Love Letter

This 11th Day of August in the year of our Lord, 1897

To my Darling Husband,

I pray this letter finds you in good health. I, personally, am in fine physical health; however, I must confess, I find myself doubting the sanity of my mind.

As you are already aware, for the last several months I have been engaged in the pursuit of a most insidious and evil entity: the Upir known as Dracula. Each and every day, since I left your side, I have dreamed of nothing but returning to you. I hold intense romantic notions of returning shortly to your embrace, and pray this will come to fruition.

I do, however, find myself questioning exactly what romance is. What is the source of romance? Is it a force that drives us to spend time with a person we think we could love? Is it the civilised motions we go through in order to justify our base animal desires for the person with whom we feel lust? Or is it just a simple compulsion?

Do you remember when we were courting? Romance was a stolen kiss, a fleeting glance. Romantic dinners abounded, as did long walks along the Thames. In those days, romance was a complicated mixture of lust and love.

Now, however, I find myself hoping that romance is a compulsion. I could not bear to live any longer if romance were rooted in true love or lust. The monster, Dracula, has compelled me. It infiltrated my mind during our last confrontation, and I fear I now hold a desire to romance this loathsome creature.

Tracking and destroying this abhorrent being is a sacred duty, imposed on me by the Iscariot Council and sanctioned by the Holy See itself. However, I now crave a confrontation with Dracula for a completely different reason. I wish to fall into his arms. I yearn to touch his pale face, caress his jaw. I cradle this desire to expose my throat to him, to feel his fangs pierce my flesh in the most intimate of manner.

I pray this new romantic notion has been forced upon me by a compulsion of the evil Upir, and isn’t a result of my own desires. I assure you, dear Husband, my feelings for you remain unchanged; however, with each passing day, I spend less time fantasising about my return to you, and more time dreaming of my next confrontation with the beast.

It is time to send this communication to you. My kisses remain yours, as does my heart. I must now confront this demon in its lair and exorcise it from my mind.

I assure you, dear Husband, that at the time of writing, I remain faithfully yours.

Signed,

Abraham Van Helsing.