The Corenthal Letters are a pair of letters belonging to a man named Dr. James Corenthal. Dr. Corenthal has a connection with the characters in the series EverymanHYBRID, which has crossed over with TribeTwelve several times. He is shown in these letters to have met Milo Asher when he was a child.
A burnt copy of this letter was sent to Noah in "The Envelope". Both pages were later found through a puzzle given by the entity HABIT. The puzzle led to a MediaFire file that held the letters. Here is the link to the file (password is x8162005).
Although I'm far removed from the practice, I'm asked for my medical opinions and for various interviews involving my time in Ohio every so often. The Fellows Council held their annual meeting today; they wanted me to make an appearance. Why in Florida, the good Lord only knows. During the "open action‟ bit of the conference, Roberts brought up the Case-Study report of the “Mining Town Four”. I hadn't realized that people were still actually researching the children. You would have thought that they had a celebrity in attendance. Well, an infamous-convict at least. Today, I was the medical Fellowship's Charles Manson.
For such educated men and women, you wouldn't believe the things, the nonsensical things, they shouted at me, accused me of. I was a murderer. A rapist, even. Maryann tried to reassure me, via a long distance phone call that night. Bless her, but it wasn't very helpful.
Roberts tried to stop me from storming out. I may have punched him. I had to leave that forsaken auditorium, which was adjacent to the facility's pediatrics ward. I noticed a young boy with sloppy brown hair receiving stitches in his arm. There was some family, the attending nurse, and a police officer present. This caught my curiosity.
I forgot about the rubbish concerning the Fellows meeting and stopped in to listen. Something about plunging from a park ranger's tower. Playing a game. Not his fault. Man made him do it. My veins ran cold at the nonchalant statement. I may have shoved the questioning policeman aside to talk to the boy. He greeted himself as Milo.
I can't help but to compare his stories with my children's. I'm going back to speak to him and his family tomorrow at their house. I've arranged plans to do so. What are the odds that this boy and I are visitors in a neighboring state on the same day, in the same facility?
Maybe I am just seeing patterns or possible leads in desperation. I do not care anymore, honestly. This young boy, Milo Asher, is incredibly unique compared to the other children I have spoken with since I have lost my own. He is not unusually talented or gifted or anything of that nature at all. Curiously enough, he is remarkably average as far as children are concerned. However, the way he speaks about his dreams… that is what sets Milo apart from the others.
Since the eighties Ive spoken to many children who were disturbed due to a terrible father-figure, or an alcoholic mother, or an abusive sibling, etc. etc. Of course, they each deserve the utmost attention and care in order to cease this unnecessary scarring. But these incidents, they were not what I was looking for. As a doctor, of course I wanted to help them. However, if that was simply the case, I would still be home. If that were the case, I would have never have left Ohio. If that were the case, Milo would have been just another boy resisting stitches in the hallway of a busy hospital.
I arrived at the Asher household around eleven am. It was a comfortable house in a quiet neighborhood just outside of the heavily-developed portion of town. I may have driven through it on the way to the convention in Florida. It seemed that Mrs. Asher was relatively happy to see me. If nothing else, she wasn't spiteful of her son's necessity for help. She helped me to the kitchen and I found Milo coloring at the table. We were offered tea and he had accepted for each of us.
Mrs. Asher had apparently lost her husband, Robert, years earlier. Considering Milo must have been very young when this happened, I did not push on the topic. There was no need to dwell on such subjects.
On the way to the house, I had stopped in at a craft parlor and purchased a small key-and-lock journal for the boy. The way he spoke out at the hospital led me to believe that he enjoyed stringing words together, regardless of what he was actually saying. I was correct. He was extremely surprised and eager to mess around with it when I took it out of my bag. He rapidly came to the realization that a key-and-lock journal required an actual key to properly work with.
We would have to speak before he received the key.
He was relatively easy to work with. He didn't avoid the questioning, he didn't duck around corners or advert the situation on hand. Without me even mentioning it, he brought up dreams and the recurring nightmares that he had been having. His other doctor had simply dismissed them as night-terrors and of no medical concern. This was, of course, overlooking the fact that a seemingly sentient entity had told young Milo to leap from a ranger's tower in a park. (I would like to know the name of this foolish doctor.)
The discussion led to the key-player (subtle pun intended) in that beloved phrase that seemed to be popping up everywhere in my personal history: “Man”– The Man made me do it. (Man doesn’t like to share, etc.) I could not possibly overlook this detail – it screamed of parallels between Milo and my own children.
I had nearly spat out my tea. Or choked. Or both.
Hoping that I had not fooled myself into believing that Milo was more similar to my own than he actually was, I had looked over my old diary entries when I returned from the Asher house – the quotes were all there, almost twenty-five years ago, and again, today, coming from a young boy who seemed to enjoy recklessness a bit too much.
So we discussed the “Man” – for quite a bit.
In an almost whimsical nature, Milo described this creature: Tall. Lanky in structure. Dozens upon dozens of branch-like appendages. A completely featureless face. I had asked Milo if he enjoyed horror movies. He didn't really care for them.
I remembered my children's various pieces of artwork from over the years. Just before I sat down to this diary entry, I dusted off my old chest and reexamined the kids' old pieces. Evan's picture-book, Stephanie and Vincent's drawings, Jeffrey's short-stories – briefly sweeping over them, there were numerous hints towards this tall man. Good God.
Milo seemed frightened of this man, but also held a sense of… let's just say, concerned respect. Accepted inevitability. This worried me a great deal. He didn't seem eager to rid himself of this man, more so that he accepted this as how things would be and could not seek an accommodating change from its standing.
He went on to tell me that this man had a particular plan for him, for other children, too. They were all to go on a great journey together. The way Milo described it, it seemed like a vacation, disregarding the melancholy nature in which he told it.
I felt incredibly foolish asking him this (and I still do for recollecting it) but I asked him… I asked him if he knew any of my children, any children named Evan, Jeffrey, Vincent, or Stephanie. Almost expectedly, he didn't. A television that was on in the living room unexpectedly shot up to maximum volume and then promptly turned off. Mrs. Asher muttered something under her breath and I heard her rise from her seat to examine the piece. The silence between the peculiar incident concerning the TV and Mrs. Asher's comment was occupied by this dull buzzing noise that seemed to be emitting from the entire house, almost as if a microphone was just nearly too-close to its speaker.
Milo's attention suddenly perked up and he told me that he knew my children, contradicting his previous uncertainties. “They've already been there, Doctor.”
I was aghast.
I asked Milo what he meant. His attention snapped, yet again, and he stared at me curiously; he had no idea what I was talking about. I thanked the boy and his mother and was on my way. I promised to be back in touch with them soon. As soon as I had entered my car, I broke down sobbing for a few moments. What the hell did the boy mean – they’ve already been there, Doctor. They've been dead since 1981. I cannot do anything to change that. Milo was confused. I can't go off of an impaired child's off-hand comment in order to chance the impossible. I won't risk dragging Linnie back into this; she has her own life now.
But what did that mean – they’ve already been there. Does this mean… that they have left this place? That they've escaped?
(On a rather curious side-note: as I left the house of Asher, I noticed something across the way. There was a torn piece of black cloth, gently pinched to a dying thorn bush that had caught my eye. I pulled the burlapesque material from the plant and felt suddenly lightheaded. This cloth gave my skin the sensation of a soft vibration and made me feel slightly ill. I was going to take it to an old friend, to see if he could make any sense of it.)