Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Conclusion

You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is the final episode.

Previously, Archie committed the ultimate sacrifice. Reeling from shock, Bridget lost her baby and her health began to deteriorate. Nevertheless, Archie completed the bridge on time, to much acclaim and fortune.

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Original photo by Jimmy Emerson on Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Diary of Bridget Katherine Craig, 5 August, 1793

I have seen Fiona. She has been coming to me for more than a week now. I first glimpsed her in the garden, as I was kneeling beside her brother’s grave. My heart leapt, for I thought at first that she had been returned safely. But when I got up and ran to her, she was gone, and I thought she must have been a vision conjured by my own longing.

She came to me again that same night, in my room as I made my ablutions. Silent and pale, she appeared out of nowhere. The door was firmly shut, and the window too high for a man to reach without a ladder, let alone a child. She could not have come in by any natural means. I knew her then for what she truly was, and all hope fled as the significance of her presence there settled heavily upon me. All the strength I had mustered and held together for her sake drained out of me, and I collapsed, falling into blessed unconsciousness. But even that brought me no peace, for I saw her in my dreams. Saw what had become of her.

I saw what Archie had done with her.

Oh, God! My poor girl! Even now I cannot bring myself to write it down. I cannot fathom nor bear thinking of the fear and torment this sweet child endured in her final hours, nor can I accept that this man to whom I had given my heart and pledged my life could do such a thing, to his own flesh and blood no less. But there is no escaping it, although I cannot see a way to live with it.

They say I slept for three days. I awoke just before Archie returned, jubilant in his triumph at having finished his accursed bridge. I could not bear to look at him, nor to hear his voice. I wanted to rage at him, to accuse him to his face, to raise my fists against him until all my fury was spent, as if there could be an end to it. But I did not have the strength. Weakened from not eating, still I had no stomach for food. Archie sent for a doctor, who found no medical cause for my failing health. I could not tell him the true cause, for who would believe me?

Now he says we are to move away from here. He has been given a promotion, and much work and acclaim await him at the nation’s capital. He expected this to come as happy news to me. He says the change will do me good, that I need to get away from this place.

Liar. It is his own guilt he wants to flee. But he cannot escape his own conscience. That will follow him wherever he goes.

I cannot go. I will not. I told him as much. I cannot leave my girl, and I will not go where she cannot follow. She has come to me, night after night, a beckoning specter, inviting me to follow her. I have resisted, but my resolve is wearing thin. What reason have I to go on living? I cannot go on like this, and I cannot see any end to it but to go to her, to join her and her brother in their rest. I may face eternal torment for such a sin, but it cannot be harder to bear than my current torment. Though I dare hope that I may be forgiven, for how could any mother be expected to endure such agony as knowing both her children have been taken from her by the hand of her own husband?

May God have mercy on him, though he does not deserve it. I offer myself as one last sacrifice to his beloved bridge and his coveted career, and in so doing, I pray that his conscience may be struck to such a degree as to bring him to repentance. Though I cannot forgive him, I hope yet that God, who is more gracious and loving than I, may grant what I am unable to give.

I have been forcing myself to eat these last few days, building my strength. It is a full day’s journey, and I shall have to go on foot. Archie has been invited to dine with the Mayor this evening. I shall slip out of my room and sneak past the servants. I need take nothing with me, for where I go I shall have no need. I should arrive at the river by morning, to lay eyes on this wretched bridge that has stolen my family from me and now serves as my daughter’s tomb.

I don’t know the way, but Fiona will show me. I am not afraid. She will be my guide.

God forgive me for what I go to do, and have mercy on my soul.

Diary, 20 August, 1793

I am a broken and wretched man. I sold my soul for mammon, and destroyed all that I held dear by my own hand. Let this diary serve as my last confession, and as a warning to whomever may find it.

I murdered my own child, sacrificed her to a bloodthirsty god to save my own reputation. I see clearly now. I had been caught up in a sort of madness, but that does not excuse what I have done. My wife, my love… she knew. Whether it was God or the infernal creature to whom I had given my loyalty who gave her a vision of what I had done, I do not know, but she could not live with it. She threw herself off the bridge and drowned in the waters below. Her broken body washed up on the bank next to where I had entombed our daughter whilst she yet lived.

She came to me even before her body was found. She, and our girl, and the babe we lost. They have been following me, appearing wherever I go, silent sentinels, watching and accusing. They are here with me even now, in this very room. I know that neither I nor they shall have rest as long as I go on living.

And so I offer myself as one final sacrifice. Not to the bloody god of stone who promised me the world and robbed me of my reasons for living, but I give myself for them, that they might find peace. It would be an easy thing if I were going to them to join them in eternity. Even now, in my wretchedness, I dare to throw myself on the mercy of Christ and beg His forgiveness, even as I prepare to take my own life. That cannot be worse a sin than I have already committed. But I will gladly feed myself to the flames of Hell that my loves may depart Heavenward and find rest in His arms. It can be no worse than this earthly Hell I have already conjured for myself.

God grant them peaceful rest in thy presence, and have mercy on my soul.

This diary shall be placed with my last will and testament, along with money for the solicitor to execute my estate. Whomever finds this, please deliver these to him.

I attest to these things being of sound mind and body.

Signed,

Archibald Stewart Craig

Historical Marker Beside the Yadkin River Bridge

The Yadkin River Bridge was constructed in 1793 by the firm of famed White House architect James Hoban and opened to the public on August 1^st of that year. The bridge helped to open the way for western expansion, providing passage for settlers into what was then known as the Southwest Territories. It is the oldest bridge in the Southeastern United States, and is one of the few remaining stone bridges from the post-Revolutionary era.

This bridge was adopted by the Caldwell County Historical and Preservation Society in 1956 in a campaign to prevent it from being torn down and replaced with a steel girder bridge. The society raised funds to restore the historic stone structure to its original condition and improve its safety. The bridge was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1992, and this marker has been placed on August 1, 1993 in commemoration of the bridge’s 200^th anniversary.

This concludes Sleep, Dearie, Sleep! I hope you enjoyed reading this experiment in gothic epistolary horror as much as I enjoyed writing it. Stay tuned next Monday, when I’ll do a debrief and provide some background on what inspired me to write this story, including real-life inspiration. I’ll also answer any questions you have, so if you have any, leave a comment, reply to this e-mail, or drop your questions in the chat!

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