Dearest Mina
I must crave your indulgence for the belated nature of this missive. Many things have conspired to occupy my attention, for ‘habitable’ is altogether too charitable a descriptor to term our current accommodations. The roof is in dire need of repairs and the available bedclothes in considerable state of decay, necessitating a fitful night being lulled to sleep by the sound of leaking raindrops. It is a small wonder that I narrowly escaped catching a chill; and subsequently missed breaking my neck on a loose floorboard in the pantry. There are webs in the corners and exposed insulation in the walls; not to mention several new uncatalogued species of fungal and invertebrate life flourishing in the bathrooms. Suffice to say that the sum total of my experiences have convinced me to make certain concessions at earliest priority. For while it can be said that Sir Stamford Moore was many things; I can only surmise that a homemaker is not among them.
The view from the Moore holdings, however, is something else entirely. Stamford’s stately manor rises above the neighboring hamlet on a modest hillock that affords a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside. Provisions for both manor and hill alike are laid down in the deeds which have so unexpectedly landed in my possession. Would that you could have seen the morning sunrise from where I witnessed it; turning the sky from jet to gray and revealing the sleepy sprawl of Wotshire blanketed in a fog of early mist. Such a sight—and I can see you laughing as you read this—puts me in mind of whiling away the years in a rocker and pipe in anticipation of the golden years ahead.
Alas, retirement shall have to wait at least until more of the manor and its attendant grounds is familiar to me. Barring the short amble down in search of a worthy postbox for this letter, I intend to spend most of the day exploring what secrets Moore’s residence has yet to offer. Judging by the size of the property, I have no doubt that this is an endeavor that shall hold my attention for a considerable while. Never fear that I shall neglect to keep you abreast of my findings and that I shall ever remain,
Yours
-C
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Dearest Mina
Such a community is Wotshire that I scarcely have the words to describe it!
The village itself is a fair representation of quaint New England country architecture; neat little cottages with well-tended gardens laid in orderly rows around what must surely be the town square—though such a term seems altogether too grandiose to describe the few shops and public houses dotting the area. There is but a single postbox in disrepair and no mail offices to speak of, I can only imagine it suits the community’s purposes to have a truck visit on a weekly basis to pick up and drop off their packages. You will be glad to know that I took advantage of this discovery to post my first letter at the earliest opportunity. Barring that there is not much to do save hope that I have had the fortune of doing so before the supposed mail truck made its rounds.
As for the town and its people—someone as yourself used to the bustle of a populous city likely wouldn’t enjoy it here, for a sleepier little hamlet I have never seen. There are no theatres or places of interest, and the local shops open late in the morning but shut well before sundown. I had the misfortune of calling upon my erstwhile neighbours at the scandalously late hour of 6 pm—don’t laugh dearest, it scarcely becomes you—only to find most of the shops and houses bolted and shut as its inhabitants retired for the night. Fortunately, I was able to nab a bite of supper at the inn just before it closed its doors. The proprietress—one Ms. Dobson—is a hale and hearty matriarch in her late fifties who took pains to make all her boarders feel welcome and assign us rooms for the night. On this last point she was particularly insistent, and I confess the prospect of making my lonely way back to Stamford Hill through the descending darkness affected the rigour of my protests. Rooms and board are reasonable enough, though the atmosphere is surprisingly quiet for what is by all appearances an inn. Aside from myself and an elderly gentleman by the fire, there were no other patrons to be found in the common area; having long retired to their beds. I was chagrinned to learn that my hostess—none of your subtle hints; the dame is widowed and perfectly content—also in the midst of doing so when interrupted by my ill timed arrival.
I dined upon the daily special—what I believe to be an excellent repast of toad-in-the-hole accompanied by the house’s superior ale. I say ‘believe’ here as there is simply no way to be sure, for the inn does not have an official menu listing available options and their prices. Nor are there newspapers or any kind of reading material at all. Signs pointing the way to the guestrooms and outhouses are accompanied by pictograms: a cartoon drawing of a bed, stick figures of male and female in the universal manner of restrooms…but no letters entirely. There is no guestbook of names for boarders to sign, nor accounts register, or bill of receipts for payments made. I venture to wager that none of these countryside folk have ever seen writing of any kind at all; a conclusion I quickly arrived at from the reaction of that poor elderly chap when I first commenced this letter to you by the light of the coals. His reaction as I pulled out paper and fountain pen; Mina—simply astounding to behold those rheumy eyes grow wide as saucers and mouth open in either toothless excitement or alarm as I scrawled my first ‘D’…such a reaction had he that I abandoned any further efforts at letter-writing till I could be assured my fellow boarder would not agitate himself into an aneurysm or heart attack. Though I endeavoured to apologize to the gentleman, I was not to have that opportunity—for he hurriedly excused himself and left the common room as though old Nick himself were at his heels.
Ms Dobson proved a little more helpful in my line of enquiry when I approached her the next day. According to the dame, Wotshire has little use for what she calls ‘letter-writing’ and she advised me with utmost sincerity not to have my accomplishment in this area made public. A morning jaunt through the village on my way back to the manor quickly showed that she was not in jest: shops are advertised in picture-signage rather than words, with the butcher’s signboard displaying a joint of meat, the dairy a bottle of milk, and so on. Although none of these establishments were open at the hour I was abroad, a peek through the windows was enough to determine that no price placards were in evidence either. Just imagine, an entire township of illiterates—what do you make of that?
Your friend,
-C
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Dear Mina
My exploration of the manor grounds has yielded both questions and answers in equal proportion. From what I can gather of the furnishings and their state of upkeep, the late Moore was a personage of brilliant; though disorganized mind. Objects and furniture lie in a disordered jumble which few aside from my predecessor could circumnavigate, likely as not to be found stuffed haphazardly in all manner of strange locations rather than their accustomed places. It was to my great chagrin to find a serviceable collection of cookware tucked away in various dressers shortly after a trip to the village to obtain my own.
Although a wasted trip in that regard, I wager I have arrived at a better understanding of my neighbours. The villagers of Wotshire are on the whole a taciturn, quiet lot who keep to themselves and hold store in all manner of local superstitions. Among these is a prevailing suspicion of outsiders; aside from a collection of surly grunts or nods few appeared willing to acknowledge my presence, not even when I bid them good day. The most curious of these interactions occurred at the general store, where I was able to purchase a stamp and most of the items I judged would be necessary for home repairs. Seeing that the bulk of my purchases in totality would be too much for one individual to carry alone, the store clerk requested for my lodgings to know where the remainder ought to be sent. The change that came across his features when I told him is something which must be seen to believe—his complexion paled, taking on the color of curdled milk; behavior informing me in no uncertain terms they wished none of my custom. As it stood, I was obliged to hire the services of a hardy gaffer to assist me with my groceries—though no payment of any size could convince the poor fellow to make the trip up Stamford Hill. Perhaps it is my imagination only—you know how I misread such things—but I even fancy that both clerk and gaffer made the sign of the evil eye at me as I left. Regardless, I can only guess at what Sir Moore had done to earn such singular reception in his neighbours.
Aside from the less-than-warm reception, I have had a fulfilling time putting the dwelling to rights. As few of the bedrooms are in habitable state still, I set up camp in the manor library. It is a circular, open chamber located in an annex which I first mistook for a greenhouse from its outward appearance. Shelves of books line the walls three quarters of the way up; at which point they give way to glass panels and skylight—left open in such manner that a ray of sunshine filters and falls upon the middle of the room. Here, what remained of the floor is excavated and takes on the appearance of a swamp; from which a withered dead sapling holds court—its gnarled and twisted branches reaching out in all directions towards the books that line the walls. I have made a random examination of several of these volumes to no avail, finding them much worse for the wear from water damage due to the open skylight and—here is the surprising part—most curiously blank. While I have not yet taken a full inventory of its contents, I am fairly convinced that the majority are of this nature. Yet the room is in better state compared to the rest of the house, suggesting that this is where the late Sir Stamford used to spend most of his time: within a library with a dead tree in it, stocked with blank books. What use could he have for these, I wonder? Rest assured I shall write you when I find out more.
Your friend,
-C
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Dearest Mina,
I fear I may have alarmed you unduly with my last missive. Rest assured the villagers have not harmed me, nor am I in any immediate danger. Although I have taken steps to air the rooms, I still find myself gravitating to that curious library where Moore spent his hours. It is not a disagreeable place, and I sometimes find to my surprise that I have whiled away long hours working on that novel which I have so wearied you in speaking about. The blank volumes lining these shelves are a convenient canvas for the manuscript. The most alarming thing to have happened to me is being surprised by a sudden visitation of birds roosting upon the tree’s branches just when I was penning that short sonnet on doves. A curious coincidence, of that I’m sure. But it did give me quite a turn.
More later. My muse calls
-C
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Mina.
I have stumbled upon an astonishing discovery. In Moore manor, dreams are made flesh and stories made real. I see your face as I write this, and must beg you read the entirety of this account before sending for the men in white coats. For I am not mad, merely excited by the possibilities.
I have filled three blank volumes thus far, and cleared a space for more on the shelves. It had tickled my fancy to attempt a fictional fantasy of the late Sir Stamford Moore, a prospect that now occupies my waking hours as the muse ensnares me. Once, I headed for bed after penning a lengthy account of a piano dalliance between Sir Stamford and his latest paramour. I awoke the next day and rising hit my head against the casement of a grand organ that surely had not been there the night before. Something of that size and bearing is not a furnishing that one can easily miss, and any attempt to install it while I slept nearby would surely have attracted my notice. It is of the same make and model as the one I took such pains to describe in my fictional account. Looking at the instrument dapped in morning sun from the skylight makes me almost imagine Moore’s imposing figure bent over the wood, his nimble fingers tickling at the keys… The piano itself is of superior quality, one that would command a good price at auction and should not be left to weather the open elements. Yet its bulk prevents me from moving it to a less open location so there it sits for the time being.
Nor is that the only paranormal manifestation alone. Days following the piano incident, I later discovered the wreck of a fighter plane (scaled down of course) in the mud by the tree. Like the above incident, this discovery occurred after a particular passage detailing an aerial dogfight in Moore’s adventures. I am beginning to suspect that these events are connected by more than mere coincidence. I must test this phenomenon, for if there is a way of manipulating it at a writer’s will, the possibilities are limitless. Will keep you posted when I learn more
-C
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Dear Mina,
Pray hold off on uncorking the champagne, for I am afraid my experiments yield little fruit as of the moment. I have no control over what is manifest and what is not; and am yet to find a reliable method for making sacks of gold appear when I write of them in these blank pages.
What I have learned, however, is that the phenomenon appears localized to the library and its volumes. Writing aught in anything other than the books on the shelves does not trigger materialization, and writing anything irrelevant to Moore’s dramatized biography fails to stay long on these pages. I made several experiments with more mundane material, jotting down multiplication tables or grocery lists upon the pages only to have the markings fade within the span of a day. The library, as it appears, has singular tastes—and will admit none other than Moore’s epic.
My dreams are restless now, often dominated by a shadowy figure I can only assume is Stamford Moore himself ever lurking at the periphery of my consciousness. Although once an indistinct outline, I see his profile grow clearer with each dream visitation and must confess that this prospect frightens me more than I am willing to admit. The Moore of my story is a hedonist fellow with much in common to Wilde’s Dorian Gray—a personage which one prefers to meet in fiction rather than real life. I suspect I have unwittingly come across the reason for the villagers’ self-imposed illiteracy. I can only pray my fears are mistaken
Yours
-C
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Mina
He comes to me now each night—eyes gleaming, words mocking—always stronger by the day. And I am the midwife who has bourn this abomination back into this world!
I will have no peace of mind until I finish the narrative. Moore was cunning; far more than the fool Gray. Rather than preserve immortality through a painting, he sought to attain his in less hazardous fashion—living on in the legends and accounts of those who tell them. For as long as his tale is told, Stamford Moore shall not die.
I have filled half the shelves of his library. The ideas come faster now, swifter. My pens are running out of ink but I am compelled to archive all the same. When they do run dry I have no doubt that I will be turning to alternatives of a more…organic nature. My only consolation is that I am in poor health, therefore unlikely to live to see the end of Moore’s masterpiece. For I am soon for the grave, and when I go, Moore goes with me. May this be our final parting though I shall remain
Yours
-C
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To: Paramount Pictures, c/o Director Jackson
Dear Jack,
It is with deep regret that I must inform you of our good friend C—'s passing. He was found hanging from the branches of the dwarf sapling in Moore’s library garden, no doubt a suicide brought on by recurrence of his manic episodes.
Of more interest to you is the legacy that he has left behind. C had been working on a romanticized account of Stamford Moore’s adventures and has made considerable progress. I’m certain our writing interns will be able to resume where he left off and modify his script for the screen, a prospect sure to net Paramount millions in royalties alone.
His account of the manor and the village has been accurate thus far as well, save for one detail—the library garden of which he speaks of features neither a plane wreck nor a piano, and the tree which he describes isn’t a withered ancient but a sapling blooming with life.
