Letters to Jyl: June 8, 2026

* This week, an unintentional legend struggles with the consequences of unwanted fame.

Every week, readers send me questions about relationships, career problems, family disputes, supernatural incidents, neighborhood feuds, and the occasional eldritch inconvenience. This week’s letter comes from a reader who feels their public image has gotten completely out of hand.

Dear Jyl,

I am writing because I have become the victim of a decades-long misinformation campaign. For nearly a century, people have insisted on describing me as a “monster.” This is inaccurate, hurtful, and quite frankly, a little lazy. I have never attacked anyone. I have never destroyed a village. I have never even mildly inconvenienced a fisherman. I spend most of my time minding my own business underwater. And yet every tourist season, thousands of people arrive hoping to catch blurry footage of me doing something monstrous.

The situation has gotten worse in recent years. People no longer come here to enjoy the scenery. They come with phone cameras, drones, and ring lights. Last month I surfaced briefly to enjoy some fresh air and immediately found myself surrounded by three drones and a rowboat full of influencers attempting to sell Nessie-branded pre-workout supplements while filming a motivational video.

I am exhausted. Apparently, there are entire online communities dedicated to debating whether I am real. Meanwhile, nobody seems interested in discussing whether I enjoy having cameras pointed at my face while I’m trying to exist peacefully in a lake. The final straw came last week when someone posted an AI image of me wearing sunglasses and riding a jet ski. It received millions of views. I have never ridden a jet ski. I do not understand the dark forces responsible for this image, but I object to them.

How do I reclaim my reputation? And is it too late to rebrand?

— Nessie

Dear Nessie,

First of all, my condolences regarding the jet ski image. The dark force you speak of is generative AI and it is absolute trash. There are many indignities associated with modern life, but discovering your most widely shared photograph is a fabrication has to rank among the worst. At some point, somewhere between grainy photographs and souvenir gift shops, you crossed a threshold from mysterious aquatic resident into full-fledged cultural mascot. The public is no longer interested in who you are. They’re interested in who they want you to be.

To some people, you’re proof of the unexplained. To others, you’re a hoax. Tourism boards see you as a revenue stream. To content creators, you’re their chance to go viral and monetize their account. The problem is not that people misunderstand you. The problem is that people have zero respect for boundaries and have collectively developed a parasocial relationship with the idea of you. And those ideas are very difficult to evict.

That said, rebranding is for products. You are not a product. But if you’d like to reclaim and control the narrative, I respect that. I do think you have options. The first is to disappear completely. Stop surfacing. No sightings. No photographs. No mysterious ripples. Go on strike. Give them absolutely nothing!

The second option is much funnier and would be my personal choice. Start appearing constantly. Show up everywhere. Photobomb wedding pictures. Appear in the background of weather reports. Wave politely to the boaters. And if you want to be a little petty, splash anyone you hear saying “make sure to like, follow, and subscribe.” Become so common that nobody can monetize you anymore.

The internet survives on novelty. If people start seeing you three times a week, they’ll move on to arguing about stupid human problems or whatever trend comes next. You’re not the monster here, Nessie. The real monster is the content economy.

— Jyl

Have a question, problem, curse, feud, haunting, crisis, cryptid-related concern, or suspicious situation of your own? Send it to letterstojyl@gmail.com. Anonymous submissions are always welcome.

Jyl Glenn is a writer, editor, formatter, anthologist, poet, and a medical-legal writer and consultant. Her lifelong love affair with horror began at a very early age when she was left unattended on the weekend Poltergeist debuted on HBO. And then she figured out she could read any horror book she liked as long as she hung out at the public library, even if the librarian deemed it not to be age appropriate. Jyl was born and raised in New York and now lives in Tulsa with her dog and kitten. She loves creepy art, dark poetry, and pink dinosaurs. When she isn’t dabbling in the macabre—she’s most likely asleep.

PLEASE NOTE: The views and opinions of the staff of Memento Mori Ink do not necessarily represent those of Memento Mori Ink or Crystal Lake Publishing. Thank you for understanding.