• The Report of Inspector Howard Blake (Short story)
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I feel pretty good about this first draft so I figured I'd share it with fp. When you read the story, don't expect to have much explained by the end, I did that on purpose since insanity can't be very easily explained. After reading the story over a second time, I think I was kind of inspired by Lovecraft when I wrote it. April 12, 1920 I began an investigation into the disappearance of Kevin McColl. However the investigation did not begin as a missing persons case, instead it started as something more sinister and bizarre. Upon arrival at my office I found a package on my desk. Bound under twine and brown paper I found the Diary of one Kevin McColl. The diary had a strange symbol inked onto the leather cover. I attempted to photograph the image to no avail. Every photograph taken refused to develop. Similarly every attempt I made to sketch the icon seemed to fail. These failures had so upset me that I had refused to even open the book. Attached was a note written in a language then indecipherable. My interest piqued I contacted the professor of languages at the Arkham University. “Where did you get this my boy?” He had inquired. Before I had time to answer he continued, “This is written in an ancient dialect of Sanskrit!” When I inquired as to the nature of the note he refused to speak a word, only urging me to investigate Mr. McColl. With no leads available I forced myself to read the contents of the troubling diary. The first approximately five pages of entries were written over multiple times, creating layers of incomprehensible manuscript. The first legible entry began at the year 1917 detailing how during the Great War, McColl volunteered himself for a secret mission. Their orders were to investigate the activities of a French garrison at a dilapidated German castle in the Argonne. They entered directly through a secret entrance to the catacombs. What they were looking for was not mentioned, but further entries mention rumors of a cult of some kind. The next page consisted entirely of gibberish. The entry following was dated February 19th almost a year later. McColl had been catatonic at Lakeshore Asylum. During his stay after regaining awareness, McColl inquired many times about his last mission. McColl berated himself on these questionings when he concludes the mission was so secret none of the nurses or doctors would be privileged with such knowledge. None of these entries can be confirmed as the US Army denies any knowledge of such a mission. Additionally the Asylum mentioned in the book burned down the day I mailed my letter of inquiry. Despite these setbacks, the journal entries continued. McColl received a letter stating the death of his mother and his inheritance of his family farm. When he left, he went home. One journal entry was almost entirely dedicated to depicting McColls trek to his inherited farm. April 26th I arrived at the small town of Credence, Vermont. As a small town Credence created a penchant for kinship among its populace. Thus it was a strange occurrence that not a single townsperson recalled the homecoming McColl depicted in his diary on March 1st: “I stepped off the musty train car and strained my eyes to see through the thick steam fog. I set down my steamer trunk to pull my coat over my back. The loud train strained along its route. The steam began to lift in the warm breeze. ‘Kevin my boy! It’s relieving to see you, we all thought you died in the war, but your mother still believed, bless her heart.’ The last remnants of steam blew away, I saw the owner of the grizzled bulldog voice. I saw Mayor Quinn and chuckled in excitement. I can remember when I was a kid and he was mayor. The old man aged well, not looking a day older than I had left him.” The entry continues; McColl numerates the various childhood friends he meets. The strangeness of this story grew when the town doctor informed me that mayor Quinn had died of tuberculosis in the year 1914, three years before McColl left for war. I began to believe that McColls mind fabricated the entire trip until the local teacher mentioned that the elderly Mrs. McColl had died, but no letter had been sent to inform anyone outside of the town that the old widow had expired. I retired to the room I rented from the town doctor utterly perplexed, where I continued to read the strange diary: “March 13th 1920, My sleep has been troubled these last nights. At first I blamed the movement and racket of the train I slept on, however this has continued for nearly two weeks. I feel like the house is watching me. March 15th 1920, I know it’s a silly notion, but when I was shaving myself in the mirror I saw something disturbing. The wall behind me held a picture of my mother sitting in her rocking chair. When I looked up into the mirror after washing the shaving cream off my face, I swore I saw a corpse where my mother was in the reflection. March 19th 1920, I’ve put every picture, painting and mirror in the attic. This has eased my discomfort but my sleep is still troubled. The wall paper in my room has a pattern in it. I know it’s just roses, but I swear they stare at me when I’m not looking directly at them. Tomorrow I’ll look for some paint in the shed out back. Maybe then I’ll get a good sleep. March 20th 1920, I’ve boarded up the door to the attic, and painted over all the windows. This damn house isn’t going to see into my soul. I now sleep with the Webley revolver I picked up off a dead Tommy I found in the war. It’s just my back up while I find a way to control my sleep walking. During my sleep I keep rubbing off the cross on my door. How am I supposed to stay safe if I keep washing it off? I keep on waking up in strange places having done foul things. The other morning after I awoke from one of these spells I found I had painted an eye above the fireplace. I was lucky it didn’t see me before I covered it with a sheet. March 23rd 1920, It’s happened again only this time it’s worse. I’ve woken up fully dressed outside my house before light. I can’t go back into the house now, but I won’t survive out in the open here. I can tell I’m being hunted; my only choice is to go into the forest. I’ll move from my current hiding place in the corn stalks once the moon is uncovered by the clouds so It can’t see me. A heavy fog has rolled in since I’ve fled into the forest. I’m still being followed, but I won’t be found so long as I keep moving deeper. This brook I’ve been following should mask my movement from It. I’ve broken off from the stream now because the terrain became too difficult. I’m sitting in the crook of a fallen tree. It’s strange; I can smell my mother’s perfume on the wind. I could have sworn I heard a woman’s voice calling for me. I’ve decided to follow it should the voice repeat itself three times. If it calls three times, I’ll know the voice isn’t one of Its tricks, It never does the same thing three times in a row. I’ve followed the voice to a clearing with a great maple tree in the center. My mother’s here! She was calling to me, beckoning me to safety from It. She says she knows a way to save me from It. She says I need to shoot myself with my gun before the end of the night. I almost told her I didn’t have it, that it was on my bed stand but she spoke before I could even open my mouth. ‘Yes you do have it dear, it’s right there in its holster on your leg, right where it belongs.’ I was surprised when I looked down and saw it. I guess I hadn’t noticed it in my fright, trying to evade It. Mother says I can have some time to think about it, so I’m ready to be safe with her in heaven. She knows how much better I feel once I write my thoughts on paper.” The final entry was punctuated with the most concluding of inks, blood. I was intensely worried by the entries. The next morning I requested the assistance of the local sheriff. We arrived at the secluded McColl residence mid morning on the 28th. Hearing a summary of the diary the superstitious sheriff had taken care to pack a coach gun. The house we saw was decrepit, with peeling paint, with a slump even the strictest headmaster couldn’t beat out. True to the diary, the windows had all been painted over in whitewash from the inside. The front door was unlocked, and after opening it, I wish I hadn’t. The scene only worsened when we entered the living room. A sheet had been laid across the wall above the mantel. Sheriff tore it back, and we became witness to an icon of eldritch horror. The thing was an eye but only in the broadest of terms. Even now words fail to describe what the Sheriff and I saw. Exploration of the second floor revealed other ghastly festivities. One room was devoid of furniture but every wall was studded with bent rusting nails and a hangman’s noose hung from the ceiling. The only other unlocked door lead to McColls presumed bedroom. The walls were covered with runic symbols, and a pentagram could be clearly seen protruding from under the bed, painted on the floor boards in chalk. The truly horrifying discovery of that day however lay at the end of the hall, behind the boarded door to the attic. After procuring a wood cutting axe from the tool shed, I unblocked the door and my companion and I entered. A terrible miasma choked us as we ascended the stairs to the attic. Sitting in the glow of sunlight from the small round window on the wall was a figure in an old teak rocking chair. I couldn’t identify the face, but there was no need. The stench of the room alone said the body was well past decay. The ruined dress the corpse wore only served to identify the wearer as the late Mrs. McColl, whose body the sheriff admitted had been dug up not sooner than a month ago. Despite the day’s discoveries, young Kevin McColl was yet to be found. The next day the sheriff was able to properly form a party to search the woods. The fruits of the search party only amplify the strangeness of this investigation. McColl was not shot as expected, but rather hung from a tree in the grotto in which he was found. He had hung himself using a rope and a chair taken from his farmhouse. His revolver was found nearby, filled with five bullets and one spent casing. McColl showed no indication of gunshot wounds. I suspected there is perhaps one more victim in this strange case. Post Script: I am currently continuing this investigation. I would like to formally request a more experienced investigator to take over this case in my stead. Post Post Script: Although there is a professional motive for this transfer request, it is not the sole reason. I admit that the horrific nature of this case has unsettled me to the point where I am finding it difficult to conduct myself in a professional manner
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