Letters from Aaron Burr

I'm the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.

Tonight, transcribed, it's the Whistler Strange story, letters from Aaron Burr. Afternoon, sun seemed to fade the grain of sun. bore up the height of the high wall. The prisoners, milling slowly about for standing in little groups, were talking quietly and smoking during their brief recess from the chores of the juke mill, the machine in print shops.

Yes, it was a let up in the middle of the afternoon, an easing of pressure on both the men in confinement of the guards who watched. And in the far corner of the guards, there was one man who actually felt happy, pleased with himself as he talked with an older compact.

You know, Pop, it's still kind of hard to believe. I guess I won't really believe it till I actually walk right out of those gates. Well, I envy you, Sean. I wish I hadn't pulled that last forgery.

Figured it had put me on my feet. Yeah, but you figured wrong, huh? Me and artists who can duplicate anything. Ernie, I don't want to pre- Yeah, I'll look skip it, Pop, I'll manage it.

They tried to help you, the prison officials. People outside too, it's still the same. Five bucks of blue-sirred suit and a pad on the back. Might as well be a show. Yeah, yeah, sure. I like you, Ernie. You're all right.

I wanna make sure you stay out of here. So? So there's somebody I want you to see. And this is all the... This is all the motions of fine, wonderful old woman. Tries to help people.