Friend, forgive me. I do not send you this with the intent to ruin you, only I fear that may be your
fate lest you heed my warning: burn the contents of this envelope.
My hands cannot bear such a burden, but neither can I cast it unto destruction. I am
weak and am at their mercy. Ah, but the more I write, the more my hand trembles; the more
questions arise in your curious mind. I do not blame you, for I have been vague and distant these
past few years. But I can trust no other.
If your inquisitiveness does get the best of you, an eventuality I wish was not so set in
the stars, I beg of you to keep the words written away from your mind. They will feast on you,
bury deep like flies and lay their eldritch larvae that will squirm until you turn mad; then feed on
that madness until you are nothing.
They will find you, friend, if you allow yourself to befall these poisoned words, and you
will evanesce just as I.
It was never my choice.
Their ilk is ancient, and they have power beyond what you or I believe probable nor
conceivable.
It has great antlers, and we are but rabbits.
This epoch of mine must be destroyed only by your hands, friend.
Please, do not fail me in my final wish.
Your eternal companion, Amadeo d'Orleans.
Prague, 1878
The following are the lines, once written upon vellum paper in a steady, elegant hand, that my
late friend Amadeo left me in his final, cryptic letter. I know not the origin, only that the
translated words from Old English date to before the Roman invasion of Britain. I believed
Amadeo’s warning to be base caution borne from his increased paranoia. My research, however,
has consumed me. I write these lines as I have done seventy-two times before, and send them to
be found by whichever poor bastard should come across them.
I pray the gods have mercy on my soul, for I have done as they ask. I pray they will accept my
flesh, and I may join their followers at long last.
Anonymous,
Undisclosed Location, 18??
þohtas on þære wærenne
Hark! A fable old as druids, long rotted unto the earth:
the air is cold, one can almost hear the ice floes as they drift
like bodies; an ever unbroken grave.
Won’t you hear me? A coterie small awaits those who recall the tale
of the reveries in the warren.
See! An unseen zenith! Pale, and precipitous:
she watches on, valediction, nose twitching to the heavens
like a body; nerves quaking, spirit torpid.
Floes of driftwood before her, no verdant grass to be seen,
pale as the sun, a graveyard of bones.
“What”, says I, “do you see, young doe?“
“A hound with teeth I see”, says she
“whose body is rotted; doused by death.”
Her ears tucked back as she feared her voice,
and I smiled at the waves, dragging wolves to the lethe.
“Death! It is willed, young rabbit O’ mine,
to mice that slumber near to my shrine,
to larks that sing over my body;
who know not what you shall soon uncover.
The song of a banshee, such as I.”
“You! Spake tales I hath heard before,
tales that affright just as these waves so roar
before us, as my body now trembles before sanctity.
Take me with you, O’ winsome one,
before all you promise comes undone.”
Hark! The woven trail of fate, long eclipsed unto the earth.
The leveret bowed, her flesh melting from driftwood bones and sinking
like a body; down, down, rooted into dirt and stone.
Won’t you bow, too? And return your flesh to me, the earth,
and worship me,
with death, death, death,
away from wakeful suffering and hounds with gnashing teeth;
from shadows dark, and bright eyes foreign,
as you heed the reveries in the warren.
About the author:
C.E Abbott is a historical fiction and horror writer influenced by the macabre of classic gothicism and beauty of the Romantic poets. Based in Nottingham, UK, she is a graduate in English Literature and Creative Writing, and is currently doing an MA course in English Literature at the University of Nottingham. An aficionado in all things nature, she uses this passion in her writing to develop a visceral, eco-horror writing style. She achieved high commended in the Hive South Yorkshire Writing Competition in 2022. Instagram: @bookof.elle
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