The Corpsewood

4. The Wistman

As I climbed Beardown Tor around noon, it occurred to me that perhaps Emory had been mistaken. How absurd it was that a mere man alone could spear his fellow on a tree limb. Even a group of conspirators could not have built a mechanism to hoist Hallenbeck that high and leave no trace of such a contraption in the moss.

For the first time I considered that Hallenbeck might have taken his own life. That is not to say he impaled himself, my dear. Heavens, no. The man was a butcher, but he would treat even the most minute of scalpel cuts in his own flesh with iodine and bandages right away. No, the man could not stand to see his own blood – I suppose it reminded him too much of his own mortality. It is not out of the question, after all, that Emory had been drunk when Haas told him what had transpired. He is not known to lie, but if his abuse of the bottle (and I speak not only of alcohol, as he is well acquainted with all manner of tinctures) is anything to go by, it is clear the man is quite easily misled. Was Hallenbeck truly impaled on the tree, or was he merely hanging?

The power of language may make a fool of us all, my love. How typical it is of Emory in his stupors to misinterpret Haas. Or perhaps it was the Dutchman's English that led to this mistake. I ask myself which is more probable: a supernatural force able to skewer a man twelve feet in the air, or a terrified man whose grasp of our native tongue is not one to brag about, explaining what he saw to another who was born with a crystal tumbler in his hand?

When at last I reached the edge of Wistman's Wood, I had already decided Hallenbeck had committed suicide. I retraced yesterday's steps as best I could – ducking under the same moss-cloaked branches, hopping across the river running through the heart of the wood, even counting the oddly carved stones as I went. I took the path I imagined Hallenbeck might have taken in his final moments; he was not one to turn his cheek to risks, even in his old age. It would be his curiosity that drove him in that last hour of his life. Perhaps he had always wished to visit the moors. After all, many noted his singular connection with nature at its most macabre, and I had never encountered a wood so ghastly. It fit. And so did the decision to take his own life.

You may be alarmed to hear it, but there has not been a week gone by since I formally acquainted with the man that I have not considered the same. The few months since we argued over my departure have not fared much kinder, but because of that, and for many other reasons, I thank you for being in my life. Hallenbeck, however, died never knowing the love of another person. How could he live with himself after all those years? I thought him to be married to his work, but perhaps I did not know him well enough, because even with all my lateral thinking I could not get used to the idea that he'd hanged himself.

And it all changed when I found the bodies.

Hundreds of them. Nooses tight around their necks, swaying in the wind, mouths agape. Limbs and entrails strewn across the moss. Entire bodies impaled high on twisted branches, bent and broken like discarded dolls. Bones that had been there so long the trees had grown around them... and the stench... God help me. I'd stumbled upon an entire grove of corpses.

My darling, I fled so fast I hardly remember the path I took, but the woods only grew worse the more I got lost. I slipped on rocks slick and stained with old blood, coming away with fresh grazes. I snagged my cloak on wooden claws reaching out to grab me, yanking my hair from its fasten. It did not matter where I turned, the corpsewood pursued me, always in the next clearing. Dead eyes followed me as I stumbled over upturned roots. Tortured moans rattled through dead leaves over the sound of my own panting.

I could have sworn from the corner of my vision that the terrain contorted more and more into the familiar shapes of the human form. Twigs stretched out into hooked fingers. Rocky hollows rounded into eye sockets. Red, bloodied water splashed up the inseam of my trousers as I dashed across the river once more.

It was already nightfall when I at last collapsed on the edge of the forest. I could not explain the accelerated passage of time either. I was all too relieved to feel the cool, dewy grass on my face as I collapsed to my knees to sob. No, I am not so ashamed of my reaction that will omit this part to you. What I saw in amongst those contorted, ancient trees will be a vision I may well take to my grave. I pity any others like me who have seen it or merely imagined it. Or perhaps that is why they wander back into the woods to join the dead ones...

I am once again alone at the Wych Elm Inn, my love, but I will not sleep tonight. My nighttime view of the forest from my window now sends a shiver crawling along my skin. I am cold to the bone and my handwriting is shaky, but for now I'm safe and sheltered, and the dead ones will remain far away so long as I do not let my eyes rest.

I am returning to Whitechapel tomorrow at dawn. If I have to walk to the nearest town, so be it. I will not stay another night on these moors. Hallenbeck be damned. Whatever killed him will remain unfound.

To Hell with that unholy place!

Yours, with love.