I felt the wall at my back. I had nowhere to go as a t, now two feet tall, pulled back its dagger-tipped arm and swung for my hip.

My disbelief, and the sheer absurdity of what I saw before me, froze me in place. I did not even brace myself for the coming impact. I watched, ready to feel the stiletto strike of the letter. In a flash of madness I wondered if it was one of the ts from my title.

The t sliced through my coat as effortlessly as sheers through silk. But, as it thrust deeper towards my skin it burst into a puff of black smoke. Other letters, grown larger still, made similar strikes against my person but met the same end. I flinched each time. And then I noticed a hotness against my chest: my crucifix. I pulled open my shirt as more of the animated ink ended itself against my ward. The plain wood of it glowed as if on fire, and was just as hot to the touch.

I pulled hard, breaking the necklace, and then thrust forward Christ on the cross. I will admit the act of exploding the would-be assassins generated an almost childish exhilaration in me; so much so I was cackling uncontrollably by the time I had banished them all and the paper lay still. I remained triumphantly manic for a good few minutes, prancing here and there in the room like a prize-winning cockerel. I stamped on the letter, waved the crucifix, and even jumped onto the bed as a kind of territorial claim.

After longer than I’d care to admit, I regained my breath and composed myself. I stepped down and smoothed my hair. A cloud of acrid smoke hung at the ceiling so I crossed to open the window and, using my now hole-ridden coat, did my best to clear the air.

With my crucifix still in hand, I picked up the letter from the floor. No more assailants sprang forth. Very few words remained intact, the cursive letters streaking sporadically and insensibly down the page. I looked for a pattern there, or words left behind, but quickly found none. The blocky words I had struggled to make out at the bottom of the page were gone, the letter now ending in Mrs Eder’s almost complete signature.

I sat on the corner of the bed and stared at her name. It would be a crude practitioner of witchcraft that signed their name to their abominable arts – crude, or arrogant. However, I couldn’t be sure that it was her hand that brought the ink to life; I couldn’t be sure of anything, not really. Perhaps, had I still been writing my letter to the chief inspector, it would have been my own words that turned on me. I would attend Mr and Mrs Eder’s formal dinner, but I would do so with open eyes and my crucifix firmly in place. It was no ordinary necklace, but blessed by his holiness the Archbishop of Reikova himself. I would grace the next collection plate I saw with every kreer about my person, that I promised.