Janet Winston-Rogers

970 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

September 29th, 1934

Lacie Ferrier

7794 Newcastle Street

Greenwich Village, New York

Miss Ferrier,

I do not know if you will recall our previous acquaintance, but we have met briefly at various parties and soirees, and I attended the opening night of your most recent concert series. When we have had a chance to talk, I have always been delighted by your extensive knowledge of the lore of dreams and the unquiet dead. Such erudition in one so young is a rare thing indeed. 

For this reason, your name sprang to mind when I was considering who to hire for a particular matter. I have certain inquiries which touch on matters of the occult. To pursue them, I require a trustworthy agent with a keen eye and extensive experience in the paranormal. I have only scraps of information: I require someone who has the knowledge to assemble them into a story. 

If such an endeavor would be of any interest to you whatsoever, I would most kindly request your attendance at Floyd Bennett Field in New York on the evening of October 31st at the hour of 9 o’clock. If there is anyone else you believe would be of assistance, you may send me a letter of introduction at this address.

A retainer of $500 per month will be paid for the duration of whatever service you may be able to provide, with a similar fee paid immediately in recompense for indulging me.

Due to the nature of this affair, I must ask that you keep these matters in the strictest of confidences.  It is my deepest regret that it would be inappropriate to trust any further information to paper, and so I must ask that any further questions you might desire must wait until the evening of the 31st,

      Janet Winston-Rogers

Janet Winston-Rogers

970 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

September 29th, 1934

Carrie Meadows

12 Temple Dr.

Unit 55

Bronx, NY 10467

Miss Meadows, 

I require the almost immediate services of an excellent engineer for an investigation of some import.

I originally contacted Dr. McConnel, professor of archaeology at Columbia University. Unfortunately, she was unable to take a sabbatical from her current employment, and she believes that the investigation may not require her unique skills at this time. However, she was able to give me your name. She mentioned your mathematical ability and well-rounded knowledge in all areas related to engineering, and her personal grief about your inability to find work commensurate with your talents.

I am seeking not merely someone who can read technical drawings and calculate equations, but someone with a scientific cast of mind. I hope you will not consider me a naive woman easily deceived by charlatans when I say that this investigation may touch on matters of the occult and the paranormal. I am not so foolish as to believe that science has discovered all things which exist in our world; nevertheless, one must take a skeptical eye to all such claims. A scientist must believe in that for which there is evidence, while accepting nullius in verba and always keeping a mind open toward alternate explanations. Dr. McConnel assures me of your abilities. 

A retainer of $500 per month will be paid for the duration of whatever service you may be able to provide, with a similar fee paid immediately in recompense for indulging me in New York. Please make certain that your passport and other travel documents are in proper order and then report to Floyd Bennett Field in New York on the evening of October 31st at the hour of 9 o’clock.

Please cable your acceptance of these terms to my office in New York with the greatest speed possible. You may ask Dr. McConnel for any reassurances you desire of my probity, level-headedness and the serious nature of my inquiries. Due to the nature of this affair, however, I must ask that you keep these matters in the strictest of confidences.  It is my deepest regret that it would be inappropriate to trust any further information to paper, and so I must ask that any further questions you might desire must wait until the evening of the 31st,

      Janet Winston-Rogers

Janet Winston-Rogers

970 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York

October 10th, 1934

Zoe Alethia 

9 Birchwood Street

New York, NY 

Miss Alethia,

Miss Lacie Ferrier has instructed me that, because of the nomadic nature of circus life, sending a letter to your close friend Mr. Ralph Haas is the best way to contact you. I do hope this letter reaches you in time, and apologize that the short notice is made even shorter by this circumvolution. 

I do not think that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, but Miss Ferrier has spoken very highly of your invaluable assistance. She says your daring and bravery were invaluable in resolving certain situations involving the unquiet dead. Without your aid, the situation may have become far more dire, perhaps fatal. 

I come to you with a similar situation. I have certain inquiries which touch on matters of the occult, and I require the assistance of someone with experience. I fear that some powerful people may not wish certain secrets to be uncovered, and these inquiries may put those who look into them in grave danger. Your skills as an acrobat and an escape artist may not go amiss. 

If such an endeavor would be of any interest to you whatsoever, I would most kindly request your attendance at Floyd Bennett Field in New York on the evening of October 31st at the hour of 9 o’clock.

A retainer of $500 per month will be paid for the duration of whatever service you may be able to provide, with a similar fee paid immediately in recompense for indulging me in New York. I understand you may be anywhere in the continent of North America. You may phone my secretary at Plaza 3525 to make arrangements for your travel expenses to New York. To make up for the inconvenience, I will gladly pay for a week or two in a hotel afterward so you may see the sights of our glorious city. 

Due to the nature of this affair, I must ask that you keep these matters in the strictest of confidences.  It is my deepest regret that it would be inappropriate to trust any further information to paper, and so I must ask that any further questions you might desire must wait until the evening of the 31st,

      Janet Winston-Rogers

"I have a meeting in the evening the day after tomorrow, I'll be out late," Mordred tells his brother when he gets home from work on the evening of the 29th, slides the letter across the table to him. 

(There are teeth marks in the envelope. He does have a letter opener at his desk but it wasn't in arm's reach. It's fine, okay, Agravaine, stop looking at him like that, nobody else is going to see it or care.) 

Agravaine takes the letter, careful to avoid the parts of the paper Mordred's bitten. Scans it. "Wow," he says, and then, "A skeptical mind, huh." 

"She's got every reason to believe --"

Taptaptap go Mordred's fingertips on the table.

"No, no, I know." Pause. "Five hundred. Who is this person?"

"Haven't had a chance to check the morgue yet, but I'm sure I'll find out tomorrow," Mordred says.

"Mm." Another pause, this time much longer, before, "Are you telling Gale?"

"Depends on what it turns out to be," which is the best answer Mordred can give, and no answer at all.

Goodness, $500 per month! Zoe supposes she does reside on Upper Fifth Avenue.

Zoe supposes she should make travel arrangements... and speak with the ringmaster about her upcoming absence. 

Hangar Five is strangely posh and comfortable in its little sitting area. Short folding bookshelves, full of encyclopedias, and portable tables covered in maps stand at the edges of a few overlapping area rugs, which define something like a parlor in the midst of the hangar. It’s like an expeditionary camp in the midst of the countryside, but with deep, broken-in leather chairs and green-glass reading lamps to give it a feeling like some literati den. This is how Walter Winston ran things, and his daughter carries on his style.
 
The rest of the hangar is a typically spare place, with a few toolboxes and an antelope head mounted on a post. The plane is gleaming silver, without airline decorations.

Zoe peruses the bookshelves to see what they contain. The bookshelves mostly contain reference material and have a few books related to the occult; no titles she recognizes. Finding nothing of interest on the bookshelves or in the toolboxes, she flops on the couch in a most unladylike manner. 

She absently flicks her zippo open and closed and looks around at the people she doesn't know to see if anyone looks interested in making conversation.

Zoe is very short. She is muscular, especially in the arms and shoulders. She has dark curly hair and dark brown eyes and olive skin. She moves very fluidly and smiles a lot.

Mordred waits in the parlor. Wonders who makes a parlor this posh in an airplane hangar as opposed to nearly anywhere else. Watches whoever else is here. Looks to see what type of books there are but waits to try and read them. Fidgets with a pencil.

Mordred is weirdly strong for how thin he is and vaguely fishy-looking but not in a way where he doesn't look like a basically reasonable person who you'd see on the subway. He presents nerdy-side-of-normal and has been putting off getting a haircut for a while. He has pale skin with greenish undertones in the wrong light, dark hair and grey eyes.

Anemone hangs around waiting for someone else to show up. She does not bother to tell her pet monkey Magnificence not to steal anything. She looks at the books and, impressed, concludes that Walter Winston must have been a sorcerer of some occult power. 

Anemone is a sickly half-Maya woman who looks like she could be knocked over in a particularly strong wind, but also simultaneously radiates enormous quantities of confidence 100% of the time.

Carrie looks at the most interesting thing in the ENTIRE hangar which is the PLANE. It looks like a DC-2-- the latest prop plane-- but someone has made some modifications to it. She can't quite tell what the modifications would do.

She is wearing a jacket with many pockets.

Lacie waves hi to her friend Zoe, then inspects the books as well. Nothing occult that she's heard of... but that only makes it more interesting.

Lacie has very dark hair which she bobs and she dresses like an eccentric bohemian and wears too much make-up and she almost always looks like she's laughing at a private joke. Physically her eyes are brown but spiritually they are red.

A woman who is probably Janet Winston-Rogers enters. 

Zoe is impressed by her outfit and tries to figure out what kind of fur that is. 

Anemone is SUSPICIOUS. Is this lady ALSO a dark sorcerer? She doesn't look like a dark sorcerer but you never know. Anemone is going to REMAIN ON GUARD for dark sorcery anyway.

"Hello," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. "I see you all came."

"With an invitation as interesting as yours, who wouldn't?" 

"Many people, I presume," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. "I suppose you're all wanting an explanation?"

"If one is forthcoming," Mordred says.

"Please," Lacie says. "You spoke of a matter of a paranormal nature, in your letter?"

"Unfortunately," she says, "I am afraid that I have more new mysteries than solutions to them."

"If I understood you right," Zoe says, "the solution part is our job. What's the mystery?"

"I am hiring you to investigate my father and... certain events he was involved in in August of 1924. I need to know what he was mixed up in. Whether he left any work unfinished. Whether I am in any danger. Whether..." She hesitates. "Whether I should be apologizing for him or defending him."

That is an impressively dramatic and opaque answer.

Mrs. Winston-Rogers blinks, taking in the monkey for the first time. "...there's a monkey?"

"I bring him everywhere."

"I... I suppose that's an explanation." Mrs. Winston-Rogers looks quite taken aback.

She gathers herself and soldiers on. "My father... was a driven man. He made a fortune in the pharmaceuticals business after the war. He spent a few years traveling the world, studying folklore. This led to an interest in the occult."

"When my father wasn't traveling, he was having meetings-- secret meetings-- with people he wasn't in business with. Other dabblers in the occult, I think. My mother didn't like them. That was when she started drinking."

"I only overheard scraps and pieces, but... I put it together that my father was bent on battling something. I don't know what."

"I don't know much, but I know that in August 1924... something happened."

This remains extremely dramatic, extremely dramatically relayed, and not clarifying much at all. 

MAGNIFICENCE thinks the humans are discussing whether he will get a treat. That is a good conversational topic! He will wait for them to decide that he ALWAYS deserves a treat.

"He came back that August rattled and unraveling. He didn't have any secret meetings anymore. He stopped traveling. He saw a psychiatrist for a few years. He burned his books. He hardly ate. He jumped at shadows and insisted he was being watched. He was... never the same."

"He forbade us from asking about his travels and said more than once that nothing mattered anymore. When Mother died in '32 he barely grieved. After that, he only became more paranoid and frustrated, and then he passed away early this year, a shadow of himself."

"By the time he died he was... his death was a thing that had happened long ago and I had made my peace with it."

Anemone nods sympathetically. Being a dark sorcerer is like that sometimes.

"Do you have any idea where he went, that August?"

"I do not but I do have one lead," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. She takes out a set of typewritten letters and places them on the table.

The letters are from Savannah, Georgia and they seem to be mostly on the theme of PLEASE WRITE BACK. There are handwritten notes on the letters: lines, circles, and cryptic lists of numbers. This is clearly someone trying to decode the letters.

"These are from a man named Douglas Henslowe, who apparently worked with my father up until August 1924. He must have been one of the people Father met with at the house, time and again."

"Henslowe wrote a few times, always asking my father to write down what had happened, what he had seen. My father never replied. But he kept them, and it looks to me like he studied them carefully."

Carrie stares at the letters to try to figure out whether Mr. Winston succeeded at decoding them, but can't figure it out from peering at them across a table. In retrospect this really should have been obvious.

Anemone does not recall Douglas Henslowe's name from anything. Probably he's a dark sorcerer, let's be real. 

Zoe says, "I have no skill in cryptography but it looks to me like he thought they were written in some sort of code."

"Is that what those numbers are about?" Mrs. Winston-Rogers asks. "I was very puzzled by them. I thought perhaps they were page numbers."

"...is the monkey going to help in your investigations?"

"Well, he's going to come along," Anemone says judiciously. "Whether he helps is up to him, I guess."

Magnificence has been waiting VERY PATIENTLY for the humans to decide he gets a treat and is getting kind of sad about this.

"I assume you've already gone through the rest of your father's belongings and found nothing of interest?" Anemone says. "Although I do wonder if someone with more knowledge of the dark arts might find something of further interest among them."

"The mansion has been mothballed and most of his most... interesting... belongings have been sold at auction," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. "Frankly, I didn't know what was merely a collection and what was... truly occult, and I didn't want to continue to have something that could... put me in danger."

She looks hesitant, as if she is holding something back, out of fear or pride.

Lacie looks Mrs. Winston-Rogers in the eyes. "Madame, if we are going to help you, we have to have every bit of information. If there's anything you may have forgotten, or are uncertain about, even if it seems strange or offputting, that we might be able to use to help you put this mystery to rest, it would only help all of us, including yourself, if you were to share it."

Mrs. Winston-Rogers bites her lip, and then suddenly smiles for the first time that evening. "There is one other thing. I'll admit that I once thought the mansion was haunted. Shadows seemed to bend and warp, and odd stains appeared from nowhere. I thought I... saw things. Things in the walls."

She shakes her head as if to dismiss it. "But it was all the nervous energy of a frightened girl. I certainly had enough to deal with with my father... being as he was. At any rate, I haven't seen any such things since my father died."

"But they did continue up until his death?" Lacie says.

"They-- You must understand," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. "I moved into my husband's house when I got married, I spent very little time there as an adult. And at night, the mind becomes frightened by a branch or some clothes draped over a chair... But... yes." She shakes her head. "I did see things."

Zoe and Anemone lock eyes. They know what's up. It is a GHOST. Mr. Winston-Rogers was a dark sorcerer and the house is HAUNTED by the GHOSTS of the UNQUIET DEAD. 

 "I will gladly lend you the use of my plane and pilot, Mr. Kearns, for the duration of your investigation. Time is a factor. Money, less so."

"Sure," Anemone says, then reconsiders. What if Mrs. Winston-Rogers is trying to spring some kind of crazy plane-based trap on them? Anemone is not about that life. 

Zoe follows along and idly considers whether it looks like she could rig a circus apparatus to the undercarriage and do barnstorming.

Everything he learns about Mrs Winston-Rogers adds to the impression of 'literally what the fuck who is this person' but he goes along with it.

A man lies on one of the couches of the plane taking a nap. 

"This is my pilot, Mr. Kearns," Mrs. Winston-Rogers says. "Shall I leave you all to get acquainted? Mr. Kearns, do wake up." She shakes him.
 
 He blinks. "I'm awake, I'm awake."

Zoe attempts to smile coquettishly at him but partway through she gets something in her eye and starts blinking it spastically.

Magnificence wants to know what this human's purpose is. He is NOT one of the humans who was discussing treats earlier.

After some consideration, Magnificence discerns that this human is entirely purposeless. He has no treats. It is very strange.

Carrie examines the MOST INTERESTING thing about the plane, which is the modifications she had noticed from the outside. She discovers that it must have been modified to be capable of transatlantic flight! There are no commercial aircraft of this size capable of transatlantic flight. Someone must have specifically altered it for the purpose.

The investigators introduce themselves to each other.

Anemone introduces herself as "Mary Anemone." Mordred is extremely cross that the lady with a monkey still has a less weird name than he does. 

Magnificence examines this situation carefully. It seems like Anemone wants to do some kind of TASK with the other humans. Like the tasks where he performs and they get treats afterwards. Perhaps he will be called upon to perform with the one whose face looks like a fish.

"I'm an investigative journalist."

"I work with the circus. I collect strange artifacts and the stories that go with them."

"I'm the pilot, but you also knew that. I guess eventually I'll get to tell you something you don't know, huh?" He doesn't quite laugh, but he makes a sound vaguely in the direction of laughing.

Zoe tries to laugh at his joke but it comes out unnaturally fast and high pitched.

...there is probably no tactful way to ask whether she's alright.

Maybe the dark sorcery was too much for her?

She looks at Zoe, who nonverbally reassures her that she's fine, just utterly mortified as she watches the slow motion trainwreck of her attempts to get in with the pilot.

"I sing. But I rather expect I've actually been called here for my practiced insight into that which lurks beyond the veil." Her delivery has some kind of irony in it but it's unclear what the joke is, if any.

"- It looks like this plane was modified for transatlantic flight, do you know anything about that?" addressing Mr. Kearns.

"Yeah!" His face lights up in excitement. "It was modified by Mr. Douglas, of Douglas Aircraft! He's a close personal friend of Mrs. Winston-Rogers."

His voice conveys that this is similar to Mrs. Winston-Rogers being a close personal friend of God.

Well, anyone can be a close personal friend of God.

"Keep this under your hat, but they're going to put out the DC-3 next year and it's capable of transatlantic flight," Frank says. "As a favor to Mrs. Winston-Rogers, he got a couple of guys to make some modifications to the Silver Sable. I got a chance to ask them some questions while they worked!"

Carrie makes an appropriately impressed and excited face in response.

Anemone does not know anything about airplanes. "Did anybody catch where the mansion was? Assuming it's closer than Savannah, we might want to start there, before we approach Mr. Henslowe."

"I have the address," Frank says, clearly disappointed by this non-airplane-related topic of conversation, "it's in the Upper East Side."

"Carrie and I can take a look at the Silver Sable together and you guys can go look at the mansion?" Frank says.

"Sure. If nobody has any particular preparations they'd like to do first, on the off-chance there is something concerning to be found there."

Anemone has a rifle. Anemone is pretty sure this lets you fire salt at ghosts. But maybe the ghosts will have gotten all of the murder out of their system by killing Mr. Winston.

"I think the pilot and plane enthusiast will be fine in the plane."

On the subway to the mansion, Anemone tells Zoe that there are totally ghosts there just in case she didn't pick up that there are totally ghosts there. 

Well, almost certainly used to be ghosts. Current ghost status uncertain.

Yeah, there are absolutely ghosts there.

Very ghost.

Mordred overhears this conversation and is not at all convinced that there are ghosts.

The mansion is, as Mrs. Winston-Rogers said, mothballed. The more expensive mantels and lighting fixtures have been removed; the windows are boarded up; there is no furniture or books; the floors are eerily clean.

A maid is sweeping the floor in a room that probably used to be a ballroom.

Zoe takes out her flashlight and starts searching for anything that looks Amiss.

She does not find anything Amiss. She sure does find some really pretty wallpaper though. Mr. Winston had good taste.

"Are we sure it isn't just a creepy building that nobody lives in anymore and no longer has furniture in it? Not that it doesn't seem like the kind of place that would be haunted but what do we actually know."

Magnificence does not manage to find anything. He DOES manage to create an awful racket.

The maid comes out of the ballroom. "What are you doing here?"

"Magnificence, quiet down, we're in a fancy people place."

"...you are in Mr. Winston's mansion!" the maid says. "Thieves! Hooligans!"

"Mrs. Winston-Rogers hired us to investigate what happened to her father and signed off on us being here."

"Frank gave us the keys. And I have a letter from Mrs. Winston-Rogers, if you'd like to see it."

The maid takes the letter and is mollified. "You're investigating what happened to Mr. Winston?"

"Yes."

"Good. He was a troubled soul."

"How long did you know him?"

"I've only been working here two years," the maid says. "There's a lot of turnover at the Winston's."

"Any idea why?"

"Well," the maid says, "I don't like to speak ill of my employer, you understand..."

"Of course not. But I think Mrs. Winston-Rogers would rather we had all the necessary pieces to determine what happened to him, if you know anything that might be of interest to our investigation."

 "He was... eccentric. He was scared of closed-up spaces," the maid says. "He wouldn't ever leave the house, not even as far as the yard. And-- he would fly into rages, I think that's the thing that made people quit most."

"Understandable. Anything in particular seem to set him off?"

"Nothing," the maid says. "He would just... demand that you clean things. Over and over. He would get into these screaming fits about how the filth penetrating the mansion needed to be cleaned. It pays well. But before he passed I was about ready to quit myself."

She returns to her sweeping.

"Hmm. The place is spotless. I can't find anything even a little askew, much less... indicative of occult happenings."

"It does seem that way. I wonder if the spirits were placated by his death."

"Or it's just an old building that used to have people living in it and now doesn't, and all the ghosts are metaphorical."

"I mean, maybe."

"It would explain why Mrs. Winston-Rogers stopped seeing anything after he passed."

Anemone returns to talk to the maid. "One more thing. While you were working here, did you ever see anything else that struck you as strange? Besides Mr. Winston's behavior."

The maid hesitates. "Well, there is one thing-- but you're going to think I'm crazy."

"I've heard stranger."

"No, it's nothing."

"Are you sure? This house strikes me as if it holds some secret." Honestly it seems like an extremely boring house but maybe she knows something Anemone doesn't.

The maid shakes her head. "The only secrets in this house are the secrets of how it keeps getting so many water stains when nothing leaks."

Anemone begins to elaborate on how the house seems Very Mysterious. Like it's singing to them, if only they had the information necessary to understand what it's trying to say.

Eventually, the maid says: "well... the thing is... maybe it's easier if I just show you."

She takes them to a water stain that looks, well, exactly like a mouth.

"Well. Hello, there."

"Uncanny."

"These form all over the house all the time," the maid says. "We have to clean them constantly."

"With the, uh. Teeth."

Ghosts. 

This is a known sign of ghosts.

Teeth things.

Anemone takes out her journal and makes a drawing of the teeth thing. Which is definitely a sign of ghosts. Can't believe she didn't think there were any ghosts here.

"These have continued to form the whole time you've been working here?"

"Yes."

It's ghosts. There are still ghosts here.

It Is Not Ghosts Oh My God Why Would It Be Ghosts Why Do You Think It Is Ghosts.

It's absolutely ghosts.

"Is there anything else unusual about them? Difficulty to clean, colors other than this, so on?"

"Other than being shaped like mouths, they aren't unusual for a water stain. To get them out I use vinegar and baking soda. Works like a charm."

A charm... for warding off ghosts!

Obviously the ghosts haven't been warded off very successfully.

Mordred is at least convinced that something really weird is happening, and it's not just that Mrs. Winston-Rogers is a deeply dramatic and vague person, so that's nice?

They thank the maid and leave.

"The ghosts are obviously still there. Water stains shaped like teeth seem like a definite sign of an ongoing haunting."

"Huh, I thought it might just be some sort of... ghostly residue. What do you think they could want?"

"That's the curious thing, I'm not sure. But whatever they wanted, it seems the death of Mr. Winston wasn't enough for them."

"Maybe after they got him, they developed a taste for it."

"I don't know. I wouldn't say he sounds like a random innocent victim in all this. I want to know more about what happened in 1924."

"I bet that Douglas guy knows more. We should check and see if the letters have any toothy waterstains or something."

"Douglas does seem like the most likely place to find more information."

Mordred is not saying out loud that all of this seems like a ridiculously overconfident set of guesses but he sure is thinking it.

The next morning, they read the letters from Douglas Henslowe.

Dearest Walter,

I am so glad to hear that you made it back safely. I got back to Savannah almost immediately. I’ll cut straight to the chase, my old friend. I need some corroborating evidence from you to set me back on the right track.

I have tried to piece together the events of last summer and recount them, but it is still sketchy in places and I see eyebrows begin to rise at some of the story. Perhaps they could hear it from you as well?

Please write back with your account of what happened. My doctors simply will not believe me. 

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

I apologize for writing again. I left it as long as I was able before requesting your help once again. I understand your reluctance about being drawn into this business again and it is not what I am asking for.

What I need is someone to back up my story to prove that the things I saw were indeed true and not some figment of my subconscious. That is what my doctors are saying. Don’t worry, I haven’t told them where any of this was and I won’t. 

You don’t even have to put your name to it if you don’t want to but I could really use your help.

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

Well, it’s been a year since I last attempted to contact you, old friend. I’ll admit things haven’t been going well for me of late and I keep thinking of that summer of 1924. 

It has been playing on my mind and often I wake up in a cold sweat thinking of our friends. Tell me they didn’t die for nothing. Tell me they didn’t get away with it! Just some reassurance from you would let me sleep a little more easily.

I need to hear from a friend about now so if you could spare me a few moments to drop me a note I’d appreciate it. 

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

They still won’t listen to my story. Perhaps you could send word to my doctors? I just keep going over it, that August. Five years haven’t dulled the pain. I just keep asking myself whether if they’d followed me out of there they’d still be alive. 

Why didn’t I make them? Why didn’t they just follow me? Is there more I could have done? These questions and others rob me of my sleep and leave me drained to my very soul. They won’t listen. Their answers seem to come from a bottle of pills. 

Please write back, Walter. I need to hear from you. I need to prove I’m not crazy!

Yours sincerely, 

Douglas

Walter,

I understand your reluctance to get involved but I have run out of options. If you would just send word telling your version of events perhaps the doctors would believe you and me. 

If not, my only other recourse is to take their pills and pretend like this is all a fantasy. That is what they want to hear, naturally. I’m sure they will be pleased to hear that I have given up insisting that my ‘story’ is truth. 

If only you could see to helping me out on that score, for old time’s sake. I’m begging you.

Yours,

Douglas

Dearest Walter, 

Perhaps it is for the best that I have finally submitted to never being able to tell the truth of that night. The doctors are pleased with the progress I have made since I began to refrain from my insistence that the events of August 1924 happened as I have been describing for all of these years.

Are you ignoring me, Walter? Perhaps this is your way of helping me? Your silence echoes when I think you’re trying to tell me something. I think I finally understand. Some things are better left alone. But like a frayed cuff of a jacket, I cannot help but worry at the loose threads. One day perhaps I will rest.

I live in hope that one day you may change your mind and write to me. 

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

I have managed to clear my troubled mind, at least in my waking hours. I think maybe I’m free of that day at last. The dreams still haunt me but things are better here.

The trees swaying in the breeze, the chatter of the birds in their low-hanging branches flitting between the moss, and the constant drone and thrum of fat-bellied insects bring me a sort of calm I have not felt in quite some time. 

I hope you too are able to find some peace. It would be good to know that all is well with you, Walter, it has been so long. 

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

I find myself again drawn to reach out to you, my old friend, perhaps to close a chapter of our story together. The doctors told me I had to move on and look to the future and begin to set aside thoughts of the past.

August 1924 is something I will never forget. It is etched onto my memories like the carved names driven deep into the headstones of my distant family. I am truly sorry I haven’t left you in peace all of these years. A part of me still wanted you to support me to prove I wasn’t mad. 

I have come to terms with it now, old friend. I won’t write again. I wish you all the best in your life and hope you have found some degree of happiness. 

Your Friend,

Douglas

Dear Walter,

I remember in my last missive I had said I would not write to you again, yet once again I feel compelled to write. I felt there was something you should know.

I made a book, a journal of sorts. It contains everything I remember and completing it just last week I have hidden it away. It felt good to get things off my chest and commit them to paper. 

You only have to ask if you would like to know where it is. I will tell you as I trust you more than I trust myself. 

Yours sincerely,

Douglas

Walter,

It’s been so long now. I know. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to escape what happened. If you could just write with your side of the story. Please my old friend. I really need for you to write back to me now. 

I await your letter,

Douglas

Walter,

Why won’t you write to me, my old friend, after all of these long years? I have reached out for your help and there is nothing but silence. I am starting to believe that I made the whole thing up and that is why you don’t write to me. 

It wasn’t real? Perhaps it wasn’t real. They tell me it wasn’t real. It was all in my head. I’ve come to believe in the lie, they say, as I told myself the story over and over in my waking hours and in my dreams. 

If it wasn’t real I am sorry I frightened you with these letters. Please let me know we are at least at peace. 

Douglas

Walter,

Do you even remember what happened anymore? That August of 1924. I can never forget. Did they die for nothing? I need to hear from you. Just a note or a telegram even. Please, Walter. I’m begging you. I wonder if you’ve even opened my letters after all this time. 

Douglas

Mordred... well. Mrs. Winston-Rogers contacted him specifically because of his writing on asylums. To say that he's unhappy about the contents of the letters would be an understatement.

And she is curious what the man's journal contains. Certainly more than his doctors were willing to accept. (She can't say she's taken aback by the rest of the content. Obviously people in power will try to convince you you're wrong about reality.)

"If there's any surprise it's that Mr. Winston didn't write back. Can't say I put much stock in doctors but -- I would hope most people can afford more trust than that to their friends."

"It's especially odd that he clearly read them, and looked for some sort of meaning in them, but doesn't seem to have cared for the sender at all... Douglas seems to have considered Mr. Winston a friend but I wonder if Mr. Winston would have said the same." She flips through the letters. "I wish I could interpret these numbers... or the little notes here and there. 'it’s hopeless', 'nyarlathotep?', 'I got it!' - what could they refer to? Maybe Douglas would know?"

Even if he wasn't a friend, how heartless do you have to be to--

"It seems like it would be worth asking, at the least."

"It looks like he mostly sent the letters from the West Hensley Street address, but the one where he mentions the journal is from Old Hope Road."

"Maybe he had another reason not to write back. Perhaps he thought there was some danger."

"Even if Mr. Winston suspected that someone else would read the letter, he could have at least sent something bland and uninformative, couldn't he have? It's like he didn't even want to acknowledge a connection to Mr. Henslowe."

"Perhaps he feared provoking something. Maybe something besides doctors."

"...I suppose that's also possible. In fairness I have -- stronger feelings on the matter than most, it isn't actually that strange for someone to drop an acquaintance who's been declared insane, I just don't think much of it."

This, too, is profoundly an understatement.

"But it is strange to keep their letters for over a decade and scribble cryptic messages in the margins!"

"Right, which suggests to me that Mr Winston was afraid, not disinterested. He hardly seems to have been in much position to judge the sanity of others. But if he thought that something was watching him, and might retaliate against efforts to interact with any part of what had happened to him..."

"I wonder who these other friends of theirs were... Mrs. Winston-Rogers didn't mention remembering any notable friends of her father's."

"I imagine they might have been quite secretive."

"Up until their untimely demise under mysterious circumstances. --What might Mr. Winston have been so afraid of that he couldn't send a letter? It's clearly not something too close to him, or else he presumably would never have opened the letters at all."

"I don't know. Maybe he had some sense that merely opening the letters was unlikely to provoke a response. Still, it doesn't fit the pattern of a local haunting that you'd hear about, does it, if there are other people in other places being similarly plagued?"
 
 "I think we need more pieces." 

"I'm inclined to ask Douglas as our next step. -- assuming any asylum will let me in the doors again, which after my last few articles is not guaranteed at all."

"Lucky you're not alone, then. I'm sure one of us will be able to meet with him. --I agree that we're not going to be able to unravel this without going to Savannah."

"Does anyone know what 'nyarlathotep' means? It looks like gibberish, but all the other notes are in plain English. Douglas may know, but it would be good if we had more to go on."

"No, I haven't heard of it. Maybe it means something in another language?"

"Not a language I recognize, although there's a lot of languages I wouldn't."

"The last half almost looks Egyptian? "Hotep" is an Egyptian word, right, meaning 'be at peace', or referring to sacrifices made to deities or to the dead? I don't know whether that's coincidence, or what it would mean in a combined word like this. We could probably still try the library? See if they have anything on it?"

A few hours of library research later--

"It looks like it's a suffix used for Egyptian kings. I don't see anything here about a Nyarlathotep, but it seems like the sort of construction that might refer to some particular pharaoh. Of course it could also be a coincidence. But it's interesting."

"Huh. I can't say I immediately see the connection, but it's good to have more to work with. Maybe it'll make sense later."

In the next few days, Mordred does some research. 

Walter Winston is an almost depressingly upright and moral person, so there is almost nothing on him in the newspaper. He makes his money from pharmaceuticals and spends it endowing wings of hospitals. He tried to stay out of trouble and live a quiet, beneficial life. After his death, his holdings are in the process of being absorbed into Rogers Consolidated, the company of Mrs. Winston-Rogers's deceased husband.

If there's a code in these letters Mordred can't make head or tails of it.

Mordred cooks with his brother in the evenings, both of them casually reaching over each other in the fairly small space that is their apartment kitchen, aware of and comfortable with each other. They don't talk very much; they don't really have to.

Seeing Gale is less of a natural part of Mordred's day, and he still isn't sure how much of the weird nature of events makes sense to share, but they see a movie together after Gale gets off work and Mordred listens while Gale talks about something his friend's sister is doing and can't stop smiling.

Zoe, Lacie, and Anemone talk to Mrs. Winston-Rogers about her father, her childhood, the weird mouth things in the house, if she remembers when he started getting weird. If she can get access to his records or any more of his things that'd be neat. (Lacie asks some questions that aren't leaning in the ghostward direction, for variety.)

Mrs. Winston-Rogers remembers the odd mouth things, but otherwise doesn't have much new to add: her house was creepy but never in a way she could prove; her father was haunted by his past. She remarks that the investigators can look at her father's records if they like.

Unfortunately, they find that all of the records related to the year 1924 have been purged, except for some account books which belonged to Winston Pharmaceutical. None of the investigators can make heads or tails of them because none of them know accounting. 

Zoe stops by Ralph's place and regales him with Tales of her Adventures. She has several amusing anecdotes from various towns the circus has been through, some circus gossip, a new stunt she's been working on, and a lead on an uncommon type of car that the owner seemed possibly willing to part with. Also if he would like to do an erotic photoshoot she can get changed into something more appropriate.

Ralph "ooh"s and "ah"s at all the right parts in Zoe's circus anecdotes, is VERY excited by the lead on the cars and, yes, he would like to do a photoshoot. She feels warm and connected to her friend.

At night Anemone's gonna go find her brother, who is still hanging out with the circus, and express to him that she is going to go off on a grand adventure where she will investigate strange happenings (not to be too confident here but it's ghosts) and make sure he has everything he needs for the next few months. He's, like, sixteen now, so probably he'll be fine? But she worries sometimes.

Her brother is VERY EXCITED about the ghosts and feels like he is obviously going to do a great job here, he's sixteen he's practically an adult, Anemone doesn't have to worry about anything while she's off fighting ghosts.

Magnificence also wants to spend time with Anemone's brother. He is going to give him a gift that he found while scavenging. It's a pen.

Anemone's brother does not appreciate this gift of pen. :(

Lacie looks at her occult books to see if she can get anything. No such luck.

She does need to actually tell her brother she's flying to Savannah. She tells him and gets in a fake argument with him about it and reassures him that she is going to be fine and fills him in on the spooky activities of Mr. Winston while he covers his ears and gripes about it and he hugs her and tells her to be safe and not spend all their money.

Frank has a crush on Carrie who is amazing because she knows!!! So many things!!! About planes!!!

Carrie is politely baffled by Frank's sudden interest in taking to her to movies and out dancing. 

She takes a look at the letters and doesn't find a code either.

And then with one thing and another, they fly to Savannah.

On the flight to Savannah, Mordred types up his notes on his typewriter, then starts doing something that involves referencing several books about linguistics. He makes it quite clear he doesn't want to talk to anyone.

Anemone pulls out a journal and writes down some of the CRAZY STUFF that happened, because keeping notes is an important part of curating a collection of the bizarre and strange.

Also she makes sure Magnificence has been fed, and talks to Zoe (and anyone else who wants to join in the conversation) about ghosts and about what they expect to find in Savannah.

Zoe catches Carrie up on the house. It has weird watermark mouth ghosts!

Lacie asks Anemone what's made her so certain it's ghosts. Does she have previous ghost experience? Is she knowledgeable in ghostly matters? What are the signs?

Anemone is a big part of the reason Zoe was able to help Lacie with that ghost problem that one time, actually! She would have had no idea what to do if she didn't have Anemone to ask about it.

Anemone expounds on how they have a lot of evidence of ghosts here and the various things she's heard in the past that support this conclusion.

The plane lands; they get a hotel, then the investigators-- minus Mordred, who figures that discretion is the better part of valor here-- go to the address on the letter nearest to downtown.

As they travel in the streetcar, on either side of the road, branches reach out, dripping with Spanish moss, grasping for the meager sunlight that makes it out of the overcast sky and through the arched trees above. Everything smells wet and still.

Zoe loves how heavy the air is in the south. You can smell all the plants in it.

Lacie doesn't, really. But it's always interesting to travel even when it isn't fun.

They arrive at a building. The smell of the harbor comes to them through the humid air, so thick with people’s sweat that it feels like they could wring the sky itself out and make it rain. It's a hulking, red-brick Victorian building with tall narrow windows and Gothic details. Kudzu grows over half the building, choking out windows and holding the place like a green fist, pulling it down to earth. Its blend of looming verticality and decorative details means it could have been anything from an imposing school to an artful hospital, but it is and has always been a hospital.

A sign out front says: JOY GROVE SANITARIUM.

Figures.

Zoe shudders and makes a face.

They sign in the visitors' log and say that they're visiting Douglas Henslowe.

"--Excuse me," a man says. "Did you mention Douglas Henslowe?"

"Yes," Zoe says.

"I'm Doctor Keaton, Mr. Henslowe's doctor."

"Perhaps he's mentioned a Mr. Winston to you before? We're here on behalf of his estate."

"Ah, yes he has, yes he has," Doctor Keaton says. "An old friend of Mr. Henslowe's, is he not?"

"Was. He died recently."

"Oh," Doctor Keaton says. "I am very sorry to hear that. I am sure Mr. Henslowe will be devastated by his loss."

"It seems like they meant a lot to each other. Would it be all right if we could see Mr. Henslowe to deliver the news?"

"Absolutely," Doctor Keaton says. "Why don't I take you on a tour of the place, and then you can interview Mr. Henslowe? You ladies seem the charitable sort, and I'm sure you'd love to see what we've done with our limited resources."

"Of course, thank you."

"Now, before you can enter the residential wings or speak to a patient, you will have to sign these waivers, in case the patients act out." He laughs a little bit. "It's Bedlam, after all."

(The waiver signs away the signer's right to sue in the event of offense, shock, assault, or battery.)

"Did Henslowe speak of Winston often?" Lacie asks, conversationally, as she does. "We know there were plenty of letters."

"He did, he did," Dr. Keaton says. "They were together, you know, in the... incident... in 1924."

"Yes, that's what we've heard. We haven't actually heard much of what exactly happened. It does seem to have left quite an impact though."

"Tragic business. Winston was never the same."

"He would never talk about it with any of us."

"I'm afraid that Mr. Henslowe won't be much help, given his"-- the doctor chuckles again-- "delusions. Fascinating psychologically, the things the mind comes up with to cope with a harsh reality."

"Would you be able to prepare us, before we go in? None of us would like to upset him, especially given the news we're delivering."

"Perhaps," Dr. Keaton says, "but I wouldn't want to scare you girls with such... harsh realities.-- Now, Joy Grove Sanitarium was founded in 1897 as a shining example of medicine, to elevate the standard of care for the insane in Savannah."

Dr. Keaton begins to lead the tour. Oversized windows are sealed with iron bars and overgrown with ivy. Decorative light fixtures stare at you like accusing yellow eyes. Iron gates and grilles choke elegant arched corridors. Years of grime and soot cake the elaborate skylights. Fine tile work was undermined by years of water damage and patient abuse. He takes the investigators through the basement (kitchen, cafeteria, game room, medical exam room) and the first floor (entry hall, reception, file room, locker room, offices, break room for staff, dispensary).

Dr. Keaton is definitely looking for the money from Mr. Winston's estate: Mr. Winston was a wealthy man. Dr. Keaton is a Southern gentleman and wants to respect ladies, but he likes the attention he gets from talking about his patients and wants a chance to talk about his most personally fascinating patient.

This is a very well-constructed and elegant building in spite of the years of neglect!

Dr. Keaton mostly seems to be discussing how the cutting-edge and progressive his hospital is, so Mrs. Winston-Rogers should give him money.

"What does treatment consist of for most patients?"

"A combination of psychoanalysis, medication, and cutting-edge new therapeutic techniques such as 'confrontation therapy,' where you put two people with the same delusion in the same room and let them talk to each other."

"Ooh, does that usually work?"

"Sometimes it does! We tried it on Mr. Henslowe, actually, with another patient of ours here, Mr. Aarons. Fascinating shared delusion there, I've been thinking of writing it up."

"Oh? What's their delusion?"

"Mr. Aarons was one of the 'criminals' that Mr. Henslowe and his people were after that night," Mr. Keaton says, not answering the question. "Our exam rooms have recently been renovated. Look at the lovely white-fabric padded walls."

"Is there really nothing you can tell us about Mr. Henslowe before we meet him? We're much sturdier than we may appear. Mr. Winston went through quite a lot. We are not naive to the harrowing effects of the experience they shared."

"Well, you are simply going to tell him that his friend died," Dr. Keaton says. "I see no reason why that should require knowing the details of his... delusion."

"Oh, but you see, Mrs Winston-Rogers specifically sent us to look into his situation and determine whether she could be of any help, so we'd like to have more to report to her than that."

"She cares very much about her father's old friend."

"Ah. I suppose." Lured by the combined forces of Money and Getting To Talk About His Patients, Dr. Keaton opens up. "Well, I doubt there is much she could do. Mr. Henslowe isn't allowed to leave Joy Grove by court order. When he was last out in 1933 he was obsessive and violent to himself and others. He can be signed out on temporary leave only to the company of his mother, Virginia Henslowe."

"Not that it matters, of course, we are providing him the finest care."

"I'm sure you are! But we'd like to have enough of a picture of the situation to persuade Mrs Winston-Rogers of this, since she couldn't make the trip herself."

"Perhaps she'd be interested in making his stay here more comfortable for him, if she knew how to help."

"She will be quite relieved to hear all about about your cutting edge treatments."

"Well, he has been a patient at Joy Grove since 1924. I don't know exactly what happened to those men in 1924, but whatever it was-- involving gunplay and murder and a fire-- it was too much for them to internalize. So they've concocted these elaborate stories that externalize their fear into some kind of terrible monster."

They progress to the second floor! Patients live in private but tiny rooms when they are not together in bland, off-white common areas, marred with water stains. Patients play cards, read books, and line up to receive medications in little paper cups from the dispensary. Some patients yell or hit themselves or waggle their fingers in the air or stare too long at you, but most seem either subdued or sedated.

Water stains?! Anemone looks.

Upon closer inspection some of the water stains do look rather mouth-y but nothing that couldn't be an accident.

One man, looking through the glass at her, draws his finger across his throat in the classic sign of impending death. She waves.

Well, they are guests the patients didn't invite and can't avoid. Carrie looks away politely.

The amount of... semi-violent behavior... people in this hospital are doing seems unusual, even for insane people. No one is hitting people right now, but there's more yelling and people hitting themselves than usual, and also more people who seem very very sedated.

This is super weird for a haunting though? Hauntings are supposed to be more local than this? 

This is an extremely weird haunting. You don't get identical ghosts in two different places. Something is up with this situation-- something that isn't ghosts.

 "You mentioned that two of the men here were both at the incident in 1924? Do their stories diverge much?"

"Their stories are very similar," Dr. Keaton says. "It's the most baffling shared psychosis I've ever come across in my years of medicine. They somehow came to the exact same delusion, yet before I had Aarons transferred here for confrontation therapy they hadn't been in contact with each other."

"Oh, was Mr. Aarons somewhere else previously?"

"Yes, he was at a hospital in California. He was attending graduate school at UCLA before his breakdown. Anthropology, I believe."

"You mentioned he was one of the "criminals" in the incident... what was the nature of the crime? It seems odd for someone pursuing a higher degree."

Dr. Keaton spreads his hands. "I don't know the details. The patients' memories are vague, and I am not a police officer. My business is medicine, not justice. I understand from his police record that Mr. Aarons was involved in some sort of sex cult." Dr. Keaton's tone expresses that joining a sex cult is expected behavior for an anthropologist from outside of the South.

"Has the confrontation therapy helped any?"

"Sadly, it has not. Even the most advanced therapies can't help certain refractory cases. These men are getting better, but I am afraid that neither of them will ever be right again."

"That's unfortunate. Has it helped at all with their comfort, if not with the delusions themselves?"

"I believe they are becoming more comfortable, yes."

"I see. ...you seem to know a lot about this building, Dr Keaton, may I ask how long you've been working at this particular hospital?

"Fifteen years."

"That's quite some time. I understand medicine has changed quite a bit in that time. I wonder, have the sorts of patients you see changed as well? Any ailments more or less common than they used to be?"

"Why, yes," Dr. Keaton says. "We have a rather more... aggressive sort now than when I first started out. And manipulative as well. Fewer cases of straightforward neurosis."

"How interesting. What do you think might be the cause?"

"Many patients with borderline personality, many constitutional psychopaths. I suspect some sort of cultural change in Savannah, possibly related to the Depression."

"Ah, that makes sense. Desperate times."

"Indeed. Do you have any further questions or should I arrange for you to speak with Mr. Henslowe?"

A hefty, balding, ham-fisted man with wild eyes and yellow, crooked teeth is biting at the air.

"We'd like to see Mr. Henslowe, I think? Thank you very much for the tour."

Dr. Keaton leaves to arrange this, after assigning an orderly to keep an eye on them. 

The ham-fisted man with wild eyes twists away from the orderly and bites him, hard. The orderly shrieks.

" - if someone can pry them apart we should see if the orderly needs medical attention - " Wow Anemone is not remotely qualified for prying people apart though.

The wild-headed man charges straight for Anemone and bites her.

Yeah, Carrie doesn't think she's at all qualified or informed enough to help with this situation. She's going to stay-- oh.

Anemone might be able to talk the patient down if WOW OKAY. 

She twists away from the man and dodges. 

Zoe screams for an orderly. 

The man turns and, attracted by Zoe's screaming, tries to bite her. Using her acrobatic skills, Zoe easily eludes him.

"Wow, okay, there's no need for that, can you tell us what's wrong?"

"Mouths," the man says, "mouths--" and now he's trying to bite Lacie.

...and instead of doing this trips over his own feet.

"Wow, you know about the mouths! - hold up, man, can you tell us about them?"

"Mouths," he says, calmer now that someone is paying attention to him, "mouths on the walls-- biting-- Have to bite."

"Right, mouths everywhere, aren't there. Do you know where they come from?"

"No."

An orderly comes to restrain him. "Sorry about that, ma'am. Dangerous place, hospitals. I'm glad none of you were hurt."

"I understand, of course. I think the orderly might need medical attention. - Do you know why the mouths want you to bite things?"

"We'll see to that right away," the orderly says, "no worries, ma'am. Please don't play into Mr. Culver's delusions."

And Mr. Culver is carted away by an orderly.

Well, that's concerning.

Dr. Keaton returns. "Mr. Henslowe is downstairs," he says. "I was wondering, since you've shown such interest in Mr. Aarons-- and since, frankly, being seen by four people at once can be rather overwhelming to the insane-- if perhaps some of you would like to talk to him?"

The investigators agree this is sensible and split up: Zoe and Lacie to Mr. Henslowe and Anemone and Carrie to Mr. Aarons, on the grounds that each pair should have at least one person who can definitely talk to people.

The interview room is a simple, cold space with three tables, a chair, and a barred window looking out into the hallway. It smells like chlorine. A burly orderly stands in the corner in case of trouble.

Anemone and Carrie wait for a few minutes, and eventually Dr. Keaton brings them Mr. Aarons.

Lev smells of cigarettes and mouthwash and he's chain-smoking. Dr. Keaton sends the orderly to fetch an additional chair for him to sit in.

"Hello! Delighted to meet you, Mr. Aarons."

"Delighted to meet you too," he says nervously. "I don't get many visitors, being in, uh, Georgia." (He has a slight Yiddish accent.)

"Yes, I'm sure it must be difficult for your friends to visit you out here. Remind me, how long have you been at this particular hospital?"

"Nine years or so? Dr. Keaton arranged a transfer because of our shared, uh, delusions."

"Oh, I see. I don't know what you've been told, but I am here on behalf of an old friend of Mr. Douglas Henslowe, and I'm looking to get a more complete picture of his situation. I understand that the two of you have some sort of shared history?"

Quick eye-flick to Dr. Keaton. "Dr. Keaton doesn't like me to relive those days or to, uh, externalize my fears. He doesn't like me talking about monsters." Slight sad smile. "Unless they're me."

"Now, Lev," Dr. Keaton says, "remember not to practice self-hatred."

Lev nods like he's remembering an old lesson.

"I see. Dr. Keaton, would it be all right to hear Mr. Aarons's account of events, with the understanding that memories of traumatic events do not necessarily reflect reality? I would like to be able to provide Mrs. Winston Rogers with a little more closure about her own father's activities, and that may require hearing the fiction in order to separate out the fact."

"All right," Dr. Keaton says, "but let's not try to focus on the supernatural or the make-believe in this interview, right, Lev?"

"Of course, Dr. Keaton." Lev's hand shakes as he lights another cigarette.

"I understand the events in question occurred sometime in 1924?"

"Even any - concretely natural and social context you could give would be very helpful for us."

"Yes. I-- can't remember much. I'm on nine different pills, you know." Long drag of his cigarette. "Not too big. Blue ones and red ones. Two capsules, the rest are, you know, they're pills-- what was I saying?"

"Context," Dr. Keaton prompts.

"Right. So I don't... remember things, really. It's all a haze, because of the pills. Prompts make it easier, I can be reminded--"

"I see. Did it begin in 1924, or did it start earlier?"

"I met him in 1920? 1921? When I was at UCLA. George introduced us. George Avery? Ayers? I swear, he was my thesis advisor, I can hear his voice, why can't I remember his name? It's all so hazy..."

She takes out a journal and makes a note of the name. "Your thesis advisor. You were studying anthropology?"

"Yeah. I-- I was good at it too? I've always been bad at people but you put a notebook in my hand and give me a script of questions and all of that goes away." He sighs. "People are fascinating. The most fascinating thing."

"Stay on topic," Dr. Keaton warns.

"I know what you mean. The stories they tell. I'd like to hear your story. - who did your thesis advisor introduce you to?"

"Echavarria," Lev says. "He worked in films. He had a great library. Rare books. Books that cost two years of my salary, books I'd never seen, books I've never even heard of... about anthropology and history and the occult..."

Taking notes. "Echvarria? Can you spell that?"

He laughs. "With all the sh-- sorry, ma'am, with all the things they have me on I can barely spell my own name."

"It's all right, don't worry about it. You were interested in his books?"

"Yes. I used to spend hours there reading about everything... the occult, cryptography, theology, astronomy, archaeology, history, chemistry..."

"I see. But it didn't keep to reading, I take it, you got involved in something else?"

"Yeah. There were... Echavarria's friends. Film people, you know. They did drugs. Especially this one, that helped with focus and concentration and hard work... They offered me some a couple times, I didn't like it."

"I see. Did they do anything else?"

"They were into this... weird religious thing," Lev says. "I'm an atheist and, you know, if I weren't an atheist I'd be a Jew, but I was an anthropologist, obviously I'm going to jump at the opportunity to participate in a cultic ritual..."

Very small laugh. "A ritual of their own devising? Or something with older roots?"

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," Dr. Keaton says.

"I think he must have gotten it out of his books," Lev says. "They were worshipping Gol-Goroth. They called him the Fisher from Outside, for some reason. I know he's a god of some people-- I can't remember--" he sounds frustrated.

"We can stop the interview whenever you like," Dr. Keaton says.

Writing. "Of course, I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Don't worry on my account, though, I very much appreciate even an incomplete picture. Do you know why they worshipped him?"

"Power," Lev says. "It was all about power. They could get whatever they wanted when Gol-Goroth returned. --Me, I just had a crush on the pretty girl."

"I see. So was it this group that you were with, in 1924?"

"Yes. I mean, it was them I was with when-- it happened. They say it was a sex cult. I guess I can't disprove that. No one would invite me to the sex part of a sex cult."

"I see. What was it that happened, exactly?"

"They were performing a ritual. It wasn't any different than the normal rituals. And then Douglas's crew showed up and lit the place on fire. Shot us. I managed to escape. Wound up raving about mouths and ended up in an asylum."

"Why should Mr. Henslowe have wanted to shoot you?"

"Well, we were a sex cult. Apparently."

Lev's sarcasm flies entirely over Dr. Keaton's head.

"I don't know that that warrants summary execution, is there some reason he thought it should?"

"Dr. Keaton says Mr. Henslowe was a very violent man," Lev says, "and that is part of the reason he is in this institution."

"You didn't say you would ask such pointed questions," Dr. Keaton says.

"I'm sorry, perhaps I let my curiosity get the better of me. Can you tell me where this fire happened?"

"A barn, out in the agricultural district near LA."

Writing. "Thank you. - do you you speak much to the other inmates here?"

Sad smile. "I was never really one for, uh. Talking."

"It's interesting, one of the other patients was speaking about mouths earlier. Have you gone on about them recently, or was that only immediately after being hospitalized?"

"No, I'm on the medications now and I know that all the things I remember seeing were, uh, delusions. Psychoses from being unable to handle--" He pauses.

"Right, thank you. That's good to hear. Before I go, I have looked through some of the late Mr. Winston's files, and they're a bit confusing in places. Does the word 'nyarlathotep' mean anything to you?"

"It might have meant something once."

(He is too drugged to remember any of his anthropology research.)

"I think you should tell her what really happened that night," Doctor Keaton says encouragingly.

"This one guy, with a shotgun, just... blew Echavarria away. Shot him right down." Lev pauses and is visibly hesitant to say anything more. "I stabbed that guy with Echavarria's knife. This big ugly knife. A few times. To get away. I was so sure he was going to kill me too and I had to get away from there-- there's a lot of blood? Inside a person? Did you know that? There's so much blood."

"Calm yourself," Dr. Keaton says.

"I know it was wrong. I see his face before me every night and, and the blood, and there's nothing I can do, and-- Dr. Keaton says there's nothing I can do about it so I should just move on. That's what Dr. Keaton says. And, and the stress of it was too much and with the suggestibility I started hallucinating and--"

"Yes?"

"And that's it."

"You lost consciousness, and woke up in a hospital?"

Lev's eyes flick to Dr. Keaton for permission.

"Are you interested in the character of Mr. Aarons's hallucinations?" Dr. Keaton asks, clearly expecting the answer to be "no".

"If it wouldn't be too upsetting to share?"

"Sure, if he doesn't mind. I'd like to have an account of the whole thing, start to finish, even if it's marred in places by unreliable narration."

"I hallucinated something with long weird limbs and no head and-- and mouths, lots of mouths, and I couldn't really make it out and I didn't try. And then I stabbed that guy and ran the hell out of there."

"Language."

"Sorry, ma'am. --It was-- I was already very keyed up? Because I was the central focus of the ritual, I didn't really understand all of it but Echavarria put, he put a spell on me, right before the-- right before I started hallucinating, and-- he didn't tell me what it was supposed to do."

"Had you been the focus of these rituals before?"

"No, never, it was the first time, I-- I was so excited that, that my participant observation was a success-- it probably made me suggestible. Made me hallucinate. Because magic's not real. He couldn't really put a spell on me because magic's not real."

"Of course. Just actions."

"I'm glad you're clear on that. These rituals always had a focus, but it hadn't been you before?"

"No, not before," Lev says. "It hadn't happened before. It was... a big ritual. So they needed a focus."

"Believed they needed a focus," Dr. Keaton corrected.

"Believed they needed a focus."

"I see. So it wasn't the same as the other rituals, in their minds. Was its purpose different?"

"I don't know. I wasn't part of the inner circle, they didn't tell me."

"Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Aarons. I think it will do our employer some good, learning something about what happened to the old friend of her father's who died at that ritual. I suppose you could think of that as a form of restitution."

"I hope so," Lev says. "I hope it helps."

"Well, I think Mr. Aarons has gotten over-excited," Doctor Keaton says, "so if that's all let's see if your friends are done."

Meanwhile--

Douglas Henslowe is an older man, well-groomed even in the white-scrubs uniform of the sanitarium patient.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Henslowe. My name is Zoe, I'm here on behalf of Mr. Winston's daughter."

"I knew he would come someday." Mr. Henslowe speaks with a Southern drawl.

"We saw how many letters you sent him. He kept them all. It seems they meant a great deal to him."

"It's very unfortunate that he never got in touch; it seems he had many of his own... troubles, after what you went through together." She pauses. "There's no easy way to say this."

Douglas nods like he knows what Lacie is going to say.

"I'm sorry to tell you, but he recently passed away."

"Well," Douglas says, "when you get to be my age, with the life I live, you have more friends who are dead than are alive."

"His daughter seems to be concerned for you, especially in light of the events in August of 1924, which she knows very little about. She has been wondering if there are any amends that need to be made on her father's behalf."

"Was his death--" Douglas sighs. "Was his death natural or... unnatural?"

"He died of a heart attack."

Douglas sighs. "Good. That's... good. We take what comforts we can in this world."

"His daughter does seem to believe that he was involved in... unnatural things of some nature, but we have very little information to go on at present. Do you think you could tell us more about Mr. Winston? How did you two know each other?"

"Ah, he was involved in the occult On... the side of good, as much as there is good in such things." He sighs. "Are you here to hear the ramblings of an old man about better days?"

"His daughter was very curious to learn more about the two of you. And, I'll admit, I am now as well."

"I think the ramblings of an old man are just what she wanted us to hear."

"Well," he says. "It was 1923. We were traveling the country, hot on the tail of the cult that started all this. We questioned people, gathered evidence, took pictures, traveled all over. We were like detectives armed with our secret knowledge in the occult. It was an exciting time." Douglas seems almost nostalgic.

"The cult that started all... this?" She looks fascinated.

"Yes. We'd followed the drugs all the way across the country to Los Angeles. That's where the bulk of our investigation took place. That's where." He pauses. "That's where it happened."

"What happened there, Mr. Henslowe?"

"In good time, in good time, Miss-- you did not introduce yourself."

"Lacie Ferrier. I apologize, I got ahead of myself."
 
 
 

"My name's Zoe Aletheia, Mr. Henslowe."

"Thank you, Miss Aletheia, Miss Ferrier," Mr. Henslowe says. "Now, there were four of us investigating. Miss Clark was a chit of a girl like you, sharp. I'm not the kind of person who says women shouldn't be involved in this. I'm a gentleman but Miss Clark knew what she was about. Archivist, camerawoman, recordkeeper. She was the one who got the photographs. She could look at things that made my stomach turn and she would just... snap a picture. I think she hated that the cult would operate in secret, that people would cover up something so vile instead of revealing it for what it is."

"I like her already."

"Vince Stack. Tough fellow. The fixer, if you get my meaning. Good with a gun, good with his hands, always ready with a drink but down to business when it counts. And F. C Kullman. Occult expert. He was known far and wide for his expertise, back in the day. Walter had to pay him quite a bit to get him to come out. He was in a wheelchair, but he had a can-do attitude. Brightest man I've ever met, and when it counted the bravest."

Douglas glances at the orderly, pauses for a moment, and then appears to come to a decision. "Are you continuing the work?"

"Mrs. Winston-Rogers has asked us to learn what we can about the incident of 1924. Beyond that, I can't say. Perhaps."

She smiles brightly. "I think so, though, yes. --You said you were following drugs, and a cult. Which drugs? Which cult?"

"All those names made my head spin even before I was on the medication," Douglas says. "The drug was-- I don't know that it had a name yet. It was new. Made you sharp, made you focused, made you stay up late working. Like amphetamines without the side effects. All those Hollywood types loved it."

"Hmm. Like everything was suddenly clear, and sharp, and the whole world was laid out in front of you..." This started as a question, she swears it did. She coughs. "But this was related to whatever the cult was doing?"

"Yes, that's exactly what they said it was like. They were selling it to fund their activities. We were working on unraveling the exact details when-- Miss Clark got word that many of the cultists were meeting up there. Kullman said the stars were right that day too, whatever that means. So we rushed out there with guns and homemade firebombs to put a stop to it. To save the world."