In 1892, in New York City, a young coachman and a socialite fell in love and eloped to the former's small hometown in Massachusetts. I was born as a result of this affair, but our quiet and happy family life would be short-lived. My mother succumbed to an unknown illness a year after my birth. Her death was slow and wretched.

  During that time, the New England region was plagued by fear stemming from a phenomenon wherein the deceased supposedly returned from their graves to afflict the living, draining their lifeblood in a quest for eternal life.

  My mother had all the telltale signs of this disease—gray skin, hallucinations, and the obvious of all, an insatiable thirst for blood. Fearing the worst, the villagers exhumed her corpse, subjecting it to the ritualistic burning of her heart and other vital organs, before the ultimate act of removing her head.

  My father couldn't cope with her death. Consequently, he neglected my well-being, failing to feed me and clean me, leaving me abandoned in my crib without a single human touch. My endless screaming tormented the neighbor, who, driven to madness, forcefully entered the house. Upon discovering my frail self on the brink of death, she also stumbled upon the lifeless body of my father suspended mid-air, gently swaying back and forth, a rope tightly wound around his neck, anchored to a supporting beam in the ceiling.

  As my relatives on my father's side were too impoverished to take on the responsibility of feeding another mouth, I was sent off to New York City to be cared for by my wealthy maternal grandmother. She hated me with a passion. I figured her intense animosity came from her disapproval of my parents' union, as she regarded my father's social standing as significantly inferior to her own.

  In her eyes, my existence was a constant reminder of their ill-fated and ill-matched marriage. She also held the belief that I had been responsible for my mother’s death and that there was a monster that lay dormant in my bones. She was wary of being around me and avoided me as much as she could. Despite this, she fulfilled the fundamental obligations of care, ensuring that I received a respectable education, the assistance of a nanny, and an abundance of books. She also arranged for private lessons in tennis, music, and art to occupy my time.

  Aside from the deaths of both my parents, my childhood was uneventful until I reached my late adolescent years. The monster that I mentioned lying dormant in my bones...well, Grandmother wasn’t far from the truth.

  I fell deathly ill and was bedridden for weeks. When the doctors thought I was near death, Grandmother initiated funeral preparations and pleaded with them to show me mercy by putting me into a deep sleep from which I would never awaken. Beneath the remorseful tone of her voice, there lay a hidden layer of relief and joy. Much to her disappointment, however, I survived.

  As I gradually regained my strength, something deep within me stirred, and an insatiable hunger took hold. No amount of food could appease this voracious craving. What I craved was flesh... human flesh.

  A mere taste of it had been inadvertently granted to me when my nanny sliced their finger while preparing supper. The scent wafted through the air, irresistibly drawing me closer. My mouth watered, and I found myself unable to resist the primal urge within me.

  I took a small bite of her finger, and in response, she screamed and slapped me. However, I didn't let go; instead, I clung on tightly. My teeth sank into her hand, and I savored the delicious flow of her blood down my throat. The commotion in the kitchen caught Grandmother's attention, and she burst into the room, prepared to scold us for the noise. However, she froze in the doorway, petrified by the shocking scene that unfolded before her eyes.

  By that time, I had consumed the nanny's entire hand, and she lay on the floor, cradling her wound, as a growing pool of blood formed around her. I knelt down like a thirsty animal and lapped up the blood.

  Before Grandmother could strike me with the knife she had picked up from the counter, she suddenly collapsed, her body convulsing violently. Moments later, after the seizure had subsided, she found herself paralyzed. Her mouth remained twisted open, incapable of closing without my assistance.

  The gaze in Grandmother's eyes revealed an escalated animosity towards me, coupled with a profound fear, as she realized she was entirely at my mercy. It wouldn't be until years later that I learned that it was a stroke which had left her immobile except for eating and moving her eyes. She would spend the remaining years of her life confined to her bed. As for the nanny, I did what I believed was the best decision at the time—I compassionately sent her to be with her god. Her body provided me enough sustenance to satiate the hunger.

  You may be wondering why I let Grandmother live, despite her obvious disdain for me. While going through her legal documents, I discovered that I wasn't the sole heir to her fortunes; instead, she intended to donate it all to the orphanages.

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  It's ironic, isn't it? How could this frail-looking old wench be so generous to orphans, yet so cold-hearted towards her own orphaned grandson? I made arrangements to correct her legal documents, guiding her hand to forge her signature. Once all the required paperwork was signed and sealed, there was no need for her to continue suffering. After her death, I became one of the wealthiest young men in the city.

  You must be wondering where I’m going with this? And what does this have to do with your dearest Gabriela? I promise I’ll get to that point in my story. First, I want you to understand who I am... what I am.

  Since the day I had changed into this … being... I couldn’t rely solely on food that humans eat; I needed fresh blood. Raw flesh. How did I go about acquiring it? Well, to pay tribute to the old wench, I made arrangements for the orphanages to receive a generous monthly stipend in return for providing three well-behaved children every quarter of the year. The nuns overseeing the orphanages readily agreed, as they were burdened with an abundance of unwanted children.

  Word of my generosity quickly spread, warming the hearts of many who were touched by the idea of one of New York's most esteemed gentlemen taking the pitiful orphans under his care. It was seen as a noble and charitable act, offering the orphans a small advantage in life. This perception served me well, as everyone remained oblivious to my true intentions.

  My lambs, that was what I called the children—such delicacies they were. However, I didn't immediately eat them. I learned that the stress and fear inflicted upon a person tainted the flesh, rendering its taste too bitter for my palate. No matter how much I drank or rinsed my mouth, the unpleasant flavor persisted.

  And so, in the first few weeks of their stay with me, the three selected lambs would encounter luxuries and comforts beyond their wildest dreams. Once their guards were down and hope glimmered in their eyes, I would pluck them off, one by one. The taste of their tender, sweet meat surpassed that of an adult's.

  How did I explain their disappearance? I didn’t need to. And who cared to know? No one, except for one of the nuns who would occasionally inquire about the orphans under my mentorship. I assured her that they were embarking on world travels, experiencing the finest things that life had to offer. As expected, upon receiving another generous donation, she ceased her inquiries. Nonetheless, I remained diligent in keeping my gastronomic pursuits hidden from prying eyes.

  There was one child whom I spared, a peculiar little girl who caught me in the act. Instead of fleeing in fright, she boldly entered my feeding chamber and eagerly lapped up the blood that pooled around the lifeless body. She thirsted for it, just as I had on that fateful occasion when I first tasted it.

  This, of course, pleasantly surprised me, as I had never encountered another like myself. Her name was Sarah. She was born prematurely when her mother succumbed to the same illness that took my own mother. Thus, she too harbored the same monstrous affliction in her bones. I treated her as if she were my own flesh and blood. And in truth, she was. She was of my kind.

  Although I loved the girl so dearly, Sarah proved to be challenging to control. Her insatiable hunger surpassed my own, demanding a greater number of victims. As time passed, the nun grew suspicious and eventually reported her concerns to the police, though their response was lackluster, yielding no action or intervention. However, everything changed when my neighbor, Mrs. Pendleton, ventured out in search of her missing poodle, only to witness Sarah indulging in a macabre feast upon the lifeless creature.

  I feared that our lives would unravel, so I hastily packed our bags, and together we fled the city. Boarding the train bound for Chicago, and subsequently transferring to another destined for Los Angeles, we sought refuge in the anonymity of these grand locomotives. However, with each passing mile, my nerves became increasingly frayed. Paranoia gripped me tightly, rendering me on edge and dreadfully agitated.

  Sarah, my once-protégé, had spiraled beyond my capacity of control. There’d been a few passengers who’d gone missing or found dead, which immediately prompted authorities to investigate. And so, I did what I had to do to ensure my survival—I ate her.

  For decades, I wandered alone, never encountering another being like myself again. But then, one fateful day, I crossed paths with a young woman whose beauty evoked memories of my beloved Sarah. Intrigued, I surreptitiously trailed her, eventually leading me to your restaurant. Who was this young lady I’m speaking of? None other than your dearest Gabriela.

  She possessed a gentle spirit, always willing to lend a helping hand to those in need. One particular night, her true kindness shone through. I found myself wandering the darkened road on foot, lost in the shadows. It was then that she appeared, pulling her car alongside me and rolling down her window. With genuine concern, she asked if I needed a ride. Her compassionate gaze touched my heart, and I gratefully accepted her offer, expressing my desire to reach my humble home nestled in the valley.

  I regret to inform you that there are no remains for you to retrieve for a proper burial. I had drained every drop of blood from her veins and ate her flesh, relishing the succulent meat and rich fat. Even the bones did not escape my voracious appetite, as I sucked out every trace of marrow.

  If it is any comfort, Gabriela's soul now lives within me. You can see her. Come to the valley yonder.

  Sincerely yours,

  Fish

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