"I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever if you will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told you with perfect candor. Nothing remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind - that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me."

--The Statement of Randolph Carter,   H.P. Lovecraft.

Monday, March 1st, 1920. Gibbous Waxing. Boston, MA.
"The advertisement says, 'possibly hazardous locations,'" she paused, then asked, "What exactly do you mean?"
    "Ah, Miss Larson, as I am sure a student of archaeology is aware, many of the greatest discoveries of our time have been unearthed in parts of the world where civil strife is common. Egypt and the interior of Africa, the mountains of Argentina are inhabited by unpredictable indigenous tribes, indeed the very governments of the southern Americas can be uncooperative. There are also a certain number of individuals to be found in every climate who ... read too much into the scientific facts we seek to expose." Dr. Volt tapped his glasses once and then resumed, "Since you will likely be traveling to foreign lands, where mean men of small ambition may take advantage of your lack of local color, is was necessary to alert applicants of the danger. You are not a simpleminded woman and I have other matters to yet attend to, let us move on to the rest of the interview."


"Now, what do you see in this.... picture, Miss Larson?" Asked the rail thin, balding doctor.
    "Why these questions doctor?" Helen looked at him but his eyes remained on his note pad, hands never pausing in the taking of notes. "What do they have to do with our job here?"
    "Do these questions make you uncomfortable, Miss Larson?" Was the reply.
    "No."
    "Hmm, good, very good. Now then, what do you see in this picture, Miss Larson?"


Thursday, March 4th, 1920. Full Moon. Boston, MA.
"A sum of one-hundred dollars to be paid each week of active service and a comfortable living stipend of thirty dollars to be paid during your leisure, a lack of activity which you should not expect an excessive quantity of," stated Dr. Gimble.
    "That's some heavy sugar boss." Eddie sucked his breath in, "This is all on the level, right?"
    "We want you to feel well provided for. At times, our investigators have arrived at a place in their work of certain moral deliquescence. Should you find yourselves in such a position, we hope that you act with the Societies interests in mind."
    "Deli-what?"
    "Where that which is correct and that which is wrong can be changeable," clarified the doctor.
    "You're not asking us to do anything that'd put us on the lam are ya old boy?"
    "Certainly not. Beyond the providing of deliverables, in the form of evidence, information, and artifacts, your actual actions are outside the purview of the Society. We simply ask that that you conduct yourselves in a discreet fashion."
    That seemed to satisfy the young man; "Yeah... I get ya."


"Might I be the first to welcome you to your employment here at the Boston Esoteric Society, " the young Dr. Gimble affably congratulated the investigators. "We are very excited to have such an able and intelligent team of ladies and gentlemen looking after our affairs. There is but one last item which must be attended to.
    "Doctor Merriweather, former chairman and an important donor to the Society, has asked to meet the new team. Unfortunately he cannot meet you here for he has been ill for quite sometime. You will need to go to the city hospital at Harrison Avenue, between East Concord and Northampton Streets, number eight-one-eight. I have called a carriage to take you there this evening."


Weak in his bed, the old man rests for a moment with his eyes closed, his breath drawn shallow. His eyes flutter open and he speaks with a forced whisper, "I am dying, you see. Cancer the doctors tell me. You should tell the gentlemen at the Society that I will not be walking again through their prestigious halls. And Dr. Noah, he is a lousy card player."
    He coughs and it almost sounds like a laugh, though his chest seizes painfully. When he has relaxed he continues, faintly, "Take it, take it. Take that box. All the aid I can offer lies within. You must take it and see that thing returned whence it came. See this done, you must. Do this for me. Ah, so young and bold. When I am dead the bonds that hold it will wither away. You must -"
    He face squints and then he suddenly sits straight up! A gurgling choke begins deep in his chest. He convulses, loudly coughs forth a wet gout of blood and tissue which splatters down his cloths and covers the bed sheets. He moans loudly and then falls to the side. The door opens, his son's eyes wide as he looks in, "What! What have you done?" his strangled voice strains before shouting for a nurse.

Friday, March 5th, 1920. Full Moon. Boston, MA.
"Unfortunate news this morning, ladies, gentlemen. Former chairman and one the the foremost donors to the society, Dr. Rupert Merriweather passed away early this morning," Dr. Gimble sighed. "I'm glad you were able to make his acquaintance before his passing. He was both a friend, colleague, and mentor of mine. His wife and son came by this morning to collect items he had kept here at his office and they inquired about a certain land deed and small gold sarcophagus, a keepsake from his etymology research in Egypt. Did he pass such an item into your possession?"
...
"So yeah, here it is, that's gold ya see? Real deal," Eddie quipped, "Maybe we could just hold onto it until we've settled this spirit deal, then pass it on to you guys."
    "Hmm these inscriptions appear Egyptian in origin, but the ones on the inside of the box bewilder me as to their origin." Here the doctor paused. "One our previous applicants has just the expertise that a team such as yours needs to decipher such oddities. I'll arrange a meeting for you this evening."


"...Bearer of the spirits of Nar-Loth-hotep, child of Thoth, Seeker of Wisdom. Hmm, sounds like a poem, " the young scholar, Mr. Gould, quietly commented, "And these inside, Mu, Beneath Waters, Awaits, quite puzzling. Perhaps Mu is some place in Egypt?" He fell quiet and the air of the old building seemed to wait, silently, in the night.
    "We should go to the farm and see if we can find more out." The mild Miss Monroe suggested.
    "You go on, I feel a bit ill. Boston's finest chowder does not seem to agree with me. I'd best take it easy tomorrow and not be a-bumping down country roads." Colonel Chesterfield sighed unhappily.


Saturday, March 6th, 1920. Gibbous Waning. Ross's Corner, MA.
"Read that journal last night; some bad voodoo in there. Didn't sleep well afterwards. Those boys say they summoned up this spirit outta a little chunk of amber that was restin in that gold box. Killed one of them straight out before they left it says. Hard to say what the real deal is but we ought'a check it out."


At the far end of town, through the rain, is a church, left and right a couple small roadways populated with neatly kept and modest homes. The winter barren hills about Ross's Corners are patched with farms, mostly distant. Passersby view the investigators with suspicion as they exit their coach. The driver disembarks to refill the petrol.
...
Crouching among the derelict apple orchard, the house used by the Dark Brotherhood, now abandoned over forty years waits in the cooling evening light. The sound of a car in the distance approaches; as it passes by an older lady passenger leans out the window to look suspiciously at the investigators, still leaning out she watches them until the car rounds a bend later down the dirt road.


"These are in latin, I think. Six pages are the same thing," Miss Larson handed them out to each of her companions, sheets of yellowed manuscript paper with a wide and flourishing writing covering them in the foreign script.
    "These other three seem to outline some sort of activity. There's a couple drawings, a pentagram here, see? And this note here - could be used to release the spirit trapped inside the ancient amber." she read.
    "Must be the papers he mentioned in that journal." Spoke Eddie.


"You heard..." Mr. Gould looked to Miss Clair who, by her expression, had noticed the sound as well. A thud, from beneath the floorboards like the striking of a wooden wash basin or that of an ancient drum. Not once did it sound, but it echoed quieter and quieter still until it could be heard no more. Then, a dry scratching not unlike movement disturbing dry leaves could be perceived before it too fell quiet.
    "I thought the journal said it was in the attic, " Eddie's voice trailed off.
    "Perhaps it's the transient whose things we saw in the kitchen." Miss Monroe spoke without certainty. "There's probably an access to the root cellar behind the house somewhere."
    A kukri blade had found itself into Mr. Gould's nervous hands. Eddie nodded and drew his pistol. "But maybe it ain't." He calmly said.


The footprints disappeared into the dark of the tilled earth cellar floor. Miss Monroe's flashlight slowly traveled right to left along the dimly illuminated, dirty, and distant foundation wall. Support beams and a hundred cobwebs further obscured any of what could be seen in the far recesses beneath the house.
    A noise to her left, a sudden shifting of the air drew her attention. From out of sight leapt into view a large creature, eyes wide and a breath of filth left its wide yellow toothed mouth. Fur hiding all other features and shreds of clothing waving through the air with its sudden motion.
    CRACK! Echoed her drawn pistol as she scrabbled backward and into the startled chest of Mr. Gould. It's face fled from its countenance and splattered onto the support beams of the cellar; the beast, now made man lay on its face in the soft earthen ground.
    "What the!" exclaimed Eddie.


Sunday, March 7th, 1920. Gibbous Waning. Boston, MA.
"It says here that the ritual, performed backwards, words and all, will dispel the spirit," Miss Helen Larson said, "We'll need certain chemicals to create the pentagram they describe here. Where does it say they performed the ceremony, Eddie?"
    "Somewhere in the house. We'll have to be in close proximity to its lair for it to work. They were in the kitchen when they did it because they had lit the fireplace. That's what I gather."
    "Poppycock," retorted the colonel, "You don't expect me to read this voodoo-hoodoo to make some make believe spirit go away I hope! What we ought to do is take a look in that there attic. Save us the trouble of all this nonsense."

Sunday Night, March 7th, 1920. Gibbous Waning. Outside of Ross' Corner, MA.
The rain slashes coldly down on the investigators as they make their way up the muddy drive to the abandoned farmhouse. Up at the house the silhouette of Miss Monroe flashes her electric torch in welcome.
    "Damnable rain," the Colonel mutters.


"I must stress that this ceremonial twaddle is a waste of time. Let's have a look up there, in the attic." Colonel Chesterfield spoke aloud, "If none of you have the courage then I shall look there myself."
    A foul smell and dust rises from the couch as he steps on its arm and pushes against the attic trapdoor. Its stuck tight, but after a moment a hollow thud echoes as it pushes up and aside. A cold gust rushes through and into the hallway from above.
    "We're closing that door after you," Eddie reminded him cautiously.
    The attic is dark and barely illuminated by the electric torch grasped in Colonel Chesterfield's hands. In the far corner, through the dust stirred by his feet there is something on the floor and to its right one of the attics front windows is open. Outside the rain can be heard as it slashes against the roof of the house and the surrounding overgrown orchard. Downstairs, each slow footstep can be heard on the wooden ceiling above.


"We all heard it, what was that noise?" Miss Monroe asked; the noise had been rather loud, shuddering against the floor and shaking dust loose upon their heads, it too had brought the colonel hastily down out of the dark attic access way. Eddie had quickly reached up and pulled the trapdoor shut and everyone was quiet, listening.
    "Nonsense," stammered the colonel, "Just the wind blowing into the house through the open window up there. Here's one of the bones from the attic Miss Larson. That should be enough I hope."
    Mr. Gould and Eddie exchanged glances for they both knew, the window had been closed when they left the house the night before.


"I tell you, its a cat. The noise was the wind." The colonel's eyes peered intently into the gloom shed by the torch as it panned over the remains that covered the floor at the far end of the attic. There was a foulness in the air that the rain coming through the open window could not wash away. A low rumbling like thunder brought his flashlight to the far corner once again, the dust clouding the air. There. Something how the dust moves, nay, how the air moves.
    "I think there's..." Colonel Chesterfield only mutters. With frighteningly swift alacrity the floor rumbles. Miss Larson gasps as his head suddenly snaps left and smashes into the trapdoor side.
    "GET HIM DOWN!" Shouted Mr. Gould and Eddie frantically pulled his body out of the bleak hole that led to the attic. Blood, it spattered thickly onto the floor. The trap door slams shut before Eddie can reach up to it, and a low panting is heard from something that creeps above their heads. Impossibly wide gashes have opened, piercing the Colonel's cheek, neck, and skinning hair from his skull to to the bone. Their terrible spacing far wider than any natural beast of the wild could effect.


It is midnight. Helen Larson takes a shaky breath and then her voice chants the latin script backwards, a strange cadence forming as she struggles with the reverse pronunciation of the ancient words. Listening carefully, for their turn is to come and the words must be said correctly, the others stand quietly nearby as she starts again. In the center of the derelict kitchen floor, at the direction of the notes scribed by Marion Allen, leader of the young men who performed the same unholy ritual forty years past, a pentagram has been drawn from an absurd mixture of chemicals. In its center rests the small gold sarcophagus, filled with yet another foul concoction of powders that now exude a vile lavender smoke which slowly twines through the air of the room.
    Twenty minutes pass. No sign of the beast above that attacked the Colonel has been discerned for hours now. The colonel, his head crudely bandaged, leans wearily at the fireplace where the fire therein does small help in keeping away the cold that breezes through the neglected farmhouse.
    Thump. All eyes are drawn upward as wisps of dust are loosened from the cracks in the ceiling boards, watching as the boards bend beneath the weight of something heavy that prowls in the room above. Helen's voice loses its composure and Niles joins her in the chant - it must not end yet, not for nearly two hours still.


It has ceased. The awful howling and guttural murmuring of foul curses had continued for nearly half of an hour, spoken in a blasphemous language that none in the room could translate, yet still it shakes their primal being, calling for their heart to despair and creating images in the shadows of things, hinting of a vast darkness better left uncontemplated, unknown.
    All of the investigators look upward while they chant as one board bends, pressed down from above by some terrible weight to the brink of collapse. A viscous yellow liquid seeps through the boards and drips down from above, soon becoming a tainted rain as more is disclosed from elsewhere above. Miss Larson cries out as a drop falls against her neck and then carves a liquid trail down her back and through her skin, the blouse she wears recoiling and crumpling at its evil touch. Miss Monroe gasps as a fleck splatters against her cheek to cook and burn. Eddie throws his umbrella up over the ladies, Mr. Gould and the Colonel backing into the corners of the room to escape the brief cascade of ooze.


"I say, that was a call for help. Didn't any of you hear that?" The colonel's eyes direct themselves to the front of the house, for a moment he fears a trick, but his nature tasks him to investigate the faint call from outside. "I'll take a look."
    Miss Larson withdraws from the chanting and follows him to the front parlor.


He saw the feebly risen hand of someone fallen in the grass of the orchard, at the edge of the faint torch's light. Cold rain slashes through the air and through the wind a failing sob for help calls forth.
    Miss Larson stayed in the doorway, watching as the Colonel strode into the dark. Fifty paces away, among the trees he stops, his body betraying surprise as he looks down where the hand had been raised. Then Helen can see him no more as her view of him is eclipsed by a large shadow that steps to behind the Colonel from the orchard shadows, arm upraised and cudgel clutched in its white, bloodless grasp.
    Helen gasps, the colonel turns, now seeing the figure behind him as its club glances off his shoulder, as the flashlight swings to illuminate his foe, shining upon, and through the great hole in the face of the man behind him. Helen's whispered panic rose to a scream.


All eyes watch, dare they stop their chant. The sarcophagus lid is snapped shut by some unseen hand. The unspeakable shadows, grasping claws and reaching teeth hidden therein dissolve into a black powder that falls, yet leaves no trace on the floor of the pentagram.
    Dare they stop? Niles glances at his watch, the hour is 2am. The foul curses have silenced, the pounding of the house about them has ceased, the sarcophagus lays closed, curls of smoke swirling about it and the air is thick with the oder of decay and the scent of fear.
    One by one their voices quiet till only the dull pounding of the rain can be heard.


Monday, March 8th, 1920. Gibbous Waning. Boston, MA.
"Most fascinating," softly spoke the congenial Dr. Charles Gimble, "Doctor Noah will be very interested in what your thoughts are regarding the entire experience." He pauses thoughtfully and leans back in his chair. Checking his watch, he returns it to his coat and sits back up.
    "We received word from the owners of The Capital. I know this will come as a disappointment to some of you, I applaud your enthusiasm, but one of the screws of the ship, propellers as I understand it, was damaged in the storm. They are waiting for an opportunity to dry dock the ship and perform repairs. We too are disappointed with this, but this is the reality of international travel. If we can book passage with short notice on another vessel we will do so. We should know more in a week after the ship has been raised and examined.
    "Perhaps, in the meanwhile, you would like to relax. The society dispenses pay bi-monthly, but I have decided to forward you one weeks pay for your management of Doctor Merriweather's affairs. For those of you who are not residents of Boston, the Society will pay for your lodging, so that expense will not be on your conscience.
    "I understand Colonel Chesterfield's cat attack wounds were rather serious. Be assured we will cover all his hospital needs and ensure that he receives the most professional of services to return him to health. Doctor Borst, the hospital's lead surgeon, telephoned this afternoon to let me know that while the wounds were severe, he expects a full and complete recovery."
    "Now, if you will pardon my abruptness, I must finish my affairs and return home," he chuckles, "It would not be seemly for me to arrive late for my own families dinner. Thank you, Ladies, Gentlemen."