The letter is in in neat hand, with instructions to be opened in Cairo.
Spoiler:
Sir,
I write with a hand that is both reluctant and resolute. By now you are well on the way to the heart of the dark continent. I write to elucidate; for I Suspect, nay, know, it is darker than you conceive or anticipate.
For many years now, I have heard disturbing tales. If heard in isolation, I would pass this of as feverish fancy, brought on by tropical disease; or mayhap the distortions of thought and judgement brought on by the prejudices of the English educated mind that might unduly incline the dull of intellect to an unpalatable view of our African cousins. At worst, I might consider such tales as isolated horrors, of the occasional degenerate and ignoble savage.
But I fear a pattern is emergent. Not enough for the pale comfort of certainty, but rather the kind of gnawing concern that preys on a man, twists his thoughts and plagues his sleep. Alas, I wish I had never read the unwholesome pages of the Necronomicon; I will not speak of the words, for wide and deep are its horrors, and I urge you never to succumb to the urge to peruse its text as I did. But of this I will say, the tales I hear from deepest Africa resound with the words of the mad Arab.
Enough. I will not plague your mind further. But I would ask this of you; that these rumours be determined, the foundation and truth examined. I pray that I am but a mad old man whose wit is decaying, and though that would be a most disagreeable affair, it would still be preferable to the alternative. If such unnameable horror is truly alive, and not merely fancy of imagination, then it should not be disturbed – for it has slept in the deepest recesses of Africa, and should not be awoken!
Enough! I would not sap your will further. Fortune smile upon you, and be stout of heart!
I write with a hand that is both reluctant and resolute. By now you are well on the way to the heart of the dark continent. I write to elucidate; for I Suspect, nay, know, it is darker than you conceive or anticipate.
For many years now, I have heard disturbing tales. If heard in isolation, I would pass this of as feverish fancy, brought on by tropical disease; or mayhap the distortions of thought and judgement brought on by the prejudices of the English educated mind that might unduly incline the dull of intellect to an unpalatable view of our African cousins. At worst, I might consider such tales as isolated horrors, of the occasional degenerate and ignoble savage.
But I fear a pattern is emergent. Not enough for the pale comfort of certainty, but rather the kind of gnawing concern that preys on a man, twists his thoughts and plagues his sleep. Alas, I wish I had never read the unwholesome pages of the Necronomicon; I will not speak of the words, for wide and deep are its horrors, and I urge you never to succumb to the urge to peruse its text as I did. But of this I will say, the tales I hear from deepest Africa resound with the words of the mad Arab.
Enough. I will not plague your mind further. But I would ask this of you; that these rumours be determined, the foundation and truth examined. I pray that I am but a mad old man whose wit is decaying, and though that would be a most disagreeable affair, it would still be preferable to the alternative. If such unnameable horror is truly alive, and not merely fancy of imagination, then it should not be disturbed – for it has slept in the deepest recesses of Africa, and should not be awoken!
Enough! I would not sap your will further. Fortune smile upon you, and be stout of heart!