To Whom It May Concern,
Burn this letter or bury it with my body. I will ride old Charon’s ferry-boat before the night is over and that news comforts me. Forgive my brevity; I have no intention to present these damnable happenings as a tale of horror. There is no time for such accusations. My Victor Stimac is dead and soon I will join him. Oregon cries for him already, the masses of loved ones he has left behind to rot in Port Torrine. Attached below is a letter I have read until my eyes bled since receiving it late yesterday evening.
Dearest Sebastian Galloway,
By the time this letter finds you, I will be coasting far from the Columbia River. This news must come as a surprise, but I cannot spend one more morning in this wretched town, scared witless as I wait for night. The moon has been watching me, hung like a rotten eyeball over Port Torrine. Everybody has been eager for the equinox, bumping gums about turnip and beets and corn, singing Shine on Harvest Moon. But I know the truth and you must too.
It began after our last meet-up in Salem. I put on my work clothes and drove to the gristmill before Helen returned from the church potluck and started acting all evil because I didn’t show. Scout was mad enough to eat nails, yapping more than when that black cat scratches up the brooder house. When I went out back to shut him up, he was foaming blood and spit all over the ground. I thought another weasel had gotten at him. I was checking for marks when something smacked into my cap. Rats. I watched a line of them run along the mill roof and jump into the wheel. They piled on the grass, dead and maggoty.
That next Monday, Grand Hotel was playing at the theatre downtown and Helen wanted me to tag along with her and Shirley. All of the lights on the marquee were blown except the one that never works. When the film rolled, the audio was nothing but radio static. When I grumbled to the man behind me about what went haywire in the sound booth, Helen elbowed my shoulder and told me to shut it before Shirley got mad. I figured it was some kind of joke. They laughed, whispered about the actors, and blabbermouth Shirley kept looking my way, but nobody seemed to notice the fizz.
Strange things were happening, freaky incidents that only I was aware of. Last night, I woke up to a strange light coming through the bedroom window. It stained the white sheets and walls red as the barn. Losing my nerve, I rolled to wake Helen. The bed was empty. I was losing my mind. Was I? Never mind that. I ran out, barefoot, to see if she had taken the Sedan and gone to her mother. I was lucky and she finally had enough. She knew about us. But the car was still in the driveway. Everything was exactly as I had left it except that damned moon. It was no eye now. It was a heart, red as blood and twice as large as anything I had ever seen. I didn’t know why then, and I still don’t, but I ran for the mill. That’s where it all started, maybe I hoped going back would make it end. The tree roots grasped at my ankles as I ran, tearing at the naked skin and nothing like your soft hands. The moon was a perfect circle overhead. The treetops curled around it like a canopy. I woke up the next morning in front of the mill with Helen standing over me. She claims to have never left the bedroom.
Now knowing what only you know, I hope you understand. I would tell Helen, if I cared to or if she would listen. Helen is a nice girl, a real canary when she sings instead of yells. But she isn’t you. When I settle in France I will send you my address. My beloved Sebastian, I know your heart will always belong to Port Torrine, but I hope you will consider my offer. There is always room for you here. You could open up your own library and show me those old books you read. But if you must stay, I too will understand. Please remember Salem.
Always yours, Victor Stimac
As many times I read this, I cannot make sense of it. I do not know what to make of France, or Helen, or Victor’s body found beneath the waterwheel. The nine bodies found since, or the blood moon. The loss of Victor was enough to convince me I was already dead. As I write this final letter, the moon outside dyes the paper red.
Best Regards,Sebastian Gallo
THE SUN SHALL BE TURNED INTO DARKNESS AND THE MOON INTO BLOOD
BEFORE THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE DAY OF THE LORD JOEL 2:31
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