Disclaimer: These letters are fiction. They are meant for entertainment purposes and are only loosely based on real killers.
Good day fellow lovers of the macabre. Your favorite collector, Craven, here and I have dug up a rare beauty. You may know the name Ed Gein. He was the serial killer Norman Bates and Buffalo Bill were based on. Gein was one rather twisted specimen of a broken human condition. Any chance I get to snag a Gein collectible, I jump on it. In my vault of vaults I have a letter, written to Gein, by a name unknown to all but the most discerning purveyors of a particular dark art. Killer missives.
He was the serial killer Norman Bates and Buffalo Bill were based on. Gein was one rather twisted specimen of a broken human condition. Any chance I get to snag a Gein collectible, I jump on it.
In my vault of vaults I have a letter, written to Gein, by a name unknown to all but the most discerning purveyors of a particular dark art — Killer Missives.
This letter, I believe, speaks for itself.
You do not know me. Up to this point, there was really no reason for you to know of my existence. But I have been with you, around you, and inside of you for a very long time. You could well say I was the creator of your monster. For that, I enjoy such pride and comfort. Let me explain.
I am not a killer, per say. Though murder does occur at my hands, what I really am is a maker of beasts. I have spent the better part of my adult life giving men the inspiration and the motivation they’ve needed to allow the manifestation of their own personal devil to come forth. I have done this on many occasions, but to this date, my most magnificent creation was you.
When you were a child you felt a strange presence in your life. Some haunting ghost, just on the periphery of reality that gazed upon your every move. The unnerving presence glued you to the side of your mother. Under her skirt, you felt protected from the world. That skirt would haunt you, infect you, emasculate you. But that skirt would not hide you from me. And it took more than a letter here, a rumor there to get your mother to beat you and treat you as the failure she suspected you would become. Little did she know the power you would soon hold over her.
My first goal was to remove from you the things that brought comfort to your life. School was the first. You would be surprised at how much torment a young boy will inflict upon another for little more than a piece of candy. Your fellow students lovingly referred to me as The Candy Man. Those boys were sweet… until they were given the power to thrust you under their heels. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them mock you, beat you, piss on you, and turn you into little more than their toy.
The next phase was to take away what little solace you enjoyed at home – your family. First was your father. His heart attack was brought about by two simple chemicals: Potassium Chloride and Calcium Gluconate. Your mother despised your father and although his removal eased some of her mental suffering, it also removed a larger target for her vitriol and hate. Dearest mother could now focus on you and your brother (and only refuge) Henry. It was a shame how he accidentally died in that fire. Another heart attack? The reports would seem to conquer. What I really wanted to do was burn him alive. Imagine how that would have felt, to see him burn and scream your name. The boiling and popping of his skin would be a music accompanied only by the hiss of steam rising from his mouth. His screams would be silenced by nothing but the hand of the Grim Reaper. Only that’s not what happened. I wanted to make sure there were questions about his death. How did such a young man die of a heart attack? And what about that mysterious bruise on the boy’s head.
The effects of losing your brother were felt immediately. Your entire world was shattered. When you picked up the pieces your life was then centered around an abusive mother that you adored and, in many ways, thought of as your one true love. She would beat you and berate you – and you couldn’t get enough. You wanted her in ways you shouldn’t have and you knew it. Those impure thoughts drove you mad with lust and guilt.
Augusta Gein’s death was a masterful stroke. I gave you enough time with her to develop an obsessive relationship, such that when she was no longer a part of your life, every breath of hate turned inward. It was at this point your mind bent and twisted. You were no longer Edward Theodore Gein, but simply Ed Gein. A monster. My interaction with your life was no longer needed. You were now sport to me and I could sit back and watch you play. And play you did. You killed and you maimed. You consumed and you raped. It was a living art I may never witness again.
When the authorities finally arrested you and released the list of the human pieces they found in your house, I felt like a proud parent. Your trophies were my victories:
- Four noses
- Whole human bones and fragments
- Nine masks of human skin
- Bowls made from human skulls
- Ten female heads with the tops roughly sawed off
- Human skin covering several chair seats
- Mary Hogan’s head in a paper bag
- Bernice Worden’s head in a burlap sack
- Nine vulvae in a shoe box
- A belt made from female human nipples
- Skulls on your bedposts
- A pair of lips on a draw string for a window-shade
- A lampshade made of the skin from a human face
Once your monster was released into the world, I knew your reign of terror would quickly burn out. But while it lasted, it was a thing of such powerful, sensual beauty. Thank you Edward Theodore Gein, for bringing a joy to this man’s life he has not felt since your capture.
Your monster now lays dormant, tucked neatly away from society in the Mendota Mental Health Institute. I’ve visited you time and again – my last and final stop was to deliver to you this letter. But now, I have a new monster to deliver to the world. His name, Jeffry Dahmer. The two of you would have made wonderful lovers.
Gil de Mewes