1888, August 8th,


I have received a letter from someone I have not heard from in a long time. James had been a dear friend of mine that was before he married in a noble family, French one of all things! He had always been a spender as long as I have known him. We had kept in touch many years after he married and moved to France. Had two children. So I told him that if they ever wanted to see the land of their fathers I would personally show them show them around London.

The letter was strange, I could not read it- must have been sent some time ago. The writing was just smudges and scratches. Perhaps he had been drunk when he attempted to write it. Paper it was written on looked almost ancient, yellowed with sight sighs of mold. Why would he sent me such a thing? Perhaps it was just a drunken attempt to get back in touch, I don't remember him ever being one for tricks like this. I wanted to throw the paper out and write a reply asking him what he meant by it. But the strangest thing happened. As I rose my hand to toss it into the burning fire place, looking at it one last time I thought that there was indeed something written on it. Held over the flame it looked like the illegible scratches and smudges form some kind of pattern that perhaps it is some ancient language and not nonsense after all. So I thought about taking to the museum, maybe they can figure out what it is.

Nonsense is what they called it, complete and utter nonsense. Well, that should prove it, I should just toss the thing, but somehow it's still there in my pocket, it had been all the way home. I took it out looking at it again. Sumerian, he said, some of those scratches look like they might be Sumerian, but most likely the similarities are a complete accident. Yet I cannot stop looking at it, cannot stop trying to read it.

I went to bed feeling frustrated, perhaps that is why I had such an unusual and vivid dream. I dreamt and in my dream I saw the letter but the strange writing, indeed it was a writing, made sense. As the letters moved across the page in a spiral I began to feel myself pulled into it. I saw a place, not the warm Sumerian climate, no. it was ice and snow, a mountain surrounded by whiteness wherever you look. And in this dream I was flying thought the air, and the snowflakes danced around me forming the words on the paper as they went on. But when I looked to the sky I saw no stars. The sky pitch black. I was so close to the mountain now, but my splendor was replaced with terror as I heard the air all around vibrate as if the world and the air themselves had begun to speak. The voice spoke but I could not understand the words because they had been a language I have never heard. And thus I awoke in my bed, cold sweat on my brow and deep sense of dread in my heart.