Sincerely, Jennifer x

12th November 1828 

My dearest love,

I long for the land, so I may see you again, and be free of my torment.

I write, and I write, yet, as long as I am a slave to the sea, these thoughts may as well remain in my head. 

In fifteen days, my life begins again, for I will be back on land for two weeks, and in your arms again. That is the promise that keeps me strong in my weakest moments, and my sweet one, it pains me to say that there have been many moments of weakness in these last few days. 

I am ever faithful, to you, and to my God, but there are moments when I feel my soul shrink and my body waver. I must confess, I fear I may not return to you as the man you kissed goodbye many moons ago. 

Never shall my devotion to you falter, my darling, but as these days wear on, sweet love, I am beginning to wonder if God truly watches over me. 

I pray, with every spare moment that these doubts and fancies shall find no home in my head, and yet, as surely as the sun returns to the sky when morning comes, I am bound to wonder why God’s light no longer shines upon me. 

I do not say these things to frighten you, my sweet one, but to tell you of my plight, in case our last kiss was truly our last. Please know that I have adored you, and been devoted to you with everything that I am. I only wish that I could have provided a life for you without having left your side. 

A curse upon my Father and his fall from grace, for if he had not fallen out of favour with the fates, perhaps I would never have ended up on this vessel, breaking my back for shillings. Most days, I am aware that he, like many of his brood could not have predicted or stopped the panic and later crash, and if he had his way, my Father would still be a wealthy man, and I would have a future on the land, but there are days, like today, where I wish him dead, and I wish my blood belonged to another. 

Once, I was to own the world, and now, I am but a lowly Seaman, ferrying the cotton that had once made my Father the King of the Earth. 

I do not deserve you. I know in my bones that you could be happier with a man of means, who has not lost his looks to stress and shame, but you, my sweet girl, have stayed by my side through it all. 

All of this is to say, my love, that I miss you more than I could ever describe, and that the sorrowful, swaying boards of this ship make me long for you, more than I ever thought possible. 

If I were in your arms tonight, I am assured that my dreams would be sweet, and that the shadows would chase me no longer. 

Oh, sweet darling, the shadows… I fear they may be the death of me. 

When my eyes close, and the night sets its sights on me, I am plagued with a darkness I cannot escape. Every night, I am haunted by hungry shadows, clutching at my soul with such fury that I fear when I return to you, there shall be nothing left. 

It is as if I am awake as I dream, my feet heavy on the creaky boards of the ship as the cargo calls to me. Every night, I find myself dreaming of the hold, surrounded by shadows as a crate looms up ahead, its shadows spanning long beyond what I can see. 

There are no bales of cotton, as there ought to be, just a crate. One single crate, in the middle of the hold, that seems to take up such space that the room feels microscopic. 

The air is earthy, damp and dripped in decay as I stare at the crate, and the trailing blood that trickles down the cracked wood. 

The wood shakes and splinters as something from inside fights to escape, and in my heart, I know that it shall be my doom. The ocean roars, wild with the winds, and yet, in my ear, I hear a voice, as the shadows seem to command every hair on the back of my neck to attention. 

My blood begins to chill as it whispers a plea, grave and without an ounce of affection or understanding. 

“Let us be free, William, and you shall be spared.”

It knows not what it asks, and to be candid in a way that I can barely bear to be, I fear that I do not know the full truth of what it asks. 

Free? Free from what? 

Spared? Spared from what? 

I cannot know. To know would be the end of everything. It swirls in my mind like a great storm, and I am helpless to the rage of the furious night. 

I awake, but I am still under its spell, never at ease and never free of the thought of what may lay inside. 

I dare not tell anyone what I have been seeing, and I don’t ask questions about what we transport, of course. I have made this journey enough times to know that it would be a foolish action. I do as the Captain asks, from London to the Port of Mobile and back again. I take each day as it comes, and am obedient, always thinking of you, and the things I shall buy you when I return home. 

I don’t want to know what lies in the hold. It isn’t my business, and yet… I fear that soon, I shall know, and it shall consume me. 

Probably cotton. 

It must be cotton, and nothing more. My bad dreams are just bad dreams. There is nothing below these boards but cotton, journeying to the prosperous and welcoming arms of Britain. Just cotton, and nothing more… and yet, I dream of the darkest things, Agatha. 

The others are weary, for we have travelled many miles. I too tire of my surroundings and ache far more than I’d ever let on, but somehow, I feel it is all up to me. I must stay strong, because it speaks to me. 

Perhaps this is nothing but dismal dreams, but… perhaps it is more. I hope for anything but more, but at sea, one must be prepared for anything. 

I pray that soon, I shall return to your side, and this journey will be behind me. Nothing more than a distant, dreary memory I shall endeavour to forget. 

Until then, let your warmest blanket surround your shoulders, and hold you close when I cannot. I shall always remain your loving husband, and I wish with all of my heart, that I could give you a life worthy of you, without leaving the wonder of your soft gaze. 

Ever yours, 

William

-x-

13th November 1828 

My sweet one, 

The morning finally came, and I rejoiced, for I was free of the terrors that taunt me through the night. 

Even as I awoke, surrounded by the real world, I could barely shake the shadows from my mind, and I carried out my duties and routine in utmost silence, yearning for the comfort of your embrace, and the safety and satisfaction it brings. 

Last night’s dream was worse than I have ever experienced. I wept as I awoke–joyful to be alive, but profoundly perturbed by what I had seen. 

You must believe me, sweet Agatha. Since the day that we met, I have never told you a lie, and I swear to you, every word I write is the truth. 

There is death on board this ship, and it shall have me. 

I hear it calling to me, even in my waking hours, its siren song deafening, dominating my every thought. 

Please let me make it through the next two weeks. Please let me make it through the night. I beg of the heavens to let me return to you. 

Last night, as I slept, I was sent to the hold again. My legs were not my own, and in my dreams, I was under the power of the darkness. I cowered before the crate, chilled to the bone as the voice snaked around me. 

“Let us be free, William, and you shall be spared.” 

Again, the same demand, repeated as I crept closer, trembling on my hands and knees as the musky air bore heavy on my back. My fingers found the damp, fractured wood and my eyes fell upon a crack in the crate. 

“We must have our blood, one way or another.” 

Eyes, piercing and predatory met my own. Bloodshot and brimming with tears, as they peered through the darkness at me, a hollow laugh filling the air for a spell. They blinked, slow and deliberate as the beast spoke once more. 

“Let us be free, or all will perish.” 

More eyes joined it, as the room became swarmed by hollow, haunting laughter. I backed away, but evil hung in the air, clinging to me and clawing at my body and soul. 

I awoke with a start, but it stayed with me. Those words echoed in my mind all day, and I thought of nothing but the eyes, and their anger. 

People are growing sick, my love. Just this morning at breakfast, Mister Goodson fell to his knees, his mouth, a fountain of blood. It poured from his lips, cascading over his crooked teeth as he gasped for air and floundered on the floor. 

It seems to have come from nowhere. We are all diligent to take our lemon juice and our nights are never without prayer. Yet, the sickness has such a hold upon the crew. 

Today, eight of the men are infirm in their beds, with more coughing and spluttering as if they will soon join them. 

As mad as it sounds, I think it has to do with the suffering promised by the creature in the crate. 

I promise that I intend to return home to you, but my darling, I fear that it is not to be. 

I fear that I shall never be free again. 

Please do not be melancholy without me, sweet Agatha, for I am sending my love to you with every moment, and I pray that soon, this nightmare shall end, and we shall be reunited once again. 

Though these letters go unsent, for now, I hope that you can feel my affections where you are, and I hope that at night, you pray for me, as I pray for you. 

Ever Yours, 

William

-x-

14th November 1828

Sweet Agatha,

Six of the crew are dead. Four seaman, a cabin boy and the Carpenter. 

Last night’s dream came in fits and starts as my sleep was fractured by the screams of the sick. There was such blood, darling. In my dreams, and when I awoke. 

It sloshed about my boots as I ran to fetch the surgeon, crossing paths with others as they did the same. Yet, still, in the brief hours where my eyes could close, and my body rested, the creature in the crate claimed me once again. 

Those same teasing words, over and over. Promises of salvation if I assist with securing its freedom. I wept, slumped against the crate, and my love, I am ashamed to say that once again, I looked into the eyes of the beast that had bound itself to me. 

The cold stare found me, in a small crack in the crate and I sobbed, begging it to relieve me of its torture. 

I am just a man, Agatha. I am nothing but a man. I hold no influence, riches or power, and yet, it hounds me as if I am the one who can make all the difference. 

“Let us be free, William, and you shall be spared.” 

The sickness is born of the creature, of that I am certain, but how, and why? 

I pleaded, in broken words and helpless sobs, but it had no mercy. The room ached with cold, with heavy, damp air that seemed to clog my throat and nose. 

“We must have our blood, one way or another.” 

Its eyes bore into me, as the room grew dark and still. The ocean seemed to quiet as the thing held me in its grasp, and in that moment, I knew that I had to go to it, even though nothing had ever frightened me more. 

Forgive me, my love. Forgive me, and understand me. I beg of you. 

I know that these may be my last moments, and I am consumed with confusion and obligation. I do not truly understand my task, or why I have been chosen, but more and more men take to their beds as the hours pass, and I must overcome my cowardice, before it’s too late. 

Tonight, when everyone is sleeping, I shall go to the hold. 

Perhaps it will be the last thing I ever do, but perhaps, it could be the right thing. 

If I return home to you, I will never part from you again, but if I am destined never to see you again, please know that I will wait for you, where the Angels reside. 

Ever Yours, 

William

-x-

15th November 1828

My sweet, darling Agatha, 

It is done. 

It is done, and there is nothing else to do. 

There is no redemption, and no way to be saved for what I have done. 

I could never be saved, if I were to be honest. I have shared this vessel with such unclean, unspeakable things, and so it is expected that I too have become unclean and unspeakable.

Its eyes filled the room. I could feel the scorching scorn dotted around each corner of the place as I descended down into the hold. 

“Let us be free, William, and you shall be spared.” 

The voice. Oh… God help me, the voice. Everywhere as I met its gaze, I am overwhelmed by words. 

A wall of the crate fell, and I closed my eyes, desperate not to see. 

I am spared, but I am soaked in the sickness, because like everyone aboard, and all of us who wander the streets every day, with our eyes closed and our minds distant, I am guilty.

You are guilty too, my sweet. 

We may not be able to afford the finer things, but still, you wear unclean things, and the consequences shall be unspeakable. 

Though my eyes were closed, I was still at the mercy of their words 

“They cry every day, William.” I wept too, feeling its warm breath on my cheek as skeletal fingers, with small slips of skin prised my reluctant eyes open. 

We cried together. I, a man–just a man, and the creature, bones, blood and so many scarlet, shining eyes that would not release me, we wept as the screaming sobs of those he had witnessed in such pain rang through the room. 

It is their pain, sweetness. It came from the tears and the toil of the browbeaten as they collected up my cargo from the fields where their freedom died. The creature heard their sorrow, from sunrise to sunset, and now, it wants vengeance. 

Still, we shall not learn. 

They will see me as a madman, and you, as good as a widow. Nobody will hear the call, and nothing will change. 

It’s over, but it’s for nothing. 

Isn’t life funny, sweet darling? 

As I write this last letter, the creature watches me. His bones, soaked in blood, shift as he shuffles closer with hungry, angry eyes. 

I shall see you in the hallowed halls of Hell, hoping that your mere presence can make it as close to Heaven as I could hope to achieve. 

Please know that I didn’t know what the creature would have me do, and that while I hold some responsibility for my actions, not all of the blood on my hands is by my own hand. 

They will tell you that I am a monster, and while perhaps I am, there are far more ferocious phantoms than I, and with my last breath, no matter where I am, I will do everything I can to protect you from them. 

I have always, and will always adore you, and love you, with the most ferocious fervour, and would give anything to feel your tender kiss upon my lips again. 

Ever Yours, 

William 

-x-

11th January 1829

Confidential – Admission Report

Doctor Francis Gore

In respect of William Hamilton, it is my professional opinion that he would benefit from an indefinite stay at Saint Michael’s Lunatic Asylum.

William Hamilton is the sole survivor of what has come to be known as The Eglantine Massacre.

The merchant ship The Eglantine was undertaking a return voyage from Mobile, Alabama, in the United States of America, when it encountered severe difficulties, ultimately wrecking upon the coast of the Kingdom of Portugal and the Algarves. Though it was scheduled to dock in London, it never arrived as intended.

Local authorities inspected the crash site and discovered only one living person onboard—Seaman William Hamilton. 

The remainder of the crew was found deceased, with the deaths appearing to have been caused by a combination of factors: some succumbed to a mysterious bacterial infection, while others bore evidence of violent and horrific injuries.

Hamilton himself was discovered below deck in the cargo hold, bloodied and in a state of extreme distress, sobbing uncontrollably. 

He was apprehended and subsequently held in custody, pending his return to England. 

During this time, he reportedly recounted to his captors a fevered tale of a monstrous creature in the hold that had slaughtered the crew.

Upon my examination of him, Hamilton repeated his story in vivid detail. He claimed to have suffered night terrors, fevers, and overwhelming anxiety throughout the return voyage. 

These disturbances, he asserted, culminated in his discovery of a creature lurking among the ship’s cargo. His account was rife with bizarre imagery: strange creatures in crates, the cries of enslaved workers, and a prophecy of a dire fate awaiting all of humanity.

Such fantastical claims can only be attributed to a disturbed mind. Hamilton appears deeply afflicted by delusions, his imagination running riot in an attempt to rationalize the horrors he has endured. Furthermore, his moral state is gravely compromised, and he exhibits signs of what I can only describe as a spiritual malaise.

It is regrettable that the crew of The Eglantine suffered so gravely, and I am compelled to believe that Hamilton’s sickness of the mind has contributed, if not wholly caused, the calamity. The contagion of his delusions must not be allowed to spread further.

To that end, I recommend an immediate and indefinite course of treatment at Saint Michael’s Lunatic Asylum. His regimen should include purgatives to cleanse his humours, frequent cold baths to temper his fevered mind, and spiritual guidance to address the stains upon his soul. These measures are essential to his recovery and to the safety of those around him.

In truth, I do not anticipate that Hamilton will ever be deemed fit for release. The depth of his affliction and the danger posed by his delusions necessitate that he remain under strict supervision for the foreseeable future.

Signed,

Doctor Francis Gore