LOOKOUT

Sunday, August 6th, 1916

My Dearest Henry…

One week has crept by like a lifetime in the absence of your grace, yet I continue to feel your presence in my memory. I sit in the company of none but the sparrows and roaring brush of pine and oak, but seldom do I feel alone when considering our life together. I troubled for some time on whether to write to you at all, given the circumstances of our recent departure, and settled on doing so if nothing else but to remind you of your ever-present occurrences on my mind. A mailman is set to arrive twice each month, thus my letters shall arrive long after I have written them, but as long as my words can reach your hands and eyes, then I have accomplished what I set to do. 

All of my love, my Sweet Henry

Coraline

Sunday, August 13th, 1916

Oh, my Henry

If only you could have accompanied me to this most whimsical state in which I find myself today, it far succeeds the dry isles and tall grasses of what was once our home. My view perched atop a hill so high the tallest of sycamores could not reach is that of the most lush green. It stretches as far as the eye can see, it feels almost as though I can see you from here. I like to think you would be proud of the little home I have made out of such a little shack, adorning the walls with laces and trims, it feels almost like the sunlit den we spent so many a night sitting together in. The way I see it, this will be my home for the next six months, and I should make the most of it that I can. It is a small space, barely enough for the two of us, with windows even taller than I stretching across every wall. I've occupied my work desk with a picture of us, to keep your beautiful face fresh in my mind, and a basket I intend to fill with paintings of everything I manage to see during my occupation here. Michael says aside from my watchful eye and keen ear on the radio, my only responsibility is to keep myself as occupied as I can muster. If you recall, he was the man stationed at my lookout prior to my employment, and he says Appalachia has a funny way of getting under one’s skin when one is found all alone out here. However, I feel as though there is a reason I felt such a calling to come out here. Not only have my eyes never been blessed by such a magnificent view of Mother Nature, but it feels like she herself is checking in on me. Just this morning, an owl, adorned in darker feathers than I knew them to come out, was perched on the ledge just a few mere feet from my bed. It just stared at me for what felt like half of an hour, before I had to commence my morning walk around the lookout. Michael says I have to do two a day, once in the morning, and once at night, though I quite look forward to them every day. Oh Henry, you truly would love it here. 

I wish you were here,

Coraline

Sunday, August 20th, 1916

Henry…

I've underestimated the sickness, the melancholy I feel in the absence of your presence. I do so wish to hear from you soon, if not but a sign that you miss me as I do miss you. I understand the harshness of our departure, the circumstances you are under. Your Mother always had such a temper with me, though for what reasons I never quite understood. But are you such a man to let another woman come between us? No, you are not, I know it. You said to me once that you loved me so strongly, in such a way that even death could not keep our minds or hearts apart. So why must I endure your silence now? When you left me, alone with that wretched woman, keeping not but your clothes and our bed company, I wrote back to you as soon as my hand had found ink and paper. For two years you had left me, and when you came back I was overjoyed. Why must you resent my absence in such a harsh manner now that I have done the same? You said even death could not keep our hearts apart. 

Awaiting youre writing,

Coraline

Sunday, August 27th, 1916

My Sweet Henry

My deepest of apologies. My mind has begun wondering much more than I had hoped, and I fear the somberness of my position has left me more resentful than I realized. Your Mother is a wonderful woman. You’d be happy to hear that I have kept up with my painting; I've completed one almost every day! The radio has remained silent, which Im told is good news, but it's left me with much less to do than Michael had warned. I suppose we live in busy and harsh times, and a fire is not of the utmost concern as of late, though I am employed for a reason, am I not? Yesterday, I stared at the trees for such a prolonged time that it felt as though they stared back at me, waving at me. In a way, they beckon me outdoors, to join them in their endless dancing. On my walk this morning, I ventured further than I had before. I found a small creek tucked between a fallen tree and a boulder that seemed too perfectly round for the natural world - a subject of my most recent painting - and decided to take a swim. Michael warned me that by September's arrival, the days would grow much cooler in temperature, and I wanted to take advantage of Summer’s last warm embrace. But then the most peculiar thing occurred. While I lay there, stroking the current as I once did that curl of your hair, a rustle in the brush just beyond my view jolted me back to reality. The density of the wood, the obscurity of my vision within it, I found myself struck by the realization that soon, I would find myself alone, long beyond the ability to be heard or seen. Initially, I dismissed the rustle, telling myself it was not but a squirrel or an especially noisy bird. But as I sat up, craning my neck to see where the noise had originated, I saw what looked like the eyes of a man. I squinted and tried to make out anything more - a nose, a mouth, a face - yet found only the gleam of two eyes, unblinking in the morning sun, and seemingly squinting back at me. Hastily I recollected myself and marched back toward the lookout, but as I turned my head, the gleam was lost. Hours later I've rationalized the wide eyes of a fawn, just as scared of me as I was of it, yet I cannot shake the rapid beat of my heart in the moment. Oh Henry, if only you were here. You always were so fond of shaking me out of such an irrational state. 

Missing your presence,

Coraline

Sunday, September 10th, 1916

Henry, my Beloved

For the first time in my residency here, I found myself not to be awoken by the creaking open of the mailbox down below my perch. I have yet to meet him, nor hear from him in any way, our only exchange being the flipping of the carrier signal, and the slamming of the mailbox lid. But on this morning, no signal was turned, and I offer my deepest apologies for my forgetfulness. You see, my sweet Henry, things have transpired within the last few weeks of which I found myself incapable of describing. The previous Sunday, the day on which I typically set aside as the day I write to you, one week from today, as I set out for my evening walk, I encountered, for the first time, another person. A woman. I had just stepped away from the lookout, heading in the direction of the setting sun, and once again heard movement caused not by my own light-footed step. I turned quickly, made nervous by my most recent creek partner, to find a woman, not hidden within the brush nor obscured by any distance, but standing directly before me. She stood perhaps one foot taller than I, and dressed herself most unusually - almost as though he had never seen another woman herself. She was dark in the face but was, and I’m ashamed to confess to you, my dearest husband, most beautiful. She introduced herself as Acantha, a name I was most unfamiliar with, and as she spoke to me, it seemed as though it caused her a good deal of discomfort - like it was the first time in a long time she had had to do so. She told me she was lost, but intentionally so, and seeking guidance on where to find clean water, a comment I noted as a good sign, as it signaled she was not the owner of those monstrous eyes by the creek I had thought I had seen not one week prior. I pitied the woman, as I could not distinguish her skin from the dirt caked upon it, and told her that, if she so wished, she could accompany me on my walk, and I would give her food and drink upon our return to my residence. Oh, Henry, I do feel sorrow for not shooing her away upon her introduction, but if only you could have seen the state I found her in. Her hair was long, but matted in such a way it seemed to all be sprouting from one follicle. Her nails were dark and broken, bending downward like the hooked talon of an eagle. We walked, and I told her of my reasoning for being here, that as men became increasingly recruited for more dire efforts, the role of fire watch had been entrusted to the housewives with little else to do. When I tell you Henry that she had never known of the great war occuring, it shocked me to my core. She seemed so cut off, so estranged from the modern way of life, I wondered how long it had been since her last contact with it, if not with another person at all. She spoke very little but reacted in a seemingly genuine manner to everything I told her. I told her of my Henry, and the reason for our separation, and I noticed a tear in her eye that she did not allow to trace down her cheek - perhaps at risk of washing the filth from her face that she clearly did not know how to disconnect from. It wasn't until we had returned to my home, and placed food and drink in front of her, that she began to tell me how she found me. She said she had been hearing whispers, and warnings of a woman at risk, and followed them to the beaten path I followed twice daily. I asked her what they warned her of, and what this woman, who I was safely assuming was myself, was at risk of. She turned her head away from my terrified gaze, her eyes intently set on something that was beyond my view, before turning to me, and pointing with one long, crooked nail, began reciting a hymn I had never heard before. 

“You are not of Mothered land

Brought to us by wretched hand

The Earth cries under your foot

Bringing drought, and plague, and soot

Your wretched death found in his eyes

Cursing life by his demise

Your God begone, unearthly song

Flee fast and far, 

Flee fast and far,

Flee fast and far,

Flee fast and far,

Flee fast and far..”

She repeated over and over again, her voice growing more strained each time, gargling on the spit that slowly dripped from her cracked lips. At this I could only stare in horror, knowing not what to say, what to do. I tore her from her seat, and shoved her, though admittedly perhaps too hard for such a clearly troubled woman, out of my home, resulting in her stumbling down the steps and landing in a crippled heap on the ground below. Stricken with remorse, I quickly followed her, to find nothing of her presence but the crumbs of the food I had not let her finish. Oh, Henry, I fear for my safety. I know nothing of this land, much less how to protect myself from it. I paced around my home, grasping at my hair and face, asking myself what she could have possibly meant. Was it a sick joke? Had she truly been warned to tell me of such a fate? Would she have behaved in such a horrible manner to any she encountered in her crazed trudging through the woods, or was she actually warned of me specifically? Henry, I know not what to do. I wish you were still here. 

Sunday, October 1st, 1916

I have lost all of myself except for my voice. My Henry, things have only gotten worse since last I wrote, and what's more, I have continued to make less and less sense of it all. The warnings that witch spoke to me, the whisperings she claimed to her, I fear I now hear them as well. They tell me to leave, to run, that I am not but a trespasser. I plead insanity. For almost three decades, I have known no such fear in my life as I have experienced within the last few months. The days remain quiet, with no contact from the radio, and no semblance of companionship aside from magpies during the day, pecking at my window, and owls at night staring directly through me. I remain stationary at all hours of the day. After this last week, I fear I am unsafe even going on my walks, as I once loved so dearly not a few weeks ago. My last trek outside of the lookout was just as the Sun was rising, quite later in the morning than before as the daylight hours grow ever far and few. It felt the entire time as if those buggy, unblinking eyes were watching me at every turn, yet not once was I able to lay my eyes upon them, as if turning away before I could even dare try to find them. The brush moves as if independently from the wind, and the scrunching of the orange leaves now scattering across my walk does not reflect only my movement. As I returned, having successfully, encircled my residence and having been fed up with the hair on my neck standing more vertically than myself, I realized I had wandered far beyond the trail, having lost myself in my constant turning and glancing at every sound. I spun around, trying to distinguish any kind of trail marker in which I could reorient myself around and by the grace of God caught just the glimpse of the roof of my home shining in the Autumn sun. However, I was much further down the way than ever I had been before, and with my destination in sight, I began marching up the hill as swiftly as I could manage without feeling as though I was fleeing from anything behind me. Just as I was about to finally step into the clearing, a few hundred feet from the steps to my home that would allow me the only safety possible for a woman in my position, I heard a voice, a man's voice, calling my name. For but a blink of a second, my fearful mind and hopeful anticipation prayed it was you, Henry, come back for me, saving me from the condition you left me in; the wife you left behind. “Henry!” I called, but I knew, even in my current state, it was not you. I repeated “Hello?” over and then over again, but all it said was my name, over and then over again back at me. I broke into a run, hiking up my petticoat and moving my feet as quickly as they could back to the lookout. “Coralina!” It said again, angrier, more monstrous than anything I had ever heard before as if the voice was that of 50 men, originating from a singular mouth. I slammed the door behind me, locking it in place. But oh, my Henry, it does not stop there.

That night, as I drifted off into sleep, my only place of peace, I awoke with a jump to a loud bang on my window, then another, and another after that. The banging grew loud and louder, reverberating throughout what I had grown to consider my home, my safest space, shaking every window, and I shaking just as much. I hid under my covers, like a little girl afraid of the monster in her wardrobe, waiting for the banging to stop. Eventually, it did, and as I lay there, breathing heavier than ever I had done before, I tried my hardest to rationalize that perhaps it was an especially persistent owl, trying its hardest to hide from the cool October nights. I reached out of the comforter and lighted the lamp I had been keeping aside my bed, to see a sight more horrifying than I could have imagined. On every inch of the lookout, even on the door itself, were handprints, splattered with force against every window. Whatever is out there, the same force I saw at the creek, the same force that evil woman warned me off, is trying to get in; trying to get me. 

My sweet Henry, I do miss you more than words can express. If you were still here, I know you'd keep me safer than I could ever manage for myself, if nothing more than reassuring me you would. Im not sure how I got into this position, what took me from you, or rather, what took you from me. I only wish it could all have been for naught. That you would have never have left me alone, and that I never would have left at all. This wretched place, my wretched mind, I fear it will be the end of me. 

Tuesday October 10th, 1916

If this is the last time I write to you, my most Beloved Henry, I now know what I must do. I forgive you for leaving me, I wish if nothing else we could have had just a few more years living as happily as ever we could. I know, whatever comes next for us, we shall not be together, for you are in a much better place, and I fear I have been damned by the Devil himself. 

Friday, October 13th, 1916

For this paper,  I'd like for you to write a creative response to the gothic stories, themes, or elements covered in class. However, this is not an "anything goes" assignment, since I want you to write a story informed by our class readings, writings, and discussions. Here are your options:

1)  A Missing Chapter: write a missing chapter to one of the works in class-either a missing ending, beginning, or something in the middle. This chapter should deal with characters and themes in the book, but should add its own "twist" that helps interpret the work from a modern perspective. For example, what might Elizabeth have said to the Creature?

3) Gothic Letters/Diary: a set of "discovered" letters that either start in the middle or break off before the end. Experiment with the epistolary form and the voice of a single narrator, and consider what we see and what falls between the letters (or letters that the writer responds to but that we don't get to see). Be sure that crucial information/elements are missing, and don't create a complete narrative-have it seem incomplete and mysterious (and thus Gothic!).

4) Write a Ghost Story in the spirit of Dickens or Victorian writers we've read in class.