THE CHIMERAS OF SANTAPOLI

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Dear readers, it may well be that both you and I stand as the very antagonists to the events that have been transpiring in Santapoli. Thus, compelled by these circumstances, I find it imperative to address you directly in this missive, commencing with a tone that, albeit somewhat austere, befits the gravity of the matter.

But for now, it seems I remain unsure how to commence this twisted tale. An hour or so has passed with my fingers stagnating over the typewriter, and my brain has, so to speak, become but a barren landfill where thoughts deflate and decay. Perhaps this bleak and barren state of mind serves as a testament to my struggling to grapple with the aftermath of a discovery so disturbing it defies description. Indeed, to label it merely as 'unspeakably disturbing' seems almost quaint in the face of its true, daunting nature. And in this office of mine an even more lamentable scene unfolds; it lies in a state of paralysis, suffused with a scent reminiscent of that of a poor man consumed by his tomes. Here, this man is also ensnared by his own anxieties, it seems, his thoughts racing against the relentless march of time. Oh, dear Lord! Time eludes me, yet not a single sage phrase materialises.

And so, whilst we await the elusive spark to ignite my feeble intellect, shall I address certain questions from the very onset? It seems a brief preamble, sort of, is only fitting for the present, at the cost of boring you all to death, dear readers, for I have just recently opened a can of worms, and whatever comes henceforth shall scarcely gratify the meek of spirit.

The catalyst for this revelation, alas, is somewhat lacking in climactic grandeur. Well, to provide context, this all begins on the occasion of my stumbling upon a silly chest in my father's attic. The question surrounding Father's motivations in possessing and hiding such relics (in the attic of his own home, that is) remains unresolved to this day. Evidently, Father had no intention of publicising the following story; he did not wish to get rid of it either. Not a word on this matter was uttered to me in thirty years. And it shocks me. I cannot say otherwise. My old man was a good, honest family man—proud and happy. And, although asking the question is now most futile (for my father now rests six feet under), it shocks me how so disturbing a secret could dwell so stern and collected a face. There was even a moment of extreme confusion when I realised Father had passively taken part of this story, as a close observer. And as a collector, visibly. For this casket bears an account of unparalleled intricacy, an inventory of historical reconstructions that defy the most seasoned imagination and pragmatism. I now come to realise I have witnessed firsthand the fruits of Father's labours, accomplished in the past, before my young and unseeing eyes. And so I am left to wonder: as this process was ongoing behind this blank veil of a face, had he, at least at some point in these fractal lapses of events, succumbed to the same fervour that grips me today? Was his compelling to interpret these sordid pieces of hearsay, all whilst compulsively amassing these sketches, letters, records, maps, photographs, diaries and newspapers—for it is precisely all of it that was found in this obscure chest—a self article of his losing himself?

It is pertinent to note that, I, as a child, was always fascinated by my family's home. I loved exploring its dusty corners and hidden recesses, imagining the secrets that lay within its walls. It seems nothing of this world had escaped my knowledge as I was so intrigued by every hooks and nooks. I had left no book closed, no stone in the garden unturned, no trinket unexamined, no painting unscrutinized. Yet, the old attic had perhaps not caught my eye enough. Those youthful explorations, steeped in innocence, could scarcely have prepared me for what awaited three decades hence. In the mournful epoch following my father's death, I stumbled upon that weathered and diabolic chest, beneath a heap of old clothes and forgotten trinkets. And only when I knelt to open it and closely examined its vestiges, that I was thrust into an abyss of horror. Fairly over a century of it. And yet, I dared to defy this accursed antiquity, a decision that has led me to where I now stand.

And so, as a result of many stubborn weeks—or possibly, months—spent analysing these disjointed jumbles of evidence, I am writing to you today, for I have been, in the course of these past few weeks, venturing this unsettling pit of despair, and, although my discoveries have been multiplying, nothing remotely bright has hitherto been revealed to me. Each milestone marks a point of no return, a further estrangement from the Good Lord. It seems, with increasing likelihood, that each additional step forward may usher in yet another disquieting revelation. Words elude me hence. The deeper I delve, the greater my abhorrence grows. Yet, I find myself increasingly compelled to strip away the layers obscuring my understanding. But the pursuit of this knowledge does not necessarily bring about true enlightenment. The prize at the end of this path, to put it plainly, is dark, and, as peculiar as I might deem it, it lies in what is unearthed, in the long-hidden truths of Santapoli. And only do I find myself drawn inexorably closer to the heart of a conspiracy, unable to resist the tantalising whispers that beckon me onward. This endeavour has clearly led me to this mental realm, which leads me to ponder deeply on... everything. For Heaven's sake!

Mrs. Ziegle, wise in such matters, would assert that "peace is ever elusive to the insatiably curious." Why don't we impart this wisdom to every naive soul in this city? Why was I never advised to shut my eyes and drift with the blissful currents of ignorance? But this transcends mere horrors and emotions. Reality, at times, frays at its edges and possesses a sordid capacity to confront us abruptly, like a perpetrator, leaving our souls to wander aimlessly and our consciousness to bleed with questions.

Why, is it not needless to say that I undertake this from the edge of sanity? These tenets are precisely the consciousness we confront as we face the story I am about to tell; presently, this consciousness is at my throat, and duty binds me to divulge to the public that which defies all mortal understanding. As such, I am ready to face ridicule; while some prefer to flirt with illusions, it seems I could sicken myself, I believe, to the point of bloodying my handkerchief and maddening over a sordid maze of horror. I, on my account, have, for a fleeting fortnight, toiled away at this project in the quiet confines of my cramped study, merely getting any sleep or food, hoarding a mountain of documents and dread, venturing down this uncanny, yet... strangely fascinating rabbit hole. Weeks, and weeks, dear friend (for we are friends as of now if you've come to read this far), of steady clock tickings and constant eye bleachings, and dread-nauseatings! It is madness! Madness, I say. For weeks, now, I have been piecing together some fragmented horror story, poring over every detail with the aid of a magnifying glass, harvesting my own obsession and bringing me ever closer to my wit's end.

Furthermore, as I ignore to whom the present should be addressed, let me clarify that this is not a mere triviality serving as a means of personal vindication. Through this letter, I hope not to convey my pain and sorrows, but rather to share this quest for understanding, this search for a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps by sharing my discovery, I shall find a way to move forward, hand in hand, towards a brighter future. For this, I have therewith flirted with somderanging things that one may only find in the underbelly of a dismal metropolis. And I did so deliberately. I shall spare the full account of my reasoning, for such is—to put it generously—the means of my perverse curiosity; I am by no means neglecting that. The guilty hat is upon my head. And, bah, should I be held to ransom for this? After all, aren't we all dotted with perverse attraction for that which is hideous? Are we not all susceptible to the allure of the grotesque? What is it in this sensation, this foul and restless excitement, that is so magnificent? that exhilarates and entices us so greatly? Are we not all tempted to let horrors toy with our minds, whether or not we do so consciously?

I believe I hold somewhat of an answer. Here it goes. Horror splits the mind in understanding or lack thereof; but a mind is to truth as a fly is to light. While our reflex was to close our eyes at first, we came to realise attraction to horror is an incomparable force. It glides, so to speak, with the insidious winds of cynicism; it pertains to feelings we disregard and covet at once; it imbues humans and crushes their wilful blindness. Just as a peach holds its hidden kernel within, so does the mind cradle the lurking seed of horror. A human mind is too curious, too profoundly endeavoured to confront that which escapes it. It is too easily tantalised by what hides in the shadows. We jolt strangely when our endeavour for control clashes with our recognition of the immense and incomprehensible forces that operate beyond that which can be controlled. We're just flesh around a sentiment of horror, bathing in a bitter juice of experience.

Do forgive my impertinence. It just so happens that the spark has just ignited.

Pray, shall we not plunge headlong into the very heart of the matter?