-A Letter to London-
Dear William,
It has been a while since my last letter, so I feel compelled to fill in all the details you have missed between then and now. These past few months have been bliss for me and my darling Christine. We have left the darkness of Beaulieu behind in totality, and I have never seen my wife so alive. Daily I have seen her grow. She enjoys nature and eats heartily; she is no longer so pale or fragile. It is like watching a ghost become human again. I cannot tell you how much these changes mean to me. My dear William, what can I say? I love her more than words can describe. Usually I would not be so sentimental, but I feel such wonderful elation when I think of her. And the little woman is mine till death do us part! I think I am the luckiest man alive—at least, I would be if it were not for what I shall tell you next.
I know I have not written to you in a considerable time, and in truth, I might not have for a while yet if things had not taken a turn for the worst in Brockenhurst. The past few months have been bliss, yes, but the past week has been a horror. The first carcass to appear was a small ewe. It had been ripped open by the throat and eviscerated through the belly. The entrails had spilled out from the carcass and had created a bloody trail from where the ewe was dragged across the earth. Strangely enough, it seemed the ewe was moved to a more noticeable location after its slaughter, as if whatever killed it wanted it to be seen.
The ewe was one incident of many. Lambs, kids, chickens, foals, cats, and dogs—all disemboweled in the same fashion—became the unsightly victims of this slaughter, littered about the outskirts of town like a menagerie of death. People began to whisper about the ‘Beast of Brockenhurst.’ Those who owned livestock were the most concerned and grew ever more protective of their stock. That is when the girl was killed. Unlike the previous victims, she was found days later stranded in the forest, not displayed on a street corner somewhere, with her body torn open and her face torn off. She was identified as Mary Lloyd, a shepherdess only seventeen years of age.
This is the real reason why I write to you, William. I ask you to hasten to Brockenhurst to track and stop whatever beast is slaughtering our livestock and now targets our shepherds. You did so well in Beaulieu, I could think of no one better to do the job. Perhaps your inquisitive, investigative nature is just what this village needs. I know you deal with people and not animals, but I am acquainted with someone who may help you in your weaker area. I hope for you to meet him upon your arrival. Please come home. If nothing else convinces you, your family misses you dearly.
Your concerned cousin,
E.S.
