Dear Ginger

,

Thanks for doing the snail-mail thing with me. It’s just another perk of living in wonderful Owls Corners, NY. Actually it isn’t too bad living here – if you like miles and miles of farmland. So, after searching the old house, I found two of them (you don’t want to know where I found them). My mom told me that my grandmother stashed hundreds of them in all sorts of “unusual” places. Poor grandma! The poems really spooked her. I can remember hearing her pacing upstairs late at night. Sometimes when it was quiet I would sneak upstairs and open the door a crack. Grandma would be sitting in her bedroom (surrounded by candles) praying her rosary as if Lucifer were coming to supper. Her hysteria got so bad that she ended up “consulting” an old woman who wasn’t exactly the Sunday school type. She gave grandma some funny wax dolls that had human hair – they really smelled awful. I can remember the way she would clutch them at the dinner table. So – are vampires real? I don’t know. But I do know that grandma thought “Pacatosul” was real. The terror he caused her was absolutely real. You might not want to read these at night.

Love,

Corrine

I Need Blood

Endless lives, Endless lies, Another town, Another disguise. I need blood to survive.

Real life is so much more disgusting, Than dark glam fiction, If I may do a little myth busting, And tell of the gut wrenching friction, Between a hellish craving, And a soulless life that needs saving. I need blood to live, I’ve found very few who are willing to give.

Chained to the shadows and gloom, My salvation out of reach, As is my doom, I desperately hope my damnation will teach, Those who are jealous, And naive dreamers who are overzealous, That I am nothing more than churchyard freak, I hope they never find what they seek. I need blood to keep existing, When I get tired of the guilt,

I stop resisting.

This is the curse that brings me to my knees, My lust resists all my arguments and pleas, My life is nothing to celebrate, My carnal insanity can only denigrate.

So – are you still there? Can you feel my hot breath, In the clammy air?

Please stay a moment more, Soon it will be over, And your blood will pour, For I need your blood to live, And I’ll take it, Even if you’re unwilling to give.

Waiting for you in the shadows,

Pacatosul

What are you craving?

Unnatural lust, Yes I agree, But ashes to ashes and dust to dust, Don’t think you’re better than me.

Whether it’s money, sex, or power, If it eclipses your soul, And dominates the hour, Throw your brittle self-righteousness on the funeral pyre, You too are a slave to your desire.

I’ve watched your sins strangle your conscience night after night, With each sunset and excuse you’re less willing to fight, The fashionable folly of Society’s dark side, How your morals slip away, Day after day, On the televised, glossy tide.

Whether it’s a little white lie, Surreptitiously snuck in from 9 to 5, Or your perfume that hangs in the air, Fueling the extra-marital affair, A sin is still a sin, So let the hypocrisy end and the damnation begin.

Waiting for you in the shadows,

Pacatosul

Dear Corrine,

I don’t mind doing the snail-mail thing. First of all, I think it’s kind of neat in an old fashioned kinda way. Second, it gives me a reason to get off my butt and go down to the mailbox every day. Well, I took your advice and read them Sunday morning when I was in the coffee shop. It really didn’t help though. That night I was still creeped out. To make it worse, Bradley taped them to our bed posts. I took them down, but he taped up copies the next night. He can be such a jerk sometimes! I have to admit, even though I’m really kinda spooked, I am a little curious. If you find out more about this “Pacatosul”, let me know.

Love,

Ginger

Dear Ginger,

Here’s the latest about grandma: it seems there were a string of gruesome murders a few decades back. My uncle told me that on the night of each murder, grandma would be huddled in her bedroom, writing something. The murders were never solved and the cops had the nerve to question grandma about them. All of them were 25 or 30 miles away from the old house and grandma couldn’t have been anywhere near the scene of the crime when they happened. To think, we actually pay those guys to harass innocent women! So when are you coming over? It’s getting a little too quiet around here – we need to get out and make some noise!

Love,

Corrine

Dear Corrine,

I think a girl’s night out would be great – especially since I’ve pretty much had it with Brad. His stupid adolescent pranks are going way, way too far. He’s now hiding the poems all over the place. I’ve told him to stop, but he just laughs at me. I’m getting kinda uncomfortable, since it’s really getting to me and he thinks it’s funny. I don’t know if I believe in vampires or any of that kind of stuff, but I’m beginning to see that some people have a sick way of looking at life. Hope you’re safe out there – I sometimes worry about you.

Love,

Ginger

Dear Ginger,

I feel the same way. It’s kinda like road kill, you know? You don’t want to look, but for some weird reason, you do. My mom told me that, at first, grandma would just throw the letters in the fireplace. But then, a stranger would come to our door and give them to grandma personally. He wouldn’t leave till he handed them to her – on a few occasions he waited hours for grandma to come to the door. It was really, really creepy and I got goose bumps just listening to it. It’s really amazing that mom still lives in the old house. Sorry to hear about Brad – he seemed like such a nice guy. Sounds like it’s time to move on.

Love,

Corrine

Dear Corrine,

Well, Brad is definitely different. He stopped putting the poems up, which is good. But he switched to the graveyard shift at the hospital. He swore he hated working nights, but he’s doing it. When I try to ask him about it, he gets all defensive. You know, I’ve been with him for such a long time and we’ve been through so much together. I’m not ready to end it yet. So I’m just trying to figure out why he made the sudden change. Maybe he had an argument with his boss? I don’t know. Can I call you? I don’t like being alone at night anymore.

Love,

Ginger

Dear Ginger,

You have my number – anytime, girl. The latest on “Pacatosul” is this: mom and I were cleaning out the attic and found a surprise. A piece of “I Need Blood” was lying in the bottom of an old box! It was handwritten and really smudged but I definitely recognized one or two lines. And to make things even stranger, there was a note written by grandma. The really creepy thing is that the handwriting in both letters looks similar. This whole thing is getting too much for me. All I want is answers, but I keep coming up with questions. Why the similarity between the notes? Did a third person write both of them? If there was a handwritten note already lying around, why did the stranger deliver it to our house? Who typed it up? Which is the original, the handwritten poem or the typed one? I told mom that I can’t come back. I’m trying to convince her to leave – I hope she listens.

Love,

Corrine

Dear Corrine,

I hate to dump on you, but there’s no one else I can tell. A few days ago, there was a grisly murder out in the woods, about 15 miles from town. A day later, Brad suddenly takes a road trip to South Carolina with his buddies. I didn’t think much of it, but when I searched the bedroom looking for an earring, I found something he had written. I hope you don’t mind, but I included it with this letter. I’ve decided to move out. When Brad gets home I won’t be here. I know he’s gonna be super mad, but I don’t feel safe here anymore.

Love,

Ginger

A sin oh so small, Yet so very bold, A small cruelty is all that’s needed, For evil to take a foothold, Before you know it, Your soul has been sold.

Oh how easy it is to sin, How hard it is to stop, How easy it is to begin. Waiting for you in the shadows,

“Sinner”

Dear Ginger,

You can dump on me anytime you need to, we’re in this together. I read the poem and was shocked - “Pacatosul” is Romanian for “sinner”. How well do you know Brad? I’m wondering if there’s some kind of connection between his family and ours. Or maybe the stranger was one of his relatives? I’m still looking into this sick mystery. I want to get to the bottom of it. Please stay safe – if you need to spend the night here the door is always open.

Love,

Corrine

Dear Corrine,

Brad isn’t Romanian, he’s Italian, Dutch, and French. His whole family lives in Seattle, so I don’t think they’re related to yours or even the stranger. I’m sorry but I can’t ask him. I’m just too scared. There’s been another murder and he’s a suspect. He’s left messages on my phone asking me to cover for him. His voice sounds so – different. I’ve had to change my phone number and move again. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I can keep going down this road with you. Please forgive me.

Love,

Ginger

Dear Ginger,

That’s OK, I understand. I think it’s over anyways. The answer is that there are no answers. My family either can’t (or won’t) tell me anything else. I checked newspapers, census records, and school records, but didn’t learn anything. When I checked grandma’s medical records (or what was left of them), I learned that she donated her body to science. The creepy thing is that none the local hospitals or universities have a record of receiving her. I even checked all the funeral homes in the county – there are no records of her ever being picked up! I’ve told mom that I can’t live around here anymore. I’m going to stay with a friend in Chicago. I’ll give you the address when I get there. Please stay safe.

Love,

Corrine

Dear Corrine,

OK this is getting too scary. I don’t know why, but I had the urge to –discretely- check on Brad. A former co-worker of his told me that he died suddenly. I asked where he was buried so I could visit him, but he told me that there was no funeral or grave. I asked if he donated his body to science like your grandma, but the co-worker just shrugged his shoulders and walked away. You know, I really don’t know what I believe at this point – but I’m now definitely afraid of the dark.

Love,

Ginger

©2012 Benjamin F. Kaye

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