To Whom it May Concern

My dearest reader(s).

Please forgive the mess, I had little time before I called you.

This will be the last collection of words I will write, and it pains me. I do, or I did so enjoy the cut, thrust, and parry of our robust and multi-layered language. As you read this, I will already have taken my own life.

I have already ended the life of my darling wife. The idea of the passage of time without my beloved is one I could not comprehend. I can already feel my life ebbing away, so forgive me if my skill with communication subsides as I write.

Do I need to inform you of why?. That is the first question forming as you read this is it not? Simply put Dear Reader, to quote from the classics, ‘It is a far better thing that I do than I have ever done’

Or something like that, forgive me it is difficult to reach into the recess of literary memory. One might even say the last few years have been the best of times, and the worst.

There should always be a place for a misremembered quote don’t you think? Alas, I digress; I shall tell you all you need to know.

My wife’s name was Victoria Wright, and she was by far the most beautiful creature in the entire world. In recent weeks, every moment of time we had together was a struggle against a slow creeping rigour mortise. Every breath she took was painful during the day.

Yet, at night…

At night she was alive, more alive than the teeming millions of infinitely variable life upon this globe we walk! Victoria was witty, urbane, luminous, educated and so easy to love, to cherish. It was the light behind her eyes that I shall miss the most, it was almost as if she was connected to… well, everything. I could not imagine not doing anything she asked of me.

At night, she was my wife, the woman I married forty years ago and dedicated my life to.

She did warn me.

She did tell me it would get worse.

Still, I loved her more than our language could possibly express.

By day, she was racked with so much pain as to be almost unrecognisable. The deep cold of her touch would always remind me of the poison in her veins. Some days, she would simply close her eyes and allow the confusion in her mind to manifest and run rampant. As we aged, her memory would be dulled by the drugs I had helped her acquire, or more accurately stole from the university’s medical supplies. I would do anything to get her through the day, to push her needs down, to mask the pain. I sometimes wonder in these last years, whether I did it more for me than her.

Perhaps it would have been kinder to let her go.

She would wait for me to return from the University, and I apologise if you are on of my students finding this.

I am truly sorry.

Please keep reading.

She would wait for me to return from my lectures, ask me how my day was and whether I was hungry.

Sometimes I ate, I’m ashamed to say. Most times, I did not; I would give her a big hug, and while she was distracted plunge a needle full of powerful sedatives into her neck. I would then find her victim, if they were still alive, sedate them if they were and bundle them into a sleeping bag, which I would tie at the top. I considered it lucky that she mostly picked students; I could soak the victim in Silverhawk Bourbon and casually roll them out of the sleeping bag and onto the campus grounds. Nobody ever believed their wild tales of being kidnapped by some strange creature, then waking up, alcohol soaked, on the campus. I was lucky, always so lucky.

One year was so bad; I was buying that expensive imported bourbon by the crate. It’s a fine drink I might add and what I did not use, I imbibed. You may notice the bottle by this note, while I may be dying, I am at least merry.

These days, CCTV covers those University grounds, so future endeavours were curtailed. This modern age does not serve the husband of a serial killer well.

There were some nights, I was too late, and she had already prepared dinner. She was so happy and so full of life, giddy from the blood she had ingested before my arrival, that it would have been impolite to refuse her well-prepared offering. She would try out different methods, Cajun spice, ah la carte, even a West Indian garlic infused curry. Overall, it was very impressive, if she would have stuck to non-human meat, I have every faith she would have had an excellent career as a chef. Despite the gruesomeness of it all, I am as smitten with her now, as I was the day we first met.

The first time she killed, even though she warned me it was a possibility when we left her homeland, I thought it was an elaborate prank, a running joke that I was married to a murderer.

She had managed to restrain herself that first night; she had hunted down two victims, but only ate one. As soon as I had returned home that first killing night she told me everything, she was petrified. Because she knew what it meant. She was losing herself and was so scared she would lose me. Once I had ascertained she was not pulling my leg and rather had served me one in a cheese sauce, I leapt into action. I grabbed my balaclava, hid my face within its uncomfortable itchy wool frame, and made my way to the garden shed. I opened the door to find her living victim barely conscious, his hands and legs bound by barbed wire. He was awake and trying to chew his way through a cloth gag which had been placed over his mouth. I confess I was somewhat impressed at the expertise in which my wife had trussed him up. I had no sedatives at that time; I had yet to formulate a routine to deal with what would become a frequent occurrence. I also had no idea if this poor soul had seen my beloved’s face. I did not want to see him die, nor did I want him to lead anyone back to my wife.

I did what I had to do Dear Reader; I participated in the lesser evil of the moment. The Garden shed had tools aplenty hanging on its walls, I selected the pruning shears. I then laid out some plastic sheets left over from the garden landscaping. The next step was to be the more merciful one, I applied pressure to his carotid artery with my fingertips, using my other arm to keep him in place. I am not sure how long it took to render him unconscious. Once he was, I took my miniature burner from the shed wall.

I had to do this, knowing that if I did, I was doing it for her, and the possibility that she was exactly what she thought she was. I cut out his tongue with the pruning shears and then sealed the wound with the burner. The sheets collected the blood. The next step was the eyes.

I will spare you that dear reader, for I could not spare myself.

The final step was the hands, to make sure he could not write.

In what was possibly my most reckless moment, my less logical one that evening, was driving to the hospital, my license plates covered, my face back in the uncomfortable balaclava. It was a huge risk, but I did not want the boy to die. I saw a porter as I drove up, I had placed the boy un-trussed in the passenger seat, I practically threw the boy at the porter’s feet and then drove off like the maniac I was in danger of becoming. I returned home exhausted, Victoria, seeing my distress, presented me with a tongue sandwich. I was too tired to object and it did go down well with a little brown sauce

The next day I took her to one of my doctoral colleagues at the University. I lied and said she was suffering lapses in judgement, forgetting mundane things, an aversion to light.

As Victoria had suspected, we soon ascertained she was pregnant.

In the coming months my wife and I set out on a strategy, we were delighted with the notion of being parents; unfortunately, I may not live to see our child. My wife informed me, as delicately as she could, that her people carried their babies to term over a period of 38 years. During their pregnancy, her people would take part in what was called ‘the cleansing’. This was a ritual where the elders of the populace, some living to hundreds of years old, would voluntary end their lives and be fed to the pregnant women.

My wife, my darling Victoria, would be in the grips of an insatiable hunger for nearly forty years.

I loved her, what else could I do but let nature take its course. I would have a legacy you see, a child that would never know my flaws just that I fought to make sure they had a life. That is what a Father does is it not? Fight to the last drop for their child.

I suspect you are wondering who exactly my wife’s ‘people’ are? Well, dear reader, chances are they are closer than you think are, watching, waiting for one of their own to be part of this great city.

I also suspect you think I am quite mad, possibly drunk off my rump too.

That is entirely possible, but the diagnosis is impossible at this late stage.

Earlier today, in a moment of lucidity, she called my name for the first time in an age. She told me it was time, the baby was due, and it would need to be fed straight away. Something was wrong she said, it was not like the births she had witnessed before. That was when her eyeballs began to bulge, and her tongue lolled to one side. During the course of the pregnancy, she had become taller and wider year on, year in. She stood at least a foot taller than me, and roughly just as wide. She had never really aged, but as she grew, her beauty increased.

I was always so proud of her for pushing through, determined to handle all the discomfort, the cravings, the casual murders.

She clamped her hands around my neck and began to squeeze, on instinct, I began to reach for the sedative needle I kept in my inside jacket pocket. Her face had changed; it seemed to be hanging off her skull like melting plastic. Something had gone wrong indeed, perhaps giving birth away from her homeland, perhaps the sustenance of humans was not enough compared to the elders of her own people? I simply did not know, her family had never approved of the marriage, so advice over the years was never exactly forthcoming. Yet, I always knew they were around, watching, waiting, and never helping.

I plunged the needle into her neck; she let out an almighty roar and launched me across the living room. I hit the wall, my skull bounced off the artex and unconsciousness claimed me. My last thought was that it would be acceptable if she and the child had to eat me, a shot at redemption, a noble sacrifice.

I awoke to find her on the floor, huffing and puffing. I had no idea how much time had passed, but from the scene before, I deduced that the sedatives had had some effect, and the final stages of the pregnancy, far more. From her neck to her abdomen, the skin was distended upwards. She looked at me, bulging eyes pleading for help. I approached with caution and inspected her as if she were any other patient. All my feelings had to be pushed aside, there was nobody I could call, no help forthcoming. After all the sacrifices, after all, the years, and all the lives that were taken, I would not fall at this final hurdle of our marriage.

I simply did not know enough as to how to proceed; the skin was so taught around her abdomen, that I could make out the outline of a face. I fantasised about her people coming to my rescue, using their knowledge to save them, but I knew. I knew they would rather we were all dead.

Our child, almost fully grown, was struggling to get out. So translucent was Victoria’s skin that I could see the child’s mouth move.

It was hungry.

Victoria reached for my hand and nodded her head at me.

I had already lost her; there was no way she could survive. I kissed her softly on what I assumed were her cheeks, told her I loved her and went to the kitchen. The meat clever was sturdy and sharp enough to cut through the bone and gristle.

I want you to understand that taking her to a hospital or calling for help would simply have led to questions I could not, nor was willing to answer. Victoria’s people had to remain a secret, and I still hoped they were on their way. Surely they had some kind of primal instinct that informed them when one of their own needed them…

I needed them, our child would need them.

I returned to the lounge, Victoria beckoned me over. She pointed to her neck, I raised my hand, and she wrapped her hand around mine and picked the angle. The combination of both our strengths meant that she had a quick death, her head cut straight from the neck with the cleaver.

I did not have time to grieve, I turned my attention to her bloated abdomen and carefully, so as to not hurt the child, I used the cleaver to cut away the stretched skin.

No sooner had I made the first incision, when the entire lounge was covered in an eruption of scarlet. My wife had literally exploded as my son burst into life. He was about five-foot-tall, with a full head of blond hair and his skin was practically golden, despite being covered in the remains of his mother. He tried to stand almost straight away but faltered. I caught him and held him tight. I had no idea what to say or do, but I remembered one thing. He would be hungry.

I began writing this almost as soon as I began draining my blood, he sits by my side, confused, and in wonder at the world he has been brought into. I was quite impressed at how quickly he has mastered drinking from a cup; I think that’s roughly half my blood gone now. He will not understand when I pass out, and I realise that he will need help, so that is why I called you. I will be dead soon, and he is hungry, requiring a solid meal. I am not sure how many of you will turn up, and I am truly sorry. If he is anything like his mother, he may have killed you before you finish this letter. Please forgive him, it’s just his nature.

Kind Regards.

Alfred Wright, PhD.

Anthropology Dept.

The University of Cairn.

Writer’s Bio:

David Macdonald Graham is a current Student on the M.Litt. in the Gothic Imagination. He is currently working on a short story collection and a Lovecraftian themed novella. You can contact him at jonathondarque@aol.com

He is available for work for hire in creative fiction, articles, comic book and film scripting.