * *

My Dearest,

The last couple of days have been fraught with ups and downs. I feel torn in multiple directions. As always, I hope this finds you in good spirits—apologies for the rushed nature of this. I am practically beside myself with glee and sorrow.

Where to begin?

After the last letter, the search party returned with good and ill tidings. The surveyors had been found holed up in a cave. A pack of ravenous red wolves attacked them. Three men were lost, bringing the crew down from nine to six. Much of the equipment was lost as well but compared to the three souls that have left us; it is a small price. Though the company men higher up do not see it that way. It is a shame when life is worth less than coal—a damn shame.

But the surveyors managed to retain their maps, and we will begin to make our plans after the bodies are laid to rest.

On that note, in tragic news, Jeffrey has succumbed to his illness. He passed last night in his sleep. The sudden scream from his quiet room awakening all of us and caused a mad scramble to his side. In his sickness, he managed to open his window yet again. His body, though just expired, was as cold as ice and tinged in blue when we got to him. His lips darkened deep red as if chapped severely. A rictus scream of pain was frozen on his face. It shall haunt me seeing him that way. All memories of him standing strong and fierce was replaced by that look of terror. The doctors came to visit his corpse and quickly whisked him away.

I got into a great tussle with them over his remains. They insist he be burnt to ash instead of sent home for a proper burial in consecrated ground. They demand all of the bodies be burnt. There are no answers given as to why, just solemn marks of the cross from their overly superstitious hands. This whole land feels like it has not progressed since before the War of the States. Simple-minded, god-fearing folk set in their ways.

I wonder what they would say about you here, my love. Would their old ways send them into a fit of apoplexy at a negro woman and white man finding love together? Possibly. I’m not sure they even know of the emancipation of the slaves here. There are only two last names on the mountainside, and neither seems willing to crossbreed with the other. Needless to say, I’m glad you are safely at home and far from these savage fools and their untempered belief.

I must go. They say the bodies must be burned within a strict time frame according to scripture. No scripture I have ever read. It makes me long for the city’s civility—the more open-minded people, future thinking and prone to science over magic. I’ve given my notice to the bosses that this will be my last job and then home to retirement and start our family. They raised great ballyhoo over this. Claimed I’m leaving them in a lurch with the sudden loss of Jeffrey. I don’t care. We can plant crops, and I can pen my manuscript of our great nation’s outlying regions. My life is with you, not them.

It should be a week, possibly two, before I can return to our home. First to lay these brave men to rest. Then to plan out the mines.

I miss you greatly, my love. And I will be there soon. Until that moment, I shall write to you and keep you detailed on this cursed trip.

Love eternally

H. October the 3rd, 1878

* * * * * *

My Dearest

The dreams are back again. Everyone is on edge. The tapping at my window occurred again two nights in a row now. Even in my dreams, I am too frightened to peer out the curtain and see that blue-skinned monster.

The townsfolk refuse to answer my questions about her. They will not acknowledge us when we leave the lodge. The first snows have fallen, and now they seem to want us gone. No more than we wish to escape ourselves.

It’s been four days since we burned our fallen comrades. Now another has fallen sick with the mysterious wasting away illness. The bosses refuse to answer our questions, and work has ground to a halt. A contingency of fellow workers are talking about just leaving. The bosses swear if they do, they will not be paid for the job. I’ve tried to be a voice of reason, but there is none to be had in this hell.

Everyone is sullen and fearful. I was jumping at every noise. I worry if the sickness doesn’t get us, this eerie malaise will. Secretly I want to leave as well, but we need this final lump payment to settle down and start the farm. How I miss home. You. The clean salty air and tides were lulling us into a sense of calm and security. The ocean is a balm for the weary mind and soul. Combined with your gentle touch, it is heaven in a world of turmoil.

Two more weeks. That is where I draw the line. After that, I will be forced to winter here, and I fear I will succumb before it ends. The rooms grow stuffy, and I fear what lies outside the windows at night. Two more weeks, and I leave come hell or heavy snows. Until then, I will keep the peace as well as I can. I will seek answers from the townsfolk in the meantime. Unravel this mystery ailment and ghostly blue girl.

I hear boots outside in the hallway. I must go and put out another fire, it seems.

I love you, my wife. Hopefully, the following letter comes, and I will be on my way to you.

Love eternally

H. October the 8th, 1878

* * * * * *

Matilda,

My love, how I miss you, this has turned from bad to worse.

The snows fall each night, and soon the roads will be too treacherous to trust.

 

Neither boss nor worker can speak to one another without a threat of violence; two more have fallen ill and one has passed on. I’ve taken to visiting the tavern in town and drinking until I pass out at a table there. This lodge has become oppressive with fear and hostility.

 

I’ve befriended a few locals. They tell tales of a group of blue-skinned demons that haunt the woods at night. Evil things with fangs and blackened lips that lure men to their doom. It is said they feed upon their souls and leave empty husks behind. They burn the bodies, so they do not rise again. I don’t know if this is just rural fantasy or accurate, but it chills me to the bone and leaves me weak in the knees. I’ve decided to leave without the pay promised. Death is not worth chancing over living a fruitful life with you.

 

Even here in the bar, I feel the call in my inebriated sleep. Hear the tapping outside the walls. I shall return to the lodge this evening and pack my belongings and leave at once. It will be my first time returning in days.

 

I hope to leave in the morning if the weather permits. I shall write to you before I go to let you know I’m on my way to your loving embrace.

Love eternally

H. October the 13th, 1878

* * * * * *

Matilda, my love,

I have been trapped in the lodge for two days. The night I came to pack, a blizzard swept in, and the snow is halfway covering the doors.

The sickness has claimed nearly everyone in the lodge. I barricaded the door to my room and pushed the dresser in front of the window. I am huddled in bed with the embers of my fire slowly dying out. I have broken the furniture for fuel and am running desperately low. I need provisions, or I shall perish as well.

At night the tapping on the glass has grown to a cacophony. In the halls outside, I hear the scurry of tiny bare feet and insidious laughter. Low rumbling voices of men bed stricken with illness. And shuffling steps that stop right outside my room.

I don’t know if this is a plague or some dark magic at work. But I fear if starvation doesn’t get me, the sick and dying will.

I don’t know how to get this letter out to you. I’m only writing it to maintain my sanity and focus. If the snows fall deeper, I should be able to launch myself out the window and land safely below. I’m growing desperate enough to try now as the sun begins to set and before the night horrors start. But I won’t. I can last one more night.

For you. My love. I will persevere through this madness.

Love eternally

H. October the 15th, 1878

* * * * * *

Matilda, my Dearest,

I did it. As the sun rose and the voices stopped this morning, I braced myself and jumped into the deep snow below my window. I twisted my knee and ankle, but the cold has allowed me to keep moving.

I write to you from the tavern. The locals are worked up into a frenzy. They speak of burning the lodge down with all the souls trapped inside. I hate myself for saying this, but I agree wholeheartedly with the decision. They could burn the entire woods down and raze the mountainside as well. There is evil here, deep and old evil. The roads are too covered and my body too battered to make the trek to the nearest train station. I shall have to stick it out here until I can make the journey. The locals say it will be three days at the least a week if the storms don’t decrease. But I need to leave, to return home.

They are gathering kindling to start the blaze now, and if I could, God help me, I would help them.

Please pray for their souls and mine, my love. I beg of thee. This must be made right.

I love you with all my heart. I’ll be there as soon as possible. I swear this.

Love eternally

H. October the 16th, 1878

* * * * * *

Matilda,

What evil have they loosed upon the world?

The lodge lies in smoldering ruin. All those men screamed as they were burnt alive and echoed into town.

I fear we have damned ourselves from salvation.

Now the entire town dreams of tapping on the glass. No place is safe. I’m trapped in a room above the tavern, unable to walk. I hear them scurry upon the roof all through the night.

The barkeep says houses are on fire all through the small town as more fall sick.

I dream of blue-skinned demons. A fever burns me up, and it is the flames of hell taking me.

I should have said no and left when I had the chance. I fear it is too late for me now. Too late for all of us. We’ve opened the gates, and now they are free to run rampant throughout the valley. Possibly the world. Whatever kept them bound to the lodge went up in smoke with all those innocent souls. We did this to ourselves.

Even now, I hear the bare feet slapping across the timbers above me.

Know I love you, Matilda. Now and forever. I feel the end coming for me. A group is leaving as the sunrises, and I will try and join them in a wagon. If I cannot, I will send this last letter to them.

If I’m not home in a couple of weeks, you’ll know what happened to me. I’m so sorry. I never intended to leave you this way.

Love eternally

H. October the 20th, 1878