Dearest,

        The night drips long into the early hours as I sit awake, missing your presence by my side. I long for your warmth beside mine, the feeling of your hands along my back, a whispering sensation that feels so deeply.

​

        I understand, why you had to leave, it was quite important, yet I can’t stop thinking about you. The way your smile always squinted your eyes. The way I could smell that fragrance you liked as I kissed you. It was cherries and lit matches.

​

        What I would give to hold you close again, what seas I would part and what skies I would sunder just to hear your voice inches from my ear once again.

​

        The fireplace staves off the howls of winter, yet I can feel the cold wind lunge deep into my chest as my bed now sits too big for one person. The sun rises, and every night I dream about being with you again; walking through the woods, getting coffee and sitting on the balcony and just talking.

 

        I wake up every morning, the cold wind stealing my heart. I only hope that it gusts it all the way to you.

I write to you, though, not only out of yearning and out of flattery, for I fear that something unnatural —something magical—is out in the woods. It knows you’re gone as it tries earnestly to mimic your dulcet tones from the window.

​

        I almost fell for the first time.

 

        I went to the door to let ‘you’ in. I saw its eyes instead and lit every candle in the house. They were so dead. They were so cold.

 

        The next morning I put salt at every door and window. Foolish, I know but…it sounded just like you.

So now, I miss you even more. The nights aren’t just cold without you, they’re hostile. The dark isn’t just because I miss you, they’re dark to hide something even darker. I want to ask you to return, but would that be wise of me? Would I jeopardize you? The last thing I want is to ever hurt you.

       

        Always,

        Yours

​

Dearest,

        The creature returned again, this time in my dreams. It was taller than anything natural, and spoke in a tongue that no historian could trace. I flinch at every breaking of silence now.

       

        You’d know what to do, right? You’d hold me in your arms again. Whisper something softly as I shook from fear. We’d make dinner and talk, a brave façade of nothing wrong with the doors locked, the lines of salt diligently posted at every port within the house.

 

        Not the house.

​

        The home.

 

        It would be home again, because you would be here.

 

        Maybe if you were here it would stop stealing your voice away.

 

        Last night it tried screaming as you into the dark but the light of the moon gave it away and saw its skeletal face and horrible dead eyes.

 

        I’ve written our friend, and I’ll be trying to move over there until that creature leaves.

 

        I’m trying not to use names in case that…thing…can use them.

 

The last half of the letter is blotted with tears.

​

        You haven’t written back, and I’m so worried. I know the artic is dangerous, but I’m more worried about if you’ve changed or have encountered something terrible or dangerous or awful. 

 

        I wonder if there was something strange at your door.

 

        I wonder if you let it in.

 

        If anything, my paranoia, I just hope that you’re doing well, and that work has been going smoothly for you. I’ll admit, perhaps a bit selfishly, that I hope you miss me too, and not just because something peculiar is going on. Just remember that I will always love you, and I’ll always be right by your side.

 

        Always. Always, always,

        Yours

​

The letter is written in very shaky handwriting. The page itself is scratched out in several places. Several blots of ink and tears also render the page as very sloppily and hurriedly written.

 

Dearest,

        Things have gotten so much worse. My friend has offered me sanctuary, but it looks like the monster creature is now beginning to stalk me like prey. I think I’m being hunted  I will be leaving tomorrow as the sun rises. It seems to not tolerate the sunlight. I will not be held prisoner in my own home. I will not die without you by my side I promise that I will stay safe until you get back. I was thinking we could move to the southwest. Away from any tall forests that choke kill  hunt could hide any odd creatures.

 

        The lines of salt have been smudged, a window has been broken, and now the rest of the salt has gone missing.

 

        So, I’ve packed my things. The new address is below, and I will write to you the second I got to our friend’s house.

 

        I love you. I will be safe. I will make it out of this. We will be together again.

 

        I promise.

 

It appears that an inkwell was spilled over the other half of the letter, including the new address. The recipient of the letters submitted one final letter to the Bureau of Research. The handwriting is noticeably different, and the ink is a red that was quite obviously blood. The recipient is currently undergoing training to work for the Bureau of Research, namely to hunt down whatever thing stole away their love.

 

 

 

 

 

​

D EaREst,

​

        I”M Home.

​

                Come Back Home.

 

Everything is OK NOW.

       

        COME BACK HOME.

       

        I have the fireplace ready.

 

        Let’s DrInk CoFFee by the BALCONY

 

                UNDER A BLANKET OF STARS.

 

I MISS YOU
 

I NEED YOU

Come Back HOME

 

        I Need you HOME
 

                NOW. NOW. NOW.

 

                                                ALWAYS
                                        YOURS

 

                                                ALWAYS.

 

                                                  MINE.