Sir Magister Bennett
Please forgive the haste with which I prepare this letter, for I could not wait nor endure a troubled heart longer than a fortnight. The matter to which I write is regarding your brother and younger sister. It must grieve you, absent your family and any word thereof, and so, with a burdened soul, I must confess to finding neither hide nor hair follicle. Lest you think me of poor character, with this writ, I return an ounce of silver owed for services poorly rendered. And yet, at the risk of sounding unutterably mean, allow me to elaborate on the width and breadth of my investigations.
You will no doubt hear of the troubling findings, if not from me, then from those who came before. I was not the first but merely he who rode the fastest, untroubled by the cares of a lame horse, for the burdens of that place I will carry upon my shoulders until I draw my last breath. Know then, sir Bennett, I would no sooner call your place of birth “of common quality” than a pagan’s altar and a witch’s cauldron. The land is cursed. I find myself lost beyond the expression of words, but to say this. Your home is cursed.
Does the name Madeline Brooks call to mind any familiarity? Her epitaph was etched on every laid board and struck nail: the courthouse, the stockyard, and the barn. Cattle lay emaciated beyond the point of recovery, unattended for months. The smell, I would no sooner describe to you for fear of a spoiled stomach, nor the ashen remains of justice done in the name of a coven’s submission of guilt.
Sir Magister Bennett, concerning your proposition, I mean you no scorn or contempt when I tell you to cease your pursuit. Your brother and sister are deceased. No doubt you will request evidence for such a conclusion, which I have none to give save the truth of mine own eyes and the comforting knowledge of the sound of a moth’s flit wing and the beauty of a string of midsummer mistletoe.
Nothing draws breath in that place. Even now, I feel death’s finality creeping ever closer for having sullied my shoes with a coven’s ashes. I sought, closely and diligently, but found naught but unnerving wooden dolls. A replica of each resident, carefully crafted and arranged according to the manner of their trades and habits. The likeness of your family can be found amongst children’s playthings. I hesitate to write, knowing how easily the mind falls prey to illusion and sleight of hand, but I swear upon the most mighty, though I have few and small claims to divine providence, that they were watching me.
I had considered, ever foolishly, sending you the wooden puppets of your brother and sister as a macabre replacement for burial. However, for your well-being and peace of spirit, I have absconded from disastrous thoughts and allowed my fear of death, with the urgency and strength of a tempest, to swiftly and irresistibly carry me from that most horrible of places. Let this writ serve as both witness and warning.
Sir Bennett, dare not tread where the devil walks, for he never forgets the way home.
Your most humble servant
Sullivan