Letter from Mr. James Harker to Ms. M. Murrow posted at Stonehaven, Scotland, 1st November 1880

Dearest Melina,

Every day I spend away from you my love seems like the passing of a century, and it has been 3000 years since I last witnessed your wondrous beauty. My work here has yet to be completed, with no end in sight through the piles of paper, parchment and mouldy books. I keep the demons of madness at bay by soothing myself in long walks; to study a little of the place within which I am imprisoned. The locals are all seemingly charming with always a hearty welcome for this particular stranger. Often I can be seen writing in my journal; sitting on the flowered grassy banks of the river surrounded by lunchtime lovers. You must remind me to thank your Uncle Samuel for the loan of his Ukrainian rug which is always an essential item on my excursions.

Before I am diverted in thought I must relay these recent events to you. It was on one of these many walks of mine that I happened upon a troupe of actors from Eastern Europe performing in the main square - each bestowed with an admirable power of voice. The congregating crowd were hypnotized by their engaging use of word and a gesture, much to my amazement. One such actor was clothed in a green coat striped with brown and a copy of what looked like a bible in one of the pockets. He spoke in a deep vibrant tone, a sound not unlike the wind bashing against my window whilst I write this very text. He seemed to be the controlling force behind the whole performance, drawing on the skills of his cohorts for his own means. The others, although individually skilled, seemed as puppets tied to their master.

The whole event confronted my eyes and ears with a rich array of sights and sounds, sometimes confusing but always a terrible thrill. And yes, terrible is the word I use; for the entire performance space was to end awash with blood.

Swords and weapons of every kind were the props for this deadly theatre, swung with skill and used with abandon. The puppets indulged in acts of self mutilation to cause any man of strength and vigour to swoon with the giddiness of a woman. The square was to be littered with all kinds of severed appendages including genitalia and several objects which should surely remain within the body cavity. Sexual acts of gross indecency caused an uncomfortable silence within the men folk of the village and uproar from the otherwise gentle female population. I was totally engrossed in this show, until the sexual penetration of open wounds became the centre attraction. I'm afraid I had to return to my room at the Inn to recover my resolve. I realise that conveying these events to you would normally be deemed improper; but I trust your intellect and resolve. I know that you would not forgive me for keeping such detail from you. I thankfully viewed the rest of the performance from the window next to my desk.

What followed will repeat forever in my memory when the sun retreats to slumber. I saw clearly through the apple trees surrounding the Inn what was to become the most extreme materialization of audience participation ever viewed by these unbelieving eyes. The assistance of volunteers was requested by the coated master and they were brought to him by his blooded puppets. Pompous ceremony followed: the burning of a small bundle of twigs, a shared meal of forest berries and choreographed kneeling before a small curved dagger balanced upon a short sword forced into a gap between the stones of the square. The volunteers kneeled in a line with eyes closed; watched by the anxious eyes of the building crowd. With unparalleled speed of strike the master slit open the throats of the unfortunate volunteers and gulped down there gushing blood with the voracity of a thirsty traveller. The audience rioted in revolt of the terrible scene only to be struck down by the master’s followers in mid stride, and thus becoming a massive feast for the red marionettes.

The memory of the violent theatre lives on in my thoughts as clearly as my eyes first saw the whole act, and so I write to you with no worries about the integrity of the facts. Whenever darkness surrounds me I see the bloody event projected in the black all encompassing space. I wander through this now ghost town of a village and never encounter another living soul. I yearn for the warmth of civilization, to feel the mass heart of the city beating with vitality; though I stay here surrounded by the empty shells of the once living. I am drawn like a magnet to the square where the long spilt blood has become brown and blistered in the sun. I recall the images that passed before my eyes that terrible day and somehow feel at home amongst these human remains. I feel dead inside. Empty as though my heart no longer beats. I feel nothing; though I still feel for you of course. My thoughts are filled with images of blood and of you my love.
But no! I do now have a purpose in my life; a reason to carry on. I have a direction. Back to you and blood. I shall head back as soon as possible. I will catch the next train to London without fail for my heart now beats in my chest thinking of your name. I ache to see you again and re-enact the whole performance upon your tender skin. I yearn to split that skin and fuck the holes that I make. I want to taste every part of you - lick myself from your spine. I will ejaculate in your veins - mixing myself with you - and I will choke on your blood - feeling it pump down my throat in time to your weakening heart. There’s the train… I can’t write anymore. By the time you read this I will soon be home. Leave the window open.

James Harker.