I wouldn't sail this ship if I were you
1. Dear Sir! I write concerning your letter to me of the 31st October 2015, which you wrote in reply to my letter of the 17th December 2015, which I am writing to you now, on the 30th October 2016. I feel we must communicate further on the matter of the cottage on the peninsula, which I understand you to be the rightful owner of.
2. It was in the woebegone depths of last Thermidor that I and my companions departed for the cottage, in the hope of overcoming our addiction to the French Revolutionary Calender once and for all by the judicious application of trees and stuff. But our idyll was not to last long before I was forced to confront once more my initial suspicions that the initially calm, peaceful Peninsula of Bloody Death might harbour some dark secret.
3. My first thought was for the lights in the sky, which some of my more susceptible companions claimed to be alien vessels bristling with a variety of rubber probes. Others of my companions pointed with fear at the wide variety of corpses in the cellar of the building, though I understood these to be part of the unique character of the place and exceedingly well formaldehyded besides, such that their odour hardly disturbed my rest. On the third night, however, a gentleman who might best be described as a zombie knocked at the door, and proved uniquely hard to disinvite from the property.
4. It was perhaps a stroke of luck that, as I understand it, the bosky slopes of the peninsula are inhabited by the sort of gentle, melancholic wolfy things who take quite an objection to the loitering of the wrong sort of undead. Anyhow, just as our unwanted visitor had begun to tear off sundry limbs and feed them through the remains of the bathroom extractor fan, a hairy chap of quite some momentum took him off in a Southerly direction, from which we later heard an exuberant crunching. Alas, it appears that our first visitor was poor fare; for the hairy gentleman returned in a state of considerable hunger. I and my companions had just removed the door of our cottage for no particular reason, and so we were forced to flee for our lives.
5. I am sure you will be most concerned to hear that we all at once fell over. As a young lady who has had and enjoyed sexual intercourse, you can imagine my surprise when the cold hand of the beast closed on my companion’s neck instead. In the confusion, I wriggled free! I was able to extract myself fully from my present peril by diving into a nearby bunker lit only by the dreamy glow of cerenkov radiation, and by slamming a giant keep out sign I found handily nearby over the only entrance.
6. Now, you will appreciate that during this fandango I had had precious little time to shave and thus it was that my first emotion upon bumping into my old piano teacher was pure embarrassment. This was swiftly replaced with the fast-blooming pity that one feels for those who have been newly installed with foot-long teeth and a deathly pallor. Mrs Bellingham (for it was she) affected not to remember our merry hours tinkling together on the jolly old ivories. Instead she expressed an interest in my jugular vein that I feel was far from polite. I had just begun a headlong sprint into the bunker’s inner bits when all at once I fell over again.
7. At first I thought that I had merely been reintroduced abruptly to gravity by the wrathful ghost of Sir Isaac Newton, who I dimly remember insulting one wintry morning in key stage 3. You can imagine my consternation, as a lover of the written word, to find instead that my ankle had become completely ensnared in one of my own sentences, which had looped around itself and become stuck in a particularly tricky conjunction somewhere North of Swindon. As the beast approached, I tried again to rise.
8. Here it gives me little pleasure to say that my companions were indeed right about the lights. Scarcely had Mrs. Bellingham begun to drain me of my lifeblood than she was snatched from this Earth forever by a tractor beam of such width and force that it quite punched a hole in the roof of the bunker, allowing me to escape and make my way to the nearest road. Here I relayed my story to a cadre of unbelieving agents of various agencies. Anyway, pending the outcome of the legal case I am not at liberty to say any more about my current circumstances, but you must appreciate my dilemma. I cannot in good conscience give a positive review to your cottage. I know I indicated to you in my initial communication that I had left my heart there. Sadly, I meant that in a quite literal sense. I believe it is in the drawer by the stove. If you could find someone willing to mail it to me, I would be willing to delete the negative comments I have posted elsewhere. Let me know?