Jeremy threw himself out of bed and onto the floor as before, but this time he was prepared. He caught himself falling with his hands, and only then realized what was happening. The dream, the dream had been different than before. And he was aware; he knew what was going to happen, and so he was ready when he was falling to the floor.

"What...the actual fuck happened?

The clock chimmed, pulling Jeremy back to the realization that he was back in the real world. The real world where he had a job. It was ten past eight, like yesterday - like every day - And he had to go to work. He pushed himself off the floor and went to put on his clothes. But then...

"Why am I still wearing my clothes...what did I do yesterday?"

He just realized that after leaving "Valentines" the day before, he couldn't remember what he had been doing. Surely he had been working at the garage, but why couldn't remember? This was getting all to scary for Jeremy to comprehend, he wasn't going insane (again)? And then the thought struck him; the dream. The dream had been different, in such a way that made him think he wasn't mad. But the only other possibility was just as frightening, that there really was a woman talking to him through his dreams, and that she needed him to stop the world from going under.

He walked outsie, he wasn't ready to deal with this right now; he needed some air and space. He walked outside, where it was still snowing. He started walking down the street, towards the university where he would then take a left and end up at "Fergusons & Sons Motor Cars".

He would have kept walking wasn't it for him bumping - rather heavily - into a man walking in the opposite direction. The both of them stopped for a second while Arthur was about to apologize for his behaviour - he had been absent-minded, thinking about dreams and women - but Jeremy froze; the man he had bumped into, he had seen him.

The man was wearing a fedora and a trench-coat.



"Good morning, Dr. Dupree. How are you holding up?".

Arthur had spent the remaining day of yesterday thinking; he had far too many questions unanswered, and just when he thought he'd come up with a logical answer, three more questions arose his mind. Then the police had finished up their initial investigation at the university, and then quit for the night. And for some reason when Arthur had went to sleep, he slept heavier than he had ever slept before, and only woken up just now. Thing was that he woke up in his office; he had fallen asleep right at his desk. And he didn't mind, which was perhaps the oddest part, as if some part of him had found peace last night; it was all very odd.

As he woke up and brushed off the papers that had stuck to his face during sleep, he remembered what he had thought about last night; Arkham Sanitarium and this strange F. D. Just for his luck, today would be the first day that Miskatonic University was invited to visit Arkham Sanitarium to see its residents. And seen as Dr. Dupree would be very interested in this oppertunity, Arthur took the chance to join him.

Besides, after yesterday's events, Arthur felt that Jeremiah probably wanted some company. Arthur felt at least the need to not be alone, but being a hard man, this he would tell anyone.

"Ready to visit our friends at the looney-bin?"

Emil woke that morning with a sore throat and cough attacks that razed his lungs. His bones felt heavy and his muscles stiff. His skin was so sensitive that he felt he could count every single hair on his head. His aching neck he wouldn't even think about. The wetness and the cold got a hold of him the day before, and now he looked at himself in the mirror, sweaty, hair messed up, darkness under his bloodshot eyes, pallor and dry lips. Hopefully not pneumonia. Can't afford that now. Ask Sean. Absent. Drinking all night? He splashed his cadaverous face thrice with cold water and dried it with a towel. In relief, he swallowed a glassful of water, washing down the malign taste of bacteria down into his guts. Licking his cracked lips, he put the glass away, leaving to dress himself.

His red scarf swirled gently behind him in the mild winter air. He had eaten with a colleague yesterday. He thought he'd take his advice and not think about it, the incident, for a day, but he had a troublesome night of nightmares he chalked up to his illness in the morning. Am I fooling myself? No, I must have hallucinated, fever does it. I am not that weak, but I can feel the fire. Must be over 38 degrees, then. I would feel tired if it were just above the norm. I'll need medicine quickly. Perhaps they have some there. Steiner will help. Must see him. Tell him. He hoped his new acquaintance, Johan, would be there too. It was the first time the Asylum allowed visits. Victorians. They paid to see inside. Rich people watching them twitch. For fun. Go home and show off, booty and spoils from expeditions. They bought mummies to dissect with friends after dinner. Morbid. Curious. They balsam them, preserve them, keep them safe from the ticking clocks. Deep inside, with servants and goods. For the afterlife. Hairless priests of the sun. God-Kings.

He thundered a shot of phlegm into his mouth, spat it out on the snow, wiped his lips with his sleeve upon which a trail of mucus was left to dry in the cold air. His lung wings burned again and he coughed after each few sluggish steps he took. He snorted through his clogged nostrils. A cyclist ran past him. He wished to turn and look at him, but couldn't muster the strength. Should have pissed. Weak bladder now. Won't hold long. Whiteish, diaphanous piss. He walked riddled with goosebumps past a bakery whence came the most pleasant of odors. Empty pockets. I forgot money. Idiot! The woman who worked inside came out and emptied a bucket of water that would soon freeze. She saw Emil, turning her face into a sad grimace at the sight of the wretched looking student, whom she must have mistaken for a homeless wanderer who had spent the night outside.
”Come! Come!” she said, Emil followed, confused.
She reemerged from the inside, bearing a croissant filled with chocolate which she placed in Emil's hand. Am I that bad? The woman smiled and nodded, leaving before he had a chance to murmur a thanks.

Feeling lucky and glad for the sudden breakfast, but also in a way defeated in a sense unreachable to him, he soldiered on towards the Asylum, filling his stomach with the steaming hot pastry. Too warm. Diarrhea-inducing. He ate with relish the layers of the croissaint despite the illness and aroused tongue. Just when he was done with the last bite, the structure appeared -- the Arkham Asylum. There was a group of people in front. He was obviously early and would wait at the distance, not feeling comfortable with company of the unknown yet. He tightened the scarf around his neck and leaned on the wall near the group enough to hear them talk and gossip -- Sean's name popping up every now and then in the context he couldn't fully piece together, but which included police and a veteran, from what he could gather -- still sweating cold and feeling the chocolate on his teeth, waiting for a familiar face, hopefully Steiner's.

@Sigurd

Johan Myers

Physical state: Fine
Mental state: Frightened and Disillusioned

The young man was walking along the road that lead to the asylum and when he finally came over to the building, The place gave him the creeps it sent shivers down his spine. For some reason he could not get the images of the dreams out of his head, Vivid images of demonic images and naked woman being flayed alive. All of these images made him scared and disillusioned like even in real life none of this is real to him.

"Hello...." He said nervously to Emil trying to focus on not looking at the asylum behind him. Their was something dark and eerie about it that made him not want to go inside but he might have to.

@Eviledd1984


Emil's hand moved sickly athwart his feverish forehead and eyes, grazing his eyebrows and locks of stray hair, revealing at the end of its journey Johan, come out of the morning grayness.

"Hello...."

”I didn't see you. Hello.” Emil said with a voice drained of all the high spirits. ”Forgive me, I am ... not at my best today. Yesterday's come to haunt me, I suppose.”
Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for a smoke, but laying his eyes on the pack wizened up. Idiot, that's the last thing you need. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and aimed it at Johan. ”A smoke while you wait, perhaps?”

@Sigurd


Johan Myers

Physical state: FIne
Mental state: Disoriented

"Oh ummm no thank you..i do not smoke..." The younger man said waving his hand not wanting smoke these cigarette that many other students have been smoking recently."Yes i myself have been having some frightening and scary dreams...most of them about woman being flayed alive and dogs biting into my neck...that does not make me crazy does it?" He asked Emil nervously.

He didn't know if he should be talking to people about his dreams, He was deathly afraid that he would be labeled a madman and taken to the rubber room with his arms tied together.

@Eviledd1984



”A bad place to be discussing such dreams, friend,” Emil said, tilting his head towards the building behind him in joke. Fuck it. Might as well calm myself down. A cigarette filter flew out of the pack between Emil's dry lips. He put the pack away, withdrawing with the other hand a small silver case filled with matches. Conscious guilty, he ran the match down the phosphorus patch and the match head fulminated. He brought in the sphere of his hands towards his mouth and the tobacco smoke veiled his face. Having put the matches away, he tipped the ash off the cigarette.

”Strange night for all of us, it seems,” he said, looking sideways, then coughed harshly. ”Scheiße...” Mother would kill me. She banned father from doing it, too. ”Interesting timing they have, the Asylum. Letting us all in just a day after a mysterious suicide, huh?”

@Sigurd


Johan Myers

Physical state: Fine
Mental state: Disoriented

"Yes indeed i wonder if the warden knows something about the suicide or not?" The young man said taking a quick look behind him at the old looking building feeling something sinister was behind these brick walls. "Well is their anyone else coming?" He then asked yawning softly feeling tired for some strange reason.

Before long August and Dupree were sequestered away within the confines of Duprees private study, the good professor having been kind enough to not only treat August like a sane individual but also went about reinforcing his beliefs that he wasn't a madman-Faye Desdemona was or at some time had been a very real person.

August had to admit the majority of clippings upon Dupree's infamous wall had been quite the sight, his eyes doing a dance that tried to connect all of the macabre murders, suicides, and unexplained phenomena that literally sat pinned against the wall before him. Withdrawing a wallet sized camera from within one of the many pockets of his beige trench coat August flipped a switch on the small rectangular object which then sprung open with a pop into a tapered triangle shape. Most wouldn't outright recognize the impressive piece of technology he held as many were still used to the much more common big and bulky types of cameras-not the sort of science fiction device August held in on of his massive paws. Letting Dupree get a good look at the camera and hearing no objections August began taking picture after picture and before long had photographed the entirety of the whole wall. For a moment the detective in him salivated at the idea of trying to decipher each and every secret confined within what was quite possibly the most devilish puzzle he had ever seen. But then he remembered he was already trying to solve his own personal puzzle-a puzzle that could very well have a piece hidden within these various paper clippings.

Hopefully he now had a comrade to help him in his search..

As the two stood there trying to decipher some sort of meaning or pattern within the impressively put together wall of articles consisting of both crimes of passion along with outright insanity August found himself occasionally glancing towards Dupree in a momentarily peculiar way, almost as if to simply relay the fact that he was glad the other man was there-Dupree was afterall walking proof August wasn't entirely crazy. Proof that this whole world wasn't entirely crazy.

Or did all this just prove the opposite? Perhaps the pair rightfully belonged in the old Sanitarium, the very place that even August had heard foul whispers of despite his short time in the City.

Pushing these thoughts from his mind in a way that he had become rather adept at doing August finished the cup of tea Dupree had brewed for the pair-not too fast as to appear rude but quick enough that he was clearly intent on leaving. It was a shame too he thought-it was a damn good cup of tea afterall and he truly didn't mind the company. But August had a set goal in his head at the moment and no amount of tea and coffee could dissuade him once he was set upon a path.

No, nothing short of a bullet would stop August from finding his answers.

With a tip of his fedora and a few heartfelt words of gratitude August was gone and before Dupree knew it all that was left in his place was the faint smell of cheap cigarettes along with a business card containing little more than August's name and number-although in this case he also wrote the rooms phone number for the Nightshade Inn.
--
The rest of Augusts day had been spent tracking down a man with a decent darkroom: the man who finally was able to help him out in this regard hadn't even been a man at all though. Quite the contrary infact as Cindy Usher was in many ways many a mans ideal looking lady-well, most men.

She was a kind girl in what August assumed was probably her late twenties and considering the way she was as equally quick to flirt as she was to talk back he thought it safe to assume she was single. In his mind she really seemed like one of those “flapper” girls he'd heard of, the type who seemed to effortlessly buck most of those old world rules that shackled so many men and women for years. And maybe that's why August immediately liked her, although he wasn't really sure to be honest. Iether way he seemed to like her enough to sit there and cut the shit with her for an hour or two before heading back out into the cold streets. Before leaving Cindy had promised to have all of his photographs ready for pick up in the morning-even more importantly she promised to keep a tight lip about the contents of said photographs in a way that August honestly believed. It didn't really surprise him how quick she swore herself to secrecy, afterall he genuinely thought she seemed the type that would be far more curious than fearful about abunch of pictures from old news stories on ghastly unsolved crimes and phenomenoa.
--
LATER THAT NIGHT

August giant frame sat hunched in the crappy bed that took up the majority of the small room he'd been calling home as of late. In one hand he loosely clutched what looked like a glass milk jug full of a clear and extremely strong smelling liquid-white lightning. Both highly illegal and potentially toxic but August didn't much mind either risk-sure, alcohol was illegal, but it was still just as easy to get as a pack of smokes. The still easy access to liquoir was a good thing for August too because these days he didn't really “go to sleep” so much but instead more often than not “Passed the fuck out.”

Despite his best efforts to subconciousley fight the dreams and stay awake the extremely strong alcohol eventually won out as it always did-sending August spinning into the deep dark hole that was the nightmares.

Only, this time the dream was a bit different. A little scarier too, in some ways.
--
THE NEXT DAY.
Early in the morning August awoke in a way that he often did-his body covered in a cold sweat and sore to the point where he knew he'd been tossing and turning in his sleep all night. Hefting his massive frame from the bed he stumbled his way into the tiny bathroom of his single bedroom rental. A quick shower and change of clothes and he was ready to start the day yet again, ready to fall yet further down the rabbit hole.

Lighting his first cigarette of the day August made sure to slip his fedora and signature beige trenchcoat on as he made his way through the rickety door that lead to the innards of the NightShade Inn. It was early enough that he knew the store Cindy Usher worked in would not be open for a few more hours and because of this reason he took himself and his hangover to the nearest diner; a copious amount of coffee and scrambled eggs later and he was feeling a tad bit better. Checking the watch on his right arm he thought it likely that Cindy would have opened shop by now.

Paying his bill and leaving a decent tip August barreled onward into the everpresent snowfall that seemed to plague the damned City he found himself in. Luckily he was the type to shrug the cold off rather easily and in a rather short time had trudged his way to the small building officially known as Usher's House.

He went to open the door and was rather surprised to find it still locked-the hours stenciled in white upon the door stating that they should have indeed opened an hour ago. At the same time he was mentally taking note of this odd occurrence his eyes spotted a medium sized manilla envelope upon the ground half covered in snow. As he dusted the powdery white winter off of the envelope he realized the only thing that had kept the parcel from blowing away was the fact that a lone single corner had been wedged under the now locked door-just by the way it looked August could tell someone had purposefully placed it there while shutting and locking the door.

There were two immediate questions upon his mind; the first question being a simple why.

The second question, and more immediate, was just who's blood littered the manilla envelope he now clutched in his hands?

Knowing he could do little but check back later and perhaps ask Barry about this turn of events next time he saw him August decieded to just go about his business in what could be considered a rather callous way.

Opening the envelope while walking in the direction of nowehere in particular August dumped the hefty contents of the envelope that turned out to be just what he thought it would-the very photos he'd given to Cindy the night before. Immediately he began thumbing through them all while simultaneously reorganizing and shifting them into differing categories and clues he seemed to find while lost in an almost trance of sorts.

Then he felt the force of a man literally walking into him-a fact made worse due to the reason that August himself had been walking at an oblivious pace that was backed by his 300 some odd pound frame. 300 pounds that collided with Jeremy Arthur.

In an almost slower version of time August watched in dismay as the various photographs he'd been holding in a particular order fell from his hands due to the force of the collision. Like raindrops in the sky he watched each recently developed image hit the ground.

In an uncontrolled outburst of anger August turned his full overpowering presence against the man who was momentarily completely to blame within his raging mind. “Can't you watch where your going?” August snarled while locking eyes with the newcomer, his hands clinching into dangerous looking fists that begged for an excuse to swing. Then the brief moment of deja vu hit him-as if he had run into this complete stranger once before...but that made no since because August was one hundred percent sure he had never seen the man.

“Do I know you?”

"Nn-hwuh?" That was the initial none-too-dignified response of one Jeremiah Dupree, as Dr. Steiner's words roused him back from his state of fatigue. He then cleared his throat. "Yes, yes I am - I believe, however, we may be short by a few people?" He did another recount - as he had noted earlier, a few students who had expressed interest at the beginning of the semester now seemed to be running late, or had invented reasons to be excused from the field trip. At least one, however, had approached Dupree on his way to the sanitarium, ignoring the bags under his eyes to say that Dr. Atkins had been one of her teachers, and she'd just really prefer to stay safe at the dorms today to mourn. Dupree had let her go on her way. The trip was by no means compulsory, and he wasn't exactly feeling well himself.

It had started after August had left. The visit had gone well enough - Dupree had watched with bated breath when August approached the wall of articles and photographs with nary a word, clearly trying to make sense of the wall Dupree prized so much, trying to see the connections Dupree saw. He supposed he couldn't blame the other man - at one point, Dupree had seen the value in marking off the connections with twine, but there were so many that it soon obscured the articles themselves. It wasn't as if Dupree couldn't recognize the connections with a look; mental strings replaced the physical ones, and shadowy order replaced visible chaos. The device August pulled out was confusing for a few moments before he got a good chance to examine it and realized - August had managed to get ahold of one of those 35-mm cameras. Except this one was far smaller than any camera Dupree had seen before in his life. He wordlessly nodded off on it and then hastily excused himself to the kitchen of his apartment to prepare a kettle of tea.

From the kitchen, watching August photograph his precious wall, Jeremiah couldn't help but feel a knot settle in his stomach and the short hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raise up. August, far from thinking him crazy, almost seemed impressed by the wall. It had been no easy task assembling it. But some, small part of him that occasionally hissed accusations of paranoia and stalking when he laid down at night now muttered that August was clearly quite the actor. If August had ulterior motives for recording his wall...

The kettle then shrieked into the quietness of the apartment, and Dupree busied himself pouring a cup for himself and August. Dupree had years to learn the difference between coincidences and evidence of connections. His meeting with August, while perhaps an effect of the universal truth underpinning life, had hardly been contrived by the man, and he stood no great benefit photographing Dupree's work. It wasn't as if he could capitalize on it, and if a tenured professor could not see Dupree locked away for insanity, August would likely have less luck.

He and August did end up chatting over their cup of tea, mostly on how to proceed - Dupree mentioned that he would be spending most of the day tomorrow conducting a 'field study' at Arkham Sanitarium unless the doctors chose to cancel it on account of Dr. Atkins' suicide, but it might not hurt checking the university's library for any records of Faye Desdemona, if August so wished. The library was trying out a system that had been discussed elsewhere, keeping copies of articles in a reduced format for easier storage, so some records might not be available. Dupree, after the field study was complete for the day, could do his part by tracking down Faye's professors and asking them if they remained in contact with her. August had his own ideas, and clearly little time to spare, and so he offered Dupree a business card with a name, telephone number, and hotel room number. He didn't even wait for Dupree to send him off - a tad rude, though, then again, Dupree supposed he couldn't hold it against him. Not too much.

Yet, even as the cigarette smoke dispersed and Jeremiah began washing the tea cups, he realized he could still feel the short hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end, and the knot in his stomach remained.

He checked at his door, his apartment windows, behind any closed doors. He was, as he expected, truly alone.

So why did it feel like he was being spied upon?

Sleep didn't come easily. Tea did not help, books did not help, hiding the bird mask in his closet did not help. Jeremiah thought to the glimpse of professor names he had seen in Faye Desdemona's file and attempted to call - the line rang dead. It was well past the witching hour when Jeremiah finally fell asleep, not in his bed but against the polished wood of his kitchen table. He slept - and descended into anarchy.

Mortar shells whizzed overhead as clouds of yellow sank down beside him, ripping tears from his tired eyes and scraping at raw skin nerves. He gasped, unwillingly inhaling the air that smelt like horseradish, and flung his arm up to the edge of the ditch. His briefcase caught on the barbed wire lining the hole, and yet it gave him adequate leverage to pull himself up through the cloud and onto the surface. He almost wished to jump back into the ditch as he was greeted by the sight of a young man, bleeding out before him. He felt very vulnerable, briefcase held out before him as an ineffectual shield as he surveyed the miles of barbed wire, the crudely bent metal plates, the craters of exploded shells, the unexploded shells that would require a simple tap to set off, the splatters of blood and organs and separated limbs-

The briefcase couldn't protect him from the sounds, though. Not from the screams of the dying, the pleas for help, the demands for answers the insults of the draft examiners who had grabbed him and proceeded to find him lacking
Dupree had woken up, gasping for air and wheezing, an hour before he was due to awaken. Clearly, sleep was not in the universe's plan for that night.

Thus, he had been the first to arrive at the asylum's gate, and certainly the last to truly wake up. It was a bit strange, he supposed, that the doctors had apparently not reacted to Dr. Atkins' death or how it might affect the college students. Dupree was hardly going to castigate their apathy, however - he was more determined than before to understand the surge in insanity that seemed centered on Arkham.

"And yourself, Dr. Atkins? I will understand if you'd prefer the day to yourself."

“Do I know you?”

The question flew through Jeremy’s mind as fast as a speeding bullet; back and forth, his mind frantically opening all sorts of figural boxes of memories in a desperate attempt to pull his recollection of this man, this man clinching his fists and demanding that Jeremy answer. The man’s figure, tall and large – not to mention the rage in his eyes that could set ablaze a wildfire – made Jeremy feel all that smaller as they were standing there out on the street.

Of course Jeremy could have fought the man, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in a fist-fight or two before, but the sheer mass of the man and his behaviour – not to mention everything that was already racing Jeremy’s mind to trouble him – convinced him that this was a fight not worth picking. He had after all walked straight into the mammoth of a man, and scattered all of his pictures.

“I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t paying attention. I hope I didn’t ruin your…” Jeremy hurriedly bent down on his knees and began picking up the pictures now littering the ground. As he was about to finish his sentence, he glanced at the first picture in his hand, and froze. “…photographs…”

Patrick Killigan, mechanic and co-worker at “Fergusons & Sons Motor Cars” until the ending of last year. He was wearing a bowler, a thick woollen jacket, and he was smiling. And he was dead, killed himself by letting himself be crushed by a car. He had been one of the few people Jeremy could call a friend in Arkham, and it was a heavy toll to hear of his suicide.

So why was this guy carrying pictures of him? And why did he seem so familiar to Jeremy?

Jeremy looked up at the man, his eyes wide open as his mouth, speechless. His knees didn’t like the position that Jeremy stood in, and keenly reminded him of this with an ever growing pain that stretched from his toes and up. But it was the pain in his stomach – a great, black ball of sorrow and horror – that made he really felt. This was not just scary, this was horrifying.

“Hey, I asked you a question. Do I know you?” The stranger asked again. Jeremy didn’t know what he was doing when the first thought formed itself into vibrations filling the winter air.

“August Dupin?”

Jeremy had no idea where the name came from, it was the first thing that passed his mind after all of his thoughts had dug deep into his sub-consciousness after an answer to where he had seen this man before. And for some reason, Jeremy felt confident that this wasn’t wrong. As he continued to pick up the scattered pictures, he continued.

“I do, yes, when I think about it. It’s been years, but I do remember having met you. France, during the war, right? You probably don’t remember me, I looked different back then, it’s funny how war changes you.” How in the world was Jeremy managing to pull off a lie like this, and not simply running away from all the mystic things happening to him? “It’s been long since that though. I take it you’re a reporter, since you have the photograph of a suicide victim? I knew him, actually, it wasn’t a grand time for me back then. So what are you doing with the picture, is there something new the newspaper has discovered?”

Jeremy really didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but for all the lying, he was sure he had met this man before. And that place was in a war.



“Hmpf, how typical. Kids these days are lazy I tell you, they can’t even be bothered with FREE field-trips! Then again, taken into consideration yesterday’s events…” Arthur initially said with his signature annoyed-voice, frowning at the short-coming of students, though he changed his tone as he reminded himself – of course through reminding Jeremiah – that a man had killed himself the day before. Still, Arthur never tolerated students being either absent or late, and always let his students know of this. “We’ll wait a little longer, I’d suggest, before we go in.”

The outside of Arkham Sanitarium was surrounded by a tall wall, nearly standing at 10 feet, the only access being a large metal gate at the front and a delivery-entrance further down the wall to the east, barely visible from this distance. The group of students and professors was now standing outside the gate, having been scheduled to meet there sometime between 8:15 and 8:30 in the morning to get the most out of the day. From where Arthur stood, he could see many a student he recognized, and just as many as he didn’t – even a few female students had mustered the courage to join them, quite a feat for a lady Arthur thought. And just down the street he could see Emil Günther, his now unofficial Little-Helper from yesterday, accompanied by a student he recognized to be Dr. Masterson’s. Economics, a subject he found to be mostly speculation at best and throwing a dart in total darkness at worst. And somewhere beyond the group, he heard the talk of Emil Günther’s friend’s shenanigans from last night; a drunken brawl by an Irishman and confrontation with the police afterwards. Hadn’t Dr. Dupree and other respectable gentlemen been there, Arthur would have taken matter into his owns hands and thrown out the foolish rascal right away.

But that was not his concern right now.

“I would, but there’s little that I can do to help Dr. Atkins…Howard, I mean. The detective came and questioned me, and told me not to leave town before he promptly left, so me being here wouldn’t hinder the investigation. And besides, it helps to have something else to think about in times like these, isn’t it? Especially when it’s free?” Arthur intentionally left out the part where he was going solely because of the letter he and Emil found in Atkin’s office, sent by the mysterious F.D. He had no idea if he was going to find an answer there, but his logic was that this was the best and most discrete way of finding out. He had a reputation to uphold after all, and visiting the asylum other than university-business could been seen as shady. So was sneaking into your colleague’s office, another secret he wasn’t about to tell.

The group waited for a few more minutes before they eventually gathered around the gate and was let inside. And just like that, they had all taken a step closer towards the very definition of madness itself, manifested in the psychical form of patients and the building.



The interiour of Arkham Sanitarium was much less pleasent than what the outside was, probably to give the apperance of a nice place to visitors and by-passers. While the outside was bright from the sunlight and somewhat welcoming with the nurses helping patients in their wheelchairs and walking-canes through the snow – the occational sight of a smile and sound of laughter had surely made a lost soul want to get admitted to the institution just for some company – was put into stark contrast once the group of students and professors entered. A guard – one assumed it was a guard by his look, black uniform and batton at his side – let them enter through the large wooden doors. They creaked intensly, like the dying breaths of an elk shot through its lungs, and gave weakest souls goosebumps and chills through the spine. And the visit to the home of the mad had only started.

«Grab him!» was the first thing they heard as they set foot inside the reception. The room was brightly lit by the two large windows on each side of the door and several ceiling lamps, and yet Arthur felt that it was rather cramped in there. It might have been the statues and figures of angels – at least they looked like angels - chiselled into the walls and pillars holding the roof up. And then there was the man shouting and another man, clad in white, running for the door.

«Don’t let him take me, don’t let him take me back!» The running man shouted to the first person he could get a hold of, which turned out to be Emil Günther. He fell to his knees and grabbed Emil’s ankles while he wept and screamed in fear. «You have to save me, or else he’ll kill me! You have to save Her too, before it’s too late!»

Right behind the screaming back came three other men, two of them wearing white shirts and pants and the last one wearing a white shirt, a white jacket and black pants. On his nose rested a pair of metal-rimmed glasses, a true wonder that they didn’t fall off as he was running. The two men – presumably his assistants – grabbed the frightened man from behind and held him tight while their superior walked up at a slower pace while reaching for something in his pocket. «Mr. Colombo, calm down! Everything’s alright, noone’s here to hurt you. Everything’s alright…»

Then the syringe entered Mr. Colombo’s neck, and an ever louder shrieking continued for a few seconds, before the man slowly faded into his own mind and soon fell unconscious in their arms. “Take him to his cell, and make sure he doesn’t get out again.” The doctor – Arthur easily deduced his occupation from his clothes, behaviour and the fact that he was carrying a syringe with some sleeping-agent. As the patient was dragged away, the doctor realized who was actually standing before him.

“Oh…you must be Dr. Dupree and Dr. Steiner from Miskatonic. Sorry about this…ehm…incident. As you can see there’s never a dull day here at the sanitarium, especially these days. Well, I guess I could begin by telling you about our patients suffering from extreme hysteria, but I can get back to that once we’ve finished the tour of the building itself.”

The doctor tried to smile, as if to shrug off what had just happened and pretend everything was as normal – if anything such as normal could take place in a mental asylum –, and looked at the group of people in front of him. “Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Doctor Martin Gabrowski, and I guess I’ll be the one giving you an insight into our institution. And please, do ask questions when they arise. Please, follow me.”

“That’s one way of welcoming your quests. It'll be...interesting...to meet the rest of them...” Arthur said quietly, following the doctor deeper into the home of madmen. And to Arthur, closer to the answer of who this F.D. was. He would soon find out.

Mr Colombo. Remember the name. Pigeon-like. 1492. When he sailed the cresting blue waves to the west. ”In fourteen hundred ninety-two / Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” Remember the name. Emil nodded to the doctor Gabrowski, silent to hide his accent from the eastern neighbour. Under the cover of his illness, he turned his head away from the personnel and the professors, concealed his mouth with his hands, and coughed, shying a glance at the man dragged away, disappearing in the white shirts of his captors. That hallway.

He found the medicine-charged odor of the asylum almost as stirring as his unexpected conduct during the past 24 hours: He'd found himself having courage to stick his head into business that promised nothing but trouble, he committed a crime of intrusion and damaging of personal property, he lied and sneaked around like a rat; and now again he caught himself planning in secrecy his next move in the quest for something or someone he didn't dare imagine. He did not know what he expected to find, but it drew him in, and he felt mesmerised by things that also appalled him and, once he's faced them, were surely to make his soul scream in stupefaction at the impossibility of their existence. And yet, the contradictory feeling of desire to push forward in spite of obvious horrors did not subside, but instead burned hotter with each little disturbing encounter with a possible clue. He felt it like he did adrenaline. Once the group has covered a few hallways, or maybe a wing, he would return to his thinking and self-soothing of a hunter-gatherer desperate to preserve his well-being, trying to persuade himself to stay away from the jeopardy, and he will believe it the best course of action; but then another envelope will appear in the mailbox of life, another set of initials carved into the fiber of chance will brand his retina, another bedlamite will bump into him, and he will again start chasing the uncatchable, one corner he takes leading to curiosity and the other to nervousness and unrest.

He apologised for his cough fit in a non-verbal way, using his face to form a picture that would deliver the message in his mouth's stead. Fixing his scarf and pants, he took a place in the group he'd stood in before the incident with the poor lunatic. Guardian angels watching from the walls over these heresiarchs in shapes of doctors. Messengers of God. They dropped down a letter for me, too. F.D. By mistake, surely. A celestial postman intercepted by his fallen brother looking to hinder Father's plans. Fought in the sky, and the envelope fell right in front of my feet, ripe for picking. And now this madman sends me a warning, a reminder. The next message is from the court. Winged jury of seraphim will judge me. Or the Pandemonium.

The crowed moved and Emil with them. The journey through the Asylum had begun.

“I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t paying attention. I hope I didn’t ruin your…” The man who'd bumped into August paused for the briefest of moments as his eyes made contact with one of the various horrifying photographs strewn about in the snow-it was an act August took note of. “…photographs…”

Following the strangers gaze August's eyes fell upon a rather well framed photograph that was the only publicly released picture of one of the many gruesome suicides around town and its accompanying story. August immediately recognized the framed moment in time that held this strangers gaze.

Suicide wasn't an unknown to August at this point in his life; quite the contrary in fact as he'd seen the vile act enough times to form some basic things to look for when dealing with the subject. Needless to say in Augusts' vast experience people tended to choose what they believed to be the least painful way out when taking their own lives-hell, even those with a guilty conscience often opted for a quick bullet to the head or the quite release that certain narcotics often brought. It was for that very reason the Killigan suicide had so clearly stuck in his head and why he recognized it at a mere glance: afterall crushing yourself to death beneath a slow hydraulic lift was pretty high up there on the “painful ways to die” list, something that made August question the whole thing entirely.

Seemingly lost in thought the rude stranger before him didn't even respond until August prodded him with another similar question “Hey, I asked you a question. Do I know you?”

Finally the man piped up while simultaneously scrambling to help August pick up all the scattered evidence. The way he spoke made August take it as a question initialy.

“August Dupin?”

The man went on speaking, his voice much more assuring in a way that made August genuinely believe him for the moment.

“I do, yes, when I think about it. It’s been years, but I do remember having met you. France, during the war, right? You probably don’t remember me, I looked different back then, it’s funny how war changes you.” So that explained it August found himself thinking. Now knowing what to look for August quickly decided that the man did indeed carry himself with the tell tale signs of a war veteran much like August himself did. He was actually surprised he hadn't noticed it right off the bat. Nodding in silent agreement while his eyes clearly tried to place the face-even though he couldn't remember specifics of the man currently talking to him he was also more than willing to believe that somewhere among the sea of faces he had met during the Great War there had to have been one or two that completely escaped his memory.

“It’s been long since that though. I take it you’re a reporter, since you have the photograph of a suicide victim? I knew him, actually, it wasn’t a grand time for me back then. So what are you doing with the picture, is there something new the newspaper has discovered?”

Quick to chase a lead and fall into a given roll August nodded his head in agreement. All the momentary anger from before having seemingly vanished from equal parts respect and the sudden need to make the man like him. “Quite astute of you, Jeremy was it?” The name rolled off his tongue before August even realized he had no real way of knowing that was in fact his name. He simply went on speaking however. Somehow he was sure of his words. “I am in fact a reporter for the Arkham Herald.” He lied through a smile, repeating the name of the paper delivered to his rented room each morning. “And if I'm being completely honest with you Jeremy, soldier to soldier," He gave the man a wink "the paper isn't necessarily releasing any new information as mutch as we are chasing down leads that the unfortunate...events...that befell Mr. Killigan may have infact been tied to a bigger picture of sorts. I'm just doing my best to connect some dots at the moment, hence this stack.” He slapped the now fully collected photographs against his free hand to signify that he was talking about them. “In fact if you have the free time, I would love to ask you some questions? Perhaps over a cup of coffee? Afterall, you never know where what random factoid you could provide might lead.”

Professor Dupree couldn't help but frown as he nodded in agreement with Dr. Steiner. The words were harsh, but Dr. Steiner had never been a soft man. Dupree supposed he was fortunate that he had been given adequate alibi and would no longer need to deal with Officer Lexington's investigation - actually, now that he thought on it...

"For what it's worth, Dr. Steiner, and my apologies for dragging your thoughts back to yesterday - the police seem to agree with you. That it was unlikely Dr. Atkins simply jumped." After all, Dr. Steiner had said Dr. Atkins was not particularly...suicidal. He wasn't sure yet how to tell Dr. Steiner about the apparent break-in of the deceased man's office, assuming Officer Lexington hadn't already shared that much. Nor could he reconcile what he had witnessed with what evidence was found at the scene - or lack thereof. He almost wished he had not been so quick to shoo the bystanders away but, then again, he doubted many would have remained once the police had arrived. No one to explain how Dr. Howard Atkins had gotten up on that rooftop, and if anyone had understood his bizarre ramblings. The end of the world, he had caught that much. Not that it differed much from typical doomsayers who had sworn that God himself would descend from the sky and strike down this wicked society at the turn of the century. Merely the source was different.

The wait had been dragged out as long as they were able, and the gates soon swung open, the weight creating an audible squeak from the otherwise oiled hinges. Professor Dupree looked over the large brick building, ivy vine trails trimmed neatly away from the windows and doors and left otherwise unchecked to creep along the brightly-scrubbed bricks like blackening veins.

Truly, the home of the insane belonged in Arkham.

The inside was much less remarkable - Professor Dupree noted how the dark coating of the wooden flooring seemed to, in fact, thin as the students and professors trailed water in from the half-melting snow and ice outside. The heavy wooden door creaked as it opened, clearly less cared for than the wrought gate, and shuddered as it closed behind the group.

The second they entered the reception room to find the doctor who would serve as their guide, pandemonium struck. Professor Dupree wished he could say he had been attentive, intervening to stop the poor sick man before any harm could befall the man or the group and managed to pick an important thread of the tapestry known to them all as Arkham, but, no, he had froze, still-exhausted brain struggling to process what was going on in the midst of the chaos and screaming that reminded him far too much of his nightmare. A man in white - briefly his brain superimposed splashes of blood and feathers clinging and staining the white - instead pulled the patient off one of the students, a young man who seemed familiar but Dupree was sure he was not in any of his lectures. Thus did the patient leave, unconscious and treated and his circumstances now requiring translation through a man taught that all human actions were based around a drive for sex or death.

Praise be to psychology.

The man in white introduced himself - Dr. Martin Gabrowski. Jeremiah thought back to a Father Martin who had occasionally visited his boarding school as a youth. He had eventually immolated himself, when faced with the guilt of his crimes, Jeremiah heard years later. Too little too late.
With that bit of strangeness tucked into the corner of his mind, Dupree again found himself nodding to Dr. Steiner. "Indeed. Any other day, I think I'd be looking forward to this. As much as one could in the name of anthropology, at least." An attempt to mitigate the apparent callousness of the statement, more the students' benefit than Dr. Steiner's. Their brand of knowledge had always come from the study of other human beings. Several students, he knew, hadn't come along on this trip for the expressed reason that it seemed 'cruel' to treat humans like animals in a cage for study.

Dupree nodded and quietly wondered why the hell they were in an anthropology course. Where had knowledge of other cultures come from, asking politely for letters?

With the trip formally begun and their guide leading the way into the jungles of bars and barriers to meet the natives, Dupree allowed himself to slow a little and, through the decreased pace, catch up with the student who had been grabbed by the insane man. "I should hope you are alright?" He knew this face, he was so sure he did.

@RBYDark



The perfume of a nurse walking by assaulted him. The waves of her hair and the breeze of her scent. Even like this I can smell it. The odor adorns her, and yet it is as if she adorns it. Lovely, the light adhering to her skin. He turned behind to catch a glimpse of her once more, but she had taken a corner, only a trail of the edge of her white skirt visible for a second at the wall edge, like a fast grey wing of a moth flying in the night. He focused on the nape of the student in front of him. A mole on his neck. Brown little tumor. An imperfection. They make a difference. I remember her, too. Many liked her when we were young and school children. Beautiful, with a tiny beauty mark on her cheek. The ones without it were not as liked. Falling for one's imperfections, yes. That is the hook. That we bite. The jig in the water. Listen to them. He looked at his shoes marching with the others on the floor tiles. A thud after a thud. That is also what I hear coming from behind the locked doors of this mystery. Like a heart locked in there, primordial but refusing to die, fueled by its own malignance. Thud, thud, thud.

A serene man, whom Emil would have, had he had the time to think artistically, described as 'sternly frail' approached him. Not am asylum staff member. No sterile white on him. The professor, from yesterday. Has he seen me?

"I should hope you are alright?", the man said.
”I...am well, sir,” Emil said through a membrane of mucus in his sore throat. ”Regarding the incident, at least.” He swallowed saliva to wetten that irritating spot in his neck. ”Now I know what people mean when they say the world's gone mad.”

Argus absolutely loathed spooks. He loathed everything about them. Their tailored suits, their well-groomed hair, their haughty mannerisms - there wasn't a single thing about them that didn't fill him with unbridled hatred. So when Agents Mills and Hanson had approached him with a job opportunity, he had to restrain himself from hooking them both in the jaw.

'You see, the problem is that the Bureau of Investigations can't handle this one themselves.' Mills' Brooklyn-saturated speech flowed thick and fast, a constant deluge of useless words from a young man clearly preoccupied with quantity over quality.

'Can't handle it at all. Too risky.' Parroted Hanson. The huge, dopey agent loomed over Mills like a skyscraper. The display was a textbook intimidation routine, one which seemed rather rehearsed - and one which Argus wasn't buying. He listened in silence as the two agents continued their seemingly incessant babbling.

'Yeah, too risky. I mean, two Feds show up in town and start askin' questions, that gives off the wrong impression, know what I'm sayin'?'
'Yeah, completely the wrong impression.'
'So what we need, Mr. Lichfield, is a man on the ground. A man who ain't one of us-'
'A total wildcard-'
'- So we can figure out what this Dr. Atkins character was onto.' Mills concluded his spiel, out of breath but trying valiantly to conceal it.

Argus silently looked through the dossier before him. The two agents glanced nervously at each other. [color=f7976a]'Uh, might I remind you Mr Lichfield, that the circumstances surrounding Dr. Howard Atkins' death and his recent research represent a potentially dire threat to national securi-'

'I'll do it.'

The two agents fell silent. Argus looked up at them over the folder. 'I'll do it. I'll take the job. That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? You wanted a 'yes' out of me.'

And with that, Argus became both their errand boy and their fall guy. He knew how the Bureau operated. If he pulled through, they'd take the evidence back home and parade it in front of their superiors, taking all the credit but keeping their hands clean of any hard work. If he fucked up, they'd use Pinkerton and himself as a scapegoat - just another expendable sack of meat to be discarded at a moment's notice.

Any man of sound mind would have seen right through the scheme and turned them down. But knowing full well the odds that were stacked against him, Argus chose to stare right into its face and said 'Yes'.

And now here he was, aboard a train steaming straight towards dreary Arkham, Massachusetts. The cold in these parts bothered him - it seeped through the walls of his cabin and pierced through his coat and gloves, the unnatural chill sinking deep into his core.

He looked out the window at the Miskatonic's sluggish winter flow. The cold gnawed at him. Perhaps the river was as painfully disinterested in reaching Arkham as he was.

“Quite astute of you, Jeremy was it?"

If Jeremy hadn't reached for his eyes and around them, it would have been all-too obvious for the man - who actually responded positively to Jeremy calling him August Dupin - that Jeremy found the fact that August knew his name resoundingly petrifying just from the sheer look on his face, luckily hidden behind his hand. It was a common habit for him, a quirk or ticks one could say, that would go unnoticed if not noted that he did it quite frequently. How in the name of God does he know my name?

An image appeared in the back of his mind, hiding somewhere behind old memories and supressed events from the past, bloody and bruised faces and bodies of now dead men, and lurking around the smile of his beloved Maggie. An image of carnage, barbed wire and gas. And for a split second he was sure he could both see and hear a woman saying something, something quiet, almost a whimper in the winter breeze: "A friend...".

"So you do remember me? That's a relief, I thought for a moment you were going to punch me." Jeremy said and subsequently let out a unstrained laugh. The fear that once inhabited his mind was ever more fading away as he let August continue to explain what he was doing with the photographs. It turned out that he indeed was working for the Arkham Herald, and there was more to the suicide of Killigan than met the eye initially. In fact he was hoping to question Jeremy if he could. "I would have been much obliged to help you, August, after all it's the truth about my friend that's at stake. But I'm actually on my way to work, just down the street, and I really can't...".

It was the truth. Jeremy wanted to find out more about Killigan's death and the supposed connections to the "bigger picture", but more than that Jeremy needed to not get fired from the Motor garage he worked at. He was about to say a friendly good-bye to his newly-made friend August, when the voice once again appeared in the back of his mind. "Follow him...".

"...without first getting a good cup of coffee before I start! And the Boss won't be at the garage for another hour, so who's there to fire me? I know a good place, just down the street."

Jeremy straightened his trench-coat, still snow on the lower end of it from him crouching in the snow, and gestured August to follow him down the street. On their right they would see Arkham Sanitarium rising above it's walls, hiding whatever the doctors didn't want the outside world to see, and though hidden, Jeremy felt as if someone was standing there, watching him and judging him. But on the bright side, the café that also rose up before them down the street looked inviting to the duo of unknown associates, yet closer than they ever could think.

"So what do you want to ask then? I'm not sure I am of much help, August."

Arthur Steiner

"Then let us be content that we're still saner than them. I'd prefer for everyone in the group to get out of this institution with their wits still in place, especially you, Herr Günther." Arthur followed Dupree at the slowed pace, seeing that Emil seemed somewhat shaken, it being the incident or something else that lingered on Emil's mind. With a brief smile meant for the young student and a quick pat on his shoulder, Arthur quickened his pace as he re-entered the crowd of students at their tour of the Sanitarium.

If the reception and their initial welcome had felt gloomy, then the proper interiour of Arkham Sanitarium was what could be described as a series of damp tunnels of a cavern, filled with the figurely bats that made you want to lower your head and the fear of the unknown deeper within that made your shoulders rise. As they left what the visitors were most likely meant to see and entered the physical realm of the patients, even Arthur felt a chill down his spine. Everyone seemed to look around more - not out of curiosity, but in fear - as the corridor got narrower and the hatch-like doors popped out of the walls like massive mouths ready to eat one. Everyone knew this was a place they didn't want to end up, everyone except Dr. Martin Gabrowski, who's stature remained the same, straight and determined, perhaps even light-hearted in light of his visit.

"This is where most of our more...difficult patients live. As you can see, we've taken the neccecary measures to ensure that no harms is to happen to neither our patients, nor our staff. These doors, 1-inch thick steel, are locked and secure from the outside, while the inside is padded with what's best described as matresses, to ensure that our patients do not get harmed from unwanted impacts. Same goes for the entire room, as the padding stretches from the door and out to the floor, walls and ceiling; even their beds and chairs are padded. Dr. Gabrowski stopped for a moment, resting his hand on the first door on their left. "Here, in room 111 lives Mr. Macario, who suffers from extreme paranoia and severly restricted social behavior. We fear he might never recover. And on your right lives Miss Violet in room 112. She suffers from accute female hysteria, possibly genitalian dysfunction..."

Gabrowski continued his act of resting his left and right hand respectivly on a door to their left or right, telling the group - which was by now both frightened, yet monstrously curious - about briefly who occupied the room and what they suffered from. He continued this pattern for a few more rooms until Arthur noticed something; as he was walking through the corridor, he ignored one of the doors on his right, and told about another patient in another room. It was odd, Arthur thought, that out of all these rooms and patients their - seemingly - friendly Dr. Gabrowski told them about, this room he left alone. And he was having none of it.

"What about that door, Dr. Gabrowski?".

The doctor stopped and turned in his tracks, a confused look on his face as it seemed he didn't quite get who asked him the question. "What?"

"In there, room 125?"

"What about it?" The doctor looked puzzled, more than before.

"You skipped it, the door and patient. Who lives there?". Arthur was looking directly at Gabrowski, his signature serious-stare gazig into the doctor's face, looking for an answer to this odd occurence.

"Oh, right...To be honest, it's really nothing spectacular about it, not worth mentio..."

"Dr. Gabrowski. Who. Lives. There?"

He sighed. With it his shoulder lifted and were let down, before he lifted his face up to face Arthur again.

"...Well if you must know why I skipped it, it's because that patient is the least insane and most stable patient of everyone who's here. She's calm, orderly enough to a certain extent, but she's best left alone. She'll also be out of the Sanitarium within a short time, another reason why I don't want to talk about her, which I won't. Now I'm sorry for skipping her door, but I thought it'd be for the best for all of us if she was left out, okay? Now please, do follow me down here...".

Arthur was not impressed, not in the slighest, but he didn't want to follow that line of inquiry in front of the students, and promptly shut his mouth at the end of the Gabrowski's response. As Gabrowski moved on, so did the group. As they kept moving through the corridor of lost souls and steel doors, Dr. Dupree and Emil Günther were still in the back of the crowd.

The sound of knocking on the door to their left. The same door Dr. Gabrowski ignored and Arthur was left out on information. Dupree and Emil would both hear it, and as they most certainly would step closer to inspect, they would find a piece of paper lying just underneath the door. In almost indechipherable handwriting, it said;

I'm here, Emil. Help me.

Then they were alone. The professor, the student, and the steel door that hid one clue to this vaste puzzle of madness.

Emil watched them leave and the numbers on the doors too. Odd to the left. Even to the right. But odd on both sides. They are all odd, aren't they? And the oddest one right there. What if it is the other way around? Us and them. There came a bang from the problematic cell, and then another, and another came after it filtered by an inch of metal. Emil's hands left the pockets just as the beating lowered towards the floor and elongated shadows shaped like long feelers rippled briefly.

Down there. My summoning from above and below! He coughed forcefully to the rhythm of the clanking steel door and pretending to swoon half-fell in front of Dupree almost knocking into his side, but waving immediately his hand as if to say 'I am okay, I am okay' and placing it against the wall to help erect himself, to obscure the professor's view with his back. Having staggered a couple of steps forward on his shaking frightened thighs, head bent, his shoe sole pressed the paper on the ground. Don't muddy it! Emil spun on his heel, back against the biting steel, the bilious face that of an actor. The knocking subsided and only quiet came out.

”Persistent, them.” He tapped his palm on the door behind him. ”Scared me there. Never know when to quit. They'll just hurt themselves. Someone should tell the doctor, or a nurse.” He arrayed a semi smile. "I think I'll head to the bathroom, professor. I'm feeling dehydrated. Yes.”

Professor Dupree nodded. World's mad – or people trying to impose their idea of order. Gawking and quick to accuse when the world refused to fit it. Their truths were based only on a handful of ideas and perhaps a fact or two. So much easier to say the world was mad than say they were wrong. That was what they often met.

It was certainly prudent to keep this to himself when speaking to a student who, at best, had been startled witless by his first encounter with a madman. He tried to avoid unnecessary harm as a matter of principle.

Convinced that the student was able to continue on, even shaken, Professor Dupree allowed himself to follow at the end of the group. Steiner at the front, Dupree at the back. Shepherding their students through insanity, led by Dr. Martin Gabrowski. As the tour proceeded into the heart of the asylum, its brain and vessels and lungs- He shook off the thought with a small shudder. Perhaps it was merely the close proximity to the insane, the thought that someone like that had been wandering among them and had been so normal until yesterday morning, the thinly-insulated walls that let the cold pervade the hallways with a sense of dampness that soaked through coats and cloth and skin and muscle; Dupree couldn't be certain. Everyone but Dr. Tarr leading the way (did that make his colleague back on campus Professor Fether?) seemed to instinctively recoil from the doors that bulged past the hallway walls. Professor Dupree certainly wasn't above instinctive responses himself, he noted as he found himself oddly in the middle of the hall. At least Dr. Gabrowski was willing to give everyone their time's worth as he began describing the set-up of this ward – of self-protection, from heads smashing against doors and wrists rubbed raw on metal frames. But of course Jeremiah knew what that felt like.
The set-up was perfect for a segue into the description of the patients the ward held. If any students who had attended came with uncertainties as to the ethics of human study, it seemed to melt away at the illnesses Dr. Gabrowski shared. How thin the line of madness and sanity truly seemed to run! When Dupree was able, he did attempt to glance through the cracks between the doors and walls, to observe the patients within. Storytelling was fine and all, a perfectly suitable method for gaining knowledge, but Dupree knew the benefits of direct observation. One other bolder student lagged behind to join him on this particular venture, and Dupree couldn't help but feel justified. Nicolas Redd – he had a good feeling about this boy when he'd walked into Dupree's lecture hall. This boy was sure to go far, he knew that for a fact.

Yet, in his observation, it took Steiner's words to point out what should have been obvious: Dr. Gabrowski had skipped one room. Had Dr. Gabrowski been more careless in identifying patients up to that point, Professor Dupree might have had to consider whether it was important or not. Whether the patient hidden behind the door he had yet to reach was worthy of observation. Whether the patient simply did not fit someone's idea of order. Quick to be accused, and perhaps less protected than Dupree. However, Dr. Gabrowski's denials and harsh explanation proved sufficient.

This patient was definitely important.

How it related to everything else and everyone else was another question entirely. The fact she would be released soon according to Dr. Gabrowski lifted his hopes even further – he would not need to attempt to cajole or flatter staff into allowing him to meet with this woman. He might need to do so at the end of the tour, to discover when she would be released. Perhaps phrasing his request as looking for a guest speaker and desiring a patient known to be stable might work for his purposes? Redd continued onward as Dupree allowed his thoughts to wander and his frenetic pace to slow to a simple walk alongside a student – the same student from before. A pattern? Perhaps not yet. Perhaps so. Was he in Steiner's class? Dupree thought so. It might be worth asking Dr. Steiner for his name.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

There was no mistaking it, Dupree thought as he slowly rose from his thoughts. The unknown patient's door had been knocked upon. It had been soft, so soft that, as Dupree looked to Dr. Steiner for help in pressing the issue, it was clear that the rest of the group had moved on too far to hear anything. Such a pity. Of course Dupree was curious. The door seemed sealed tight, he noted – the gap between the wall and door much thinner than the other doors. Coincidences existed but this could not be a coincidence. Not planned, no, that was giving the doctors too much credit.

No matter what Dr. Gabrowski claimed, Dupree had a feeling this patient would not leave this room.

Before Dupree could move closer to investigate the door and hopefully the patient that laid behind, the student fell forward, brushing against Dupree on the way and almost striking the door in the process. Panic. Did he feel anything odd? Had he felt the extra fabric? What was he worrying over, a student had nearly fainted on top of him!
Before Dupree could move to help him, the student waved a hand, catching himself on the wall and staggering forward. This was still worrisome. Even if he had not fallen unconscious, even if he had not fallen entirely, the asylum was not necessarily equipped to dealing with illness of the physical variety. If the fainting was merely hysterical, that could be even worse. Dupree hesitated before deciding to keep his hands to himself. The student seemed to compose himself and turned to face Dupree.

“Persistent, them.” He tapped on the metal door. “Scared me there. Never know when to quit. They'll just hurt themselves. Someone should tell the doctor, or a nurse.” Dupree nodded, curiously. Two for two. The student just attracted madness. He would need to ask Steiner for a name. For understanding. Had he been here before? It was worth looking into while trying to discover where Faye Desdemona had gone.

“I think I'll head for the bathroom, professor. I'm feeling dehydrated. Yes.” The student smiled.

“That would be wise. I believe there were facilities in the lobby – a nurse should be able to help you rejoin the group once you are finished?” Dupree nodded. This... actually worked to his advantage. A moment alone to talk to this woman, determine what she knew.

Why she was clearly so important in the grand scheme of things.

As the pair made their way into the small locally owned cafe August immediately found himself breathing deeper in an attempt to savor the delightful aroma of finely roasted coffee beans that filled the air in such a way that only coffee houses could. Having always been a fan of a strong cup up black liquid tar himself it was a smell that brought August a slight moment of relief, a moment he didn't even know he desperately needed up until this very point. He honestly wasn't sure if his relief stemmed more from the caffeinated smell wafting in the air or just the mere fact that the damned Asylum was no longer within eyesight.

Through his constant habit of investigating any and everything that stood out to him August had learned that the Asylum was the type of old structure that was just as well known as it was equally feared among the locals. It was the type of place that seemed to exist in every town and city in one way or another, the type of place kids dared each other to go while being to scared themselves to ever set foot near and likewise would more often than not have one or two macabre rumors or urban legends tied to the building itself. Needless to say the Arkham Asylum had all this in spades along with the benefit of a few all to real nightmarish crime scenes that had taken place within and around its stone structure.

The worst thing by far about Arkham Asylum though was the very fact that August wanted absolutely nothing to do with the place but was all to aware that his type of luck combined with his damned inquisitive nature tended to land him in the exact places he didn't want to be. It was for this very reason he made a mental note to check the place out again more in depth in the future. But for now he simply needed to give his full attention to the man in front of him.

In a further effort to ingratiate himself to Jeremy, whom still believed him to be a reporter, August made sure to quickly speak first when it came to ordering drinks and with a mere “Ill take a black coffee and whatever my friend here wants as well. And keep the tip.” he made his intentions clear that he planned to buy Jeremy's drink-the waitress didn't object nor give Jeremy time to argue as August handed her a folded bill that was worth a good bit more than two coffees. It was the type of purchase he normally would have filed under “expenses” when billing a client.

Two fresh cups of coffee in hand later and the duo found themselves seated at one of the high standing small circular tables that made up the quaint yet well taken care of cafe. Seemingly defying the laws of physics August had somehow found a way to make his massive frame fit the stylish stool that was clearly built with a much thinner crowd in mind. Gulping his coffee down August went about playing the part of a reporter and pulled out a little black notebook and pencil from inside his gigantic raincoat-although usually preferring to take mental notes he was well aware that for some odd reason people seemed comforted or genuinely less suspicious whenever he actively seemed to be writing the answers to the questions he asked.

"So what do you want to ask then? I'm not sure I am of much help, August."

The question had not only been a simple one but was almost to be expected given the impromptu interview August was supposedly giving-and it was for that very reason August found it somewhat odd that the man seemed a bit fidgety. It was like he was waiting for someone or something to burst in the door at any moment and do lord knows what. Without thinking on it much August simply wrote off the clearly paranoid body language as someone still suffering effects from the war; afterall if the man had honestly been a soldier August wouldn't blame him for his behavior one bit-in fact August had seen many a man in much much worse shape.

Taking another long gulp of coffee August tried putting his best smile on before answering. “Well you never know Jeremy. The littlest thing can sometimes lead to the biggest discoveries afterall. Was Mr. Killigan acting odd in any memorable way before the events of that night? Perhaps mentioning any specific places or people, things that were troubling him? Really anything that would still be stuck in your mind as odd or peculiar after everything that took place? Any unanswered questions?” Then without thinking the words slipped from his mouth.

“Do you by chance know if he had any contact with a Faye Desdemona?”

”A nurse will help, most certainly,” Emil said. ”I saw one pass us by. I think she might be near still.” He cut the talk quickly, feeling a hint of tremor tingle in the depth of his speech that he had to prevent from emerging. His worry, he knew not why, seemed to him impersonal, as if it were felt for him by a man writing his life like a story. He could have sworn that he himself as he knew himself was an entity separate from some real life that existed above this plot he was following and had mistaken for reality. His sickness or not, he saw himself like a character from a novel that he'd grown to like and now observed so carefully that he related to him to the point where he could feel him profoundly. And he couldn't wait to see what the next page of smeared tint would bring. A mystery, yes. A tale of horror and anomaly, of things incomprehensible. Most Gothic in setting, Romantic in possibility. These dark halls and secrete notes, and the inevitably bloody ending.

With a prayer to some indefinite god that the note would not fall off his shoe sole he turned and slowly, almost clumsily, left. After a few steps he knelt and, pretending to be fixing his laces, grabbed the paper with the haste of an addict. The note in his palm, he disappeared around the corner, picking up his pace, not looking at the faces of the workers who regarded him with curious eyes. A note, with words on it. A she, the doctor said. They are allowed ink and paper inside? Someone must have smuggled it in. He then saw her, the nurse, again, and as he realised she was prettier than he thought in that close and brief encounter his situation felt closer to his heart again. She walked into an open office whose number he remembered. 64.

The bathroom was across from the office. Once inside, he was surprised by a faint smile on his lips that he saw in the mirror. Conning himself for a moment, he caught a thought intruding, and knew he somehow expected the smirk. The office: Six and Four. F and D. Oh, author, you conjurer of the subtle! With refueled vigor he entered one of the cubicles that the bathroom contained: the one farthest from the door. The paper was damp with the sweat from his palms and the writing hieroglyphic at best, but decipherable. I'm here, Emil. Help me. he read, squinting over the note. He sat on the lowered toilet seat, feeling the plastic depress under his weight. The lights in the silent bathroom flickered and he gazed up at the ceiling, expressionless and still like the walls of the the asylum.



Sixty-Four he read, face washed and refreshed, hair fixed, mouth cleansed with water. Through the stained glass in the door he saw but the most shapeless movement within that could have been that of anything, a raw motion of the visible. He knocked three times waiting for a response, a drop of cold water going down his neck.