Aleph Ophelia

DQ.,

On your advice, I rode out far past the gates. Slightly farther than I intended to, deep into untenable fog and darkness. Our castle is not state property and can only be visited through the kindness and permission of its owners. It is one of the few privately owned fortresses remaining in the world, which perhaps explains why I rarely leave it. Having done so, I feel that I make a better ancient monument, and owe much to your noble suggestion, despite my fear of thieves, and strong feelings of disgust at the rotten apples I found clingling with relentless vigor to the souls of my fresh riding boots. They were stitched by Rolf of Regensburg, where there is only one inn. Staying overnight, friend traveler, I do not recommend. I have heard of regular seances there, in which borrowed items change in their relationship between persons and things. It is much the same with these letters of ours, don't you suppose? Borrowed and kept items (I at least keep them), from which hearty agons emerge, fully blown from the most minimal narrative pretexts.

Speaking of which, I cannot see how this girl even remotely resembles my sister. Ophelia, whom we have always called Aleph around the house, has been sent to a hospital in Zurich. I have refused to visit her on the ground that I must take extreme caution when dealing with all matters of psychological ... phenomena. As you no doubt realize, a lot has circulated about me (none of it true!) and if I am ever to help aid her healing, I mustn't bring any of my own list of supposed sicknesses into her resting quarters. Aleph is not only a talented madperson herself, but also served as secretary to the Danish Society for Advanced Aquatics before falling ill. I have heard from Uncle C. that the hospital is aristocratic in design and appearance, and stands in a spot where Aleph can see much of downtown Zurich. She has even sent me a drawing, showing a square, heavy-set stone structure with three stories, and a mysterious attic above the top story. In this attic, there is a window that doesn't want to stay closed - so she reports - and I understand that her attendants have a hard time keeping her away. She is determined to fall through the gap, they say, and fear that the foliage in the garden will not suffiently protect anyone foolish enough to defenstrate themselves. These stories depress me. Especially since the only company poor Aleph can keep - apart from the staff - consist of wounded soldiers who have come there to die. She has sent me the cap of one such warrior, and I wear it even as I write, unsure of whether this man lives or dies. I must admit I am unsure about dear Ophelia too.

A strange thing happened to me on my way back to the castle. Pausing outside the gates, I bid my men to copy me as I scraped rotten apples from my boot against the gate wall. Darkness and fog crept everywhere like an ethereal machine moving with libidinal intent beneath bedsheets of moon. Suddenly, an apparition was upon us. "A ghost," said one of my men, pensively, playing with the dreaded word. But upon this, I can say no more. I've heard a rattle at my door!

Anon!

H.