The Poet’s Blood
The madness is returning...
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been a long time since we conversed, and I find myself thinking about you often.
What fills your time and your thoughts? Do you think about me, Christian? Do you think about Tommy and Veronica? Have you been back to your mansion, or are you afraid to go inside? Do you keep it quarantined in a corner of your brilliant brain, hoping the darkness inside you will never break free from the barriers you have built?
I imagine the FBI will be coming to visit you soon, if they have not already. I doubt that you pay close attention to the world outside your prison cell, but I do.
Outside of your walls and my own, the world is continuing to spin, and people continue to be murdered. This has always been true, but something has changed. I am nearly positive it will bring the FBI to your prison to ask for your help. Perhaps beg for it.
You see, Christian, the elites are dying. Not the criminals and the destitute, but those who create the laws that put you and me inside these cells.
Yet, it is worse than that. It is not the congresspeople who are being hunted, but their family members. Their children and grandchildren are being murdered. Who knows where this killer will draw the line?
The FBI lacks the talent to capture this killer, that I feel quite confident about. You, however, have everything that is needed to catch him—if you want to. What will you do when the FBI come calling? Will you let them in and listen to their pleas for help?
Will you venture back into your mansion and face the horrors waiting there for you? I know you have not killed them. Will you risk letting them infect you again, or would you rather let innocents die?
You know me, Christian. I do not lie. I promise you, they will continue dying.