The Letter

To whom it may concern,

There is not much left, do not worry. Not a lot to concern yourself with; I didn’t want to leave too much behind. I like it tidy, you see. Just fetch yourself a couple of bin bags; in fact, I’ve left a steel drum and some firelighters in the backyard – knock yourself out! I left the door open – you’ll have realised this already – because I could not bear the thought of it being knocked down. As I say, I like things tidy.

I am sorry that it had to be you, but it had to be someone I suppose. Someone was bound to walk past and spot the door left open; someone had to open this letter. Someone had to take charge what happens next. That someone, I am afraid, is you. I do not know you, we have never met. I know this, you see, because all the others have gone away; they have either died or left me, their own journeys taking them far from my orbit.

I moved here some time ago, about twenty years, and have lived alone in this two-bed semi ever since. Even my neighbours are strangers to me, preferring to look away and avoid eye contact – what their fear is, I could not say; but I am lead to believe that this is common in London, that many people shuffle off their mortal coil with nobody realising that anything is wrong until some awful, pervading smell wrinkles their nostrils and they begin to realise that it comes from the house next door; and even then they wait, they dare not knock or enquire at all until the smell becomes unbearable and they call the police. I do not want that for myself, do not want anybody to find my rotting corpse and remember me that way, even if they are a total stranger. Hence the open door inviting you to investigate.

I was not always alone like this; as I have said, there were people in my life before, people I cared very much about: parents, a wife, a son, a handful of friends. But one by one, they have disappeared. Vanished. Gone for good.  Death got some of them, others just left, moved on and forgot about me. And somehow, I ended up here, in this house, with nobody to talk to and a lot of time to think, reflect, and plan. I have planned many things in my time here, I have been very productive on my own; the lack of company sharpening my mind, allowing me to hone my skills.

You see, I needed company, I wanted company, I invited company. But no matter how nice I was, how chatty I was, how generous I was, not a single person in this neighbourhood was forthcoming, receptive to my offers of tea or dinner or even just a chat. I could not understand it until one day I overheard two women from my street the road chatting over their garden fence: “Isn’t he ugly?” said the first; a common piece who lives two doors down, covered in a hideous fake tan and the heaviest false eyelashes you have seen.

“Gives me the creeps,” said the other, and through the hedge bordering our two gardens I saw her give an exaggerated shudder. I was very disappointed in her response; out of all the neighbours she had seemed the nicest; introduced herself to me when I moved in, had made a point of doing so.

I went inside, hurt and angry. Not for the first time, I had been made aware that something was wrong with me, that there was something about me that people found themselves repulsed by; some sort of vibe or signal I give off. Something to do with my sloping, asymmetrical eyes with their dark disquieting stare. I cannot help it; whatever I do people think I am staring at them or, sometimes, just past them as though some spirit stands watching over their shoulder. I can understand how it might make them feel ill at ease. But that does not stop the hurt when people avoid me, cross the street when they see me coming, or make excuses not to talk to me.

Shall I tell you something? Sometimes there is a spirit looking over their shoulder. Oh, I do not tell them of course – I can already see the shiver creeping its way up their spine as they look for an excuse to cut our interaction short, I need not offer their children any more reason to run as they pass my house on the street. Besides, I do not see dead people per se: just the one, the same one each time. He stands there, silently challenging me, daring me. But I pay him no heed, most of the time. He does not seem to mind when I ignore him, but he keeps coming back as is his wont; again and again he comes to taunt me. At least he does it to my face, not like those harridans down the road sniping and sniggering behind their hands. Behind my back.

Anyway, I digress. Thank you for coming, I knew you would. That is, I knew someone would. And again, I apologise that it is you that has had to find this scene before them. Let me explain things a little further. I have tidied up as I have mentioned, not only for my sake but for yours. I did not want whoever finds me to come upon the squalid mess common to such lonely desperate souls like myself. I have closed the bathroom door, for what is inside will not be very pleasant and I should hate for you to stumble upon that; nor is it for you to deal with. No, no, you are merely here to help things along, so that I am not left to rot for days on end permeating the air until somebody gives in and finally plucks up the courage to knock on my door and see what is causing that distasteful odour.

So, you will have surmised by now that the door was not open by chance, the broken glass in the hallway is not the sign of break-in. Indeed not, for I had tidied up. Except for that. There was not the time. Everything is as it should be: the paintings on the wall are all hanging straight, the furniture of the living and dining rooms has not been upturned, there is not a speck of dust to be found on any surface.

Yes, it must seem strange that there is no television in my lounge, but I assure you it is better that way; you will not find a mirror either. Not a single reflective surface. I can live without such reminders. And anyway, my tormentor does not just stand behind other people, oh no, he stands behind me also. I can feel him tapping my shoulder with his long bony fingers. Some days I can even hear him; his thoughts somehow become my thoughts and my mind fills with a kind of white noise and my vision seems to blur at the edges, until I can take it no longer and I do as he wishes, until I accept his little dare. He knows that I can only feel his icy breath in my ear for so long before my resolve is broken once again, and I do as he bids.

You see, that is the reason you are here; the real reason you are here, sitting in my armchair looking at the space where the television ought to be, reading this letter of mine, this farewell. I wanted to say goodbye, it is important to say goodbye, to make peace and wish someone well before their departure. And that is what I am doing now, I am saying goodbye and wishing you well.

I fear I may not be making much sense to you, rushing off at these little tangents as I do, so I shall explain. Do you remember the broken glass in hallway that I had not the time to clear up? Well, just take a second to think. Ask yourself: did I hear it smash as I stood outside, is that what first brought my attention to the open door of the dark house with no lights? Is that what made me push the door open and walk inside? Why did I not open the bathroom door, was I too scared or was I just not thinking? Or was it simply because I stumbled upon a letter which told me not to?

It is okay, you are not the first to make this mistake, do not blame yourself, you are not the first to take this scene at face value, to believe they are the ones to have made such a discovery and somehow found themselves at the centre of a great scandal. It seems to flatter a person somehow, that they are somehow chosen for something horrifically glamorous, that they will probably end up on the news. Well, I do not doubt that one day very soon you will be.

You are not the first to sit there in my chair, eyes dilating as they read this letter and realisation dawns. I have come to rather enjoy their discomfiture, the sound of their breath quickening, the hairs on their arms raising as they sense something is no longer as it once appeared to be. You never did open that bathroom door, did you? Turn your head the right, look down the hallway, what do you see? That’s right, it is open now. I am no longer there. And those hairs on your arm, I can see they are mirrored by those on your neck; tiny white fibres standing straight in response to my breath.

White is such a beautiful colour, would you not agree? Do you know why it is so beautiful? Because it is so easily turned to black, to green, to blue, it is the perfect canvas to apply any pigment you choose. Take the Japanese flag for example. The bright red sun would not look nearly so vibrant against another colour, but against the snowy white backdrop it is simply magnificent. And so the little hairs on your neck shall be, as your blood runs down your skull.

I told you I have had time to hone my skills while I sit here all alone, and over the years I have become something of an artist even if I do say so myself. And that is what I shall make f you__, a fascinating piece of art. And when I am done, I shall place you in your very own frame and I shall exhibit you along with all the others.

You are to be my last, there is no more space in the walls for more. Each one is so precious to me, I could never remove one simply to make room for other pieces. It would be too painful to me, even if I could decide which one to get rid of, which of course I cannot. I am a collector rather than a curator.

I wonder if you are still reading, or whether the shock and adrenaline have made your vision swim. Perhaps you are thinking of making a run for it. I would not run if I were you, I am prepared for that and you will not get far. But if you are still reading, I would ask you take comfort in knowing you are my last, for that means you will be the first to be found; the cement will be so freshly set that those excavating these walls would be remiss not to begin with you.

Once I am finished working your flesh into my latest creation, once I have excorcised this demon, I shall begin this letter once more. This time it really will be a proper farewell; I shall leave instruction on where and how to find my works of art; which order they are to be found and in which order they were created. The news broadcasts will make my museum public, and you will finally garner the fame you hoped for.

The tapping is starting again, I can feel him coming closer, urging me on.

I suggest you take a deep breath.

We have a lot to get through this evening.