Capering Cryptid

London! At last! Oh, you'd never thought you'd miss it, but after weeks of traveling to the heights of London, fighting through Parabola, of piecing together a sanctuary under the blazing mirror sky, the slick cobblestone roads and the pea soup fog are a breath of (not quite, it's really quite smoggy out) fresh air.

An urchin picks your pocket, you ruffle his hair. You turn down devils vying for your soul with particularly good cheer. You befriend a rat, you help a particularly battered Tomb Colonist cross the road. The closer you get to your home and the promise of all your favorite creature comforts, the merrier you feel.

What a wonderful day to be alive. Surely nothing could dampen your spirits now!

You turn the corner, unlock your door, and...find it much harder to open than you remember. You peek into the gap you've made, and stop short.

...The door to your Lodgings is swamped by an avalanche of unopened letters. At first, you wonder if it might be your meddlesome aunt again, or perhaps the tax man come to collect his dues. However, as you clear away the piles upon piles of paper from your doorway, you come to realize something peculiar about them.

Many of the notes are love letters, all in the same handwriting.

Do you want to read them?

Yes <

No

Are you sure? Some things are better left in the dark...though it isn't as if that's ever stopped you, now, has it?

Yes <

No

If you insist.

Taking a handful of letters from the pile, you sit down in your favorite armchair (which, in your absence, has picked up a vaguely earthy smell) and set to reading. Perhaps you should've put on a pot of tea before you got started, though, as you leaf through the pages, you suspect that absinthe would be far more appropriate for the situation.

"My dear,

Ever since our zeeside rendezvous, I've found my every waking hour haunted by thoughts of you. When I close my eyes, I see your face carved into my eyelids. When I dream, I recount every single interaction of ours, every look of horror and disdain. I yearn for you, my dear. I burn for you, with passion incomparable. Every moment that I'm away from you is delicious agony.

I was never a man for prayer, but I pray to every being that might listen that we will meet again soon. May your life apart from me be just as miserable as it is for me from you.

Yours truly,

Your most devout admirer."

How...charming. The mention of a "zeeside rendezvous" gives you some idea of who it might be. You can't say you enjoy the realization that that man knows where you live, or that the moon milk has such a powerful hold upon him towards you. Better you than anyone else, though, you suppose. Better you than anyone else he could have more easily swept off the streets and dragged off to whatever wretched lair he'd built in the wake of his Orphanage's destruction.

Do you keep reading?

Yes <

No

Maybe there's some useful information to be found here. You set aside the first letter and pick up the second.

This one seems like it's from a little farther along into your trip to Parabola. The handwriting is much sloppier, and the ink is smeared, but legible enough.

"My dearest,

Please come back to me. I'll be perfect for you. I need you beside me. Darling. Mydarling. Please I need you I need to be close to you.I'll be so good for youplease I'll cralwl inside you I need to crawl inside your skin and wrap you around me I'd be so warm please please pleaseIneedyoupLEAse Iloveyou

Yours forever"

...

Do you keep reading?

Yes <

No

The handwriting's back to normal on this one. Another older one, then. Or perhaps he'd gotten a hold of himself? These aren't dated- it's hard to tell.

"My dear,

I've found myself longing for you again. I've been visiting all your favorite haunts in search of you, but nobody has seen you in quite some time. Where have you gone? I assure you, my intentions are only noble- pure, even- in nature. I only wish to catch a glimpse of you, and then, I shall be satisfied.

Yours truly,

Your admirer."

You keep reading.

"My dear,

'Love' is not a word I use lightly. However, now, whenever you come to mind, how else could I describe the raw feeling that overcomes me?

Do you remember when I had caught you prowling the halls of my Orphanage, my dear, and had made good on my threat? If only I'd known how much you would mean to me now, I would've fully savored the feeling of your body cradled in my arms. So delicate. So vulnerable.

I could've just put my fingers around your throat right then and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. I thought that the burial was more theatrical (you'll have to forgive me my theatrics, my dear), but I can't help but wonder if it would have been more...intimate, to wring the life from you myself.

Never mind me. I went back to where I buried you, at any rate, and took some of the dirt from your grave. I keep it with me now. Maybe one day you'll have the chance to bury me right back, hm? Maybe one day, we shall be buried together.

Would you do as you did then, dearest? Would you claw at the coffin's lid, scream and thrash and fight against the inevitable, until the Boatman came to collect? Only this time, I'd be in there with you. Only this time, I'd be there to drag you down with me, into the very bowels of h-ll, where we both belong.

Food for thought.

Yours truly,

Your admirer."

You keep reading. Why are you doing this to yourself?

"Dearest,

Where are you? Where did you go? Please, my darling, respond soon, I can't take it anymore."

"If you dont comeback soon Im going to find everthing you love and img oing to RUIN it. I'll kill your family my love Iswearit you dont need them don't make me dothis my love I will ive done so muchworse"

"My love,

I'm so very sorry for my previous letters. They were unbecoming of me. I would appreciate it if you could write back to me soon, though- I fear I'm losing some sense of control without you around."

"i hate you for doing this to me. please come back"

"together forever"

That last one was smeared with traces of blood. You aren't entirely sure who it might be from. Beneath the writing was a little doodle: a tragedy mask, much like his, paired with its counterpart.

The letters continue in this way. Some are polite and courteous. Others, outright threatening. There's pleading, and cajoling, and everything all at once.

The last letter you can stomach is paired with a gift box. Inside is a jar, in which a pair of hearts float in murky fluid.

"My heart is yours," it says. "These are my parents' hearts," it says. It's stamped with the shape of a mournful red face, his face.

You set the letters and the rather macabre gift aside. A drink. A drink. G-d, you've never needed a drink more than before this.