The Hiccups

The Red Letter

My dearest, 

I am sorry that I had not time to answer your nice little note before. You cannot think how pleased I was to receive something in your handwriting. I too must apologize for the state of my present hand—you see, I am not myself these days and must confess that not only can I not seem to hold a steady hand—my wrist lolls like a broken neck across the page—but I seem to have forgotten your name. 

Child, I was never so frightened as I am now. All last week I was consumed with a pins and needles sort of feeling that something was going to happen. I suffered bouts of blinding migraines, and saw things that weren't there, flashing shapes, bloodshot spots of air. And what does one do? If one's decline is sure to lead to a devastating hysterical depression—an old woman's tendency—what is one to do? So I ingested tonics and phosphates, used strong will and good sense to obstruct the advancing impracticalities and imaginings. And then on Wednesday I, so very frightfully and regretfully, died.

Now I am in the dark, with little light to write by. And the house is full of echoes, a crunching, as if I sit inside the belly of a whale. I cannot go outside. I will not. I live in such a world for wonders, yet I never venture further than the garden gate. I do not like to look out the window for outside everything is black. The wind growls constantly and the sky weeps with suet.

This is what I know. I was going somewhere—nothing is worse for a nervous woman than giving way to idle terrors—and I was loath to feel so dreadfully ill that I went for a walk in the forest. I was wearing my best dress, the one I wear for funerals and weddings, you remember the one? when suddenly, there was an emptiness about the place, and the trees loomed large around me and doused everything in a gloomy light. The wind rushed past me and I thought I could see teeth chattering in the bushes, claws itching in the thicket around me. I walked a fair distance further, not stopping to rest—though I tire easily, as I am certain you believe. I kept to the path with my shoulders hunched, my head down. All the time, I felt that just beyond the dell someone was waiting for me.

I confess there are times I am tempted to believe that our Creator has eternally intended the world to remain baffling and that an inclination to prompt an explanation of curiosities and superstitions is as elusive as spirit-rappings and other peculiarities. But on this day I found Death standing amongst a patch of creeping vines.

There was no scythe in sight, but His distinctive hooded-cloak covered His face and draped to the ground, making Him almost indistinguishable from the sinewy black shrubbery of the forest. I considered calling out, Death! Death! Death! to frighten Him away, but reason urged me to ignore Him all together. I did not feel well enough this day to turn my head to such things, you see, so I gripped my walking stick and retreated back home, praying that He would not follow.

But when I arrived at my garden I looked back and He was there! Standing by the begonias. My eyes narrowed, and I stared defiantly, almost fondly, at the fingertips protruding from His sleeve. The fingers were not white, or crooked, or bony, as I had expected. The skin was dark, ebony, and even from a distance, looked like it was covered in fur.

I prayed then. I prayed very hard. And that night I dreamed of you.

You were standing in the centre of the town and you screamed out, Death! Death! Death! and men rushed out of their shops and constables rang out their bells. You called for a hammer and an axe and swore that if they were not brought swiftly, in sixty seconds or so, you would kill all the dogs. Then what a bawling and tearing of hair there was! Swines and horses, bees and butterflies, rolled in the gutter together. Crones rushed up their chimneys and a clowder of cats quickly after them. Mice stuffed themselves into coffee pots, and poor little helpless mutts crammed the alleyways and cellars. At last, a hefty yellow-haired carpenter brought out the things you ordered and you spared the town and set off into the woods under the protection of your hammer and axe, alone.

Then I awoke. It was a queer sort of dream, wasn't it? It makes me think of all the blackest things I ever saw. A crow trampled by a cart's wheel in the market, a rotting tooth, the inside of a witch's oven—

There is now a voice that comes to me! I cannot make sense of it. Its breath expires upon the back of my neck, which startles me, and leads me to rage across these pages.

I cannot say what time it is just now. Do you know? The clock stopped days ago and I haven't the strength to wind it. Have you forgotten about me? Are you decorating my grave?

Of course I tried to oust Death. When he came to me later that Wednesday, it was late, almost midnight, and I was preparing for bed. I was brushing my teeth when I heard a knock at the front door. I knew it would be Death standing there—no one visits an old woman at night—so I opened the door and jabbed him with the end of my broom, trying to force him off the porch. But He heaved himself against my feeble back and sent me lurching to the floor as he ambled inside.

I began sobbing, silently. My voice left me and I felt it fly from my throat and lodge itself in the roof above our heads. I longed to cry out but I could not. I thought I would suffocate or choke on my tears and then Death's whispering voice cradled in my ear, "Do not be afraid. No one will know it. Just you and me. And when it is over I will go back."

We made love, Death and I. Do you understand that?

Oh, it is a hideous thing. I cannot remember what happened next. I do not know if this is how I died. Maybe I died more than once. I had hoped to open my eyes upon Heaven but I am bound here, stinking and decaying, as I write to you.

I am changed.

Though I am covered under nightcap and gown, it is clear my face is plagued with some terrible sickness! My skin is streaming from me, it is bruised, a bristly, shadowy sore has settled across my face; my eyes are creased and rheumy, my nose—much longer than I remember. The dingy swelling has spread to other parts of my body too but to inspect them would only draw Death closer.

Such a disease! Am I a dead woman stuffed inside a molding box, lined with thick inky brush? When I am quiet, I can hear the snarling of the other dead bodies nearby, scratching at the rotting, fleecy planks of their boxes. I imagine them hunting for me, coming maddened or starved in the night, with faces faded, pale as cream. They will rip me to shreds, unravel my skin, and gather the slack to drag me down into the depths, as I become my own ghost.

Are you there?

I have lost every patience with the post office. Just now I slipped an envelope into the mailbox. When I stuck my hand inside, the sides of the box were buttery-slick, the edges threaded with blue and purple veins. The box throbbed with a pulse when I poked at it. It quivered, like a nerve, and then fell to the floorboards and crawled under the house.

I worry this letter will not reach you, but I trust you will come someday soon to visit

your affectionate Nana.