View source for Lillian's Letter to Her Unborn Child

Dear Darla,

So. Your not-very-functional brother is about to climb a mountain in Thibet to try and kill an enormous alien from the great beyond. I've given Jeremiah (he's back from the dead) this letter -- he's supposed to mail it if I croak while I'm up there.

Hopefully I won't croak.

(Right! So if you're getting this, I'm dead. Good news, everyone.)

I've named you and Isabella my next of kin, along with Jeremiah Andrews; Jeremiah Andrews is actually Jeremiah Rhodes, the man I was living in sin with in that apartment in New York. 

You're the executor on the will though, because unlike Isabella, you know what's going on here, and unlike Jeremiah, you're stoic and stolid and all those admirable qualities people are supposed to be when dealing with adverse circumstances (also you're not legally dead, which Jeremiah is, kind of, but it's complicated. Hopefully Vito's made all the necessary arrangements).

Enclosed are the locations of all my creepy mythos notes (handily labelled with what notes and viscera are actually in each place), as well as keys to anything I've written in shorthand or code. Keys (the other kind) to the antique shop I've left with Jeremiah. There's also a copy in the safety deposit box.

I don't need you to finish this. The mythos will fuck anyone up good given time, I'm only lucky I was fucked up good in the first place. If I die and the rest of my group doesn't, all my notes and most of my money will pass on to whoever survives (that, and a lot of stuff's going to Jeremiah). If we all fail and die, you'll need to deliver the creepy stuff to Lillian's Aunt Anne (or failing that, some people Joyce knows in Massachusetts -- see attached pages for that address). You're also in charge of taking care of Jeremiah until he's okay to be on his own. He's more resilient than I am by a long shot, but I figure I should make sure at least one person is keeping an eye on him if I don't make it off this goddamn mountain.

But actual important thing here: YOU SHOULD NOT FEEL OBLIGED TO CONTINUE WHAT WE WERE DOING. I know people talk a lot about big concepts like Truth and Justice and Duty and all that bullshit, but really, all I want you to do is live. Live however you think is right but fuck it all, Darla, make yourself happy -- you never thought enough about your happiness when I was around (guess you had to make up for me). The universe is big and bad, there's a lot that that'll make you miserable if you let it -- live, be happy in spite of it, to spite it; laugh and live and laugh in its ugly face, sister mine. We're all born to die here, whether by big gross aliens or something a touch more subtle; if we were truly sane we'd all crumple into existential despair the moment we realized that fact. 

I know your predilections, sister mine. I know if I die you'll likely think you somehow have a duty to defeat the mythos.

As much as I'm capable, I want to release you from the idea that you have that duty. You're prone to sacrificing your own happiness to help sad sacks like me -- stop it. Find some happiness for yourself. The universe is a nasty place. We're all on this tiny planet spinning through a cold void, helpless in the face of death (it's inevitable) -- but before you die, sister mine, I want you to live a life that makes you happy. Before you die, just promise me you'll live.

Wait. You can't promise me anything. I'm supposed to be dead in this letter, aren't I? Whoops. 

Love you,

Martin