@RBYDark

Another knock came through the steel door, its very mass luring the mind into believing the sound coming from eons away, a sound from a time long gone, yet still observable, if you knew how to look -or rather in this case, hear. A moment of silence followed, rapidly persued by two more knocks and the sound of movement, as if someone sat down next to the door. And if one, in this corridor of terrifying design and thought, stood close enough, one could hear a voice.

"Dr. Jeremiah Dupree. Born 1882, same year the German discovered tuberculosis, and a man of great importance for America was born in New York. They call you "The Collector" and "Jerry", but your true only you know. You have kinds eyes and smile, reflecting your soul...your mind. You saw him jump from that tower, Dr. Atkins, didn't you? You and your friends, you seek answers, but you do not realize the dire implecations your quest for answers carries...The boy will come back."

The sound of a woman got quiet for a minute, only the voices of the other residents audible through their metal cages in the most distorted of ways. One would think that this was all simply tricks of the mind, hadn't the voice continued after a while.

"Mr. Colombo sent word of you, I'm sorry it disturbed you, but it was needed. And now you're all coming here to talk, to seek answers. So while we wait for your friends, ask what you can only ask through this physical barrier, Doctor."


@Sigurd

"Come in!"

As the door slowly swung open, a loud creak of rusty hinges from the old door masking any sound of foot steps from the visitor. It was a dimly lit room, one barely able to see hadn't it been for the light flowing in from the doorway and the small, barred up window further up on the wall. It would have been a room worth looking over your shoulder for.

But there stood simply a young woman; a pretty woman in hospital gowns, reaching into the drawers of a desk that stood at the end of the room. She casually continued to search through the drawers, looking up briefly with a smile of an angle meant for Emil, a kind look in her eyes, before she returned to the drawers.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but if you're looking for Dr. Gabrowski, he's on a tour with students from Miskatonic University. Or are you just lost? You look a bit lost, no offense...I sometimes get lost here as well, even after having worked here for so long. The bathroom is just across the hall if you need that. Or are you visiting someone?"

The woman looked up at Emil again at the end of that sentence, still a kind smile on her face - one that would warm anyone's heart and certainly make any man's blood boil from excitment - , as she pulled up a key in plain sight. And on the key, if one looked closely, you could make out a number hammered into the metal.

125

The clank of the key hitting the table snapped Emil awake. He'd been looking at the woman in front of him for at least a minute as she spoke and went about the drawer. Now he saw the number, the familiar digits of the steel shut door.

”Forgive me,” he said masking his and faking his roommate's accent; ”Name's Sean. Sean O'Reilly. I couldn't help but stare. Your...beauty has stunned me, I must admit.” An involuntary twitch shook his lips. She is gorgeous. Maybe she will soften to me too.

He closed the door behind him. The ancient hinges screeched. My demons following me, screaming behind my steps, calling me: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemil.

”I have just arrived with the university group this morning. I am a medical student here at the University myself.” He shied a smile at her and approached the desk. ”Doctor Gabrowski sent me here, it's my praxis today.”

Drawing nearer, he felt the key slowly suck his soul in, and all his thoughts with it. He did not look at it, but his every bone and muscle longed to posses it, as if he were a dragon desiring an artifact of an old hero or other. In the periphery of his vision he registered a white, cold flicker and he knew it was the silver key reflecting little light that fell blade-shaped on it through the window above.

Still looking at her and smiling, he said: ”I am to spend a class's time with a patient and write my report. The lady in question I am assigned is to leave soon, I believe? Room 125.”

Dupree watched the student go, and then approached the door. There was a script he could follow. One to prevent the patient from becoming overly excited, one that might grant Dupree answers yet, one that might allow him to know what he needed to know. One that would fill the missing gaps of the puzzle strewn across an off-white wall. Introduce himself as Jeremiah - a humble teacher, teaching a class about culture. Perhaps this patient would like to contribute, come speak to his class about what her life had been like. Everyone had a story to tell, he could reassure her if she seemed hesitant or unsure, and surely her story was worth sharing simply on the account of being from a perspective no one in his class had ever experienced. Slowly push for why she had ended up here. Why the doctors had skipped her over as if merely an empty cell, a vessel awaiting something new to fill it. Be gentle, be cautious, be determined. Something so simple hardly deserved the title of a 'plan', but it was what he intended to follow as his guide.

His guide fled, panicked, into the darkness of the asylum and through the cold walls like a spectre, when the knocking resumed. He knew it was no coincidence, no madman banging their head against the door. It was a summons, and he would answer. He approached the door, the introduction lost from his tongue and resting likely somewhere near his shoes now. Before he could retrieve it, the voice spoke.

Somehow, her human qualities only made it worse.

"Dr. Jeremiah Dupree. Born 1882, same year the German discovered tuberculosis, and a man of great importance for America was born in New York." Wait, who? Jeremiah could think of perhaps a few professors, but 'importance to America' was a stretch than anyone without their ego could hardly support. "They call you "The Collector" and "Jerry"," Ah, yes, a nickname Jeremiah kept failing to shake. There was always that one person in every group. "-but your true name only you know." The acid in his stomach chilled and settled into a block of ice that radiated its cold outward and made him sick. He wanted to protest but, right now, he was just as afraid that speaking would dislodge the ice into his throat and choke him to death, with no one to miss his disappearance. "You have kind eyes and smile, reflecting your soul...your mind. You saw him jump from that tower, Dr. Atkins, didn't you? You and your friends, you seek answers, but you do not realize the dire implications your quest for answers carries...The boy will come back." The boy - the student. Jeremiah had to act fast, faster than his brain was going right now. The script was gone, scribbled out in angry black ink at its uselessness. "Mr. Colombo sent word of you, I'm sorry it disturbed you, but it was needed. And now you're all coming here to talk, to seek answers. So while we wait for your friends, ask what you can only ask through this physical barrier, Doctor." As she wished. He picked out the few questions visible through the wet ink.

"Who are you? Why are you in here? Why did the doctor act like you didn't even exist until Arthur asked?" A stream of questions, and he doubted he would get complete answers before the boy returned. The ice in his stomach shifted, and he pressed his forehead against the cool metal door, half to regain his composure, half to better hear the answers she would offer. "And who is Mr. Colombo?" And why had he apparently known so much about the professor, even what he desperately sought to keep secret? Emilia Dupree died in her senior year of her boarding school. Jeremiah Dupree had simply sprung forth from her corpse with no regrets.

Despite the many very deliberate blotches of ink on many very deliberate words, the Bureau's dossier on Dr. Atkins was surprisingly thorough - say what you will about bureaucratic incompetence, but the Bureau of Investigations definitely didn't do things half-assed; although, Argus got the feeling the two Feds weren't telling him the full story. He scanned through the documents for what seemed to him the hundredth time, trying to fill in the blanks.

It was fascinating, really - the oldest records dated back two and a half years, and ended barely three weeks before his untimely death. It was by sheer chance that they'd caught on to the death so fast - A routine telephone call to local law enforcement just hours after the incident quickly revealed the grim nature of events in Arkham.

Surprisingly, the agent assigned to him before the three week gap had declared the late doctor's mental state as 'erratic, but no cause for alarm' and recommended Atkins be downgraded from 'High' to 'Low' importance.

This was not the first time this had happened. The Bureau had apparently been jumping back and forth between active and passive surveillance. There was a full list of about five different agents that had been assigned to him at various points included in the file - a list which had completely succumbed to the dreaded black ink, and therefore would have been as much use to Argus at at the bottom of a well than in the file.

There was also a whole host of other information: newspaper cut-outs; articles published by Dr. Atkins; transcripts of phone conversations - the Bureau had gone through a strange period of intercepting his phone calls, most of which were irrelevant - name of colleagues; addresses; books...

Argus flicked back through the pages. References to several books had been circled, often multiple times: The Necronomicon; The Celaeno Fragments; De Vermis Mysteriis; and most alarmingly, The American Prophecy.

Although Argus had never heard of the first three, the dossier indicated they were archaic tomes filled with indecipherable mystical information, and some of the few extant copies were stored in the archives of Miskatonic University.

The American Prophecy, on the other hand... Argus was somewhat more familiar with. The doomsday cult associated with it had case files with Pinkerton - several times, agents had been hired by concerned families to retrieve loved ones from their grasp. The leader himself had been a known anarchist, and had often called for the destruction of the United States to hasten the coming of the end of the world - something the BoI believed Atkins may have been looking into.

And finally, at the very back of the folder in a previously sealed pouch, was the mission brief. It was a waste of time to read it again. Argus knew perfectly well what had to be done. And yet, confusion still filled his thoughts. Why would Atkins be compelled by a foreign agent to commit suicide? Why not just defect? I'm sure those fucking Bolsheviks would pay a high price for-

A screeching of metal on metal and a lurch of the train interrupted his own train of thought. The ruddy-faced conductor who walked past his cabin moments later did nothing to to ease his annoyance. 'Arkham, Massachusetts! End of the line, pal!' He announced. He sounded cheerful. Far too fucking cheerful.

Argus picked up his hat and briefcase. He'd had just moments to stuff the dossier in the case, away from prying eyes. 'Not today.' He replied through gritted teeth and made his way towards the door, leaving the confused conductor behind him.

---

Arkham was, unsurprisingly, as cold and shitty as he'd imagined. Trudging towards the hotel through the ever increasing snowfall that filled the streets, it was hard to not notice a few landmarks.

Arkham Sanitarium loomed ominously over the city, like a Daemon preparing to swoop down and lay waste to those poor souls who were unfortunate enough to wind up in this backwater. To his left, the tall roofed buildings of the Miskatonic University were easily visible from the sidewalk. Somewhere faintly in the distance, the Miskatonic gurgled as its waters flowed slowly past the frozen lumps that choked its course.

People darted through the streets, trying desperately to finish their business before the sun began to slip below the horizon. Argus watched them with a detached sense of curiosity. It was sad, really - A college professor kills himself and several residents are all simultaneously committed to the local asylum, but still the people in Arkham seemed worried about trivial, materialistic things - like personal appearances, or how much bread they had left in their larder. Tiny, selfish desires were like an opiate for these yokels, a distraction from the disturbing affairs that had begun to surround them as of late.

It wasn't too much longer before Argus arrived at the Arkham Grand Hotel - although calling it 'Grand' was nothing short of false advertising. But for all the weathered floorboards and peeling wallpaper, at least Room 15 had working plumbing and a fireplace to keep that damn chill out.

As the fire roared to life, Argus took one final look at the file. His large briefcase lay open on the bed - curiously, the layout had been modified to hold a short lever-action rifle and a few extra rounds in addition to his travel necessities. He'd had the case custom made a few years by a man who made a living building concealed gun cases for the Sicilian Mafia and whiskey bootleggers.

He looked back at the fire. The flames seemed to lick delicately at the soot-coated bricks of the fireplace, as if they were beckoning him. The file weighed heavily in his hands. It was time.

Argus stepped towards the fire as it crackled eagerly, and cast the dossier into the hearth. The flames quickly consumed it, turning all it touched to nothing more than ash and smoke and embers. As he watched, he thought about how Inspector Lexington would react to having the case taken out of his hands.

He glanced back at the open briefcase. The cold steel of his rifle glittered enticingly in the fire's glow. He hoped it he wouldn't have to use it.

But something deep inside him did.

It was only late morning when the train began to approach Arkham, but even after his long journey, Frederick was wide-awake amongst the rest of the sleeping or half-asleep passengers.

It wasn’t that uncomfortable sleeping arrangements or sharp morning light had coaxed him from his sleep early; with a long trip between Maine and Massachusetts, he’d begrudgingly paid for first class and the ability to sleep mostly unhindered, and the view afforded to him of the sky from his car’s window was uniformly grey or dirty white, the sign of a dreary winter day to come instead of a bright spring day that filled all who saw it with energy. Rather, a few hours earlier, perhaps as the train had passed the state border from New Hampshire to Massachusetts, he’d woken with a start and a head that felt as if it had been hollowed out and filled to the brim with filthy, fetid water.

It was about as unclear as that figurative water as to what caused his unpleasant awakening, but he didn’t wish to dwell on it for long; not that he could, as his mind seemed unable to entertain any real thought about his strange awakening, instead almost seeming to distract him with a bevy of other issues if he tried to concentrate on it. So as the rest of the passengers remained sleeping and stationary, he instead pulled himself together and prepared himself to disembark as soon as possible, readying his cases and watching the misty forests and river streams creep along the outside of the window as the minutes of his final approach left him alone with his thoughts.

‘Should I make the business call first, or settle in at the house?’ Distinctly mundane thoughts, as it was. Whilst he was supposed to be in Arkham to recover, he’d been advised to find some means by which he could earn upkeep and keep himself engaged; whilst his usual line of work would have been out of the question in any other situation, the Chief back in Madawaska had managed to find something similar, but more forgiving. Despite initial reservations, he’d ultimately phoned ahead at the last station ahead to confirm the appointment, which meant it wasn’t a question of whether he should make the call, but when.

As the river creeping across his window drew closer, falling out of his field of vision as it nestled close to the railroad tracks, and as he instead saw the first buildings of the town draw up in the distance, he made his mind up.

Settling in could wait, he’d made an appointment with Miskatonic University and he’d make sure he kept it.

The girl smiled back, albit in a shy manner and with a hint of red blushing her cheeks at Emil's words. The key she gently placed on the desk, yet the sound of metal hitting the wood frame echoed through the room. But her smile persevered.

"Ehm, those are very kinds words, Sean...Mr O'Reilly I mean. One doesn't easily get compliments in a place like this, not from the sane of us at least...Anyway, it's your praxis here, with Dr. Gabrowski? As in, actually observing the patients? I wish I could be so fortunate."

The gaze of her trailed off to the side, then out the way the light came in from, her hands leaving the key and resting in his pockets. Her eyes told of a woman longing for something, something far outside her reach. Then she was shook back into the room, Room 64, with his Irish-sounding accent, who had the smile of a kind man. More like a boy, but still kind.

"Room 125? I didn't think anyone other than the Doctor were allowed to visit her? Then again, if you're okay with Dr. Gabrowski, I guess it changes it. I wish I could just give you the key and let you visit her..." her voice changed from merely a kind brisk in the wind to something, something leaning towards the sly fox, as she gently slid the key across the desk towards him, not letting her eyes leave his sight.

"...but that'd be against the Sanitarium's rules; no visitors with patients without professional supervision. Though I'm sure Dr. Gabrowski won't be too hard to find after lunch."

The lady suddenly looked at her left wrist, a look of shock striking her face as if she realized something, and began walking to the door. "Oh God, I forgot I have a patient to tend to! I'm sorry for the short talk, Sean, but I really got to go. Close the door when you leave, will you? Thank you! Maybe I'll see you later?"

Soon Emil stood alone in the room, left by the lovely-looking lady, but with a curious behaviour if one looked carefully. Firstly, she wore no watch on her left arm for her to witness the time. Secondly, the key to door 125 was still lying on the desk, as if she left it there on purpose. But that couldn't be the case, could it?

Emil indeed was left, but he did not feel alone in that room, standing in the light, like in a spotlight on a stage. When he looked at the engine of his every thought lying on the table, his desire to posses it suddenly abated. He stood wooden for a long moment, looking at it. Will she see me later? Will anyone? Am I afraid, now that I've managed to obtain the key to this riddle, or its peripheral corridor, at least? He took a short breath.

Upon the wall hung a clipboard with the signatures of the staff who reported in that morning. Fortunately, only one was a woman, signed delicately with a quirky tail on the Y and in her name: Emily Eliot. Emily Eliot. Two dactyls. A beautiful name. He flipped through the pages, seeing a pattern emerge. Emily had worked in alternating shifts, and the day after she would come to work in the afternoon, after the lunch break. When he put his hand in his pocket, he found that the key was safe inside. He fingered it. How cold you are, even in this pocket. Handed from hand to hand. Nothing will warm you save the lock to which you belong and to which you will return.

He slowly pushed the door behind him and left. On his way he snatched a white robe and a white mask from the cart in front of the toilets. walking, he clad himself in what he'd stolen, and found that the mask had a pair of red dots on it. The robe was spotless. His figure was haunting the dark tiled hallways, like a specter of a surgeon who'd butchered more than he'd saved. He lowered his head as he passed before a wheeled table and saw on it a pair of troubled eyes looking from a confined body deathly and haggard as fresh carrion in a desert. A glimpse of humanity spastic and desperate jerked the body and died just as violently.

A familiar voice came from the corner, or the faintest echo of it. Emil halted, hid behind the corner to listen. He shot an eyeball behind the wall down the hall and knew it was Dupree still near the steel door. He clutched the key in his pocket and sharpened his ear. Perhaps he could have heard something with some luck, but an atavistic sensation hindered him in the most unfortunate of times. His tinnitus had returned. A sound of a running river, of the rustling of paper, of the wood squeaking: all in his head, or neither of them at all, indistinguishable one from another. He closed his eyes and shut his ears with his hands, grimacing. There was no pain, nothing physical, yet he couldn't lower his hands from his head. He was sweating, cursing his luck. Nicht jetzt... Nicht jetzt! Shceiße! Halt, bitte! HALT!

It stopped. Pulling himself together he realised he had overreacted. The episode was not something he had not endured before. Tired and nervous. All on me at once. Calm down. Listen. Breathing warm filtered air through the mask, he relaxed against the wall and tried to eavesdrop again, but feeling he had missed his chance.

Unlike much of Arkham, the building that housed the Arkham Police Department had been kept in remarkably good condition. While the rooftops of its neighbours bowed and sagged, the tiles on top of the station had been recently replaced. The interior walls, too, looked like they had repainted within the last six months.

They were signs of a police force that was seldom needed, working in a town where seldom happened, receiving a budget they seldom used. They weren't being rushed off their feet chasing bootleggers, arsonists, murderers and thieves. They had it good. They had time to relax.

But not anymore.

'Agent Lichfield, Pinkerton. I've been requested to meet with Inspector Lexington about the Atkins case.' Argus continued to hold up his identification as he watched the colour drain from the face of the receptionist, who only moments before was the epitome of cheerful. Her mouth moved but the words were absent.'Ma'am, I've travelled a long way to get here. I would like to get this investigation underway as promptly as possible.'

She nodded, her panic subsiding just enough to coalesce into coherent thoughts. 'Yes, Mr. Lichfield. I'll go and see if he's in.'

And then, Argus was alone.

"Who are you? Why are you in here? Why did the doctor act like you didn't even exist until Arthur asked?"

"Who I am? Do you seek the answer to as who my mind is? Who my memories belongs to, or as to what I am called? Funny, isn't it? The name you carry throughout your life, is something that you didn't even have a chance to choose. Your parents knew nothing of who you were to become, but yet that name would define you. I can now only answer the latter, but you already know that name; in the archives of Miskatonic, and from the investigator, August Dupin. You both know my name, seek me, and shall soon both see me."

The voice paused for a moment, a loud sound of someone breathing barely audible from the other side, before it continued.

"As to why I'm here, like everyone else; I was normal, until the rest of society decided I wasn't. But if you'd seen the things I've seen, dreamt the dreams...no, nightmares I've had, and know all the truths that one should never have to carry upon your shoulders, you would never become normal again. I can't remember everything, but what I remember changed me, and I know that other things must have happened, are happening and will happen, like Atkins jumping; like you coming to this door with the other professor and your students. And August. And Jeremy. I knew that, I saw you."

"Dr. Gabrowski? I'm his best patient, at least that's what he thinks. He tests me, and tests on me, to prove his theories. He wants me for himself, not even the nurses visit me. But for all his knowledge, he does not understand me. He thinks he does, but he has but scratched the surface of the mystery that my mind houses, the power my head contains."

"And who is Mr. Colombo?"

"You already met him. I sent him to greet you in the reception. He was to run into Emil Günther, the student with a troubled mind, and warn you. Warn of my wherabouts and of Gabrowski's evil. But I failed to see his trick, his ace up the sleeve, my mind can only see as far as the honest go. But I can see you, as clear as day now. As you were before, as you are now standing behind that door, and as you'll be in your grave, Dr. Dupree."

_______

Well. Jeremiah had known enough to know that this woman was not trying to menace him or frighten him. That alone sent a chill through his body far deeper than anything in the asylum, the cold dampness or the crying and shrieking patients, had yet to inspire.

She simply stated what threads she could see, where they went to. She had apparently seen where his thread and hers had overlapped, and apparently the threads of others - Emil, the student, a name he now had and hesitated if it ought to be used so cavalierly, that it had been gained from a woman who had likely never seen his face; Jeremy, who took Jeremiah a few seconds to understand this was likely someone he was to meet; Dr. Atkins - surely the inmates were not granted access to the reports from the outside world, a doctor may have discussed it, but with the knowledge of Emil's name, Jeremiah felt it was fair to be skeptical that she had gained knowledge of the name by everyday means; August, who he had already met and had already decided was deserving of help. The big question was, how did she gain all this knowledge? There were... certain means that various cultures claimed to have, and certainly a few methods could not be dismissed as tradition and self-deception, tricking oneself into believing they could see the connections of the universe simply because they wanted to so badly. Few of those remaining were so specific in identities, usually leaving such mysteries to those who had found the connections to determine such details alone. Jeremiah had decided to ask that next, to try to understand and hope she would grant him the same vision she had gained, no matter the cost. She knew, she could see, and if he had a chance at it too-

Instead, with a dry mouth, he asked, "...Faye? Faye Desdemona?"

He knew her name. By August Dupin and by its presence in the Miskatonic archives. It was the sole name August shared and pursued single-mindedly. He may have been wrong - she spoke of her name as if it no longer belonged to her, like a moth-eaten dress thrown to the trash for vagrants to pick over and otherwise be disposed of. He supposed he could sympathize.

There was so much to take in, to question. But this actually would be important to first confirm. And surely, if she knew as much as she did, she might understand why.

_______

That name, it was laughably familiar to the entity behind the thickness of cold metal, if it could have uttered such joyous waves of vibrations. Dr. Gabrowski had used that name many a time, and it's connection to his patient was well-proven in all manners. But the way it was uttered, asked and questioned by Dr. Dupree, filled it with a new sense of meaning; a spark of life and curiosity.

"Yes, that is my name. Faye Desdemona, the name used by those who know and care for me, and the man needing me. To all others I am but The patient in 125, She. I'm glad Miskatonic still keeps their records intact, even after all those years and after all uses from them have ceased. Did you see my photograph? Was I pretty then, 20 years ago? I have not seen my own face since then, I don't think my mind can even comprehend the changes I must have underwent in all those years...When I was happy..."

The voice went silent, but the sound of someone - or something - standing up and walking away from the door could be heard. Was that...a silent cry? It didn't last for long, however, as the entity of still no proven mass returned to the coffin's hatch.

"...Does your mind truly warp around the question as to why you are here? I know why, and I understand that you think you know why; out of a perverted sense of curiosity, a need to know why Arkham has taken this turn for the darker shades of insanity and death. But there is more to it, der Jeremiah, much more than you can see. The reason for your presence here is more than your visible curiosity, however important that has and will prove to be later; it is what lies in the Dark, what you cannot see but face in total blindess, that your quest is about. But I can't say much more until your allies join us."

_______

That... Jeremiah blinked, trying to mull over and comprehend what she was trying to say. The fact that, somehow, external forces conspired to bring him here wasn't all too troubling. He had long believed in patterns, and if he was part of one, it made all the more sense. No, it was what she said the true reason was. Something that hid in the Dark, something that could not be seen. A memory rose unbidden, illuminated by flames and moonlight, and he shuddered.

"Allies... the names you gave?" Just to be clear. "That, ah, may take a while. You at least know I don't know any Jeremy right now, correct?" Where was he to even start? Combing through the archives again? Asking Officer Lexington if Dr. Atkins knew a Jeremy (please not that option)? Reviewing his articles to learn if Jeremy was in another wing of this building? "Emil, I barely know the boy. We only met yesterday and did not talk much. He is around now, though I suppose you know that. Told him to go to a restroom until he felt better. You may have heard." If she did not simply know already. "August, I can bring fairly quickly - all I have to tell him is what your name is. I think he'll be ecstatic to meet you, Ms. Desdemona. I know the doctor said you were due to be released soon but... pardon me if I feel that's quite untrue." He had been right in how much she knew, so what were the odds she would still leave with such awareness? Dr. Gabrowski would simply relocate her somewhere hidden, he would write on her file he needed more time with her or she still had symptoms (what a lie), a final treatment would render her blind to the workings of the universe once more, the knowledge would simply be confined to the cell itself somehow. Jeremiah had to actually ponder, if that was truly the case, if it would be worth giving up his research and studies in the world for the actual knowledge itself in a padded cell.

In fact, it was in the middle of such thoughts he considered his words. "I... hope you know I was not trying to say you deserved to be in there. I doubt you'd stay if you had any sort of input on the matter." Not that he could afford to offend her either, but it had been true regardless. He considered her, considered her file, considered the strangled choked-off sound he had heard however briefly.

"I - they did keep your photographic plate in the archives, yes." He hesitated on how to continue. Even she didn't know how she looked now, something that raised several questions. Clearly, he would be going to the university library later on afterwards to try to trace her path from graduation to institutionalization. But to say she 'was'... "It was beautiful." That was the best he could settle for. Oh, he knew, on the occasion he bumped into past acquaintances from that old boarding school. And they'd talk over a drink or two, reminiscing about better memories and talking about the niceties of their lives. And then she'd look at him and sigh and say he had been so beautiful then, and the nausea would begin- He hoped at least that was kinder for her than to say she 'was' 'back then'.
Was that a footstep? He tensed at the sound, possibly imagined. He had been at this door for some time, hadn't he? The echo made it impossible to tell which direction it had come from. Perhaps a nurse arriving to deliver meals, or Dr. Steiner realizing Professor Dupree had been away for quite some time. He looked to the door - even compared to the other doors, this one was impossible to get a glimpse of the patient within.

"...I will be back later, I promise you. And next time, I will have everyone." He stepped back from the door and began to head down the hall, looking forward for whoever may have come back for him - remaining alert for whoever may be behind him now.

It was coming up on eleven when the train ground to a slow halt outside the station on High Lane, and whilst many of his fellow passengers had since awoken and pulled themselves to order, Frederick nonetheless found himself amongst the first to disembark into the dreary soon-to-be-afternoon Arkham day.

Ignoring the slow trickle of other passengers out from the train as he took his cases across the platform and towards the street outside the station, he set them down on the concrete before rummaging through his coat pocket. A moment later, a folded-up piece of paper was out and open in his hands, showing a somewhat faded map of the town; with a red ink circle surrounding and highlighting a large chunk of buildings a distance south of the station, across the Miskatonic River his train had crossed on the final stretch of its journey.

“West College Street… West College Street…” Mumbling that to himself to ingrain the rough area of his destination into his mind, he folded and tucked the map back into his pocket before taking his cases in his hands again. It was a fair walk, but if he wasn’t mistaking his current location, it wasn’t a complicated one; if he took the left turn from the station, he could take the bridge his train had passed under to cross the river, and then it was just a matter of walking three blocks down.

With just a slight shiver that he attributed to the shock of passing from the warm air of the car to the unpleasant chill of the winter morning instead of anything else in the air, Frederick started to walk again, continuing to outpace the rest of the disembarking passengers as they began to flow onto the street like spilled water from the platform above.
____
The walk to the Miskatonic campus was uneventful, to put it simply. After what had likely been the kind of busy early morning you’d find in any town, Arkham’s late morning seemed to have become similarly routine in its slow pace, as if waiting for midday to energize it once more.

However, there was something about the uneventful trek that made Frederick feel suspicious of his surroundings in a way that he hadn’t before. Even at this time in the day, there should have been more people about the streets than there were after he crossed the bridge over the Miskatonic river, more students going about their business in the immediate surroundings of the campus; and there seemed to be something a little off in some of those he did see navigating the narrow streets alongside him, a sense of quiet dread about them that crept out into the air.

His imagination might have drawn something deeper out of that, if not for what he saw when he finally reached the campus.

“Oh my.” That was about the only response he could manage as he passed the final block to the Miskatonic University campus, and found himself greeted by the unpleasantly familiar sight of a tape barrier.

He hardly needed imagination to discern what had caused the dread in the people he’d passed on his way over. Whilst the barrier could have meant many things, none of them meant anything good.

An officer from the middle of the scene seemed to notice the stranger’s presence and jogged over to the border, the last physical divide between the normal world and the one that cast a shadow of fear over Arkham.

“Um, sir, you can’t come down this way. Active investigation. If you need directions, I, uh, can try to help? I mean, I did grow up around here...” He didn’t even look like he had finished growing up yet - face bereft of the expected facial hair, skin free of the bags and wrinkles that invariably attended those who had spent their lives chasing criminals only to be sent to war, voice lacking that deep boom of authority. Practically a child compared to Frederick.

“Don’t worry, son, I’ve been behind enough of these barriers to know the drill.” Frederick sighed; this was beyond inconvenient, but he supposed it would just be best to rearrange his plans and go set up and unpack at the house instead of pushing the man who’d come over to warn him off. Poor fellow looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over, so clearly he was looking at some kind of worst case scenario behind there. “That said, I did have an appointment here- are you allowed to talk about what happened?”

“I - oh!” The uniformed officer shivered, and not from the chill rising off the icy snow. “I’m sorry, sir, I - I don’t think I’ve seen you at the station yet. Peter Bailey. Guess you were on vacation?” Clearly, the young man had misunderstood to some degree. “Well, just - a witness described it as a suicide but, well, our boss thinks there are some rather unusual circumstances behind it. Right now, until he says otherwise, we have to treat it like a homicide. You know?” He glanced back at the scene. “The, uh, body got removed yesterday, but we keep finding pieces.”

Frederick blinked, staring at Bailey as he revealed the reason for the barrier. A suicide? Unusual circumstances? “... Vacation sounds about right, Station back home arranged an appointment with Miskatonic about a security position that was open. Is there anything more you can say about the suicide, or is it need-to-know? ”

“...oh. Oh no.” Bailey blanched. “I - oh, jeez, I thought you were a senior officer!” He sounded just a tiny bit panicked.

“Relax, son, relax!” Frederick tried to keep his voice down, for both his sake and Bailey’s; there didn’t seem to be anyone about besides the two of them, but that could soon change if either of them made too much noise. “I can keep a secret, no problem. Doubt it would have been too long before I found out about what happened, anyway.”

Bailey stared at Frederick as he spoke, but his breathing did seem to slow a bit and finally returned to a more proper rhythm. “Well... maybe not the part about the homicide. That’s not in papers yet.” He flinched a bit. “I guess at least I didn’t give the witness’s name...” Though still not entirely reassured of his competency, he cleared his throat. “Well, rest is in the papers. Yesterday morning, a teacher on campus, Dr. Atkins, was seen jumping from that building-” He pointed up at the building behind him, in front of and to the right of Frederick. The building was easily the highest point on the campus. “He, uh, obviously didn’t survive the impact. His lectures are all being delivered by a temporary substitute until they can get a new professor in, I think. Right now, the official story is that officers are still cleaning up the scene, and-” Bailey grimaced. “-we kind of are.”

Frederick managed to withhold a wince as he looked at the sheer drop that Bailey pointed out. No wonder the barrier was up; the thought of the state the poor bastard’s body must have been in was getting him green around the gills, God only knew what the actual sight might have done to him.
“In which case, I think that might be my cue to mind my own business.” With that, Frederick quickly checked his watch; it was starting to come up on midday, which meant he’d have to move if he wanted the best chance of getting to the house on time. “Thanks for telling me what you could- in any case, it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to take my appointment today after all, if everything’s all shaken up after this. I’d probably be best going and finding where I’m staying, but do you happen to know where I could find anyone to arrange a formal appointment with?”

“Erm, yes. South a block, head down that road to the large brick building with the hydrangea shrubs lining the front. They’re a little, uh, leafless right now, but they’ll look much better once the cold clears out.” Bailey pointed down the street as he gave his directions to indicate ‘south’. “If you’re a counter, fourth building down. That’s the main administrative building - you should be able to talk to one of the secretaries for help. They’re all very pretty, so at least that’s good.”

“Alright, thanks again, and Godspeed.” And with that, Frederick turned in the direction that Bailey indicated, bidding him farewell with a friendly wave and a smile.

He wouldn’t say he’d been lying through his teeth when he said he’d mind his own business, but nonetheless, he had absolutely no intention of letting the suicide stay an unpleasant cliff note to his stay in Arkham. Bailey had mentioned something about ‘unusual circumstances’, and for the first time that day, his imagination was flared up.

Perhaps those chills hadn’t just been the winter morning nipping at his heels, but rather his instincts raising their heads in response to a nightmare to come.

”Doctor Wertheimer? Are you alright? I thought you went home an hour ago.”

Werhtheimer? His name on his robes on me. I see. ”Yes, sister...Wiseman Wiseman. I am just fine. Just irregular hours. I really needed to refresh myself. Had a coffee on an empty stomach. I'll be fine.” He smiled through the bloody mask, but his eyes did not give it away. He nodded to her and she went down the hall from which he came, just a thud of footsteps and a smiling face.

”Was the procedure successful after all? The patient is well, I hope?”

”I... I am afraid I do not know. We can always pray for the best and let god do his work.”

”Someone's leaving atheism behind, I see. It must be the coffee.” She winked and entered the toilets.

Thank you! he thought as the toilet doors flew back but not knowing whom he was thanking. He peered from the corner but caught only far down the hall the disappearing frame of the professor who'd stayed behind far too long... The key is here in Wertheimer's pocket and another behind the door. A bigger one. The key is the key to the key. If I open it now and am forever caught in what lies beyond? Am I Pandora or is she in the box I am about to unlock? What difference does it make, then? If I descend now into Hades and eat of its fruit I'll never ascend back for good, but be always drawn back to the dark that I'll be bound to. But now the watch hound is gone.

He slowly went towards the room 125 as if against the current of a strong wind, but one thought in his mind: Faye Desdemona. With dignity. No submission. I hold her metal soul in my hand. I ask the questions. He stood in front of her door and spoke in almost a whisper, but clearly.

”Finally, we are alone, you and I. I know your name. The name alone wouldn't make you write that note. Anyway, It is misery, the name, is it not, Faye?”

From behind the door came a flat but endearing answer that sent the hair on his nape erect.

”Your Greek serves you well, Emil. The companions assemble, I see. I've been waiting for long.”

”I'm no Moor, Desdemona.”

”An outsider nonetheless. I am one, too.”

”An insider, rather, it seems to me.”

”Not for long, I hear from your professor. What have you got in the pocket, Emil?”

”Your freedom. And mine. From all this. You heard well.”

”Ja, Freiheit. . . Aber, es gibt keine wirkliche Freiheit mehr.”

”Es gibt keine Zeit für Philosophie auch. Ich habe Fragen. Viele Fragen.”

”Komm, dann, und frag mich, Emil.”

He'd never heard anyone utter his name in such manner but he could not pinpoint the quality that separated it from even the most extraordinary voices. Alien it was, but still cordial, and plucked just the right string in him. He held the key at the edge of the lock and tried to think, but his rational mind was empty as on the day he was born, and only atavism of the flesh remained to govern him, that throwback of the body to its primal qualities, and soullessness of the primitive ancestry. Yet he felt at home, an animal let free for a moment from its sapient cage. When his humanity came back, he had no time for thought. With determination he turned the key thrice in the lock and entered.

No one was coming forth to greet him, a fact Professor Dupree found both a source of relief and of anxiety. So Dr. Atkins hadn’t come back wondering where the other professor had gone. His presence had either been yet to be missed, or it had been decided to find him later, once the tour ended.

Of course, this brought up a different question: who was coming then? It was possible it was a nurse delivering medication to another patient. Coincidences did exist, after all. Some coincidences, however, were too perfectly timed to be considered coincidences. Too contrived by the universe to be anything but part of the greater pattern. This felt like one of those. Finding the infamous Faye Desdemona, only to be frightened away by an approaching asylum worker? If he was caught, he’d likely be banned from the building and unable to fulfill his promise of returning. Surely, this wasn’t a coincidence. He slowed and and glanced over his shoulder, distant mumbled words echoing. The dim lights made it hard to see who it was, at the corner of the hall. Perhaps two of them? One walked away, one walked up the hallways. Professor Dupree considered going on, hoping he wouldn’t catch the person’s attention.

Yet, as the man passed under a light, deliberately and slowly walking up the hall, Dupree blinked. Now, there was some distance between them. He didn’t know the staff of the sanitarium particularly well, having always been an outside observer. He could simply be imagining it, as Emil had gone off a while ago, and surely it wouldn’t take so long to find a nurse to return to the group. He could even be back already, the nurse knowing the building’s layout better than any of the teachers or students.

Because the alternative was that Emil was the one walking down the hallway, wearing a doctor’s coat.

Jeremiah watched, a little dumbfounded and not unimpressed as the doctor walked to Room 125 - Faye Desdemona’s room, it was no coincidence - and spoke, too quietly for Jeremiah to hear as far as he was from the door. He watched regardless. Despite the inability to hear, the long pause in front of the door told him enough: an exchange was occurring. This was no mere notice of an entrance, this ‘doctor’ was speaking to Faye Desdemona, not as a deliverer of medicine, but as another - another curious scientist? Just like him. It had to be Emil. Emil had deceived him, given him the slip to visit her. He may not have gone to the bathroom at all, instead sneaking off to find a suitable disguise. A key too, it seemed, as Emil reached into his pocket and slipped something into the lock. The door swung open and Emil stepped inside. Faye Desdemona had said she wanted to meet with him as well.

Coincidences existed, but they were exceedingly rare.

As Emil went inside, Jeremiah slowly walked down the hall, careful in his steps - heel-toe, heel-toe, not too fast, leave no sound. Emil would be allowed his time. Jeremiah had been allowed it, after all. It was a clever idea, he’d say that much.

But later, he was going to give this sneaky little brat a thorough scolding.

The cup of black coffee that Jeremy now held in his hand felt warm compared to his freezing hand, his hands shoveling through the snow still cold from the endevour. To many others this cup would have been nothing more than a normal cup, but it was luxury for the Irishman wearing his worn-out trench coat, and he cherished everything about it. Or he would have, hadn't it been for the nagging feeling that kept his shoulder up high, the feeling that someone was watching him, somewhere just around the corner or behind a curtain. For being in a place he usually thought of as "safe", he felt that he shouldn't be there.

Jeremy gulped down some coffee when August pulled him back into the real world, assuring him that even the slighest detail might be of use. Another gulp of coffee poured down his throat, the damping liquid of caffine warming up his shivering body - at least he felt as if he was shivering, or was that simply his hand?

"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?”

The questions raced through his mind, opening boxes of packed away knowledge from the time Killigan was still a living man - a friend. "Ehm...let me think, August...Now that I'm thinking about it, he said he had seen something strange happen down in Boston, but that had happened a while before...well, The night..." Jeremy took another gulp of his coffee, for some reason taking a look over his shoulder as if expecting to see Killigan standing there, judging him. But he only saw the waitress serve another figure, a tall and thin man dressed in black, holding a book; writing.

"He had helped a friend with some cargo, said he needed all the help they could get on this job. If I'm not mistaken, the cargo came from Africa...I think, Congo maybe? He said the captain spoke French, but the sailors sounded Dutch-like, atleast the white ones. Anyway, one of the sailors dropped a crate by accident, and for some reason he began screaming in utter fear. Nobody knew why, but Killigan said he wouldn't shut up until the box was locked again and placed out of sight, somewhere on a truck. The sailors was taken back on the boat, but nothing more like that happened after that. He thought the cargo was going to the museum, but that's all he knew. It was just very odd that he mentioned it that day, and not the day after it happened, I thought. But any unanswered questions? Eh...no, not really. He had no reason to...die the way he did, especially not when his wife needed the money to actually get to America. Stuck in Ireland, like my fiancé too, you see."

Jeremy let out a quiet sigh, taking another gulp of his coffee after finishing what he felt was a long and useless talk. What had some bloody cargo from Congo to do with Killiang crushing himself to death? It didn't make any sense!

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

"What...who...how do you know?" was Jeremy's first reaction to August's question, a look of sheer terror striking his face. The name, Faye Desdemona, it too brought him back to the dream that night; the woman, clad in white and speaking - without moving her lips -, telling them to find her. August. He had seen August there, beside the lady, the one that name felt attached to.

"I mean...no, he didn't have any contact with her...but I do. Well, I think I do, the name does ring a bell. I think I remember it from back in Ireland, somehow, but I can't attach it. Why, is she another suicide victim?"

–

Congo-A word August had now heard twice since his arrival to the City of Arkham. Could this little miniscule detail really be such a big part of the puzzle? he found himself pondering as he tried to recall just what he knew about the "Congo” but like most he could only conjure up stereotypical jungle images accompanied by noises he'd only ever heard in the theaters. Perhaps he needed to pay Professor Atkins office another visit and give the place a more thorough examination? Or perhaps this has absolutely nothing to do with my case.

Rather certain Jeremy would be another deadend lead wise August had been mulling over the possibility that perhaps the late Professor Atkins had been somehow connected with the aforementioned crate delivered to the also now deceased Killigan when the recently mentioned Jeremy dropped a completely figurative bombshell. It wasn't necessarily what Jeremy had said in regard to the off hand question about Faye Desdemona that caught Augusts attention so much as it was the familiar look of shock and realization that seemed to cover Jeremy's face momentarily. The stuttering and fumbling over his own words after the fact also didn't help the still rather worried looking Jeremy's case.

It was in that instance August came to completely believe that this man knew something-something August himself was now completely determined to discover by almost any means necessary.

Quickly trying to wipe his own wide eyed expression of shock off his face August rushed to bite his tongue-although he was dying to demand answers he was also well aware to just how important his next few words would be. With a sentence or two Jeremy could either become a very good source of information or completely clam up and become the definition of uncooperative.

Having decided upon what he truly believed to be the most calming voice and least alarming response August opened his mouth to speak only to yet again be extremely surprised as he was cut off before even ushering a word. Where August's voice should have been was instead the hollering shout of Arkhams finest police officer: Barry Lexington.

-

Barry had barely gotten any sleep that night. In his private office back home in his apartment, sitting at his desk facing the large window overlooking the street below, he went over his notes again and again under the light of his desk-lamp. He had not noticed the hours flying by, like the raven passing his office window at an alarming speed, nor the cup of coffee that stood on the side of the desk. From the time he placed it there and until he reached to take the first gulp, it was ice cold, just like the gruesome scene he found at the university the day before. He spat it out, swearing and cursing the terrible taste of cold caffine, before returning to his work for a few more hours. But by this point he was only running in circles, treading through the same track of clues and looking for what was staring him in the face. He could not find it, but what he had found, he wanted to investigate in the morning. So with a raven watching him from a lamp post down the street, he turned off the light and closed the door, heading off to have some well-needed sleep.

"August Dupin, what a coincedence!"

It was by pure chance that on a second day in a row, Barry would stumble upon August, as if Fate demanded their paths cross. Barry was there to get himself a much needed cup of coffee - he now didn't trust himself after last night's incident - when he recognized the broad-shouldered man of a massive size sitting in a all-too small chair. Across from him sat another man, also wearing a trench-coat but of less quality. His gut told Barry he might be a worker, a mechanic or a dock-worker, he could see his rough hands and lines under his eyes. But why was August talking with him? Was it part of his search for...who was it again? Barry had forgot. But surprised - and delighted - to see his pal again, he walked up to the pair sitting at the table, planting his palms on the table.

"I was hoping to find you, but I'll be a skinned Kraut if I believed you'd be the first person I'd meet today! And who are you?"

Jeremy - and in truth August as well - looked up at the detective with surprised, if not worried eyes, the tired-looking man wearing a trench coat, not certain whether to glad to see him or not. Jeremy, though uncertain of this man's looks and the police badge at his chest, reached out a hand towards him.

"Velera, Jeremy A. Velera. I'm terribly sorry sir, but I should be going. It was...a pleasure to meet you again, August, hopefully we'll meet each other again."

As Jermey quickly grabbed his own trench coat and walked - or rather, jogged slowly - out the door, he hoped for quite the opposite. Not because he didn't want to know more about Killigan's death, but because he was afraid of meeting that detective again, especially if he and August were associates. He was a wanted man after all.

Both August and Barry looked confused at each other for a moment, before Barry put on his friendly face for his war-time buddy. "Irish I see. Didn't know you spent your time with those potato munchers, August? Nevermind that, I need to speak with you down at the station. I think I found something that might help our little...spontaneous mystery from yesterday."

__________



The voice, the female voice that had just been so southing was now gone from Jeremy's mind. His footsteps were heavy, crunching in the compact snow as he went from jogging to running and from running to sprinting down the street as fast as he could. Why had he suddenly met this man, this random man who he felt he had met before, spoken with and found out he was investigating Killigan? And why in God's name could he still not remember what had happened yesterday?

All these thoughts, feelings, bits and pieces of his mental illness that dwelled down deep inside him, made their worst to tear his mind apart as he suddenly found himself fighting for his breath, standing outside of Miskatonic University. And there stood two men, talking to each other. One of them being a policeman, the other...someone else, someone who looked as if he didn't fit in. They looked serious, as if something bad had happened. Had it? If so, when? Yesterday when Jeremy had lost all track of his memory? Why the fuck was this happening to him?

He had to know, he had to find out what was going on in this city that was driving him mad. And he found strenght to go and ask the man walking towards him, having just finished his conversation with the policeman.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I couldn't help but see that the University is guarded by the police. What is going on?"

________

Barry Lexington

"What in the actuall fucking name of God do you mean by; I am offically taken off the case?"

The very first thing Barry - and August - noticed once they set foot inside the Arkham Police Department, was the tall, slender looking figure standing at the reception, his back perfectly straight, as if he was a statue. But when he had turned around and looked Barry in the eyes, he knew at an instant that something was wrong.

It had only gotten worse once the man, adressing himself simply as Mr. Lichfield, told Barry that they needed to talk in his office; alone. So August was left standing in the reception, twindling his thumbs as the two men, equally frightening in their own ways, went to Barry's office.

"Who do you think you are? You can't just waltz into this station, MY station, claim that you're from somebody higher up in the system, and tell me that you're taking the Atkins Case out of my fucking hands!"

Barry's face was red, red as the bloody corpses of the Krauts he had cut down years ago. And right now the only difference between those Krauts and this Mr. Lichfield was that the Krauts was just the enemy;

Mr. Lichfield had made this personal. And Detective Barry Lexinton did not like it when people made it all personal.

Lexington was, understandably, furious. The grizzled veteran of both the municipal police force and armed forces had gone red in the face with seething rage. Argus, on the other hand, remained almost impossibly calm as he was assaulted with all manner of obscenities. Even after all these years, the stark contrast between the attitude of a Grunt and an Officer was unmistakable.

'Inspector Lexington.' The words came slowly and with poignant force behind them. Once upon a time, the tone would have been followed by countless whips to a recruits face with the butt of an Officer's pistol; a ceaseless onslaught of agonising strikes that would put a disrespectful Private back in his place. But there would be no bloodshed, not today. He still needed Lexington, as much as he loathed the idea of working with this sad sack of shit. 'First and foremost, you will refer to me as my correct title of 'Agent', as I'm sure my papers will verify if you find my story to be unsatisfactory. Second of all...'

He began pacing the office, taking in the accolades Lexington had acquired over the years. '... Second of all, by no means are you 'off' the case. But regrettably-' (And here he paused a moment and smiled condescendingly at the Inspector for effect) '- any future work on the case must be cleared by and referred back to myself. The Atkins case is hereby formally under federal jurisdiction. Of course, if you have any issues with this, I can always phone the commissioner and explain how you defied a direct order from a Federal Agent. Or perhaps I can ring the Bureau and explain to them that your refusal to cede the case is indirectly assisting our enemies?' A photo on the desk caught his eye; it was one of a much younger, much less angry Lexington standing proudly amongst his platoon before being shipped off to the Front.

He picked it up and looked at the smiling private, who stared unflinchingly back. He glanced at the man before him - these were not the same two men. The real Barry Lexington, it seemed, had died on the frontlines, and the soldier who came home was merely his shadow. It was funny how easily the flame of youthful innocence could be extinguished. He placed it back down.

'Now Inspector...' Argus produced a journal and pencil from his coat. The Inspector was speechless - while Argus had won the battle, but he had the feeling that his own personal war had just begun. For now though, he was safe to enjoy the sadistic pleasure that came from turning Lexington's tiny little world on its head. 'I'm going to need you to grant me access to the current case files, and a full list of known witnesses to Atkins' untimely death. Oh, and do think hard, because I'll find out if you're lying...

@gohKamikaze

Barry Lexington

"Oh...o...

The gut-ridden city-dwelling son of a bitch had the audacity to not only speak back to Barry, but in such a condescendig way that it felt as if this so called Agent Lichfield was superior to Inspector Barry Lexington; the cop who had gone off to fight for his country, kill more Krauts than he could remember and save his brothers in arms, come back and solve a dozen of unsolveable cases; Inspector Barry Lexington, the man who was at the brink of a case that felt bigger than himself, only to have this bastard of a Pinkerton Agent swoop in and take the glory. Barry could, and was threading close to beat the living shit out of him.

But then Agent Lichfield said those words, ...Any future work on the case must be cleared by and referred back to myself..., and Barry knew that he found the loophole he was praying for.

His furious face, ready to blow off any second now, turned on an instant to one of a happy man; very unusual for Barry, unless you were on The List.

...Of course, Agent Lichfield. I wouldn't dream of doing anything else; I was taken by surprise, that's all; us small-town deputies prefers to know what's going on, if you catch me drift." Barry said to the tall man, starting to walk to his desk; the picture that Argus had just looked at, he put down with its face to the desk, before he casually opened the drawers as if he was looking for something.

"Ah yes...about that, Agent Lichfield. It would seem that I locked my case files with the others down in the basement; we've had a few attempted 'break and entry's the past months, so we started to keep them safe down there during the night. Officer Hammilton got the keys, and he won't be here until after lunch, and I can't open it without my own key...which I of course forgot in the car."

Barry closed the drawers of the desk and walked up to Argus, smiling at him with a smile that many men had seen. "I'll go get it, wouldn't want the 'Bureau' to miss such an oppertunity for fame, now would we? Just make yourself at home here, and I'll be right back, Agent Lichfield."

That smile was not one of friendship, nor cooperation or anything of that like. Those men who'd seen it, were mostly Krauts, about to meet Blotige Barry and his trench-knife. Barry imagined himself, stabbing that knife through Argus's neck, many times. It made him smile.

Barry had no time to lose, however, and walked rather rapidly out of his office and to where August was still standing. "August, I don't have time to explain; Go to my apartment, find all the files and papers to the Atkins-case and hide them. I don't know where or how, and I really shouldn't know either. And take this file too, this was what I wanted to show you. Go, and don't contact me whatsoever; I'll find you. Now go, or else that Bureau Shithead is going to ruin everything."

August was out of the station within seconds, and just in the nick of time as well, for just when August exited the front door, Argus came out from Barry's office. "Did you get bored of my office that quickly? Geeze, good luck lasting that long in Arkham."

Desdemona's presence was heavy that the entire room seemed to be collapsing into the black of her eyes. There she sat at the end of the narrow room, a waxen woman, peaceful, almost meditative. Emil looked for movement, a twitch of limb or lip, but found none. He wasn't sure what went on in his mind: disappointment, relief? He took of his mask and dropped it on the floor. Just a woman. A she, as the doctor said: that precisely. What else did you expect? A demon or a shade?

He came a couple of slow steps closer, now standing near enough for her to have to raise her eyes up to look at his. As she did that, he saw the earth spin and all the heroic schemes of constellations burn in her dark iris. Is all present in this visage? Behind the cell door he felt exclusion from the order of the universe, a safe garden in the middle of a quest where an ancient seress lives with advice and counsel waiting for a passers-by. No man is an island. But she is. A piece of no continent. Or world for that matter. And now I am marooned, rendered mute to speak by those Stygian orbs that are her eyes, not to disturb the silence that lingers on her endless horizon.

He then realised that she knew all that hid under his pointless attempt to seem collected and playful like a charmer: all his awe at the vastness of her knowledge; wonder at its unworldly nature; curiosity to learn whence it came and where it goes; fear before and respect for her who was by far above his mind; desire to unravel her mystery and before all else learn from her things so alien to the human mind that he couldn't even imagine them. She knew and that's what made him disregard his own personal, selfish will as unimportant and ask things most relevant to the inexplicable tidings of the town and his understanding of the same.

"Forgive me, for my wits have abandoned me within these walls. I am afraid I cannot continue our wordplay."

"Understandable, my dear Teutonic Knight. You have already come a long way to ask your questions, so I shall not ask for anything less, not anything more. Choose your questions carefully, you may not wish to know the answers you seek."

Exactly. Curiosity killed the cat. But you are a mouse, Emil. Remember?

"First, I want to know how -- In case my time here is hindered, or my questions too inquisitive for our parley to continue, in which case I want to waste them wisely. How? How do you weave so intricately the details of this our mortal life from here?"

"And here you made me believe your fountain of the writer's mind were dried up. But my mind, my view of the world is no longer what it used to be, before IT happened. I was normal, like yourself, though with less to hide. Then something took hold of me; not my mind, but my body, for my mind travelled eons away from our existence. When I came back to my bodidly form again, I could see it all; how to change it, if only in the slighest of details. Small visions, dreams, thoughts...my initials on a dumbster lid. It's only in the details, but it was all that I needed to bring you here."

I haven't made you believe a thing, have I? Do you even believe anymore? Or just know? A bead of sweat ran down Emil's forehead, the only thing millennia of evolution had as a purely bodily reaction to a presence so unnatural. He wiped it off with his hand mechanically. Maybe his body reacted, but his brain did not, for he found his mind in check again, and also failed to be surprised by it, too. Where had wonder and the human reflex of horror gone from him? The spectrum of expected reactions of a sapient man to such a tale was replaced by some thought machinery which allowed only cold calmness devoid of even the slightest discomposure.

"And Atkins? Suicide seems the least probable cause now after all this. Was he just a detail, too?"
"Oh no, it was he himself who threw him body off the monument. But himself was no longer who Atkins used to be; it was the shell of a man, a man who knew the truth and what it meant to all of us, to him. He couldn't bear to live with the secret, a secret that may and will end us all. But he left clues, clues to the puzzle that you and your friends have to solve."

Left clues, of course. Instead of spilling the beans at once. Was it so horrible he chose death over it? Perhaps to avoid being locked up here himself forever, he left clues and jumped to relieve himself. Had he been locked, the torment of the mind would have been unbearable.
"How does all of this link to me? How do you know me? What piece am I the puzzle?"

"Fate has own strange ways; I did not expect you at first, but the moment you lay eyes on Atkins and your curiousity was lit, I knew there was no turning back for Emil Günther. You too can see things that others cannot, though you yourself or those around you frown upon your visions. When the time is right, you will see your piece. All of you will find where your pieces fit. For there is a great Evil dwelling beneath this land, this land that has forgotten to fear the unfathomable. The Old One is rising, but IT can be stopped, but only if carefully planned and understood without the sciences of this age and time."

One falls, one rises.
"What if I fail to do so? What if someone or something stops me? Ill chance, perhaps."

"That...that is the vision I refuse to see. All I can say is that if failure does occur, your world would fall into an age of madness and chaos where humanity not only rapes itself into oblivion, but the Elder Gods would return to lay waste on the Earth. Do not let that happen. And please do let Professor Dupree enter our sircle, I have waited for him too."

The light flickered and the door behind him opened an inch. But how, with the key still in my pocket? Could she have escaped the whole time, if she wanted? He turned and opened the large door of the cell, now weightless, like a stage prop.

"Professor Dupree..." he said, looking at the man behind whom only darkness spread endless and manifold.

The door had opened. Jeremiah had not touched it, and at first he suspected Emil was leaving. Then he heard footsteps - someone actually approaching the door. A thread out of line with the pattern, not where it was supposed to be to have its best effect. Was now the time? The time to meet Faye Desdemona in person, just himself and Emil? And, incidentally, the time to remind Emil of the consequences he was facing?

The door opened. It was Emil who faced him and, just behind him, a haggard exhausted-looking woman who bore the faintest resemblance to the photographic plate he had seen. It was a surprise but, for now, not one he'd dare react to. She did not need that.

"Professor Dupree..."

Oh the ways to respond. He was silent for a moment, the urge to remind Emil of the consequences should a true doctor come by rattling in his skull. Of course he was annoyed at the deception, to say the least. But those consequences were far more dire, particularly if they ever intended to speak with Faye Desdemona ever again.

"These... circumstances can be addressed later," he finally said. "They waste time we do not have - our presence will surely be missed soon." He stepped into the room, past Emil. "Though I don't suppose we had a 'Jeremy' in our group, did we?" She had requested his presence as well. She had, through means unknown to him, managed to call Emil to her, even risking imprisonment to speak with her. He turned to her, sitting on the bed still. "Hello. It is much better to be on this side of the door to speak with you, if I may so myself." He was not going to feign ignorance or surprise at the implied invitation to speak with a supposed madwoman. He did not like thinking their time was short but, well, it likely was. If no one missed the coat Emil now wore, surely Dr. Atkins would miss the two of them. Professor Dupree did consider himself something of a friend to the fellow teacher, and he had seemed interested in Emil. Their presence would not go missed, no matter the importance of the situation. Worse yet, attempting to explain would result in the two becoming cell mates of the one they now stood face to face with. "I assume you have told Emil what he-" Jeremiah trailed off briefly, considering his options. "-what he may be allowed to know?"

That was well-established. Faye Desdemona knew things, and what she knew did not necessarily need to be known by others, but by happenstance and the threads of the universe it might be learned regardless. But not by her.

Frederick barely had the chance to make his mind up on how to approach the issue of investigating the suicide when, for the second time that day, he found himself being approached by a stranger.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I couldn't help but see that the University is guarded by the police. What is going on?"

Under lighter circumstances, the irony would have made Frederick keel over with laughter. Hardly even a moment after he was let in on the knowledge of what had happened at the university, and now he was the one who’d be filling a local in!

If only the irony wasn’t predicated on the fact that a human being had been irreparably broken and mangled a short distance away. That and the feeling of grief and devastation that Frederick could now perceive as the quiet dread in the air rather sucked any potential humour out of the situation.

“It’s quite alright- Officer Bailey over there was just letting me know about the suicide that happened here the other day? This part of the campus is off-limits until cleanup’s finished, apparently.” Frederick shuddered slightly as he finished his sentence. As much as he’d seen back home over the years, referring to the remains of what had been a living, breathing human as a mess to be cleaned up sent a shiver down his spine.

“If I’m correctly informed, it was a professor who jumped from the highest point on campus.” Nonetheless, he regained his composure to finish his exposition to the stranger with a gesture to the building a short distance from the two of them. There was no need to mention anything else that Bailey had told him; he remembered the young man’s reaction upon realizing he’d said too much, and so decided to withhold the supposed ‘unusual circumstances’ that were leading the police to treat the case as a possible homicide.

“I just came here to see about an appointment I had, that’s really all I know at the moment,” He added, with a shrug. Still marginally amusing to think he was more in the loop than some locals a whole day after the incident.

”I have heard strange things within this room indeed, professor Dupree,” Emil said. ”Although I am not sure whether they can be...known.”

He closed the door the good old way -- manually. It clanked and he leaned against the white wall, where all three could see each other well. It crossed his mind that the company probably was the biggest Faye had seen in a long time, sans the company hospital personnel could provide, of course. If it could be called company. Three of them in a such of small place, and no syringes, no pills shoved down her throat by doctors and nurses ignorant of the actuality of her condition. Perhaps it was for the best, them not knowing that what the inner eye behind the visage of their patient saw was not merely a hallucination or some simple theater of lunacy, but rather an odious perversion of the underlying fabric of the universe in hands of alien, unfathomable forces. His arms crossed on his chest, he added: ”At least by me, that is.”

- Come on, Emil!
- Aim for the head!
- Oh, where is Thomas?
- Hey, stop it! It's not fair, I don't have my gloves on! It's cold!
- Get him, Emil! Get him!
- But where is Thomas?
- Probably peeing again.
- Sofia is worried about her boyfriend!
- Shut up!
- Sofia and Thomas, sitting in a tree!
- Stop it!
- Ouch! There's ice in there! You're the worst sometimes.
- Says you!
- It's gonna leave a bruise and I have church tomorrow!
- Thooooomas! Thooooooooomas!
- Let him be, he'll be back.
- He's been there for an hour. What's taking him so long?
- Probably writing his name in the snow again.
- There he is! Come on, throw all the big ones!
- Guys! Guys! Stop it!
- He's shaking...
- He's all wet.
- What happened to you?
- Thomas? Thomas!
- He's down, someone call his parents!
- W-why is he shaking? Close his eyes! Look at them!
- Hey, wake up! Wake up!

Sunday lunch, in silence. All the kids in their rooms. Epilepsy, father says to mom. Erika kicking my leg under the table, me poking at the meat on the plate. But he keeps rambling in coma, horrible images and strange words no one understands, mom says to father. Children and their imagination, he says and swallows a mouthful. The pond in the woods is gone, how? mom asks. Eat... father says with a pause and angry eyes. Don't you dare, don't you dare, play there again! mother says and points her finger at me. I nod.

Not epilepsy.

Emil cleared his throat, said: ”So... What is to be done? I am not much of a leader myself.”