A Letter To The Country - SCP Foundation

My Dearest Maria,

How is the farm? I haven’t seen it in so long. Please give my best wishes to Charles, Margaret too, if she’s still there. The produce in the city is so dull, and so if it’s not too much to ask

Dear Mary,

I hope life is treating you well. I apologize for my recent lack of letters, I have found myself rather busy lately

Maria,

I am writing because the night is much longer than it seems: sleep eludes me, the clock has not chimed for the past three hours, and I fear what I may think of if left to my own devices. So writing is all there is to do until morning finally comes.

There have been a few oddities in my life lately, and I argued with myself for an amount of time that I cannot discern over whether or not you would believe me if I wrote them down. I cannot force you to, but I hope you will understand and that my whole revelation has not been in vain. I will be the first to admit that I have shown certain eccentricities through my youth, and I am not about to say that I no longer have them, but I assure you that I am not making any sort of joke, nor have I simply imagined it, and if it is a dream then it is the most vivid one I have ever experienced. So all that is left is that either what I am saying is the truth, or I have completely lost my grip on reality. I will leave that decision to you.

The stars are wrong.

I initially came to this realization about one week ago after a brief walk at sunset. The rest of the day was quite mundane (I believe I have already told you about the tedium of my job and Mr. Hilbert, that insatiable hawk) except for a brief detour on my way home. I cannot recall what for, it is funny how things slip your mind when they seem trivial, but it led to me walking a path that I never recall seeing before. I could probably show it to you the next time you visit. Maybe. I have not been to that square since. I just have not found the time. It was a narrow alleyway, with a strange line of blue along the walls. I believe that is what caught my eye. I have heard of certain metals or paints that glow faintly, but I never expected to see them in person. So, with a newfound adventurous nature, I simply had to investigate.

The alley was darker than I had expected. If I did not have that line I presume I would have bruised myself against the wall more than a few times. Now, at this point I was certain that this was not the way back to my residence, but I could not live with myself if I did not see what was at the end. I suppose it could have all been some robber’s trick and that I was about to find myself held at knifepoint, but that never crossed my mind at the time. You may consider me quite foolish, and you would be right, but that made no difference at the time nor does it make any difference upon my current situation. However, I would say my foolish endeavor was quite fruitful, in a snese. Since I was watching the wall so thoroughly, I noticed any oddities in that blue line. So when I saw it abruptly cut out, I investigated further and found a smooth alcove, clearly cut by some tools, with a rounded top and a flat bottom. After feeling around the entire surface, I was so surprised by its manufacturing that I laid my hand to rest there for a moment. That is when I felt the ring. When I felt it, I was so surprised that I almost knocked it to the ground. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. Instead I felt the need to examine this item in actual light, so I rushed out the way I came.

It was sunset when I left the alley (I entered just after work, but I suppose that time slips by us all) and in the fading light, I saw disappointment in my hands. The ring seemed to be absolutely worthless. The band was some cheap metal clearly crafted to hold the gem rather than frame it, and the stone did not seem to be worth holding. It was pitch black and rather smooth, but so is basalt, and you do not put that in jewelry for a reason. I do not claim to be a jeweler, but even an amateur can make an observation as obvious as this. At least, that is what I thought at the time. But as I stood there understanding why this ring was simply left behind, the sun went down and the moon came out. That is when the true beauty emerged. The stone, perfectly opaque a moment before, appeared to fade into transparency. The same pitch black, but with white specks scattered about it. Suddenly this smooth sphere was more beautiful than any gem in the world. The change in figure was impressive, and the black and white mixture was pretty, but what made me speechless was the center, which glittered ever so slightly. This is not the sparkling of a many-faceted gemstone, no, there were no facets on this perfect sphere, instead, it was a part of the crystal itself. I stood there entranced for enough time to let the moon make itself visible over the roofs of the city. At which point I shook myself to sobriety and sprinted to bed, praying that I would wake up and this would not simply be a dream.

Oh, how whatever beings hear our prayers must have the cruelest sense of irony, for they began the day with a peculiar prank. When I woke up the next morning, the ring had vanished into nothingness. I swear I did not drop it, for I had gone to sleep with it on my finger, but it was nowhere to be found. Thus, my day sank back into the same routine as before. Except with two strange itches. One on my finger where the stone had previously sat, and one in my spirit where I ached for something that was only granted under the night stars, which I sought out hungrily. That is when I saw the blue line again. This time, it was wrapped around my finger. It had followed me. Is that something to be flattered by? Or scared of? I cannot say. But what I can say is that that line satisfied both of my itches at once. At least, to an extent. As I laid on the street staring up into the night sky, as had become a new habit of mine, I felt something missing. A discrepancy that I could not put my finger on.

It was not until the new moon yesterday that I had the final revelation. The moon had served to mask what I was looking for. It was a painfully bright veil that covered up the night sky’s true glory. The stars that lesser minds cannot see. The constellations that you will not find in any books, but know like an old dream. The white-feathered vulture, the thrice-spotted serpent, and the nurturer of thoughts, who has never left my mind since I first saw him. He lives there now, perhaps he lives in yours too. I presume you have seen these stars at some point in your life. The country air is perfect for gazing, and you are the wisest I know. It is likely, at least I hope it is, that this letter will awaken some long dormant memories inside you, and you can send me back one sharing my experience. Please. If you have indeed seen that man who ceaselessly clings the inside surface of one’s skull, tell me. I have begun to fear I am alone in my observation. Please tell me I am not.

I have not been able to forget that sleepless night of moonless watching, no matter how hard I try. The stars are wrong. There are no other conclusions. We have been lied to our whole lives, not by words, but by our very eyes. By nature herself, whose starry sky we saw every day, confident in those little specks. It is not fury that I feel, as most men would when faced with such a grand deception, instead I am faced with confusion. What painter put those horrid specks on the sky? What patron commanded it? But most of all, what audience accepted this fiction? I used to consider the common man to be wise. But if that is the case, how has this not been previously spotted? Perhaps there is a simple answer to my question. Perhaps these memories were awakened by the vanishing ring. Perhaps they will awaken in you as well. Perhaps they will not.

These thoughts have circled in my mind like the white-feathered vulture whose face I saw last night. Sunrise to sunset of this day were a blur. I suppose that the sun has lost its beauty when compared with the majestic stars. The true ones, not the ones that shine tonight. A month is too long of a time for me to see them again. Even this night is too long. Much too long. Sleep still eludes me, it has now been what seems like six hours since the clock has chimed, and all that I have left to do to keep my sanity is count the seconds until morning. Assuming they can even be counted. If the sunrise comes, may this letter find you well.

Love,

Roland