To the inheritor of this note,
Though we may not have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and although my next remark may seem peculiar at first, I would nevertheless like to forgo all introductions and begin by posing to you the rather cryptic question, “what makes a monster a monster?”
If you had asked me when I was a child, I would have told you that it was the shadows in the corners of my room, hiding under my bed and deep in my closet. The reason for this being that you don’t know anything about the world as a child—for all you’re aware, monsters that can walk through walls or appear under beds in the span it takes to blink could really exist, no matter what the adults tell you. But when you’ve grown and the adults are still calling something ‘monster,’ then you had better pay attention.
You undoubtedly know that which I speak of. And if you don’t, then you must have come from beyond the valley. If the latter is the truth, you have my sympathies. May you find peace here.
Our village is a quaint one of tradition and routine, almost depressingly so. Bread is baked daily. Farmers grow their crops with a very standard inventory of complaints about soil quality. And life continues as it always has... dully. Its enough to make any young lad lose their wits, and to seek thrill out of sheer boredom. But there’s only so much debauchery he can accomplish when the outskirts of his village are patrolled regularly by what can only be described as a monster.
It comes in the day as readily as the night. It takes all who stray too far from our dwellings, even catching us along the cliffsides that ring our town. It takes on the visage of our deepest, darkest fears, and when it takes us, it inflicts upon its victim such pain and in such a public manner that all food tastes of ash in the weeks to follow. It is quiet. It is clever. It is everywhere.
We knew not when it would appear nor what its motives were for generation after generation. Until the day I outfoxed it. My only real accomplishment in this life.
The trick, which I share with you now only on my deathbed, is thusly. The monster is not flesh, but wood, with soil for blood and stone for bone. It isn’t borne of the forest, it is the forest! Any weapon of man is useless, and fire only enrages it. The sole way of escaping its grasp is to wait for the longest night of winter, when the air is cold enough to lull even the most stubborn of minds into resting, such as that of our jailer. You must eschew all fire, and walk along the stony Ridgeback Path for thirteen leagues. You must do so before daybreak. And you must not make a sound.
Does it sound difficult? It should. It was meant to be. For though I tell you this secret, I do so in confidence. You must never leave the valley, no matter how tempting the call of the outer world.
I say again: never leave the valley.
Have you mulled long enough over my previous query? The answer is very simple. A monster is, at its most basic level, what we don’t know, and what we don’t know is what kills us in the end.
I don’t mean to tantalize you. I very much would like to tell you what I saw the night I left our forest; it’s merely that I find myself unable to reproduce my findings. I have no memory of it. Only emotions remain; fragments of whatever I saw residing beyond our wood. It was the last thing I ever saw.
When I was found, I had somehow walked the distance back to our village, blind and crazed. I still wake at night, screaming, unable to recall my dream and helpless to staunch the emotions slowly drowning me.
The writer of this note has assured me that they will take the secret to their grave, as you should as well. I have only had it penned because there may come a day where circumstances force you to abandon your home, at which time you will be prepared to lead them. But I say to you one final thing that you must always keep at heart, no matter the pain that comes.
The monster is our parent, and we, its children.
Sincerely,
Gorni Mok
ns 18.68.41.179da2
