We received an angry letter from a nuppefuho yesterday. The letter left two members of staff with serious paper cuts and berated another into a sobbing mess before I halted its rampage. I had to impale it on a wall with a letter opener. Then I had to find a second letter opener with which to open the still twitching and frothing letter, and really who normally needs two letter openers?
Frankly, it was pretty disgusting. Nuppefuho are Japanese goblins made of discarded human skin. They start out as featureless blobs, but as they slowly add more and more skin the folds start to form faces, arms, digits etc. and they eventually become sentient. There is no obvious start or end to a nuppefuho, just an unceasing, stinking mass of folded skin. The letter itself appeared to have been made from a young (or at least small) nuppefuho which had been hammered flat by its larger relative, and despite its small size it still had every bit of the famous odour of a full sized skin goblin.
When translated from Japanese the letter was a long list of complaints about the Archive, starting with its Euro-centrism (apparently) and ending with the deplorable self-centred nature of our reporting on threats to the Archive’s existence from nascent deities. Reading between the lines, the main offence we have committed is not spending enough time feeding the vanity of nuppefuho by writing articles about them, but since they are a generally unthreatening (even boring) unnatural phenomenon there has never been a particular need to until now.
To discourage narcissistic goblins, or indeed idiots of all stripes from sending dangerous letters to the Archive in search of attention we have returned our own angry letter to the original writer. Only about 10% of the body mass of a nuppefuho needs to remain undamaged, so we expect it will survive.
On a more personal note, did anyone else hear the screaming in their dreams last night? At least three of us at the Archive remember dreaming about the screams. It sounded like someone having nails pulled, the last screams on a malfunctioning rollercoaster, or the sound a soul makes when a sample of it is extracted. It wasn’t close by, there was a lot of distance to the screams, we all agreed on that, and the source was hidden.
If you enjoy the story please leave the author a comment, as this makes him very happy. You can also help the Archive vet its incoming letter more carefully by voting at Top Web Fiction.