Scrawls of the Skin
Written By: D.S. Burton
Mar. 8, 1885.
DEAR NESSIE,
I apologise for writing late. I have been bound to the bathroom for some days, which, might I add, is terribly mouldy, cold, and resides in the basement where water leaks from the foundation of this shack of a house. I wanted to live uptown, by the theatre, but with no support from Mother, into this hovel I went! On that note, how is she? I hate to keep speaking through you, though she has not written since I left.
I know I just wrote to you about the extra money, but I do not know if you have received it. I was fired due to my absence with the stomach flu. I hated that long-snouted company chief anyway. Being a peddler was no good for me. No one cares to see you and I am sick of speaking so enthusiastically of those dull, dull products! I have spent some time in the employment columns, and I think I will approach the theatre come Monday. They are looking for a new dramaturge! Do not laugh like you do. I will also apply for the stagehand position. I still have both of mine, so I could fit in there, too.
About my health, the flu still has not passed. To make matters worse, my bathroom pipe burst just this morning, and I cannot afford to fix it. Just a few hours ago, I was forced to demean myself to the outhouse in my backyard, which I suppose I am to become acquainted with for the time being. It is composed of thin wooden boards nailed together, dark and putrid like something long dead had defecated. I will not describe in detail my movements in the hut, for they were long and painful, but I will note the worms and insects that writhed around my feet.
When my stomach had settled, I exited the confined, airless outhouse, and noticed the uncanny disposition of my back yard. The grass was grey and overgrown from the lack of tendance. It was then the flapping filled my ears.
I had never heard such a deafening noise, the horror swooping in madly. As I whipped around toward the bedraggled outhouse, something like a million moths emerged from the night. I had thought them first to be white moths, rising from the woods, their coats pale and ghostly. I checked over my shoulder to ensure I had not left on the basement lights, that they were not being drawn toward me. But as the swarm neared, hovering lower to the ground, I was overwhelmed. Their little heads and wings were macabre, torn and patchy like ripped cloth. The leading moth landed on the tip of my nose and I toppled dismayed onto the grass.
The others then enwreathed me.
As I was engulfed by those thousand moths, I felt they were not of moths’ texture, but rather sleek and thin. Their paws and mouths were not fuzzy, but fleshy. Their papery legs folded inward as they covered my lower half. They have still not reached my face, and I was able to discern, despite the dark, the nature of these creatures. They appear to be made of skin: filmy and rotting all over. It is human skin, by the looks of it, and they have begun to eat mine off the bones!
Fear not, it is not as painful once the skin is off, and over the course of this letter, many have flown elsewhere; only about a fifth of the flock now remain. I suppose their stomachs are full, or perhaps my neighbour is outside! Regardless, the skin from my feet is mostly missing. My shoes may as well have disintegrated! They are moving up to my stomach now. I fought off a pack for my leg skin as I remembered I had yet to write to you to-day. In fact, I am scrawling this on the skin of my leg, which they tore off some minutes ago—I am writing very small—and hope I have enough room to tell you all I need! I have just passed the skin of my knee (which is quite obtrusive when exposed), so I presume I will be fine.
Oh! One moment.
I am writing now after a brief hiatus. The fleet began to nip at my skin-paper! I apologise if this reaches you a bit tattered. I realise I have been writing for a while, and I have not yet gotten to the point of my letter. I have wanted to inquire about my letters. Are you very busy? Why have you not returned my letters? I am trying to be polite, but I have spent some time—between my lurching over the toilet—crying about this, and I can no longer take it. Why have you not written back? I demand an answer! I know how miserable Mother is, but you? I have been gone for six months. Was that time enough for you to grow as wretched as her?
I apologise for that. I did not mean it. I would scribble out my words but I hate to be ingenuine. I simply cannot understand it. I write to you every few days, I octuple-check the address, I pay every cent for the stamps! I know you have gotten them; my letter box is empty!
Sorry, the wind ruined that “y.” My lawn is no desk! I do not mean to get angry, I just miss you. Write soon.
That is all I can say for now. I am running out of skin and roughly fifty moths are consuming my right arm. It is growing difficult to write, and I would hate to spoil my legibility. Hopefully I can get this letter to the post before they close! Inform Mother of my love and solicitousness, and let her know I mean it.
Your affectionate brother,
REGINALD.
D.S. Burton is a horror and weird fiction writer studying creative writing at the University of New Brunswick. His fiction appears in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, On Spec 2026: New Canadian Literature of the Fantastic, Crow & Cross Keys, Dead Ends: An Anthology of Suburban Gothic Fiction, and elsewhere. Learn more at dsburton.com