A Letter of Warning _S**


Acta non Verba.-Deeds, not words.

(Latin Proverb)



To: William V. S.
From: Homer V. S.

    Dearest William,
I hope that this letter (of warning) finds you well and in good health.
I fear, however, that when this does find you that I might not be in either good health or very well at all.
I have only a little bit of time, so let me get to the point of the matter:

When I arrived at the old church that they sent me to in November, it was already much too late. You must believe me when I say this: there was nothing I, or anyone else sent in my stead, could have done. The inhabitants that I met here were, no doubt, human at some point…but no longer human are they now.

I was sent here to Saint Andrew’s to give a seminar on ‘the suffering of Christ for humanity’. The words that I was going to say hold little meaning now. No, because now I know what true suffering really is. It is now almost mid- January, as far as I can tell.

It had been nearly seven years since anyone from the Heading branch has been out to this remote location-mainly due to its high elevation, I suspect.
It took me nearly two months to reach it, and I’m an avid climber!

I must quit with the detail and get to the point-the goddamned fucking point! I learned, too late, that the drink that was being given me was a mixture of the coummunities urine mixed with various local plant juices.
The meat that they gave me to eat, I initially mistook for cow or maybe horse meat; but the livestock, I later found out, had all died out  many years before my arrival.
So, I have to conclude that it is the flesh of those that have passed on. Yes, the meat of the dead!

The people here, dear William, have resorted to feeding off themselves. I am grave to admit this, but it is the truth. Limb by bloody limb they eat each other.
I will say little else more on the matter, for time is not something that I have much of.

Do not come here William, do not even think of rescuing me; for by the time this reaches you, as I have stated, I will probably no longer be alive.

I do not have much to write with, only my blood, so you will not have a full account of the horror that has become of St. Andrew’s save for what I have written here thus far and a few more precious lines if God so wills them.

Keep this a secret William, I beg you, so that no one else need to suffer what I am suffering now.

Your brother in Christ,
Homer Von Sophoclein






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