January 19, 2039. Blackwell House
DEAR MISS FRANCO,
He was the first to pass through this place. The place I am sat right now. As far as I can make out, his lineage had been travelling northward over generations and he was the first of his kind to go beyond the river. He first came here in search of new hunting grounds but this time, this moment will haunt his memory for what remains of his life. He will return to this moment in his mind, over and over. Sometimes believing the memory to be real and grimacing with glazed eyes. The bitter cold snow, the magpie, the screams, the opening, the watcher, the demented screams.
I know this because I’ve seen this moment. I’m part of it. In a way, the moment has left a similar impression on me. Yet we both have our very unique perspectives.
I have returned here many times just has he has, and in some ways I’m glad he saw what he did. He helps build a story, I learn something new and understand his time more deeply on each visit. He never brought anyone with him and I’m sure he warned people away, but his curiosity led him back here over and over. I never learned of his name, but I call him Cernunnos after the horned God.
I never really see his full form, he’s like a distorted memory of a person or an unfinished picture. Sometimes it’s as though his skin is stretched around his bones. His skin is covered with markings but they seem much too vivid to be tattoos. He’s occasionally materialised as just a single limb with a mask, a fleeting moment, perhaps distracted or disturbed by another fluttering in the trees. I rarely see the surrounding environment, at least whilst he’s alive. But I know it was him who brought the stones.