So here we are.
I know that this web...blah...log is not as sophisticated as, say Letters of Note (one of my favorite places to visit while on the Internet), but what if I were to dig up a completely fabricated letter that was never sent to Bram Stoker? Would that class up the joint at all? Huh? Huh?
Well, you’re getting one anyway:
1 November 1896
My Dear Little Stokey---
I send you this final missive to beg you not to publish the manuscript you shared with me on 5 September.
Why must you bring my being into the harsh light of day? Why must my tale be told? And more important, why do you equip the reader with such specific knowledge of how to destroy me and my kind? It is akin to a newspaper reporting the secrets of an army’s movements, not realizing that the enemy’s penny is equally accepted by the paperboy.
Or do you, truth be told, wish my demise? Well, that’s just great, Stokey. I spared your pristine neck for what, your lousy cooking? That pocket watch you gave me on my last birthday? Setting me up with your cousin? If ever I should have drained your essence, it would have been after that horrible date with Jacqueline.
I know, you have assured me time and again that this tome is not really about me, and that you changed some of the names and details, but once people read it, they’re all going to know it’s me. You describe the castle in very accurate detail as well. What do I do then, when the fans start rubbernecking (no pun intended)? Charge admission?
And while I suppose I can retreat into a darker level of existence and make myself scarce (for I do so love to live in shadows), I do have serious concerns about the book’s aftermath. It’s not so much about my own safety, but about my reputation in general. I fear that your words have shaped me into a bit of a caricature of fright than the tragic character of depth that you and I both know I am. I can easily imagine being mimicked come Hallowe’en. Do you want that for me? Young ones running around in capes, exchanging my dignity for sweets?
This is what I fear more than anything, Stokey. I fear that you are boiling my traits and quirks down to a creature that is so horrifically broad that it will no doubt be imitated and parodied someday, possibly even in the form of puppets, or breakfast cereal. I exaggerate for dramatic effect, of course, but how else to drive home this point?
It is not easy to be undead, Stokey. I know this better than any mortal. I implore you to not rub this garlic salt of a novel in my wounds. I wish you success in life, my dear friend, as you are a gifted writer, but why must you delve into my darker adventures? Why don’t you instead tell the tale of that crazy winter we spent in Prague, when we shared your uncle’s cabin with Lady [Redacted] and Countess [Redacted]? There were glorious misunderstandings, and many hijinks of an outlandish variety, and a complete lack of death.
Please Stokey, reconsider a rewrite. At the very least, change my name. Don’t make me have to persuade you in person.
With increasingly reluctant affection,
Ah, there’s nothing like ridiculous fiction-on fiction. (And despite what you might think, two fictions do not make a fact.)
Yes indeed. Welcome to me.
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