#and yeah if it was in fact as severe as my paranoia says id probably already be dead but

[ars0nism]

send help

[thefanficmonster]

Corpse Infested

Corpse Husband & Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Mentions of dysfunctional family, Family problems, Swearing

Genre: Humor, Comfort, Platonic fluff, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: When your friend disappears for a long time, seemingly having lost interest in what fueled the most passionate fire in their life, you cannot not worry about them. Even if you wanna give them space, you will reach out, you will offer your help. You will tell them they always have you to rely on and talk to.

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! I’m really sorry it’s taken me so long to complete and post your request, but here it finally is! Hope you come across it and if you do I hope you enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

For me, it’s never hard to find things to do. I’ve constantly got things on my mind and tasks to tend to, keeping me occupied and my mind focused at all times. I think that comes with living in a home as dysfunctional as this one. I honestly can’t recall a time when my parents got along nor can I think of a time where there was at least one second of peace while the two are both present in the house. It’s always a warzone up there. I’m saying up there because I tend to live out of the basement of their home. I know living in your parents’ basement is considered a peak loser point, or the bottom of the bottom, but you’d have to believe me when I say - I wasn’t always like this. In fact, I only recently came back to this hell-hole and boy do I regret it. I mean, it was a decision forced upon me by circumstances. Trust me, I tried every other option there was. When my dorm was to be closed down and demolished, we were given a notice to start planning our next move about a month early. You can bet I immediately started looking at places but my very tragic and miserable budget didn’t allow such a purchase. No rent was adequate for me and my near-empty wallet so my second option was moving in with my best friend who was also not in the greatest of situations but I thought I’d give that a shot too.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work out. She lived in a tiny apartment with her boyfriend and his best friend at the time, so four people in one apartment was a nightmare. Still a lesser nightmare than this one but a nightmare nonetheless. Some unwanted and downright traumatizing events chased me out of that place after barely managing to pack my stuff. Therefore, finding myself on the streets again, I had no other option other than the obvious and least liked one: moving back in with my parents.

Making money during my first year of college hasn’t been easy. Working two jobs at once and also streaming video games on the side was what my time was filled with all throughout the first semester but then this damn pandemic started and now ruined everything for me. I had things going for me, I was slowly getting my life together and now it has all fallen apart yet again. The places I worked at closed down due to quarantine and I haven’t been able to steam, not only cause I’d be the victim of my parents’ comments but also cause my terrible home life would be exposed to all my fans and viewers. It’s not like I could cancel out the commotion going on right above my head, it’s a livestream and this house’s walls are cardboard thin meaning all the arguing I hear almost 24/7 will serve as background noise for my streams.

I haven’t reached out to my friends or fans to inform them of this which I feel slightly guilty about but I’m really not looking forward to having to lie to them, just as much as I’m not looking forward to having to tell them the truth so instead I’ve picked silence which is probably either worrying them or driving them insane. Either way, I’ll make my comeback soon.

Well....not very soon by the looks of it...

I have to gather the money, then I have to find a place, then comes the packing, moving out of here, moving into the new place...oh God, there’s so much to it that I don’t even wanna think about. Just that thought that I’ll be inactive for that long makes my stomach turn. Streaming’s where I’ve been channeling all my negative emotions, turning them into something positive and entertaining with the help of my friends.

Speaking of my friends, I should probably put emphasis on how amazing they are. Basically the older siblings I’ve always wished I had. I’m the baby of the group, the eighteen year old freshman in college, powering through life the best they can cause they are constantly getting tripped up by inconvenient occurrences such as this one for example. I tend to have the gang poke fun at me quite frequently - all lighthearted and with good intentions obviously - but they are also the ones to get super defensive if anyone gets the balls to talk shit about me. They’d never allow me to be the victim of any smack talk or online rumors and ‘cancel culture’ or whatever the hell people will come up with to leave others restless and wondering if they did something shady a decade ago. Well, to be fair, I didn’t even know about the concept of social media a decade ago and I’ve never been one to post much but I still have a protection squad in case anyone decides to come after me.

Little do they know the people I need protecting from are the very people that are supposed to protect me - my parents. Luckily, they don’t venture into to basement very often if at all and I have my own exit to the outside world so I don’t have to run into them unless I absolutely have to. The only time I emerge to the surface of the house - aka the ground floor - I do so to leave my share of rent money on the dining table and I usually do it when they aren’t home or when they’re asleep - that happens often with how many bottles they each knock back on the daily.

*sigh*...at least I don’t have to talk to them, right?

Anyhow, remember how I mentioned I always have things to do? Well, right now I’ve tasked myself with rifling through the large boxes containing random stuff I found in one of the basements down here to see if there’s anything I could possibly sell online. For starters, I’d like to hope there aren’t any severed body parts in here because this was one shady-ass basement before I moved in and un-creeped it a bit so I wouldn’t have to become an insomniac due to the paranoia of there being a homeless person down here with me or some paranormal entity. Regardless, old basements tend to be, apart from haunted, also filled with junk no one would find valuable despite it actually being worth something after all. That’s basically what I’m hoping to find at the moment.

As I dig through the contents of the first box, the YouTube playlist I have put on on my phone cuts off causing me to furrow my brows in confusion for a second before my ringtone pierces the silence the lack of music created.

I quickly mute the ringing and take a look at the Caller ID to see a name I never thought would pop up on my screen as an incoming call - Corpse. I, as well as many of our friends, know that he’s not the biggest fan of talking to people on the phone so this is rather surprising. Still, I pick up the call in case it’s not a mistake and an odd chance that it’s somethin urgent cause Lord knows Corpse doesn’t call people willy-nilly. 

Thank God it’s quiet up there at the moment.

“Hello?“ I try my best to cover up the confusion in my voice but I can only assume I didn’t do the best job considering Corpse replies with a slightly awkward chuckle.

“Surprised you, didn’t I?“ He asks, getting my cheeks to redden a bit, “You can’t blame a guy for calling after up and disappearing on him and on the whole internet. Where’ve you been?“

I open my mouth to respond when I hear the sound of glass breaking a shouted curse from upstairs.

Oh for fuck’s sake!

“Um...you know, places?“ I’m aware the answer isn’t only nonsensical but also sounds more like a question, but I can hardly focus on that right now. I’m too buys praying to an entity I don’t fully believe in for the situation above to not escalate.

“Uh, is everything ok over there? Where even are you right now?“ The teasing tone to his voice is all but gone at this point, replaced with deep concern, having obviously heard the commotion that did the exact opposite of what I prayed for - escalated.

“Y-yeah, it’s ok. It’s just another Thursday, you know.“ I attempt a small laugh but it’s blatantly miserable, ���I moved back in with my parents when they announced the quarantine so that’s where I’m at now. They’re not the quietest of folks as you can tell so...“

“I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I HOPE YOU DIE“

Oh crap, here we go.

“...So I can’t really stream a lot...or at all.“ I mutter, cringing with all my might, “But it’s only temporary! I’ll get back in the saddle as soon as I find another place to stay.“ I don’t dare mention how long that’s gonna take me, it’ll be too disappointing and depressing for the both of us. “So yeah...um...thanks for showing concern but there’s really nothing to worry about. I’m ok, everything’s ok, things are just...a bit off the rails, but I’ll fix em no problem. Like I always do!“ I attempt to sound as cheerful as possible with little success due to the overwhelming anger I feel towards those people upstairs and the gut-wrenching nostalgia for the world of streaming I can no longer be a part of because of them. Actually, I put the blame first on the pandemic and second on my parents - if it wasn’t for Covid I’d probably still be in my dorm!

“Hey...um, I think I know an affordable place where you can take up residence. Only if you want to, of course.“ He sounds hesitant but I easily overlook that as excitement bursts throughout my entire being at the sound if an escape being offered to me just like that. Had I known I’d find the solution to my problem in the very people I spent time avoiding because I was afraid of their pity, sympathy and judgement.

“Oh please, it could be a rat and roach infested shoe box and I’d go running to it. How much is rent?“ I ask through a gasp of hurried laughter that’s a result of my inability to contain said excitement. Listen, I’ve been sitting here in Hellsburg for three months now and haven’t gotten a proper shuteye during that whole period, whatever Corpse is offering has to be better than this misery.

“Rent can be discussed once you move in...“ He trails off, “And it’s not rat nor roach infested but there’s a slight issue...“

“Which is?“ I’m honestly expecting the worst: in a bad neighborhood; faulty wiring with a high chance of being electrocuted; faulty piping with a high chance of flooding; people have died there; things get randomly moved around in the middle of the night etc. However, I don’t voice any of them to avoid getting laughed at for my wild imagination.

“Well, uh, it’s corpse infested.“ He says a little awkwardly, causing me to let out an inaudible sigh.

So my ‘people have died there’ guess was on point, huh?

“People have died there, huh? Well, I can turn a blind eye to that as long as I don’t find their bodies in the closet or meet their spirits at 3AM.“ I attempt to joke, now second-guessing my eagerness to accept the offer.

Corpse bursts out laughing his ass off at my statement, getting me to furrow my eyebrows in confusion and wonder what I said was so funny - it was a poor attempt at a joke, it in no way deserves that sort of reaction, barely a chuckle in my opinion.

“You’re golden, Y/N, I swear.“ He says once he forces the laughter to subside, “I meant corpse infested as in Corpse Husband infested.“ He breaks out in another fit as my brain slowly starts connecting the dots.

Oooohh he’s asking me to go live with him

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait, hold up for a sec. Are you aware of what you’re offering me? I mean, we’ve never met IRL, you barely know me and....and for all you know I could be the serial killer in this situation!“ I have no idea why I’m pushing my luck, don’t ask. I just don’t want him to make a decision he’ll later regret, I guess. “Like, I could kill you in your sleep!“

“Would you?“ He asks confidently, silently stating he already knows the answer.

I roll my eyes, “Of course not! But...” He cuts me off.

“Great, the offer stands on my end. I’m not a noisy nor nosey roommate so I suggest you start packing. If you choose to live in that hell-hole over living with me, I’m sorry but I’ll be hella offended, just so you know.“

Corpse sounds like he’s about to hang up on me, a decision already made, so I hurry to stop him. “Wait! What about rent?”

“Fuck the rent, pack your bags.“ And just like that, despite my efforts, he hangs up on me.

Well...this is a chance of a lifetime that I know refusing would lead me to not only remain stuck here but also put me in the hugest loser bin. There’s also the fear of being Corpse’s burden which I’ll try my best not to be - I mean, I’m a super independent person and Lord knows that if this offer came any other time or from any other person, I would’ve declined asap, no discussion.

But streaming

But sleeping properly

But having a normal life again

Yeah those are most certainly the reasons I get up and go into the closet in search on my emptied suitcase. Time to fill it up again, I guess. This time with a smile on my face and excitement fueling each and every movement of mine.

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[bog-wytch-grymm]

My Missing Best Friend Has Been Sending Me Letters From Nowhere, And No One Can Explain It

written by  Kiersten Edwards

It all started with a letter.

Who even gets letters anymore? Who sends them? Real pen-and-paper letters, handwritten with care, slid into an envelope and dropped into the nearest mailbox. Emails are easy but to send a letter you have to buy a stamp. Who does that? I certainly don’t, and I couldn’t remember the last time I got one until…

“Riley!” my mom shouted up the stairs.

I had just stepped out of the shower and ignored her to wrap a towel around my dripping torso. I rubbed the steam from the mirror and leaned forward, frowning at a small pimple on my chin.

“RILEY!”

I pulled open the bathroom door. “WHAT?”

“You’ve got mail.” She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a crisp white envelope in her hand. She waggled her eyebrows and said, “How old fashioned.”

I laughed. “Probably junk. I swear I paid my credit card this month.”

“Sure you did.” She winked and placed the envelope on the bottom step. “But it’s not junk. The address is handwritten and it looks like it’s made quite the trip to get here.” She shrugged and disappeared into the living room. I heard the television switch on and Dr. Phil’s condescending voice drifted up to me.

Thinking nothing of it, I went to my room to get ready for work. It wasn’t until I nearly stepped on the letter as I came down the stairs that I remembered. I stooped to pick it up, turning the envelope over. It was not so crisp and white after all but rather crumpled and dirty. It looked as though it had been dropped several times and possibly stepped on. But on the front it said, in neat cursive writing, my name and address. Something about the smooth looping handwriting was familiar and I curiously tore it open to remove several small pages of rough, cream-coloured paper. As I unfolded the pages I immediately recognized the writing as my best friend Brianna’s. She’d always had the most perfect penmanship, making my handwriting look like a chimp had been given a pen and paper.

Dear Riley,

I write to you from a land far, far away where the days are long and the nights longer. The stars are strangely bright here, as though they are closer to this place than to the rest of the world. Strange birds flutter around sometimes when the sun is going down, making noises that resemble coughing men. I caught sight of one just yesterday, and I am disturbed to report that these birds are unlike the birds of this world. Their eyes are blood red and their feathers an oily black—demon birds from beneath the ground. I don’t glance up at them anymore but I sense they are looking down at me.

The grass here is also very strange. It grows in a way that makes it look as though there is a constant wind blowing, perpetually leaning one way. The green shade of the blades is unlike any other I have seen—one of the locals told me it is stained from the blood of thousands of fairy creatures from a war that was waged many hundreds of years ago.

The utter strangeness of the place I’m in doesn’t end there. Every Sunday evening when both the sun and the demon birds have gone, I begin to hear strange cries in the wind. They start quiet, but get louder and louder as the hours drag by. By midnight there is just one cry made up of hundreds, and it is an eerie sound.

No one will tell me what is going on, but I sense there is a great secret here. The people treasure their mystery and my questions are waved away carelessly. I hope this letter finds you in good health.

Yours truly,

Brianna

I stood in the hallway staring down at the pages in my hand. What the hell was this? I turned the envelope over again and saw that there was no return address, only my own address accompanied by a very ordinary stamp.

“Who’s it from?” my mom asked as she strolled by with a mug of coffee. I jumped and seeing the look on my face, she stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just Brianna being a weirdo.”

My mother chuckled. “I’m glad she hasn’t changed. Is she still at…?”

“Dalhousie? Yeah. This is her last year though.”

“Well write her back!” My mom went back to the couch to resume her show. “Tell her I say hi.”

I took the letter up to my room and reread it. Then I read it again. And again and again and again, until the words swam in front of my eyes and I was left more confused than when I’d first started. Brianna had always had a strange sense of humour, but she’d never been much of a storyteller. This letter was strange alright, but written in a way that was almost… believable.

I reached for my phone on my bedside table and shot Brianna a text.

Hey freak. I got the letter you sent. Are you minoring in creative writing now? Your parents will be so proud. Big $$$.

I read what I’d sent and added,

Call me. I miss you!

Though we’d been best friends since we were nine years-old, I hadn’t spoken to her in almost two weeks. She always tried to make time for me but she had school, I had work, and our schedules rarely matched up. I tacked the letter up on my corkboard beside a smiling photo of Brianna and I, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door. When I started my car I saw that the clock read 9:05. I was already late for work and it would take me 15 minutes to get there.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

A busy day at work kept my mind off the letter. I work at a veterinary clinic and Mondays are always crazy. Within the first hour we had five dogs who had swallowed something they shouldn’t have and a cat who had lost a toe and was bleeding profusely.

It wasn’t until I walked through my front door that Brianna’s strange letter came back to me. I shrugged off my jacket and fished for my phone at the bottom of my purse, where it had stayed all day. I felt a sting of disappointment when I saw that she hadn’t texted me back. She was a busy girl, but she always managed to answer my messages almost immediately. Maybe she was swamped with homework, or out with her cool university friends. Or maybe she had joined some messed up writing circle where they sent their friends weird-ass letters for fun. Whatever. Maybe I’d try calling her tomorrow.

The next morning there was still no word from Brianna. This put me in a foul mood and the first half of the day passed in an irritated fog. But then the next day came with no word, and then the next. The rest of the work week passed before I dialled her number as I sat in my office, bored out of my mind. Friday afternoons were always slow and I couldn’t shake the paranoia that she was ghosting me on purpose.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring

“Hey! You’ve reached Brianna’s cell. Please leave a message or text me instead and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!”

The beep sounded and I said, “Hey loser. Did you misplace your phone again? I texted you forever ago and you didn’t respond. Very rude.” I fiddled with the pages of the calendar on my desk. “Your letter was super creepy. The fact that you sent me a letter in the first place is also creepy. Please call me back before I call the Creep Police.” An older man with a startled looking parrot burst through the front door. “Gotta go. Talk to you soon.”

Brianna didn’t return my call that weekend, and worry began to take over the anger in my chest. This was very unlike her. The longest she’d ever gone without texting me back was three days, and that had been two years ago when she’d gotten very drunk and thrown her phone out of a taxi window. Brianna was a goof, a little too spontaneous, but never a bad friend and never one to leave texts and calls unanswered. I decided that if she hadn’t reached out to be by Monday, I was going to contact her parents.

I was putting on my mascara Monday morning, wondering what the hell I was going to say to Brianna’s mom and dad, when I heard my name being called from downstairs.

“Is this a thing now?” My mother was holding an envelope, same as the first, with a big grin on her face. I must have looked at her strangely because she said, “What’s with the face? I think it’s cute.”

I took the letter from her without a word and went back to my room.

“Don’t you have to work?” she called. I closed my bedroom door and heard her mutter, “Alrighty then.”

The writing on the front was identical, my name and address in fine cursive. The envelope was similarly dirty and stepped on. I opened it slowly, oddly fearful of what was inside.

Dear Riley,

I trust you’ve been well since I last wrote you. Letters don’t often find their way here, so if you’ve written me back it is likely I will never receive it. The oddness of the situation I’ve found myself in continues. A few evenings ago, I could have sworn I heard one of the birds call my name. It was only once and a small noise amidst the cry of the many birds above. I think of it endlessly and it disturbs me deep within my soul. The shopkeeper that I sometimes speak with says everyone hears their names now and then—it simply means the birds know who I am now. They know that I’m here.

It is this same shopkeeper that has offered me answers to some of my many questions. He has told me that every murder that has ever occurred in this place has happened on a Sunday. He says this goes back hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years. When I asked if this had something to do with the horrifying cries I hear on Sunday evenings he only stared at me and placed a finger on his lips. I gather that my questions are unwelcome and possibly even dangerous to be asking.

But I will not stop asking. A curiosity has bloomed within me. Surely you understand.

Still yours,

Brianna

I dropped the pages like they were fire and rubbed my hands across my face. What was going on? Why was she sending these to me? Why hadn’t she called me back? I grabbed my phone and dialled Brianna’s number with shaking fingers.

“Hey! You’ve reached Brianna’s—”

I hung up immediately and punched in the number to Brianna’s house. Her mother answered on the second ring.

“Riley!” she squealed. “What a delight. We just got caller ID and I’m still not over how handy…”

“Mrs. Lawrence, have you spoken to Brianna lately?” I interrupted.

“Brianna? I spoke to her just last week, why?”

“When last week?”

“Sunday afternoon.” The tone in her voice changed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath. “Last Monday I got… well I got a really weird letter from her in the mail. I just thought she was trying to freak me out or something but…”

“What kind of letter?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.” I got up and took the first letter from my corkboard. “It’s in her writing but it doesn’t sound like her. It’s written like she’s telling a story or something.”

“Did you try calling her?”

“Yeah I did.” I struggled to keep my voice from trembling. “But she didn’t answer. I texted her too. I figured she was just busy but today… Today I got another letter in the mail.”

There were several moments of silence. Then, “Could you come over here Riley? And bring the letters?”

“Of course,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to call the police,” Mrs. Lawrence said. “John told me yesterday Brianna hasn’t been answering any of his calls or texts.” John was Brianna’s dad and they’d always been extremely close. I could hear tears in her voice. “Oh, my god, I didn’t even think twice when he said that…”

At first the police didn’t seem very concerned. A girl away at university not answering her phone? You know how girls are. Friends, boys, school—she probably was just preoccupied. But when the subject of the letters came up, things got very serious. Two detectives came to the house to ask some questions. Was I sure she had written the letters? When was the last time we had seen her? When had we spoken to her? Had we tried speaking to any of her friends?

“I have her roommates number,” Mrs. Lawrence said tearfully, pulling out her phone. The detectives sat quietly as she made the call, but it was a short one. No, she hadn’t seen Brianna in more than a week. But her shoes were gone and so was her overnight bag.

“I figured she had gone home for a visit,” I heard Lauren say. She had been Brianna’s roommate for almost two years and sounded frightened.

“Usually we would wait before launching an investigation,” said Detective Kingston after Mrs. Lawrence had hung up. “But these letters raise some suspicions.” He held one letter in his hand and his partner was frowning down at the other.

“They’re very strange,” said Detective Peltier. Her brow was furrowed as she read the pages. “I don’t know what to make of them.”

“We’ll get into contact with the university right away. And I’ll need the roommate’s number for any further questions,” said Detective Kingston. “In the meantime, keep your phones on you.” He leaned forward to touch Mrs. Lawrence’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get some answers. And please,” he looked to me, “let us know if any more letters come.”

The next Monday another letter did indeed arrive. My mother handed it to me with a grim look on her face, and I called Detective Kingston immediately. Upon his request, I didn’t open it. A mix of anxiety and curiosity was burning a hole in my chest as I opened the door and handed over the letter.

“Any news? Can you tell me anything?” I asked desperately.

“Nobody has seen her,” Detective Kingston said, his voice heavy and tired. He had bags under his eyes and his clothes were a little disheveled. “I don’t understand…it’s like she packed up and disappeared into thin air. I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he added quickly, “so keep this to yourself. But there are no records of her taking a bus or a train… nothing. Even the cameras in her apartment don’t show her leaving.”

Days went by in a haze. I was a zombie, tormented by thoughts of my missing best friend and the letters that kept coming like clockwork every Monday morning. Around noon an officer came to pick up the letter and deliver it to the detectives. They confided to me that there was nothing traceable about the letters themselves. No return address, nothing to hint where the paper was from, and the place Brianna described in increasing detail simply didn’t exist. Once the letter had been looked over by the police, forensics, detectives, evidence team, whatever, it was returned to me. I knew this was unusual; in any other case, the evidence would be kept indefinitely. But the problem was that they had no case. There were no fingerprints on the letters besides those of post workers who had handled them. There was no evidence to suggest she had been kidnapped. The only thing that was certain was that they were written by Brianna. When I was feeling up to it, I would read the letters I hadn’t gotten a chance to open myself before placing them in a folder I kept beneath my bed.

“Riley, are you at home?” Three months had gone by since the first letter had arrived. Brianna’s birthday had passed, Christmas had gone by, New Years had come and gone. There were still no leads, so I was surprised when Detective Kingston called me on a Thursday evening.

“Yes. Did you find something?”

“We don’t know. But we’re coming over with a photo. Stay put.”

The detectives had several stills of a man standing at a post box. He was dressed oddly, in dark clothes that looked handmade and hair that was long and unkept. He was glancing over his shoulder as though keeping watch for danger. In his hand was a suspiciously familiar looking envelope.

“One of our video technicians was going over footage from cameras situated near Brianna’s apartment.” Detective Peltier handed me the pictures and pointed at the envelope in the man’s hand. “Look familiar to you?”

I felt oddly numb as I stared down at the stills in my hands. “The envelope, yes. But not the man.”

“We put him through our facial recognition software and got nothing,” Detective Kingston sighed. “Unfortunately this footage is fairly old. It’s from Monday, November 14th. This was the only time he was at that mailbox. This guy could be anywhere by now.”

Numbness was replaced with a sense of overwhelming dread. “That’s the day I got the first letter,” I whispered.

“Hold on.” Detective Peltier held up her hands in a halting motion. “This guy looks like he’s delivering the letter. How could it have possibly arrived on the same day?”

“Maybe the postal service was extra fast that day?” said the other detective. “What’s the timestamp again?” He took one of the stills from me and squinted. “8:30 in the morning.”

Both detectives looked to me expectantly and I thought I was going to throw up when I said, “I got the letter around 8:45 in the morning. Just before I left for work.”

Nobody said anything for a long while. My thoughts ran circles in my head, questioning how this could be possible. Letters don’t get from Halifax to Toronto in fifteen minutes. Girls don’t just vanish into thin air, not in real life. Brianna would never run away and she certainly didn’t commit suicide. The more time that went by, the further we were from answering all the questions we had and the further away we got from the possibility of finding her.

“What is happening?” Detective Kingston asked quietly.

Two more months passed. Eight more letters. Eight more strange accounts of sideways grass, talking birds, and screaming in the wind. Hope was draining from me like blood and I was beginning to feel empty.

On a quiet Tuesday morning at the clinic, my cell phone rang. Usually I never answer personal calls at work but I had this feeling deep within my core that something was wrong. I didn’t recognize the number and this made me feel worse.

“Hello?”

“Riley,” said Detective Kingston. I could hear it in his voice—sadness, dread, regret, and a hint of anger.

My hand went over my mouth. “No. Please no.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

They had found Brianna’s body in a forested area just outside of Halifax, partially decomposed in a swamp flooded by the April thaw. A jogger in the woods had stumbled across the corpse when his dog tried to drag the body from the marsh. The teeth marks on her right arm were small compared to the rest of the trauma she had suffered prior to her death. Her autopsy revealed she had been beaten, hit over the head with something heavy, dragged to the dumping site, and then strangled by a pair of large hands. All of this was horrific as it was, but the real fucked up thing?

She’d been dead for months.

They never caught the man who’d delivered the first letter, and I suspect they never will. There are no witnesses to speak to, no leads to follow. Her murderer left no DNA, no fingerprints, nothing. Brianna’s brutal murder was and still is a mystery.

It’s been difficult coming to terms with the fact that I’ve been receiving letters from my dead best friend, but after the funeral I became accustomed to the idea. Even after death, Brianna had reached out to me.are connected.

You see, the letters still come. Every Monday morning I check my mailbox and there it is, that dirty stepped-on envelope filled with cream-coloured paper and looping cursive writing. The police asked if I wanted the letters to stop coming. The post office said they could put a block on them, have them thrown out before they got to me. I refused. These letters are all I have of Brianna now.

Dear Riley,

Life goes on in this strange place. Yesterday I took a walk through a bizarre forest filled with white trees with black leaves. Have you ever seen such a thing? I asked a villager what the trees were called, but they would not tell me. I’m getting used to my questions being answered with silence. It seems customary here to only stare when I inquire about anything.

A few of the birds follow me now. I have begun to enjoy their company despite their unusual appearance. Sometimes they whisper things to me, but they have said I’m not allowed to tell you what they say. I know we are best friends and are supposed to share everything, but I find I am unable to even try to write down their words. I’m under their spell.

I had the strangest dream the other night. You came to visit me but you were you very frightened, telling me I was not safe and had to come with you. I tried to follow but I could not. Perhaps you will come visit me? You could stay as long as you like.

I hope you keep all the letters I send to you. You might need them one day.

Sincerely,

Brianna

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