Blogetary (Weblog + Commentary = Blogetary)

My dearest Beatrice,

It was a day like any other, at least when it began, except for the gouge upon my leg. I’m speaking, or course, of the place where my beloved feline companion bit me as I went about my daily chores. Perhaps not unusual in the natural way of things, but I should have taken note of it nonetheless. Mayhap it would have prevented me from continuing merrily on my way into the perilous road I was taking — or at least prepared me for what lay ahead…Only later, when strapped upon the old quack’s operating table, slugging down whiskey to dull the pain of the rusty saw would I think back on this day and wonder if I could have changed the course of events.

I was to meet my companions for a rare night out, times being what they are. I had cleaned out my wound, bandaged it, made up with the cat, and then skipped out the door for some much needed jollity and gin. Who could ask for more?

On the way out, I checked my mailbox. I live in a small apartment, nothing fancy, built during a time when buildings were meant to endure. The ceilings are high, the stairways long, and mailboxes very small. Within my small mailbox were the average pieces of mail – garden-variety coupons, flyers, bills, statements, and other whatnot. Plus, one magazine.

It is not strange to receive a magazine that one has ordered, nor yet is it strange to receive a magazine one has not ordered if one’s friends have ordered a subscription as a gift. However, it is strange to receive a magazine one has not ordered, with no note as to how or why it landed in one’s mailbox. I have read my share of “fairy tales”; nothing is for free.

I will not repeat the title of the periodical here, suffice it to say that at once I experienced a horripilation so severe I near fainted. Hurriedly I stuffed everything into my handbag, making haste for the establishment wherein I was sure one of my friends would assuage my fears.

Of course, nothing was done that night. Our conversation taking a turn upon a new dandy about town, I forgot to mention my strange mail to my friends. Or, could it be that in an effort to shove all misgivings aside, I chose to forget my strange mail? Looking back, maybe I did laugh a little louder and drink a little more than was normally my wont. Suffice it to say the mail landed on the bureau the moment I returned home, in a pile with the rest.

It wasn’t until a few days later, as I went through the mail that I noticed the strange magazine again. The plastic covering upon it was strangely deformed, pockmarked as if by too many hot fingers with suction cup tips grasping fervently at the cover. My teeth ached with it’s hideousness, despite, or maybe because of the picture behind the clear plastic covering. Shuddering, I shoved the periodical from me once again, refusing to acknowledge it. Choosing, instead, the less onerous task of reading my bills and checking through my statements.

The next day, whilst luncheoning with some friends I meant to bring up my troubles regarding the strange missive. Something stayed my mouth — perhaps trepidation that my fears would by scoffed at. What could be so frightening by a mere magazine? The nameless horrors behind the magazine were what filled me with a nebulous dread. Ancient beyond untold years, this periodical has been haunting humankind and now it had chosen to haunt me.

Tonight, after weeks of faltering over this paper time bomb, I did it. Trembling as I struggled to open the deformed plastic covering, I took note of the label, addressed to me, as if I had filled out the form myself. Yet, I did not recall doing any such thing. Nor had money been withdrawn from my accounts to pay for even a single issue of this alarming journal. Gingerly I went through the periodical, noting the stories and authors names. Some I knew. Some I didn’t know. Some were among my mortal enemies…did that explain the strange acrid taste in my mouth, the feverish burning in my brain?

But no, there were favorites in the magazine as well. No, it was not the writers who accounted for this strange hesitancy I had at even opening this journal. Maybe it was the editors whose names were hauntingly reminiscent of vile children I had known growing up who had done nothing but cause others misery. Mayhap the area of the country it was spawned from, an area mother to much wickedness and viciousness. Or… I looked at the name of the publisher. Though the name bespoke evil, no evil could be traced back to the publisher. No. It was something else entirely…

Fear. Fear of who — or what — might choose to send this to me. Fear of what messages they might have hidden within the texts on the pages. Horror at what I might find if I looked too closely at the pictures or read too neatly between the lines of poetry.

There is one story that tempts me, told by one whom I love to read; one who has the very ear of the angels. As I write this letter I wonder, who knows how long I will be able to hold off before I open the evil periodical and am drawn inexorably into its nets.

The leg is gone now, irretrievably lost to a gangrenous infection and replaced by a wooden stump, much carved and decorated by a talented woodworker who has offered his hand in marriage. But I daren’t accept. I do not want anyone to go down with me. The magazine awaits me. I can not get myself to throw it away. Every day I carry it to the trash and every day find it, once again, on the bureau.

If you do not hear from me, then you, at least, will know what has happened. I have opened the magazine, been drawn into its depths and overcome by mine enemies. Think not of me, if this happens. It will be too late for me by then as I will either be in the midst of torture by evil minions or in my Holy Father’s arms. Think only of yourselves. Run, flee. Do not let them find you or Thomas or the others.

Ever your

Helen….