Dear Mayor Gleeson,

First of all, on the off chance that you have listened to the “urgent” call on the cover of the envelope and opened this letter, let me assure you that I am not writing to you regarding Jackie. Something else has occurred that worries me and which compels me to disturb you today, but while I am on the topic, let me first assure you that my daughter is well now, just joining us from the hospital yesterday, and she will be completely ready for her part in the Feast next week. We have spoken to her and she is very excited, if not a little nervous about it all – we’ve delayed so long that it was all beginning to feel like it would never come. But we are all well now, no more excuses, and prepared to play our part in returning a sliver of that which our community has been so kind to give to us – our entire family is so grateful for your patience throughout all our troubles. 

Now, with that addressed, allow me to bring a matter of utmost urgency to your attention. Before I get too deep into all the circumstances that have caused me to reach this point of action – compiling all the evidence I can muster to support my case – I must warn you that this is another in what I expect would be a myriad of letters you have received regarding the latest arrivals in our beautiful town of Erene. I write this letter with full awareness of how we perceive novelty in our little town, facing it with apprehension and fear and rarely with openness, and do not want you to dismiss it too quickly on that account. I do not intend to repeat here the numerous complaints that circle any time we receive a new citizen. I attempt to hold myself above such prejudice, though I suppose I cannot wholly dismiss the possibility that my observations have been subject to some bias. I will attempt to address concerns of such a nature as I go on, but I want to emphasise that I have put great care into remaining as objective as possible, and if there should arise any points where my descriptions appear tainted by an unforthcoming impartiality, then I compel our fair Mayor to throw aside all evidence this letter seeks to provide, and let it serve only as an impetus for future investigation by parties who can remain more factual in their approach. I will attempt to stick by raw experiences as best I can, and to this end I will not divulge the precise nature of my concerns until I believe them sufficiently outlined by the facts I have described, but at points I will still be forced to introduce my own speculations in order to justify certain actions which I took throughout this process to aid me in arriving at a tangible conclusion. But I have dwelled too long now on precautions: allow me to begin presenting my perspective on the whole matter, beginning at the point where our new arrivals first showed face in our little town.

We had heard about the purchase of the old Jensen house not too much earlier before the new residents moved in. We of course caught the name of this family soon after – the Markham family, hailing from the capital city of Jarmouth – and as is due for all new citizens, at the first available opportunity everyone with a mind to conceive and a pair of lips to whisper began to speculate about these Markhams. Concerns were raised about them possibly being related to the infamous Markems, the serial killing couple from Jeve, which is not all that far away from Jarmouth, but those rumours were quickly quelled when the spelling of the surname was clarified. Millie Turner, the one with a cousin of an uncle living in Jarmouth, was immediately bombarded with questions about the family; and, in what I believe to be an attempt to relieve some of the social pressure that was being put on her as the closest believable connection to Jarmouth, I think she concocted her own rumour, about the family being a group of immigrant mutants, with pig’s tails and webbed fingers; and I have to lend it to her, veiling an otherwise trivial arrival with an air of such mystery and fantasy certainly alleviated all social attention off her, as in a matter of days people were too enthralled by the myth of the miraculous Markham family to remember mundane Millie Turner. Personally, I tried my best to stay as far removed from all the rumours and the gossip as I could, not only for the obvious reasons, but also because at that time Jackie’s health complications were beginning to advance to a worrying extent, and it was a cause for great stress and concern that I could not bother myself with petty distractions, especially since I never believed any of the rumours in the first place. No doubt that many tried to provoke my opinion on it all, with the Markhams moving in next door to ourselves and all, but since the very beginning it all reminded me of the case of Rosie Deckham, the last person to move to Erene before the Markhams, and I couldn’t help but draw exact parallels between the rumours and accusations that spread with her case too, before of course not a single one of them held any water, and now Rosie is as standard a citizen as any one of us – so that until their very arrival here at Erene, I refused to comment on the matter of the Markhams at all. As such, I was the last to be surprised when, on arriving, the Markhams were revealed to be the most typical, run-of-the-mill family one could pick from a stock photo album, and although it should have been a relief to those who had been peddling the defamatory rumours, I’m certain that there were many more who were more upset than relieved that the novel attraction did not live up to its grotesque expectations.

It was the fourth Feast of Autumn at which the Markhams made their first appearance. Our honourable Mayor held a speech at the beginning, as he always does, to celebrate the boon we would be sharing that day, this time including a warm welcoming speech to the newcomers, greeting them into the community; and I must praise that as far as introductory speeches go, this one has to have been one of my favourites, and I still remember clearly when the Markhams stood up, introduced themselves one by one – Phillip the father, Daisy his wife, Johnny their ten year old son and Maisie, his two years older sister – and the warm, roaring applause that followed their introduction. We then all seated ourselves, our honourable Mayor departing the stage, and as I lowered myself onto my seat I saw that not too far away from my place at the mensum were placed the Markhams. 

Primarily it was Phillip whom I saw at first, conversing casually with Richard Thawes who sat opposite him, and as I happened to be regarding them and contemplating whether precisely that moment was appropriate to extend my welcome, I noticed how among the citizens bedecking their plates with the finest morsels an Autumn feast can provide, the Markhams’ plates were empty. I could not immediately hear what it was that Phillip was saying to Richard, and with my own Charlie tugging at my arm to fill her plate up, I was momentarily distracted from listening in – or, more accurately, what I suppose was eavesdropping on their conversation, but here I summon my neighbourly curiosity in my defence – and only after supplementing Charlie’s plate with a bit of leg, and Adam’s with some of his favourite breast, as well as helping my wife Rebecca reach the mustard, and of course turning to my own plate to support its fill before everything got eaten up; only then did I revisit my interest in my neighbours’ conversation.

Progressing from whatever point in the dialogue they had been at, Phillip was in the process of explaining how Jarmouth was simply getting too expensive for the honest man to survive – even on his own, let alone a whole family – and how they had sought out any place they could move to that would still allow Phillip to work, and here, I remember particularly, how carefully he articulated “how difficult it was to find any place at all.” But despite a passing pique, his odd attention did not alert me in any real way, and I sliced a fragment of my succulent cut of thigh as I listened on to their conversation; here, as my eyes passed from watching the two interlocutors to my plate, I happened to notice that I was not the only neighbour trying to passively participate in their conversation – and most with a much lesser interest in discretion than myself – so I felt somewhat relaxed returning my attention so overtly to the two speakers. Allowing himself his own bite of whatever was on his plate, Richard progressed by inquiring into Phillip’s line of work. Watching the former address his meal guided my expectant eyes to find Phillip doing the same – but here I was more immediately surprised, as the plate he had before him was still perfectly clean: and evidently not from a meticulous licking-down, either. Most perplexed, I chose to turn my attention for the first time to the rest of the Markham family, and with little investigation confirmed that indeed, each one of their plates was empty too.

Here I did something perhaps somewhat rude, but I felt arisen with concern at the thought of the newest citizens potentially losing out on a bite of food at what was their first Erene Feast, especially with how quickly every other citizen’s eager bites was closing their window of opportunity, so I made myself known in the middle of Phillip Markham’s response to Richard’s question. “Excuse me,” I said to him, “but you really should have some of this food before it’s gone,” and I even went as far as to direct their attention to the delicious cuts of meat provided by the Johnson family, which lay unduly untouched amid the other foods. To this, my neighbour replied with an appreciative smile.

“Thank you,” I remember him saying, and he proceeded to justify the family’s otherwise inexplicable fast: “we’re actually a bit sick from the long journey, and none of us feel well enough to eat.”

With a smile as warm as I could feign, I accepted my neighbour’s reason, but personally have since then found myself struggling to empathise with it. It was the family’s explanation, certainly, but I just cannot comprehend how somebody could possibly surrender a pristine Johnson cut, especially – and you may have unfortunately missed it, our honourable Mayor, as I do not recall you passing our mensum – but the meat looked simply so juicy and ripe, so finely cooked all the way through, that I needed to restrain myself to not leap right at it and eat it all in a single bite. I exaggerate, of course, but I will regardless note that this unusual explanation was the first thing to surround my perception of the Markhams in an air of peculiarity, to say the least, and I still find that initial jarring strangeness a difficult one to shake.

But if that were all there was to say about our newest arrivals, then there really would be no truth to my claims of unbiasedness. No, although the remainder of the feast transpired normally – as normally as it could with one of the families not eating a single bite, that is – this initial idiosyncrasy was only the catalyst for the remainder of my curiosities. After the feast I nearly completely forgot about the Markhams, visiting Jackie at the hospital and returning to my own troubles. I had brought her some food from the feast to hopefully assist her recovery, which momentarily reminded me of our neighbours, and when she asked about them I was taken completely back to thinking about them. When I told her the little I knew, she looked happy, and on this single instance I felt all my negative suspicions about the Markhams dissipating in a moment; Jackie’s relentless optimism, though I always considered it a little unrealistic, and maybe even a bit foolish, no doubt never fails to paint even the most mercurial predicaments in a positive light. “They sound nice,” she said, battling through her induced stupor towards the end of my visit, and where I should have placed my doubts, instead my deepest sense of hope surrendered to her gentleness. “I agree,” I told her.

And I proceeded with this good view of the Markhams all the way home from the hospital, and even after that, as it was not until my next encounter with them that I was reminded of my suspicions. After work the very next day, I was passing by the Markham residence, when I realised that, apart from the awkward interaction with Phillip the day prior, our families hadn’t had the opportunity to be properly introduced to one another. I could see Phillip through one of the windows, so I decided that it would be a nice idea to drop by and say hello once I gathered my bearings after returning home. Though I would have liked to go alongside Rebecca, she is typically the one to drop by and visit Jackie after work, usually to bring her something nice to eat but also just to keep her company; so although I mentioned the visit, and she agreed it was a great idea, she was still preparing to leave for the hospital as I walked out of our front door.

Walking the short distance between our two homes, I realised how strange it was that the house which had been kept empty for nearly five years had a new resident, and was no longer an empty shell of a residence that lied next to the place I lived. I recalled how I let my own children play in the abandoned back garden when they were younger, and how pleasing a thought it was that another pair of kids would get to enjoy that pleasure – this time with fewer weeds, I hoped. 

I apologise. This letter was not meant to be about my nostalgia, but I got carried away in the memory. Nonetheless, I walked up those renovated steps that led to the Markhams’ front entrance and pressed their doorbell, and after only a moment, it was Phillip who appeared from behind the door. He looked a little surprised to see me, but I knew he recognised me from the Feast.

“Hello,” he said, and I responded with my own greeting, followed by an extension of my hand.

“I’m Oliver,” I told him, “we talked briefly at the Feast. You moved into the house next to mine, so I wanted to pop by and give my warmest welcome to our community.”

Phillip gave me a meek smile, but appeared stuck as to how he should respond. I was ready to continue myself, but the sudden appearance of his wife from behind him stopped me.

“Hello,” she said herself, in what I must admit is an innately cheerful voice – something her tepid husband could do with having more of – but now I’m slandering for no reason. Regardless, she greeted me, naturally inquiring as to who I was, and I naturally answered her in much the same way I had introduced myself to her husband. She was considerably more responsive than Phillip, and within an instant introduced herself with a grand smile; when her husband took a little too long to do the same, I could see a concealed jab prodding him in the back, which kicked him into action. The two of them gave their names, which I pretended not to have already known from the tumult of gossip preceding their arrival, and Daisy beckoned from the top floor their two children, so that they might introduce themselves too. A quick pitter-patter of steps culminated in Johnny and Maisie appearing before me and politely saying their names.

It was at that moment that a curious thing caught my eye, something that had initially eluded me at the feast from plain ignorance, and now, standing before them, had been obscured by the rose-coloured tint that Jackie had painted my vision. I saw the two children, whom I knew to be in their pre-teen years, and regarded their mother beside them – and perhaps it is redundant to say, as it would not surprise me if our honourable Mayor already has all these facts in order, but I will state regardless, that their mother, Daisy Markham, was not pregnant. 

At the very least she was not in the late, noticeable stages which I would have predicted from having children so old. I took a moment much longer than was appropriate to look at her belly to make sure, and only after too long did I catch myself, and see that my neighbours were watching me awkwardly, and nearly did I die from mortification. And perhaps it would have been courteous to not pry, but it was a matter of great intrigue to me, as when I looked at the unburdened mother before me, I could not help draw immediate parallels to my own wife, Rebecca, and our countless efforts to produce a baby during those long years of her illness. So I asked when perhaps I shouldn’t have, though I profess that my inquiry came from a place of empathy and not from one of improprietary intrusion – though maybe my intentions don’t matter all that much.

“Are you trying?” I asked, in a tone of greatest sympathy. The mother looked at me with a dry expression – it looked as though she was a little relieved, as if she knew the question was coming and wanted to move past it as quickly as possible.

“Yes!” was the answer, but to my surprise, it was not Daisy who responded to the matter of her own pregnancy, but rather her husband Phillip, who in fact blurted the answer nearly instantly after I had asked the question. I was surprised at his sudden insertion, and considered it peculiar, and I mustn’t have been misplaced in thinking it was odd, for his wife swiftly started staring daggers at him over his shoulder. The disruption in their miens was only momentary, however, as nearly as quickly as we had tumbled into the uncomfortable situation I had created, so quickly did the two children respond to the discomfort, and ask their mother to kindly remove themselves from the situation and return to their rooms. Towards her kids Daisy recovered her smile, and assented to their request without further trouble. With the young company removed, Daisy returned her attention politely to me.

“What my husband means to say is yes, we are trying, but I’ve recently found myself in a bout of sickness, and it looks to be affecting our efforts.”

The look of concern on my face was evident as immediately I was taken back a couple years to the moment I faced my own wife with the exact same problem. My mind was preparing condolences, but my evident worry clearly spoke for itself, as Daisy widened her smile, assuring me that she really was fine, honestly, and the sickness only seemed to be impacting their conceptive efforts, with all other aspects of her life remaining untroubled by whatever had befallen her. I felt somewhat relieved, but considering I found myself in a unique position of relatability to their troubles, I still wished to learn more about the specifics of her illness – perhaps, by a stroke of bittersweet luck, Daisy was afflicted with that same sickness that had plagued my wife Rebecca for all those years, and if indeed that was the case, then I could have given some firsthand advice and recommended doctors I knew were reputable, to hopefully accelerate her recovery. I therefore inquired further, asking about the precise nature of her affliction, as well as illuminating my prior experience with such matters. 

Daisy’s response, however, was rather vague. Her expression turned uncertain at my question, and she appeared troubled at composing an answer. When she did, it felt indirect, saying how she could not remember the name of the sickness at that moment. I believed this odd, of course: as someone who had found himself so wholly engrossed by the matter of my wife’s sickness, it felt impossible to me that someone, who I knew ought to have been so much closer to the problem, could not immediately reflect such an intimacy with their affliction. But I was far from dismissing sincerity, and I sought to aid the wife in recalling her trouble with numerous examples that were still ingrained in me after years of hospital visits; but to each one of these Daisy at first looked puzzled, and only once I stopped listing did she consider the examples further and conclude that it was one of those I had mentioned. In a matter of progressing the conversation, I inquired to the medications she was taking – I knew that the ailment she had highlighted from my listing was quite close to that which my wife Rebecca had encountered, and was prepared to rebuke the possible misdirected treatments that had been suggested to us my numerous doctors before finally reaching the one that treated her – but in this pursuit too did Daisy look confused and lost. After a moment of awkward silence, I comforted the Markhams that it was no problem, as I really had been only asking as a curiosity, and I assured them as much. Though I don’t have transparent access to their emotions, I instantly noted that the couple looked relieved that the line of inquiry was being followed no further. I remained with them a couple moments longer to say my farewells, and they cheerfully thanked me for the neighbourly visit, suggesting that they themselves might stop by sometime, that I was welcome, and so on. I showed them the greatest deal of enthusiasm, but internally, it was at that point that my determination had settled – I was convinced there was something about the Markhams that wasn’t quite right; and although propelled by what was perhaps a loose motive, a mere inclination at disingenuousness from the accents of their movements and textures of their tongues, I was compelled to investigate the matter further to arrive at a more concrete conclusion.

The next instance which I deemed strange enough to be noteworthy was one that shortly followed my visit to their front door. One evening, upon coming back from work, I smelled something delicious in the air, flowing from our kitchen. When I investigated what it was, I found that my wife Rebecca was cooking a fine brisket, made from one of our stored pieces of flesh which we, expectedly, spared for only the most special of occasions. With there being no such occasion – now or anytime soon – that I was aware of, I was initially alarmed at her disposing of such a priceless commodity. So I hastened to ask her what it was she was doing, what the occasion was that eluded me; and to my luck, I realised that I had omitted the most sensible of conclusions in my considerations.

“I didn’t get to introduce myself to our new neighbours yet,” she said, “so I wanted to drop by – and what better way to welcome them than a delicious Jacobson cut?”

Rebecca asked me if I wanted to go with her, but I decided not to, worrying I might continue the discomfort from my last visit. She was fine either way, and once the brisket finished cooking, she set off to greet our new neighbours.

At first, I was prepared to leave it at that, but after a few moments, as I imagined she must have still been walking towards the front door, I recognised this as an opportunity to continue investigating the Markhams. Without being there in front of them, I did not have to dedicate any part of my mind to interacting with them in a respectable manner, and could focus solely on their actions and responses, without the pressure of conversation obfuscating my observations. So I walked up to our kitchen window, which has an excellent view of the street and the Markhams’ front porch, and watched my wife walk slowly towards it, taking evident care to not spill or drop the brisket.

Once she reached it, her two hands being occupied by the dish, she pushed the doorbell with her shoulder. Within a few moments, I saw movement from one of the other windows of the Markham home, witnessing as Phillip Markham, sitting at the table in the kitchen, heard the doorbell ringing, putting down the newspaper that was in his hand and standing up to go answer the door. Leaving the kitchen, he disappeared only momentarily from my sight, reappearing quickly with a movement of the front door, greeting my wife.

Though it was difficult to judge objectively from my angle, I still knew that Phillip was nervous as he answered her, for even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t imagine him acting any other way. My wife’s face was easier to see from my angle, and I watched her produce her polite smile, which is so unfortunately distinct from her genuine smile, that if anyone ever manages to cheer her up earnestly, she can never again fool them with propriety – but the Markhams, of course, did not know that yet, so I imagine Phillip was still pleasantly deceived.

They spoke for a moment, exchanging names I imagine (I could not hear them from so far away) and gauging from Rebecca’s momentary change in address, I believe Daisy showed up at some point as well. After a couple seconds, I could see Rebecca extending the brisket before her, followed by a pair of hands protruding from the doorway to receive it, which I knew had to be the wife’s, and I wondered if the children had been beckoned down again, as in my case, or if they hadn’t bothered them the second time round. A few moments of pleasant chatter later, I saw what I recognised as Rebecca’s ‘saying goodbye’ face – she handles them poorly, especially in earnest, but even when she doesn’t care in the slightest, her words and expressions always tangle around the goodbyes – which was expectedly followed by a closing of the front door, and of my wife loosening her forced cheer, and beginning her walk back to our own home.

I had unfortunately gleaned very little from the interaction in the way of further illuminating what precisely it was that bothered me with the Markhams so much, and I almost retired from my spot at the window completely, ready to sit back down and continue reading my copy of Erene Today, when I hesitated for a moment. Phillip Markham, I saw, reappeared in the kitchen window, too taking his place at the respective kitchen table, and shortly behind him followed Daisy, holding our welcoming gift in her hands. I do not know what it was that compelled me to keep looking, as the feeling of failure had already settled, but I dared not move an inch, regarding the couple converse in mute words, when, after a minute or so of discourse, I witnessed something that filled me with abhorrence, to a degree I cannot remember ever feeling before, catching me off guard with its visceral intensity as to almost make me throw up from the sickness. Daisy Markham, brisket still in hand, walked over to the corner of the kitchen, where I could just only see the top of a disposal bin through their window; and into that bin – it sickens me, even to remember it now – but into that bin, she spilled all of the contents of my wife’s delicious brisket.

I was absolutely enraged, so much so that I nearly yelled at Rebecca when she came in – but I stopped myself, still possessing enough reason to understand it was not her I was angry with, and she deserved none of my rage. Nonetheless, though I did not express my anger so explosively, I could only do so much to conceal how irate I felt, and immediately upon walking into the kitchen and seeing me, Rebecca knew something was wrong. 

To present my paroxysm appropriately, I first cooled myself down, and asked her how she believed the introduction went. Obviously not convinced I had transitioned moods so quickly, Rebecca still entertained my question, and spoke honestly when she said that she thought it went well, that she believed the Markhams were a respectable family, and that if anyone ought to have moved in to the empty lot right beside our own, it might as well have been them. Patiently, I absorbed her response, and once she was completely finished, the bubbling fire within me rose once again, and, in a voice as calm as I could keep through that trembling fury, I related how the brisket she had cooked, the one and only which had been crafted to perfection with our most precious ingredients, how it had been so savagely disposed of by its ungrateful recipients, degraded and abased. My wife listened to me, and although her first reaction was disbelief, she could not persist for too long imagining that I had become so apoplectic over a contrived notion, and in a moment she believed and accepted what I had told her, though was not nearly so angry as I was, and considerably more upset. “That’s a shame,” she said. “And they seemed like such nice people too.”

Alright, I notice this letter is extending beyond that which I had estimated when I first put this pen to the page: such is the cost of precision, I suppose; so I won’t trouble our honourable mayor with any of the more minor oddities I noticed. Instead, I’ll recount only one more occurrence, but it will be that which served to compel me above all else towards my final conclusion; and I believe that, taking into consideration all that I have mentioned until now, the ugly truth will shine vibrantly from behind the Markhams’ pleasant façade.

This one happened two weeks later. We had had limited exposure with the Markhams since my wife’s visit there, the closest being at Feasts, where we exchanged smiles but not much more than that. Then – for a reason I do not know – the Markhams invited over our family for dinner one night, to be enjoyed in their home. Neither Rebecca nor I were particularly pleased with the idea, and considering we presumed the feeling to be mutual, with them discarding our gifts so nonchalantly and whatnot, we wondered what it was that brought them to the decision of having us by their home once again. Perhaps they were unhappy with how they treated us, and wanted to extend their hospitality as a form of apology? Or maybe they knew I had caught on to their strange actions, and this was some means of performance to trick us further into believing their lie? We couldn’t arrive at a single conclusion. The truth is we were prepared to completely reject the Markhams’ invitation to come, but there was a single driving factor that steered our actions the opposite way; and that was, as it often is, our children. If anyone could still benefit from our new neighbours, it was our kids, for whom Johnny and Maisie, hopefully not inheriting their parents’ social defects, could still be valuable friends. So we agreed to come along, preparing a bottle of alright wine to take with us – but by no means would we agree to bring along food ever again.

Their reception of our arrival was polite enough; opening the door with cheerful smiles and whatnot, to which we reflexively flashed our own. They invited us inside, leading us into the dining room where their own two children were already politely waiting at the table. We gave them the wine, they were overjoyed, we took our seats at the table, so on, so on, till everyone but Daisy found themselves seated at the table, the wife arriving soon from the kitchen to serve everyone their meals. I did not see what dinner was until it found itself right in front of me – but once I had, I was taken by surprise.

“What cut is this?” I asked Daisy. The flesh she had presented me was… it was pale, nearly white, in what looked to be whole portions, not slices. 

“It’s chicken,” replied Daisy indifferently. Naturally, I looked everyone in my family in the eye, all of whom were confused to say the least, while my wife Rebecca was desperately trying to suppress the boiling anger that was visible behind her eyes. I wanted to say something, but decided it would be best to keep quiet and endure the rest of the evening to the best of my ability. But as it turned out, my silence was worth little – Charlie, in all our best raising of her, was too familiar with customs and niceties, and, although undoubtedly rudely, she interjected.

“For guests, it is customary to serve a human cut,” she informed them. I gave my daughter a stern look, which stopped her from going on, but I softened my gaze to assure her she didn’t do anything wrong. Nonetheless, she blushed from embarrassment.

Daisy, taken by surprise by the comment, was frozen in place serving Maisie’s piece of chicken, looking around her somewhat helplessly, lost for words, unsure what to do. Here, I thought it would be best to speak up myself.

“Here in Erene,” I explained to Daisy, “we have a custom to serve from our reserved Supply on special occasions. We do, however, understand conditions where troubled circumstances might make it difficult to Provide for the Supply.”

I squeezed my wife’s hand to elicit a forced smile from her, which she painfully provided to assure our hosts of our understanding. 

“I see,” finally responded the hostess, “well I’m sorry to say that we were unaware of the custom, and the best we can do is chicken.”

“Chicken is fine,” I reassured. Daisy finished serving everyone their portion and sat herself down so the dinner could begin.

I will not pretend that I disliked the taste – we eat chicken often, after all – despite the continuous disappointment of being served such a poor piece of meat after being invited into their home. After a short while of eating, Daisy (because it wouldn’t be Phillip) was the one to break the silence.

“How’s Jackie doing?” she asked.

I let myself swallow the bite I was on, then answered that our daughter was doing better, but did also include an inquiry as to how Daisy knew about her being ill; to which she answered she had heard about it at one of the feasts. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Phillip blurted out:

“Did you hear about the pregnant woman who fell from the stairs?”

No, it was not the setup for some horrible joke. He was referring to Ellen Hart, who had earlier that week fallen down her stairs, and the baby she was carrying had only come to be Known as a girl. Daisy was once again piercing her husband with her stare.

“Uh, yes,” I chose to answer, “such a tragedy.”

“You know, they say it was her daughter that pushed her,” continued Phillip.

Daisy turned positively red, followed by a forceful ‘thump’ under the table, which I recognised from Daisy’s synchronous jolt must have been an approbatory kick delivered to her husband.

“That’s horrific slander,” spoke up my wife, whose voice was already elevated from suppressed rage. “Why would little Elaine do such a monstrous thing?”

“She wouldn’t,” assuaged Daisy, still stealing censuring glances at Phillip, “we just heard some rumours is all. We’re sure it’s all false—”

“How about maybe she didn’t want to be eaten?” interjected Phillip, cutting off his wife and casting the whole room into silence.

Yes, our honourable mayor, this was genuinely how the conversation progressed; and there is no question to my accuracy of recount, for I remember it more clearly than what I had for breakfast this morning. I remember so vividly how stunned every one of us was, to hear these words escape the laconic lips of Phillip Markham. The silence must have only been momentary, but it was so pregnant with tension that it dragged on seemingly indefinitely; until eventually it was Daisy who relieved some of that tension.

“What Phillip means is that the whole ordeal of Endowment might be a little difficult to understand for a little girl like Elaine, so one could understand that perhaps someone might react very aggressively to learning they would be replaced. But by no means are we suggesting that’s what happened.” 

I don’t think I could have imagined, even in the moments preceding our arrival at the Markham residence, a poorer development of that evening. The children, who were supposed to be the sole beneficiaries of that avoidable night, were all deathly quiet, and it is difficult to imagine a scenario where they should regain any of their lost comfort. Daisy, who no doubt found herself at the epicentre of managing the intractable mood of the evening, apologised for her husband, who she claimed to be tired from work and distraught from such a saddening event, that he was still processing its difficulties. Personally, I would have liked to just get up and leave, there and then, but something within me was telling me to stay, to not take great offence, and bear the rest of that visit with superficial patience, hoping I would never have to return again. From a single look at her, I saw that my wife shared that sentiment, and together, without words, we agreed that we would assist this evening to the most agreeable conclusion that could still be salvaged from its wreckage.

We ate on, engaging in other more meaningless conversations: I asked what brought the Markhams to our fair town of Erene – they answered that they had wanted to get out of the big city, to a place more calm and serene; Rebecca got the attention of the kids sitting opposite us, asking Maisie how she was finding moving schools, and Johnny if he was finding new friends in the neighbourhood – Maisie was finding it okay, and Johnny was not; Phillip, fortunately, stayed quiet for the rest of the meal. Rebecca proceeded to introduce our own Charlie and Adam to the neighbours, and suggested that if the kids were looking for new friends, that we were right next door, and Daisy agreed that it was a great idea, and the kids nodded. That was about all that we covered, before everyone finished their meals and Johnny complained that he couldn’t eat any more. It was only a matter of a couple more directionless nods and polite smiles before everyone got up from the table, and mutely agreed to leave the evening at that. We were escorted out the front door by Daisy alone; Phillip had acted detached since his interjection, and the kids really wanted nothing more to do with the gathering – something which we could completely empathise with and understand. A single more goodbye accompanied our farewell, before the front door was shut behind us and we walked back to our own house. Luckily, Daisy did not invite us to come again.

So, our honourable Mayor, on the chance that the facts of the case haven’t presented themselves with enough clarity – or on the chance they have, but the record would prefer my meaning not be exclusively inferred – I will here state precisely what my suspicions about the Markhams are. I believe, with this corpus of evidence constituting my primary compulsions toward the fact, that the Markham family, with their non-Erene heritage and upbringing, might not be cannibals.

Now I know: this is a drastic accusation to make about our newest arrivals, and it is not one that should be tossed around lightly and without basis; which is precisely why I have aggregated these here occurrences to support my case. Allow me to articulate my exact conclusions, if you will, withstanding that which I have already described as sources of supportive fact:

To begin at the beginning, there is of course the relatively obvious case of my first encounter with the Markhams at the August feast – which is to say, of course, that which needs few words to be said: the Markhams did not eat at all at that feast. The same could not be said about the following feasts – they ate, I can account – but then it needs little clarification that those later feasts, not being Culminary, wouldn’t have even served human meat; so what initially had been portrayed as an innocent excuse derived from the fatigues of travel, can almost just as quickly be attributed to our guests’ more sinister culinary aversion – they only refused to eat at the feast that served human flesh.

And then of course need I remind our honourable Mayor of my wife’s beloved brisket, so precious and treasured, which, once cleansed of the prejudicial anger that veiled it of reason’s approach, can be seen to not be an inexplicable circumstance of inspired hatred – towards briskets or otherwise – but rather an calculated gesture of pragmatic avoidance of precisely that which the recipients of our dish held most detestable: the potential intrusion of human meat on their diet. It does not take any effort at all to draw a firm red line between the events at the feast, and begin crafting a more plentiful picture of precisely what was the underlying cause to all of this.

And last but not least, the cherry on top, how can one not scrutinise the happenings of that final evening under this newfound light, and not recognise a precise trend that underpins all these actions: yes, the Markhams may indeed have found themselves too impoverished to treat us with the rightful hospitality that our culture so avidly states ought to be extended to us; or, perhaps, might it also be that these sinister pests had wormed their way into the corpse next door, possessed its spirit with one seemingly of genuine life, and infested it with the horrific notions of a clan without our own – a clan which, as foreign as our own beliefs may place the fact, would value the reconsumption of human flesh as anything below that which is utterly divine, and in its stead disgrace us with the parasitic precepts of the carnally mundane?

Forgive me for becoming so animated in my writing, but I hope our honourable Mayor will be able to understand the ire that is flowing through me as I write these words – which these words elicit. It is not simple matter to declare such accusations as those I am enduring to describe, neither for law, nor for the burdened soul which much carry such considerations without the ease of loosening its laden curse for fear of societal jury; but the truth must come out, and I have come now to feel substantiated by means of the thus presented evidence in sharing my pejorative musings.

If you have come so far in my letter Mayor, then you must at least lightly entertain what I say – so please, I beckon you, act on your responsibility to your honest citizens and explore my accusations: prove them true, clear them: I do not care, but let the truth see the light it so earnestly deserves – which we, your citizens, deserve. If you conclusions recommend my demise, then so be it – if the imaginings which I have described here should hold no ground in reality and have instead, ot the absence of my knowledge, been plucked from the realms of deluded fiction, then let not a corrupted mind like my own persist in our blessed community – let a root of evil be ripped from Erene’s sacred soils – should it be at my neighbour’s cost, or my own, let it be banished all the same.

Alright, our honourable Mayor; I want to thank you for enduring my letter this long – long enough to reach the end, and hear me out. I trust that above all, you will act in the best interest of your citizens, and that through you, morality and truth may be restored to our beautiful town. I leave you here, and await your action.

Best regards, your humble citizen,

David Blaire.

23.VI.2023

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