Epitaphs to Elsa

September 8, 1986

Elsa,

It’s just me now. Just me and the waves. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe I just want to believe you can still hear me.

The boat is quiet without you. I keep thinking I’ll hear your footsteps in the cabin, that soft little shuffle you made when you didn’t want to wake me. But I know better. You’re not here, and I did that.

I miss you. God, I miss you.

You never should’ve stayed with me, Elsa. You should’ve let me rot the moment you saw what I was becoming. But you, you never ran. Not when the hunger started, not when my skin came apart, not even when you saw what I would do. You should’ve run. 

You saw it. That… thing inside me, it doesn’t care what I want. It doesn’t care how much I fight.

I don’t want to remember them, but I do.

That old fisherman just happened to be in the wrong place. He looked me in the eye and knew something was wrong. I saw the way his face tightened before he turned to run. It didn’t matter. It happened too fast and he split apart like a red stained driftwood after they reached him.

I didn’t want to hurt any of them. But you know what I am.

And you know the worst of it, the only thing in this world that can kill me: water. The sea, the rain, even a goddamn puddle. You said it was poetic, that all we needed to do was wash the sins away and that would be it.

I wish I could tell you I’m sorry and have that be enough. But I know that it isn’t.

My mind is slipping. I thought I heard you earlier, but when I turned, there was nothing but the water. I can feel it starting to itch beneath my skin again. I must attend to its needs until morning.

Leon

September 2, 1986

Leon,

I woke up from a terrible dream and could not tell where I was, nor even when I was.

For the longest time, I thought I was still in our cabin, with the warped floorboards and the leaky window that rattled in the wind. I thought I heard the waves outside, but they were too far away.

I sat up and reached for something, but there was nothing. No warmth, no weight. Just a hollow feeling.

And then I remembered you.

I used to think I could live in your shadow forever. That it was enough to stand between you and the world, to hide what you had become from those who would have tried to take you from me. But you never really belonged to me. You belonged to it.

I fed you, I kept you safe, and suffered with you. And still, in the end, you left me here.

I think I was angry. I still might be.

You say you miss me. That you never wanted this. That you never wanted them to die.

I believe you.

You don’t have to look for me.

I’m already here.

Elsa

September 9, 1986 – Afternoon

Elsa,

This isn’t real. You’re not real.

I don’t know what kind of madness has settled into my head, but I know what I saw. There is no one on this boat. 

I searched every inch, Elsa. Every cabin, every hatch. There aren’t even footprints, not a single sign that anyone but me has been here.

And yet, your letter was waiting for me. In the same place I left mine. In your handwriting. Exactly your handwriting.

Where are you? What do you mean, you’re already here?

No. No, I won’t do this. I won’t chase ghosts, I won’t let my brain rot on the deck of this damned boat waiting for another letter to appear out of nowhere. Not when I can still feel the scars where it broke through my skin last night—raw, burning—until I fed it with something I brought onboard.

I’ll leave this here for you, if only to prove to myself that I’m not completely unraveling.

Maybe a drink will help.

Leon

September 2, 1986 

Leon,

I can’t see the sunset the way I used to, but I know you can. You always liked that time of day best, as the light faded over the horizon, the world softening.

I remember watching you, even after you changed. I wanted to believe that if I just held onto you long enough, you would come back to me. I thought love could keep you human.

Do you remember what you are, who you have become?

You remember the killing, but not the hunger.

Do you recall what happened before I died? 

You used to say that the sea was patient. That it takes its time, wearing things down piece by piece until all that’s left is what it chooses to keep. You think you’re drifting, waiting to decide how this ends, but you’re wrong.

You will never truly die here. Not unless you sink.

Elsa

September 9, 1986 – Sunset

Elsa,

You dated your letter September 2nd.

I don’t know what kind of joke this is—if this is my mind breaking, or if this is actually you, or if there’s no difference anymore—but I know that date. That’s the day after you died.

And I killed you.

I need to say it. I need to write it. I need to stop hiding from it like a coward because I remember now.

I remember the way you looked at me when you realized what I had become.

I remember you tried to save me. Tried to save them. I remember the knife in your hand and the tears in your eyes when you begged me to just let it end.

I remember that you weren’t fast enough.

I remember the way you screamed when I touched you, the way your body turned to ruin beneath my hands, the way you stopped fighting when you knew there was nothing left to fight for.

I remember the moment you stopped being afraid of me.

I remember everything, Elsa.

And you were right. I am not human anymore.

You said the sea is patient. But so is the thing inside me. It waits. It watches. It lets me write these letters like I still have control, like I still have a choice. Like I could ever truly leave this boat.

But I know better now. I know what I have to do.

This time, I’ll finish what you started.

Leon

September 3, 1986 

Leon,

You stayed up waiting for me, didn’t you?

You always used to do that when we were kids. You’d sit up by the window, refusing to sleep until I came back inside. I used to think it was sweet. Now I think maybe you always knew—even before you became this, that you were meant to be alone.

I see now that I should have left you alone too.

But I stayed and cleaned up after you, wiped their blood from your body, covered for you every time that thing leaked out from beneath your skin.

I thought I was protecting you, but I wasn’t. I was keeping the monster alive.

And that’s why you killed me.

You can stop pretending now. You remember everything.

I tried to end it before it could spread. I would have done it if you’d let me.

You should have let me.

Instead, you turned on me. You let it break me apart, like all the others. You wept and rocked what was left of me like I was still yours, like I hadn’t just died in your arms.

And in some twisted way, maybe I am still yours. 

But that doesn’t matter now. You have one thing left to do.

Come visit me where I am now.

That is the right thing to do.

Love,

Your sister, Elsa

September 10, 1986

Elsa,

Yes, you know me best, I stayed up all night waiting for you.

I watched the page, scotch in hand, eyes burning. I wouldn’t sleep. Not until I caught you in the act and saw how you did it.

But I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes, your letter was there.

And your last words shattered me.

You were my sister. My only sister. You were always there, watching over me, covering for me. You loved me when no one else could.

And I, Goddamnit, Elsa, I loved you too. 

We were alone together for so long. Maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe that’s how we fell into something we shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s why you still stayed after I changed, why you still brought them to me.

I never asked you to do it. But I never stopped you either.

And now I see why.

Because I was happy.

I was happy when you fed me. I was happy when you lied for me, covered for me, hid me.

I was happy when you were the only one in the world who saw me for what I was, and still stayed.

And I thought that was enough.

But you knew better.

You knew that as long as I was out here, I wasn’t just Leon. I was it. I was the thing that wears me, the thing that spreads itself through my hands, my mouth, my breath.

You knew what had to be done. And I stopped you.

And now I have to finish it.

Elsa, after reading your last letter, I tried something.

I let the water touch me. Just a few drops at first. Just enough to test what you told me.

And I watched my own skin blacken.

I watched it peel away, curl like burnt paper, dust scattering into nothing.

And for the first time since that night, I felt something leave me.

Something I can never let return.

I know what I have to do now. I should have done it a long time ago.

I’ll see you soon, Elsa.

Leon

September 15, 1986 – Radio Transmission

U.S. Coast Guard Channel

08:42 AM PST

“Yeah, this is Patrol 6 out of Newport, responding to a distress call. We’ve located the vessel approximately 17 nautical miles offshore, drifting. No signs of life on board. Copy?”

[Unintelligible reply]

“Copy. Uh, yeah, we’re boarding now. The name on the hull matches the missing vessel reported out of Washington last week. Belonged to one…  Leon Mathers. Yeah. The suspect in the Olympia killings. Still no sign of a body. Over.”

“Hang on, uh, Christ, do you smell that?”

(Muffled voices)

“Jesus. It’s in the fog. Thick as hell. The air, God, it’s like it’s sticking to my skin.”

[Unintelligible reply]

“Boat’s in rough shape. Some flooding in the lower cabin, but no visible damage, no sign of struggle. Looks like it’s just been out here drifting. There’s a letter on the table. Several actually. We’ve got personal effects, ID matching Mathers.”

(A sudden, sharp breath)

“Shit.”

“No body. No trace of him. But we found… part of someone.”

“It’s a leg. Left, severed mid-thigh. Not clean. No ID yet.”

“Yeah, we’ll check the water next.”

(Shuffling, movement. The soft slosh of waves lapping against the hull.)

“Oh, hell.”

“Sir. You need to hear this part, listen, there’s something in the water. Around the boat.”

“Not oil, not debris. It’s… dark. Black as ink. Looks like it’s mixed with the waves, but it’s thicker. Like it’s trying to hold its shape. God, it’s moving.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s bubbling. It’s…” (a pause, a quick breath) “alive.”

“Chunks in it. Carbon, maybe. But some of them, ” (another sharp breath) “some of them are floating against the current.”

(A quiet shaken voice in the background: “It’s watching.”)

“Sir? Orders?”

[Unintelligible reply]

“Collecting samples now. We’ll tow the vessel back to port.”

[End transmission]