The Trumsey Epistolary, Edition 1.4

Part II: Letters to God
Pretending is Fun

Dear Karen,

In response to your letter, I would like to state, for my sake, that I am not as powerful as you may think. You may think that I know all of the answers to this but I don't. There was no saving Alexander. And there's no saving you for that matter. Timothy and Stanley are gone from this place.

You will die for your sins, of this I am certain, but how? That, my dear, will be clear to us all in due time.

Your brother need not have died in vain…but to right the wrongs, to re-establish the balance, you will have to pay, Karen.

This is fun, isn't it? Pretending? Deception is your hobby. I hope you are enjoying yourself. Because others have suffered for it. And will suffer. Your recreation is the expensive kind, Karen. You're lucky that I can afford to provide for you.

Enclosed is my credit card. Please don't go over my limit. I have enough bills to pay as it is. You know what I mean.

Yours truly,
God

Part II: Letters to God
Wow, God is Powerful

Dear Earth,

When I awoke this morning I had no aspirations at all. To my knowledge I was going to go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go back to work. A plan not so well thought out but it had gotten to a point where I didn't have to think. It just happened. You could say, "unfortunately for him this was not the case," but I don't see any of it as misfortune. Just a change in plans.

This morning, there was a letter.

In the kitchen of my home there sits a table, square, faux oak, and humdrum. On this table this particular morning there lay a letter. A letter addressed to one "Edgar." The sender was "God." I couldn't let something so odd go unnoticed. When I pried open the seal a rectangular piece of plastic stumbled on the table. I peered inside the new empty envelope hoping to find some scrap of paper, some form of communication, but there was nothing.

I decided to see how powerful God was, so I went to the nearby mall. Upon entering the building, I was overwhelmed by blinding flashes of "Buy Me Now." So I did. I began running from store to store and purchasing anything that caught my eye. It became so frantic that I began to lose energy.

Collapse.

As I lie on the floor gazing up at the skylights on the roof of this mall, I thought to myself, "Wow. God is powerful." Then I realized what had just happened. Since when does something so despicable and worldly as money represent any sort of power, especially in the hands of God? I had committed the sin. I began to weep and stood to my feet. I walked to the rail and peered down into the courtyard.

I walked into a linen shop and made my last purchase.

I ******* hate the postal service.

Frank

Part II: Letters to God
The Sleepstalker Awakens

Edgar,

The Sleepstalker awakens.

Quentin Trumsey

Part II: Letters to God
Man Destroys God

Dear Father Miram,

According to prophecy, one will be chosen among many. This individual is sent to the ever-dying land to stir discord among the living, particularly those with whom the chosen was most entwined. This disturbance in the spiritual equilibrium causes the inconceivable. In the end, it is said, that man destroys God.

Charles Ramón

Part III: On Taking the Life of God
Part III: On Taking the Life of God

Part III: On Taking the Life of God
An Unsent Letter

My Dearest Karen,

Before I continue my letter to you, I feel as if I must say a few things. I feel as if it is important to premise what I write to you. In lieu of recent events, I wish to tell you that I am not angry and I'm sorry. Even though I know it is untrue, but I feel like it was I who dragged you into all of this. To me, the blood is on my hands… quite literally. For this, I am sorry. Nevertheless, what has happened cannot be changed. I am sure you haven't the foggiest idea what I am saying just yet, but you shall know soon, my dear. I will tell you what it is I am speaking of only if you know that I'm not angry…just slightly troubled.

Two days ago, I came into your home late a night, through the window. I had planned on surprising you by putting my mask on like older times. Suffice to say, you weren't there. I had missed my final chance to stay with you because of what I came upon there.

In your trailer, I discovered in you bedside table, an unsent letter to one Erica Friedman. I wouldn't have had the least inclination to let my eyes graze something usually personal if the name hadn't struck a chord. Of course, at this point, the acquaintance is mostly irrelevant, but know that it is a name I fear. Upon reading this letter, I realized you intentions and what they meant. I also understand now that whatever action you take is entirely out of my control. I understand my place as much as you do yours. That is why it ails me that it must be this way.

In my frenzy after absorbing the contents of your letter, I proceeded to scavenge the rest of the place. This is when it came to my attention exactly what it is you plan to do. I found your copy of the rituals and the prophecy, and, as you know your schematic shoved in it. At this point, I thought I heard the truck pulling up to the trailer so I fled into the warm Bolivian night.

I fell asleep very troubled, although today, I can't tell you why. I should have been prepared for this…come to terms rather, so much earlier. It plagued me and my sleep Karen; so I awoke just before dawn to drive. I did so many things that I have always wanted to do. But therein lay the stigma of contemplation. What will I say to Karen Trumsey? What could I possibly tell the only one I'll ever love about her decided actions against me?

I visited Rio yesterday and saw Jesus. I stayed with him crying at his feet for the majority of the day and it's only when the Brazilian sun set that I gained the flux of knowledge that ties all of this **** together. It was then I decided what I would say to you. It was then I knew that this is the right thing.

Dear Karen Trumsey,

May the Lord bless thee and keep thee.

There are some events that are fate, or the will of God, that no man can change. We, in turn, must accept these things and let them be.

If I am not dead before this reaches you, then come to me and know that with me, you will be safe.

Sincerely,
Charles Ramón

Part III: On Taking the Life of God
Here Dwells the Lord

Charles,

I'd almost thought you'd forgotten about me. It has been so long since our last correspondence. Something is forming within me, Charles. Something that was conceived on that warm Bolivian night. It was...heavenly, then. Whether the child within me is good or evil is yet to be determined. But his power will rival that of Jesus Christ. He is, after all, the son of God. I fear that Alexander will reach him somehow and use him to do his will.

Erica Friedman is a midwife that I have hired. She is known throughout Central America for her spiritual and holistic medical expertise. She is a mysterious woman, who speaks as though the entire world is on the verge of collapse. And it is. She practices a form of hypnotism that can, depending on the mother's preferences, obliterate or, in my case, intensify the pain of birth.

As for the others, well, if you are or were angry, I understand. I deserve it. I fucked up. Know that now, all that matters to me is you and my unborn child. Maybe you are not "God," but you are my savior. And I am the one who should be sorry. I am the murderess. I am the killer. This has never been my intention, yet it seems to be my calling. Everything will change, I know this. Cuando el sol cayes al mar, todo cambia. We will weather the maelstrom. I cannot leave this place now. I am bound to the soil here. Here dwells the Lord, and yes, he will bless us and keep us, regardless of our sins. No, they'll never catch me now.

Know that I miss you, and that we will be together in the end. When the world falls down, we will be side by side. I pray that I will see you sooner rather than later. Until that time… Te quiero. Adios me amor.

Karen Trumsey

Part III: On Taking the Life of God
Ya Estas Muerto

Charles,

It's lonely here without you. I spend my time thinking of you, and of our child. Please come back to me, Charles. Our son must know his father, and I must be with you. I cannot spend the warm Bolivian nights alone with only my thoughts and our son's faint, muffled heartbeat to keep me company.

Sometimes I sit near the river and watch the water flow by. I envy the river. Its rushing currents do not know what it is to wait, or to despair. They do not know fear or loneliness. The water is ever-moving, ever-twisting, always entwined within the earth, filled with life and connected to and needed by everything around. I, Charles, am filled with life, but I am alone. I am not connected, or moving. I am stagnant. And it does not seem as if you need me very much at all.

I understand that you must be confused and perhaps frightened at what you found in my home, but I assure you it is not what it seems. I would never hurt you. But I know those who would, and they will if we are not careful. Those who would wish to see dark time engulf the earth would wish to destroy you. I am not one of those monsters.

Perhaps it was foolish and dangerous for me to meddle in their workings but I only wished to understand their methods and plans so that I could counteract them properly. Please believe me. I love you, Charles, and I need you, and our little boy will need you.

I am worried, Charles. The opposition is strong, very strong, and incredibly clever. I am asking you to come back to me so that we can take this on together. They will come after me as well. I only hope my letter reaches you in time.

Si cuando recibes esta carta, ya estas muerto, sabes que te quiero.
Ellos no pueden ganar si continuamos viviendo.

Siempre,
Karen

Part III: On Taking the Life of God
Not One to Reckon With

Dear Charles,

We've never met, but I've seen you many times. Sometimes I watch her. I've seen the two of you together. And I've seen her crying, crying because of you, Mr. Ramon.

I love my sister more than I loved my wretched life. And if you continue to hurt her, you soon find that the Trumsey family is not one to reckon with. I assure you, Mr. Ramon, you have never experienced torture as cruel as I can provide.

Karen saved my soul and taught me what it meant to live, and also what it is to die. She is beautiful and divine. How she continues to love the likes of you is beyond my comprehension. But she does, and she calls you "God" and cries in the dark when you are away for too long. You are no god, Charles Ramon. You have no divine power, no control. Your smooth and suave demeanor is a façade beneath which lies a weak and twisted man, cowering in the dark corners of his own mind, praying that my sister will one day save him just as she has so many others. She will not. I would say that you are beyond any help , but nothing is beyond Karen's power. And yet she will not save you. Because before she could ever reach the time where you would see fit to call upon her, she will realize her terrible mistake in associating herself with you. I am not a naturally violent man, Charles Ramon, but I will protect my sister at all costs.

Alexander Trumsey

Part IV: A Brief Anecdote
Part IV: A Brief Anecdote

Part IV: A Brief Anecdote
To Whom It May Concern,

I've received your mail. It is most interesting that you've found such a rare book. It's almost difficult to comprehend finding such an unrealistic piece of literature. It makes others feel like you are lying to them… like maybe you aren't who you say you are.

I apologize for my cynicism on the matter, it's just that you came at an incredibly strange time. Not only did the unfortunate events with Alexander occur recently, but other dark affairs have had their way with my sanity as well. About two months ago, someone very close to me died. My sister, Sara, was killed outside of a bar in Trenton.

It seems like just when I begin to understand and have a vivid, unmistakable clarity that peers into an outwardly malicious world, something comes to starve it. When I begin to digest the beauty and comfort of the only place I know, there comes a disease to choke even feelings of apathy out of me. I am torn.

I am concerned, not for myself, but for the mentality of all those around me. My sister was a gorgeous little girl, not two weeks older than twenty-one. It may have even been her first time at a bar. I am troubled by those that litter the world with their violent capacity to do what this mother ****** did to her. I hate the ******, even if hate doesn't solve anything. If I found him, I would be very belligerent, very violent, and I would kill him… even if violence doesn't solve anything.

Sara was an artist. Immediately, you picture some fake girl with an outstanding hair color and piercings all over her putting together wire hangers and staples and other "fashionable" things to create "modern art," or what I call, "the same bullshit as before." Not Sara. Sara's creations were only for those who are truly perceptive to creativity. Whatever she was making or doing - she bled guile.

One of Sara's best creations was a video of me and her. We both still lived at home, with our parents. We had been smoking pot with a few close friends and Sara was simply taping. It was humorous to watch later, but Sara's art didn't emerge until later in the video. Everyone had gone home, and Sara and I lay down in the dim basement, just talking.

Sara moves the camera to my mouth as I speak and lets her smoke trickle past the lens. The filter inspired the feeling of a different kind of reality. Something that was slightly off… Not quite here.

"Sara, when are you going to open up to me? When are you going to trust me?"

She sighs and pauses. The camera rolls for a few seconds in silence, catching only brief twitches of my lips. Then, as she speaks, she discretely positions the camera to record just my eyes staring at hers.

"I don't need to trust you… I love you."

It was as if she predicted what the next shot would bring, and she crafted my emotion to display it. The tape rolled on my eyes spitting tears. It was the first time my sister said she loved me. And because she caught it, and because she knew, I was then aware of what she was doing. Sara waited and waited for the perfect moment to display her gratitude for my affection. The tape finally goes black after many tears and quiet sobs.

This is why she is an artist and I am very thankful that this video is here, intact. Now I know - not believe, but know that even in death, her spirit can capture the yawning root of my human soul the very same way her camera did.

Compared to what we're doing here, this is all a step in the shallow end, but there is a reason I want you to know. Among the two of us, Stanley and I, it me I who is the cynical bastard. But for once, the roles seem to be reversed. He has trouble believing in you, and after I received your mail, I have no doubt in what you can do.

I spoke to him, like you asked, and he told me about your dilemma. After my activities, I can say with full confidence in myself that I sympathize with you. I realize that it may make you angry that he told me and that I sympathize, but leave the cynics to me, dear.

I would like to try and provide some rationale, whether you believe it's because I truly care about you or otherwise - being you think I want to cover my ass. When we first corresponded, I was skeptical about many things, and just like you asked me not to, I told these things to Stanley. I understand that this was fully against your intentions. But here's my justification: Last night, Stanley and I went to a bar to talk about your mail and what we've experienced because of it. Down the bar, on a stool, was a very familiar looking face of a man that neither of us had ever met. I'm sure you get that sometimes - you are tormented by the otherworldly familiarity of someone that you can't quite put your finger on.

Anyway, this man approached us with a cautious swagger and when he arrived at our section of the bar, he leaned quietly on the counter right of Stanley. He told us, very calmly, that we were involved in something that we could never comprehend. That was the moment that I believe we both realized just who he was.

I'll put it like this.

"If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will sometimes gaze back at you." One of the greatest men to ever live said that.

I need to sleep. After Sara and Alexander, sleeping has become somewhat of a chore. A science even. I want you to know that I want to kill him, whoever he is, and if I find him, I expect you, and Stan, and Alexander to help me. I expect you to enjoy his suffering by my will.

If you care, Sara is okay. I'll return your mail shortly.

Sincerely,
Timothy Booth

Part IV: A Brief Anecdote
The Mother of God

To Whom it May Concern:

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time in Bolivia, there was a woman who lived along the banks of the Rio Madre de Dios, or the River of the Mother of God. Each morning this woman would walk a mile down the bank of the river and a mile back, thinking, planning. She was a beautiful woman, tall and shapely with hair as black as the warm Bolivian night. When the wind blew, her hair fanned out behind her like a banner flying proud over a castle. This woman, she was proud and strong. Her mind was like a fortress: impenetrable. So one could say that she was a castle in and of herself.

One day as she was on her morning walk, she happened upon a child sitting against a rock near a part of the river where the water grew rapid and debris from the forest swirled around in eddies like fence posts in a tornado. There the child sat, watching the churning water, staring with recognition and acknowledgement as if his own life was a mirror of that downward spiral. Strange, dark thoughts for small child of perhaps seven or eight years.

The woman had walked up to only a few feet from the child before he looked up. His eyes were black as death. He did not speak. Never before had she seen this child, and it was a strange occurrence to run into anyone alone in this part of the wild, let alone a small child. She might have thought he was lost if not for a certain presence about him that made it seems as if there was no place else he meant to be than precisely where he was.

The child stared at her unblinkingly, with a blank expression on his face. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft and high as any child's voice might be, yet it was strangely powerful and shadowed with a low, almost inaudible rumbling much like that of an earthquake.

"El rio da la vida, pero lo puede sonsacar su alma. Después…todo cambia."

Immediately the woman began cry, for the child's words seemed to answer the questions that had been plaguing her. In the past she had transgressed in ways that are not to be forgiven. Her transgressions necessitated further transgressions, and thus created swirling eddy of evil that would eventually consume her.

On her walks along the riverside she would plan and scheme of ways to escape her past, but each strategy included another murder, another deception, another destruction. In her heart she questioned whether she could ever escape with both her life and he soul still intact. But upon hearing the edict of the small black-eyed child, she knew that she could not. His words delivered to her the knowledge that she had no control over her life. The currents would swallow her. There is no escape.

The child stood still staring into the woman's eyes, but now he smiled. Yet his smile was no kind condolence but a mocking grin so full of amusement that there was no room left for even a glimmer of pity.

He turned and disappeared into the forest.

The woman drowned herself in the river.

El Rio de la Madre de Dios.

I'll leave that for you to interpret as you will.

Signed,
Timothy Booth

Unclassified & Addenda
Unclassified & Addenda

Unclassified & Addenda
Read Them, Consider Them, Process Them, and Ingest Them

Dear Friend,

It has been a long day. And as usual on such days, I am writing to you. I find it comforting, spilling my thoughts onto paper, knowing that you will read them, consider them, process them, and ingest them. Although, as I understand, you often find them hard to swallow.

Today's topic, my dear friend, is murder.

The dictionary defines murder as "the unlawful killing of one human by another, especially with premeditated malice."

Let us discuss. "Unlawful killing." Law is relative. If one individual were to kill another (with premeditated malice) in a place without laws, would it be considered murder? Would "murder," in the common sense of the word, exist? Such a harsh connotation is tied to the term "murder." Is this connotation due to the unlawfulness of the act? What began the concept of murder being negative? I believe that the view of murder as a negative act is related to the nature of the act itself.

Let me explain. Murder is a fascinating thing. It is a very demanding entity. It is a complicated dance of motives and actions. The participants must give equally in the matter. To kill another is to die. For the murderer is the victim and the victim is the murderer. They are bound in humanity. They are bound by mutual mortality. Both the victim and the killer are composed of the same substances and are sustained by the same life forces. Therefore, to commit murder is to accept one's own mortality.

This is (one reason) why murder is perceived as negative.

However, some might argue that to committing murder transfers one participant's (the victim's) life energy into the other, increasing their life, perhaps causing them to deny their own mortality. In such a situation, the murderer is indeed weaker than the victim. To conquer the fear of one's own mortality is, as I see it, the ultimate power.

And this is why I have chosen murder as my expertise, my profession, you might say. Although, it is more of a hobby, because I do not accept payment for my work. In fact, I don't much consider it work at all. It is something I enjoy, and although I could receive large sums of money for my pleasures, I do not. It is an art that is not to be cheapened by the evil of currency.

My world is one where the common laws do not apply. It is a realm that I dominate, that I alone comprehend. Religious and social institutions do not reign in my world. I fear not guilt, death, or damnation. I do not pity the victim or their associates. For death is a release, and sadness is a weakness.

Oh, my friend! I know that this sort of talk is not quite in your vein of interest, but I feel that perhaps these correspondences are more for my benefit than for yours.

Yours in mortality,
Edgar

Unclassified & Addenda
Addendum I

Unclassified & Addenda
Addendum II

***Note that the statements in parentheses are notes from the authors and were not originally a part of this transcript.***

Hudson County Police Department, New Jersey
Interrogation Archives
Transcript #112180

(Tape begins with click)

Officer Felworth: (Clears throat) What is your name?

Diane Schmidt: My name is Diane Schmidt.

Officer Felworth: And you are addressed next to one, "Stanley Sikes?"

Diane Schmidt: Yes sir, 165 Thompson Court.

Officer Felworth: Now, ma'am, I just want you to know that anything you say to me is completely confidential. Don't be afraid to tell me everything.

Diane Schmidt: Okay. I'll tell you whatever I know.
(Someone lights a cigarette, most likely Diane)

Officer Felworth: What is your relationship like with Stanley Sikes?

Diane Schmidt: We were acquainted I suppose. We didn't speak very often. He was friendly, if not a bit strange. Kept to himself mostly, but you'd never call him a recluse. He had a few friends that came by frequently, although they were never a noisy bunch… I know this may sound strange, but there was always an eerie feeling from that house… I got anyway, like it was meant to see some sort of disaster. I guess a double-homicide is as much of a disaster as you can get around here… Anyhow, these boys were thinkers, philosophers I guess. They spoke to me about some of the discussions they'd had although now I find it hard to remember what they had said. I think something that happened during one of their sessions most likely led them to where they are now.

Officer Felworth: I see. When the HCPD put a request in the media for any information, you contacted us and said you might know something about the death of Stanley Sikes. Can you outline that for me?

Diane Schmidt: Well, I'm not sure how much help this will be, but it's something, so I guess that's better than nothing. A few nights back, Stanley's friends came over as usual. There were two or three of them. The boy, Timothy… (Pause, hesitant)

Officer Felworth: Timothy Booth.

Diane Schmidt: (Quick start) Right, Timothy Booth, had a good deal of video equipment. I don't know if that was found inside. Anyhow, around nine-thirty that night, I heard a crashing sound and some shouts from the house. The commotion died down pretty quickly, so I didn't bother checking in on them. It was quiet there for the next few days. I believe it was three days later when there was a strange humming noise coming from the house. It only lasted about an hour, but I was afraid to check it out. The next day is when the authorities showed up and they were found dead… I never heard any gunshots or struggles, minus the brief shouting. I don't really know anything other than that.

Officer Felworth: Explain the noises you just described in more detail, in the order you told me.

Diane Schmidt: Well, I had been outside in my garden when I heard the first set of noises. First there was a crash like breaking glass or maybe the video equipment I mentioned against a wall or something. There was a loud screech or screams, but for only a few seconds when it stopped abruptly, followed by a few angry shouts. Those also stopped relatively abruptly. The humming noise was a low warble… To tell you the truth, it was unlike anything I'd ever really heard before. It seemed almost supernatural, and came from the direction of the room that the other noises came from. I think it was Stanley's bedroom. That's really all I remember about the noises.

Officer Felworth: (Skeptical) Not to invalidate your information, but what you said first caught my attention. You said that the first noises you heard happened while you were in your garden. The reports say that Timothy Booth didn't even arrive at the Sikes residence until around seven PM. Any reason why you were in the garden so late?

Diane Schmidt: Come to think of it, I had heard some noises just outside in my garden so I went out to find out what they were. I think it was a cat or some other animal. I saw something scurry quickly into the woods behind the house, but I couldn't tell what it was. I guess I was looking for the animal, or checking to see if there was any damage done to the garden when I heard the sounds from next door.

Officer Felworth: About what time was it when you heard the shouts and crashes?

Diane Schmidt: Around nine-thirty PM.

Officer Felworth: And the humming?

Diane Schmidt: Three in the afternoon.

Officer Felworth: Three PM the next day, you said?

Diane Schmidt: No, three days later.

Officer Felworth: Ah, I see. Now, I understand you may not be knowledgeable about A/V equipment, but what do you know about the items Timothy was carrying into Stanley's house?

Diane Schmidt: I know he had a tripod and a video camera. A carrying bag with some cords hanging out.
(The recording is stopped briefly and restarted)

Officer Felworth: Do you live alone, Diane?

Diane Schmidt: My son stays with me usually, but he's been away on a College Tour with his high school.

Officer Felworth: How old is your son?

Diane Schmidt: Sixteen.

Officer Felworth: And his name is?

Diane Schmidt: Alex.

Officer Felworth: Forgive me if I am getting too personal, but you don't have a husband that lives with you?

Diane Schmidt: (Diane is not offended by the question) Oh, it's quite alright. He, well… Passed away a few years back. He died in his sleep. They said it was, "Natural Causes." That didn't make sense to me, he was forty-five years old. But Alex and I are getting along just fine. He misses his father of course, but we deal with it. It has been almost three years.

Officer Felworth: That's unfortunate. I am truly sorry for your loss… To wrap it up, is there anything else you'd like to tell me? Anything will help this investigation Diane.

Diane Schmidt: Well, there was one more thing, but I'd prefer if it remained off the record.

Officer Felworth: No problem. I'll have to jot it down of course, but the audio can be - (The recording is turned off abruptly)

End Transcript #112180

Unclassified & Addenda
Addendum III