Untitled Lovecraftian Thing

Okay, so I always wanted to write something that had the stink of Lovecraft on it, minus some of his more objectionable and odious personal beliefs. And I think i finally did it. Sound off in the comments about what you think. ~Eric

***

Emily,

I expect that you were surprised to receive this missive, given our strained parting and my own responsibility for it. Yet, I felt the need to share this with someone that I could both trust and who would believe. When I searched my thoughts, the only person who fit both of those surprisingly stringent requirements was you. Perhaps you will not read the enclosed pages. Perhaps you will. Perhaps you will think me mad, and I fear that you might even be right to think so, but I could not bear this alone. A burden shared is a burden lightened, as they say, and the simple act of sending this to you will have lightened my burden in some way. But I suppose that is both too much information and too little, so let me begin again.

It has been my experience that the words family and secrets are both inextricably and unfortunately entwined. In most cases, the magnitude of such secrets is grossly exaggerated in the minds of their holders. If they were to be presented to any outside party, those people would likely see them as little more than sad. These are the secrets of wayward cousins who go unmentioned except for a sad shake of the head at family gatherings or an uncle whose business is always wreathed in shadow. These are the mundane secrets of the family. The prosaic guilt of people who view the troubles or misdeeds of others as reflecting in some way on themselves.

The irony, of course, is that such private matters function almost as a tacit currency among the well-adjusted to demonstrate their own commitment to the well-trod path. After all, who among us doesn’t wish to be seen as a peer among those who share our lives in large and small ways. Who has not withheld some thought for fear that others might view of us strange for having had them. It was always my opinion that my family carried such mundane secrets and not much else. You’ve met them, so I’m sure that your impulse is to agree. I beg that you withhold your judgment for a time.

After the recent passing of my father, I was to learn that my family bears different, darker, stranger secrets than most. Ones that I had, for good or for ill, been shielded from throughout my life. I was only to discover this truth when, during a visit to the office of my father’s attorney, Alan Parker, I was handed a letter that had been, for reasons that will become obvious, not been included as part of his last will and testament. To help you understand better my own response, I will copy down the letter exactly as written, save to change or omit certain names that might prove unfortunate for you to know.

Peter,

If Alan has handed you this letter, it means that I have now, finally, and even gratefully, passed from this mortal coil. While I have often lived in fear of the fires of perdition, the slow wisdom of age has convinced me that when I stand before Almighty God and must account for the state of my soul, he might yet retain a shred of mercy for me. Then again, perhaps that is just the hope of an old man who has done terrible things in his time, but terrible things in what I believed was a righteous cause. I kept you clear of that darkness in the hope that I might bring an end to this family curse before time claimed me, and that you might live entirely in the light.

If you are reading these words, I have failed.

If I have failed, I almost want to believe that it must have some unshakeable destiny, but that is aught more than a fancy. In truth, I will have taken a terrible gamble and lost. Do not question Alan about these matters for I have withheld all but the most general of details from him as well, both for his safety and his sanity. You will have inherited the property, and you must go there. In my office, you will find a safe. Not the one that contained my papers. There is a second safe hidden behind the portrait of your grandfather. You will find a key for that safe in my desk. It is secreted away beneath a false bottom in the middle drawer.

In that safe you will find documents that will explain matters to you. No. No, explain is too strong a word for it. Far too strong a word. They will at best give you a handhold to cling to, but that meager handhold is all I can offer. You will also find information about how to contact certain individuals. You must write to ------ and a woman named Bernadette Lindale to inform them of my death. They might already know, although I pray with every shred of my being and poor faith that they do not. If they do know, I fear that I will see them before you do. Trust them. They can help you if anyone can, although I fear that we may be beyond all help.

I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so terribly sorry to have left this load for you to carry. Know that I did try. God above knows that I did try to end it, but perhaps it cannot be ended.

With love and regret,

Your Father

I’m sure you can imagine my deep and abiding confusion at reading such a letter, particularly from my father. I had never known him to be an especially religious man, nor a man given to sentiment. It seemed as though the letter had either been written by a stranger or that I had never known my father at all. Naturally, I began what amounted to a minor inquisition on poor Mr. Parker who, as my father had already stated, knew nothing of any value. All he could tell me was that I needed to visit the house.

With no other choice, at least if I wished to understand that perplexing final message, I returned to my childhood home. I found the safe and opened it. There were documents there, Emily. Just as he said. Oh, how I wish I had never read them. How I wish I had never gone back there. How I wish I didn’t know what I know now. I don’t know if it is selfishness or desperation that has made me reach out to you. Maybe, it’s both. I have included copies of the documents, once more with certain pieces of information removed for your safety. Read them. Bury them. Burn them. Make whatever choice seems wisest and best to you. Do not worry that you will offend me. I suspect that, much as my father before me, I will be beyond such concerns by the time you read this letter.

Do you recall the words, Emily? I do. Ubi Amor, Ibi Dolor. Where there is love, there is pain. I was such a callous man and equally a naïve one when I threw those words at you. Since I fear I will never get a chance to speak to you again, I can only beg your forgiveness and hope your answer reaches me in whatever heaven or hell I find myself.

Peter

Chicago, Illinois

1927

***

If you are reading these words, it means that you have come into possession of an exceedingly rare manuscript. I assembled the documents that Peter sent to me and enlisted the services of a discrete printer to produce an exceedingly limited number of books. I remain unconvinced that it was the correct choice, but it seemed important that they be preserved in some fashion. However, I fear that some knowledge is so dire that it might prove best left undiscovered. I would advise you to cast this book aside or destroy it, rather than read it. It’s the choice I wish I had made.

Emily Wainwright

London, England

1932