Ferd rubbed at his face, praying that he might be able to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He groaned angrily. It wasn't like he'd had a bad nights sleep, but for some reason he just couldn't shake the heaviness in his face. He sighed, sliding his hands into his trench coat pockets in defeat. A steam whistle went off in the distance pulling Ferd back to reality. He looked about himself, gathering his bearings. The train station he was in was as crowded as the came, plenty of passengers and railroad workers bustling about. It was in good repair to, as far as that went. Ferd didn't really pay any mind to all of that though. He'd just remembered why he was in the train station. Old Jeremy.
He felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. If that old fool had actually found that city he'd been looking for, then Ferd wasn't exactly surprised he hadn't returned home yet. Not that he knew very much about it admittedly, but when Jeremy had shown him the map, he had recognized certain symbols that had given him pause. Every single case he could think of that had involved those symbols some how had ended badly. He'd lost partners, people disappeared and never came back, shoot there was one case from two years back that resulted in three months of lost time that he couldn't account for. He wasn't sure whether he should be grateful for that or not.
Ferd grit his teeth. Just thinking about old cases sometimes set him on edge. He had yet to crack one of them, and the fact that he didn't have any solid evidence to back up some of the things he'd seen didn't help any. There were moments that he wasn't entirely sure that he himself hadn't gone loopy and all the things he thought he'd seen were just in his head. Those thoughts were probably the hardest to ignore. The only thing that kept him from giving in was the thought of all the people who had disappeared over the years that he had tried to save. If there was even a slight chance that those people had ever been real, and some terrible things had really happened to them then he had to keep investigating. This thought alone kept the despair of impending madness from taking root in Ferd's mind. He couldn't let those people down. Plus there was just to much evidence.
Though it wasn't always the sort of evidence that would have stood up in court, Ferd couldn't take anything for granted. Any slight connection could be a valuable clue. Sometimes he felt like a witch hunter from the Salem Witch Trials what with the way he interrogated people based off of what most would call coincidence. But then Ferd wasn't so sure the witch hunters had been all that far off anymore. If anything he thought they just hadn't used the right tests, that they'd looked for the wrong clues. If he'd been a betting man, and were there a poll open on the subject, he would have bet a million to one that the witches rigged the whole thing. Probably wanted the witch hunters to tie iron balls to their legs and throw them in lakes. After all what was a little iron and water to witchcraft? No in Ferd's opinion the witch's faked their own deaths and then continued doing whatever witches do without any interference.
Ferd shook himself. Enough day dreaming, he needed to make sure he didn't miss his train. He may not have had any hope that Jeremy was still alive, but if he could figure out how he'd march into Hell itself to find out what happened. And hopefully bring back a souvenir as proof.

**********

The train rolled to a slow stop in Arkham station. Ferd arched his back in a much needed stretch before standing up. He looked out the windows at the wet metropolis. Harry hadn't been kidding. It really did look like it hadn't stopped raining in nearly two years. He grabbed what luggage he had and made his way to the exit, waiting till he was the last one to exit. Ferd didn't like bumping into people if he could avoid it. To many stories out there about people taking ill shortly after bumping into some unnatural being all dressed up as a regular human.
Once off the train he looked about the station for an information kiosk. He needed to get his hands on a map, 1111 S Curlew Dr. wasn't going to find itself. As he looked around he noticed there didn't seem to be all that many people at the station. That seemed rather odd. He thought he remembered there being a decent number of passengers on the train here. Perhaps they'd all scurried off to their destinations already? Still that didn't seem right. What with the rain most visitors would be at least a little hesitant to head outside, not without procuring an umbrella first anyway. Ferd appraised the kiosk he was approaching, and sure enough they carried maps and umbrellas. They didn't seem to have sold very many of either. That led him to the other half of his thought, the only people who would be able to vacate this premises so quickly were likely to be locals returning from some trip. While it wasn't strictly speaking strange for locals to return to a city, it did seem strange that they made up the majority of the passengers. No that wasn't likely to be it. Well subtract being an actual local from the equation and leave the prior knowledge of current events in Arkham and you got an altogether new range of possibilities.
"Excuse me sir," Ferd smiled at the kiosk owner, "I was hoping to buy a map, an umbrella, and possibly bend your ear with a few questions I have."
The man shrugged as if to say he didn't have anything better to do than talk to nosy tourists, "That'll be a Nickle and a Quarter for the map, and umbrella."
Ferd rummaged around his pocket for the coins as he began questioning the fellow, "Has Arkham been getting many..."

**********

Ferd stood outside of 1111 S Curlew Dr. after walking nearly the entire breadth of the city. He'd never been very good at reading maps. He looked up and down the street. The letter had made mention of a list of names it would be mailed to. Was he the first to arrive? With a shrug he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. It shook almost violently at his tapping. He stepped back in surprise. After looking the door over he finally remembered that Harry had said some "shadowy visitors" had broken in before assaulting him. The old hickory surely looked like it had been beaten down. The hinges were barely hanging onto the house framing, and there were splinters and cracks surrounding both the hinges and the locking mechanism.
Ferd scratched his chin. The letter had been dated nearly a week ago today. He had tried to make it to Arkham as quickly as he could, but he had wondered if he would make it in time. For all he knew Harry Everfield was lying dead in his bed, strangled and rotting. Or even worse he may have simply disappeared, by natural on unnatural means. Either option would significantly increase the mountain of work already in store for Ferd. He sighed. How long was he supposed to wait for Harry to come to the door before he assumed the worst? Should he call the police this time? They tended to get in the way, but he really didn't want to have to explain things if Harry's body was still around. He'd spent more than enough time locked up while the police took their time deciding he really hadn't killed anyone. He began tapping his foot again. It was getting cold, and he'd never loved the rain either. Harry had better still be alive, in this reality, and in that house.

Valentino Ricci

Valentino looked out the window as rain droplets trailed back, converging like a river. As the train began its deceleration some of the locals looked up due to the mild squeal of metal on metal. It was strange, their eyes seemed locked onto his car, throwing daggers at him. Something about this town really gave him the heebie jeebies, the overcast skies dampened the mood making everything around have a touch of malevolence. The train halts to a stop and the conductor hurries everyone off the train. Val gets shoulder checked by some miscreant, briefly he thinks to give that unkind gentleman the what for. Yet he just grits his teeth, "Probably best to not rock the boat" he thinks as he grabs his hat.

The wind chill hit Val like a brick, it's cold back in Chicago, but something about this place seems to have an extra nip in the air. He reaches into his overcoat and beside the Berreta was the folded up letter, "Alright 1111 South Curlew Drive, time to get ankling." Eyes continued to drill into the back of Val's head as he began walking looking for a street sign. At the next corner a scrawny kid, who couldn't be much older than ten, was yelling at the corner that he has newspaper for sale. Val approaches, his hat cocked sideways, "Hey kid how much for a newspaper?"

"That'll be two cents sir!" Despite the smile, his eyes seemed to tell a different story. They were big and surrounded by dark bags, yet something about them seemed off. Grabbing a dime from his pocket Val asks,

"Maybe you know where 1111 South Curlew drive is?" He flashes the Mercury headed coin and tosses it over before the newspaper boy hesitantly looks around.

" Go down three streets and take a right, you won't miss it." Val starts to walk forward when he felt a small, tight grip on his wrist. " Don't go looking for trouble around here." Something about the kid seemed serious, "Maybe I should stay on guard." Val pondered for a split second,

"I can take care of myself kid." The boy released his grip and began his newspaper spiel again. Val walks on, sliding his hand into his jacket for his pack of smokes and a match. With a fluid motion he lights his cigarette and drops the match, the smoke filling his lungs helped calm him. "What kind of place has some kid warning me?" he wonders to himself as he reaches the third street and takes the right. Around the corner a man is in front of the house, the door looking to be in poor shape. "This debt was already getting interesting." He thought as he approached the man, moving his gun to his outer pocket.

Ferd turned at the sound of footsteps to his right. A man with a lit smoke had just stepped round the corner, and was walking down the street towards him. He seemed to be eyeing Ferd as approached, and Ferd noted that though the man's hands remained inside his pockets, one of them seemed to shuffle around for moment. A weapon? Possibly. It wouldn't be that odd for a cautious man to carry protection in a busy city like Arkham. Though from the look of the man, Ferd doubted very much that if he was carrying a weapon that it was purely for self defense.

It was mainly the man's eyes that made Ferd feel this way. They were suspicious, full of grit, and haunted. Most would have disagreed with Ferd on the last point. What Ferd thought of as haunted, others might have seen as flinty, or hardened. And they wouldn't have been wrong, but to Ferd flinty eyes came from somewhere, you weren't born with them. In Ferd's experience those who had developed such gazes had done so out of nesecity. They lived hard lives that required hard spirits, making this a symptom of their circumstances, or the ghost of their actions, which was why Feed refered to them as haunted eyes. You could tell a lot about someone from their eyes. Ferd's almost always looked tired.

Well whoever this man was he sure seemed interested in Ferd. Ferd decided it would be best to stay on guard. Might be one of the others on the list mentioned in the letter, but there was no reason he couldn't be one of the shadowy visitors from the letter either. Ferd resisted the urge to sigh. Suddenly he wished he'd brought a weapon of his own to hide in his pocket. Oh well, hands could be lethal as well. He shrugged to himself and turned to fully face the fellow. No point in ignoring him, besides Ferd's mother had always said it was rude not greet people on the street. He chuckled to himself. Mama hadn't spent much time in downtown Boston.

"Hello," Feed nodded to the fellow, leaning against the houses walkway railing with his elbows. "You wouldn't happen to know where the house sitter for this place is would you? I'm not confident he's inside." He gestured to the door to house with a jerk of his head, "I received a letter asking me and I think a few others to meet him here." Spread his hands, palms up in front of him and went on, "He seemed a bit frantic in the letter. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned for his safety."

The man raced his open palms, the international sign of "I come in piece." A small kiosk map pokes of of the gentleman's jacket, signifying that he was a contemporary out-of-towner. Val can normally read a person like a book, tell you who would be most likely to not repay their debts, hell even if they were bluffing. Everything seemed to be on lock down, except for his eyes. They seemed to be tired of everything, perhaps this observation could be clouded by the slacked in the tie and the undone collar. Yet for some reason he did seem like the trustworthy sort, the kind that wouldn't be bad to have in the proverbial corner.
Val loosened his grip on his gun, "He got a letter too? How many people are coming around on this little egg hunt? He reaches into his interior pocket and reveals his copy of stationary,

"Looks like this makes two of us in on this caper.' He folds the stationary up nicely before gently setting it in his coat pocket as his new cohort in this situation lowers his hands. "I'm Val." Valentino extends his hand out for a handshake, " You know anything about this whole situation? This sort of thing seems right out of novel."

Feed: The harsh scent of tobacco set Ferd's nose hairs to bristling. Right. He hadn't had a smoke in nearly a month. He'd been avoiding it out of respect to a companion on his last case who had been attempting to quit.

Ferd shook the man's outstretched hand, noticing his choice of words, accent, and general posture. If he wasn't a criminal then he either lived amongst them, or was intentionally putting on the persona of one, though the latter didn't seem likely. He seemed to comfortable. Not that Ferd minded if he was a criminal. He'd worked with really baddies like serial killers, and in comparison mafia members and dime a dozen crooks were pleasant folk to be around. But all the same he did like having a feel for what sort of men he was associating with. Plus the man was making no great secret that he was also appraising Ferd. Ferd half wondered what the man would deduce about him.

Releasing the man's hand Ferd responded, "A little, I met Jeremy in person a few years back." Fees adjusted his coat a bit tighter around him to fend of the chill, thankful for the overhang of the porch fending of the rain, "He told me a bit about the whole thing back then, even showed me the map he mentions in the letter. Though he wouldn't show me the letter from his uncle then, said he'd misplaced it recently." Feed shrugged, " Supposedly his uncle was some sort of unsanctioned archaeologist, a tomb raider if you will." Ferd paused, the tabaco still tingling in his nose, "Could I trouble you for a smoke, and a light?"

********

The city of Arkham drones with the noise of the pattering rain, and the bustle of daily life, all muffled slightly by the perma fog that crawles through the streets. Locals have become accustomed enough to the fog that they can generally see just a touch farther in it that visitors.
One such local was leaning against a building at just that distance from 1111 South Curlew Dr. watching the front door very carefully. With a fat cigar clutched between his teeth he grinned toothily as a second figure joined the first on the porch of 1111 South Curlew. Good. This was good.

Val produced a cigarette handed it to Ferd, lighting the match for him as Ferd inhaled. Val watched as Ferd took a hit and inhaled with closed eyes, he definitely seemed to love that cigarette. Ferd had a strong grip which could mean a lot of things, all Val knows is that a good handshake is the sign of a man. Maybe a good one, maybe a bad one, but hell it showed Val that his new cohort in crime was dependable. There was just a general rigidness about that Val had only seen in the boys back home who made back from that supposed war to end all wars. Val also heard that distinct Bostonness dripping off Ferd's words, he had only been their once when he was kid, definitely a lot of micks there. Val took a drag, slowly releasing the smoke,

" Huh a tomb raider? Ain't that the cat's pajamas. Well maybe we can figure something out about this mess." Val removed a handkerchief from his pocket and reached for the door, he really didn't want to go down like that Jennings fellow. The door creaked open, the one screw holding the beat up door to the equally torn up trim. They both entered the into the living room observing it's current state, Valentino chuckled softly.

"At least the breaking part of this was covered for us. Christ above I hope this house sitter is alright."

Ferd was looking out into the grey clouds when Val opened up the home and walked inside, allowing him to only observe this from the corner of his eye. Well. Crap. So much for not upsetting the cops. Oh well. Ferd took another drag from his smoke and let out a large cloud of grey that was quickly swallowed up by the fog around him. He turned to join his new found friend who's name he had yet to discover only to stop dead in his tracks.

"Shit. Damn. No. No, not already. Shit, it's only been a week." He pushed past his nameless companion into the front room of what was supposed to be Jeremy's home. No, no, no, no! He'd stood in this very room before! How!? How was he already to late? Ferd stood silently in the middle of the once vibrant living room, rigid, gasping for air, and his cigarette hanging from his slightly parted lips. He stood for what felt like a long time, eyes wild, his heart racing and despair creeping around the corners of his mind.

Slowly the adrenaline subsided, his heart slowed and Ferd's body relaxed. In a mere moment he was back to himself. Sad eyes, bad posture, and the smallest hint of a whimsical smile tugging at just the corners of his mouth. He turned his torso to look at the man still standing in the doorway.

"I meant to warn you. This case, or caper? Well you were right when you said it felt like it was right out of a novel." Turning back into the room Ferd crouched down where he stood in the middle of the room and began rummaging through the debris, looking for clues. "If you stick around you'll see some strange things, like this." Ferd gestured at the spread of the living room with his left hand, not turning from his search. "Things that wont make any sense, until you finally figure out an explanation." Ferd paused. turning his head he made eye contact with the man. Ferd's face looked as though his spirit was too old for the body it inhabited. Tired was putting it lightly. Ferd looked like a man who knew he would never win, but who was to strong and stubborn to give up. With this face devoid of mirth, and deadly serious he said, "These explanations wont make any sense, not at first at least. They'll be the sort of thing most people would right off as crazy." Unblinking, he lowered his voice slightly and finished, "They'll be the sort of thing you can't deny that you believe, because you've seen it with your own eyes. It'll be then that you ask yourself, 'Am I insane for seeing these things, or would the true insanity be to try and deny and suppress any memory of them?'"

With that Ferd turned, stood, and placing his hands in his pockets walked towards what he thought he remembered being the kitchen, smoke trailing behind him.

"Oh I almost forgot," He said. His back was to the man at this point, and without turning he waved over his shoulder at him. "The names Ferd. Ferd Smith. Good to meet you." With that he turned the corner into the kitchen. He shook his head. More of the same. Still. He knew the signs would be there. He just had to look. He stood motionless for a time, looking for scraps of wood shaped in odd ways, or setting in what might be strange patterns. They would be there, or else something else would. They always were.

It was a rather beautiful day in Albany. The trees swayed in a memorizing pattern above the cobblestone streets as Ambrose Tull walked in stride to the train station. This whole letter thing had come out of nowhere and his decision to leave his home and venture Arkham was sudden. The man took a short cut through a rather rundown alley to cut down on time. As he entered the ally Ambrose started thinking more about the place he was heading towards on this odd adventure. Tull knew Arkham in passing note, having played a game in college against the Miskatonic University team which was located in the city. His poor Fighting Gars lost in the final play with a lucky touchdown and in front of the home crowd of Greene. Tull remembered the utter shock in those crowded bleachers when the boys from Massachusetts scored with no time left on the clock and how oddly quiet the usually raucous home front was. It was a moment Tull had almost forgotten about but now the memory had dug itself from the brink of oblivion to the forefront of the old boxer's mind. He thought more about different events in his college days as he neared the train station, some of those memories were great times with the old boys while others were the what-ifs with girls but his trip down those simple days was cut short by a familiar voice.

"HEY!"

Ambrose instantly turned to face the voice coming from behind and was shocked by the source.

"Tull, you remember me?" The voice called again from the lips of the bearded husky man. A broken smile of missing teeth followed the sentence when Ambrose surprised face fell over the scene.

"H.L. Duds right? I fought you in that match in Richmond back in 22. How does it go, friend? I don't have much time for I must catch the train but te-" At this moment Ambrose was cut off by a raised tone by H.L.

"Yeah, Richmond in 22 you made a mockery of me up on that ring. Knocking my teeth clean out of the socket with that cheap punch." He said with an anger overtone and taking off his dusty overcoat before continuing, " You are the reason why I am out of the sport and gotta go town to town looking for work. But it seems I can get my little revenge. I saw you walking down here and I knew it was my chance to congratulate you on your long career" H.L. said in a mocking tone laying his coat on the ground.

Ambrose knew what this man wanted and that was cold-blooded revenge. It shocked Tull that this man could hold such a rage in his heart for so long but he couldn't think of the psychological reasons for this hellbent desire, instead, he had to study his old opponent for the next move. Ambrose was tall at 6'5 and had atleast an inch on his antagonist but H.L. was younger by a minimum of five years and seemed to still practice the sport based on his athletic build.

" H.L. come on now this is madness. We are both men let us forget this incident and move on with life. What is the point of doing this? I mus-" He was cut off again not by the voice of H.L. but his movements. The angry man's arms rose in silent uniformity into the classic position for boxing his legs shifted to pounce at Tull in second and his broken smile disappeared to a scornful lip. All this was caught by the hazel eyes of Ambrose who still hoped for a peaceful resolution. However, he was once a furious young man and it took many years of defeat to knock the anger out of someone and it seemed H.L. was not there yet.

"I know you want to prove something but this won't do anything for either of us. I really truly do not want to fight." Ambrose said in a desperate tone, after all, it was true those last defeats before retirement devasted his desire for the blood sport and now he thought of himself to be a peaceful man. These attempts to defuse the situation did not work and H.L. was ready for attack.

Before another word could be spoken H.L lunged at Ambrose with jab straight into the face of the defenseless man. The jab hit Ambrose's face and without hesitation, he jumped back to avoid the connection. The punch caused his homburg hat to fly off and awaken the old skills within. In an instinctive matter, Ambrose got into his fighting position and dodged the flurry of punches that came from H.L. Over and over the bobbing and weaving of the head missed the nose breaking punches of the young man. There was no thought in this process it came naturally for Ambrose and he waited for a strike. Finally, after the 6th missed punch he saw a chance and without a moment's thought came with his massive right and slammed it into the stumbly bearded cheek of H.L. A grunt was let out as the young mans face changed from anger to confusion. He had him. After a moment of dazed moving, he fell into a pile of trash and the fight was over. Instantly, Ambrose snapped out his boxer mode with the man defeated Ambrose though again. The first thing to come to mind was checking the time on his gold plated pocket watch given to him by his father. He was shocked at the time and knew if he didn't book it now he would never make it to the train station in time. With this knowledge, Tull quickly picked his hat off the dirty streets followed by glancing at the still dazed H.L. giving him a nod and leaving the ally.



It took a few hours and another few connections to reach the sleepy city of Arkham. Rain plagued his trip coming into the city and the place gave off a strange sense of hostility. However, Ambrose was unphased and was actually in a state of excitement with answers just on the horizon he hoped. As he stepped off the train it was obvious he stuck out with his rather large body size and bald head compared to the rather small stature of the inhabitants of Arkham. This fact made his walk down the street with his nearly all-black suit and umbrella one met with glances by strangers all around. However, the closer he got to the house stated in the letter the fewer people he saw that was until he could make out two figures at the destination and he knew they saw him.

Val sat and studied Ferd as he shuffled through the endless supply of debris, this whole house seemed like it had been sitting vacant for years. Strangely it was devoid of the mess that some of those little bastards back in Chicago would leave, as one of those little bastards Val found that curious. After all what's an abandoned house without busted windows. Ferd muttered to himself as Val brushed off the dust that was disturbed by the two men. Ferd's speech sent a shiver down his spine momentarily before Val put it in the back of his mind. As his new companion disappeared into the kitchen, introducing himself while walking away, Val remembered that his mamma always hated that.
" I'm Val, and well likewise." Valentino started to look around, unsure of what to look for, he began to turn over unidentifiable parts of the former living room hoping to find something that wasn't roaches or louse. Perhaps he should just leave Ferd here to find something, he probably has a better idea of what to look for versus himself. The stink of rot was a little strong for Val's liking, so he walked up the stairs, hoping for the best.
The second floor was not in much better shape. Val entered the first room on the right, solely based on the fact that a sturdy wooden desk was flipped over he deduced it must have been a study. In the corner was a pile of books in various states of decay. He knelt down and started to open the drawers in the upturned desk. The first two drawers were empty, but upon the moment the third one was pulled out a false bottom flipped open by gravity. Inside was a bundle of letters, it could be something that Ferd might be interested in.
Val inhaled the last bit of tobacco left on his cigarette and rolled it between his fingers, killing the ember. He picked up a book and started flipping through it, wishing for anything else of interest. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a rather ominous man making the long walk down the street. He was definitely a big fellow, with a shiny dome too. Whoever this guy is, he looks like some kind of goon and definitely some sort of trouble. Val pulled back the slide on his Beretta and walked downstairs.
"Hey Ferd ol' buddy we got some company coming down the street, big guy, shiny dome. Looks like he means business." He brandished his gat, "What's the move boss?"

Silent tension hung in the air like an unanswered question mark in the Three Ravens saloon. Dutch had two aces in his hand, and third was on the poker table. Could he pull the jackpot with this hand? Was the Sitting Hawk bluffing across the table? The stakes weren’t that high, as the game was friendly. No one’s life was on the line, but the Indian had a stone-cold poker face. He saw everything and showed nothing.

James was scribbling down a new story in the train into his notebook. He always had a couple on him, one for writing ideas down and writing short excerpts and the other for diary. He had grown tired of Dutch McAllen, the gallant sheriff of Country Galloway, Texas. Dutch had rescued ranchers’ daughters, faced bandits, Indians and cattle thieves. He also had faced cattle-thieving bandit Indians, bandits posing as Indians, and duelled at least two “fastest hands in the West”. James pondered, should he just kill Dutch McAllen in a spectacular fashion, like the writer of Sherlock Holmes had done with his hero.

The readers would be disappointed, but James could at least move on. He could write a new protagonist and new stories. He had a new protagonist in mind – an escaped Pict slave and barbarian of the ancient world, working as a mercenary, a thief and an occasional hero in the Mediterranean world, killing gorgons and harpies and other monsters and beasts. James had loaned quite a few history books and corresponded with a few other authors about his ideas.

The train was about to arrive in Arkham. James hadn’t seen Jeremy in years, but they had corresponded frequently. A month ago, Jeremy hadn’t sent any letters, and few days ago James had been mailed a letter from Jeremy’s house sitter to arrive to Arkham, as Jeremy had gone missing. James had been worried, but he also smelled an opportunity to take a slice of time off from his regular writing and journalist work.

He had heard of curious rumours and news from Arkham. He had heard from an old university acquaintance, who had majored in geology and chemistry that the Miskatonic University was interested in polar exploration, and James was intrigued to hear the University’s reports and research from the Antarctica expeditions.

As the train arrived in Arkham, James took his luggage and went out to find the 1111 South Curlew Drive. It shouldn’t take long, he thought. He had always been good at reading maps and almost instinctively navigate through an unknown terrain. He hummed a new jazz song he’d heard last week.

James neared the location and saw at least two figures by the house and a third in further distance. He had taken his jacket off and rolled his sleeves up, carrying a few days’ worth of spare clothing in a travel case. He had a black vest and tie and white shirt on him. And apparently, the two figures had their interest on the third. James slowed his pace and took a short while to examine the trio.

Ferd had nearly bitten through the but of the cigarette in his mouth. His eye brows were knit together in consternation. What was this? He'd never seen anything quite like it. He recognized the symbol, in fact it hadn't even been hard to find. Rather than being hidden in the debris as he'd suspected, it was painted in red paint on the kitchen window. Ferd was certain there had been no paint visible from the outside though. More confusing was the symbol itself. Well Symbols he supposed. It seemed that someone had taken a single commonly used symbol from two different cults and thrown them together, forming a single one. But why? Feed hadn't a clue what the significance of combining the two could be.
Suddenly a voice came ringing from upstairs, nearly causing Feed to jump out of his skin. Ah, right, Val was still hear. He didn't seem to put off by Ferd's words. That was good, though he hadn't run into the real test yet. Regardless having someone outside was perfect.
Rushing to the doorway Ferd poked his head out and flagged the giant of a man down. "Hello there!" He said waving a hand, "Do you see any paint on the window to my left?"

New York City, about a week ago.

Passing cars and pedestrians constructed elaborate shadows on the inside of Private Detective Barker's office, obscured and warped by the neon lights and glass window looking on through what was a too-small office for how much he did. Filing cabinets, shelves and drawers, a desk and a chair illuminated by a simple lamp hanging from the ceiling. A single thin chimney of cigarette smoke drifted up towards the lamp, dancing in a myriad of different colors. It was late in the evening, just past his usual business-hours, but here Richard sat, reading.

Richard had read the letter a few times over at this point, nearly done with the cigarette he'd placed dryly on his lips twenty minutes ago. He was thinking, trying to wrap his head around the contents of the letter written by a certain Harry Everfield of Arkham, Massachusetts - or rather, the incoherent rambling of words that could barely be called a letter at all. The gumshoe was no stranger to odd-ball letters from odd-ball looneys, having read his clients' letters and some sent to him. Only one thing difference stood out to him that kept him from crumbling it up into a ball and tossing in the garbage.

The name: Jeremy Stockhold.

Boston, Massachusetts, one day ago.

It was the name that had ensured Richard was driving north later that week. He was heading first for Boston, a logical mid-stop before he contiuned towards the small city of Arkham further up the Atlantic Coast. Richard had thought a lot about that man, Jeremy Stockhold as he drove down newly-paved motorways and rickety country roads, before making it to Boston to stay for the night. Well really he had thought a lot about the whole letter. Who was this Harry Everfield, why was he and the house being watched and beaten up like a Sicillian protection racket, and why did he want Richard to be contacted? He'd only met Jeremy a few times - once when he was contracted to find a certain book and once when he dropped off the book in Arkham.

It was as if it was one huge elaborate joke, and not a very good one either. Richard certainly wasn't laughed. He'd contemplated just forgetting the whole shitshow this was, and he certainly didn't rush out of New York. Slowly his mind had began to turn the cogs like they used to with old, unsolved cases. And annoyed as he was about it, he knew he wouldn't get any rest before he at least went to Arkham to see just what kind of flim-flam this was.

He wasn't going in blind as a bat stupidly drunk on hooch, however. One of his stops in Boston was the police department, having contacted an old buddy from the NYPD who'd transferred after some rather unfortunate incident years ago. The usual pleasentries were exchanged, questions about his work and his missing daughter quickly gone over, before Richard got square. Had he heard about an Arkham-fella named Harry Everfield? Only a slow head-shake was the answer from his buddy, followed by a promise to do some digging until next time. Asked whey Richard was going to Arkham, Richard raised his shoulders as he took a drag of his cigarette, walking out of the department doors; "I guess it's out of habit, ol' pal. I'm an old hound, chasing old leads that go nowhere, trying to put my mind at ease."

Arkham, Massachusetts, today.

The old town of Arkham hadn't changed much since Richard visited it last. The same rickety rooftops and spires dotted the sky line, partially concealed behind a veil of the downpour of rain. Arkahm expatriates he'd crossed paths with before claimed that it never really stopped raining back where they came from. While the private detective didn't take their nostalgic musing of their native home literarly, he could understand why they felt so. Driving from the south through Salem and Beverly, he'd seen the rainclouds far ahead of him as he left Boston. Hugging the sea on his right as he drove through Kingsport, he'd decided to don his raincoat neatly packed in the back of his green Ford 1924. And he was glad he'd done that.

Driving north Richard came into Arkham proper from the southeast, driving onto the corner of Washington Street and Peabody Avenue. In the distance he could see the hints of what he'd been told was Miscatonic University, the pride of Arkham. Not much else to pride themselves in, the people Richard drove past all looked just as miserable as people did back home in New York, just less fancy lights and signs. To Richard they honestly looked like just normal everyday people.

"Hey, excuse me pal..." Richard called out to a passing man, dressed like a blue-collar worker who might have been headed home for a quick lunch, slowing the car to a halt at the side of the street. "South Curlew Drive, where am I headed?" The worker stopped to look at the man in the car, clearly not a native to Arkham from his New York tounge and need for directions. Eyeing the outsider for a moment, he however turned to point down the road. "Well ya got to keep drivin' down the avenue all the way to the rivah'. Go ovah' the bridge and turn left on High Lane, then keep driving 'till ya' hit North West Street and drive north. Just past the train station, can't miss it. Just keep ya' automobile on the road, mister." "Yeah thanks pal, I will."

Through the streets of Arkham, over the bridged Miskatonic River and past stores, churches, hotels and other places, Richard finally found himself parking in what have been South Curlew Drive. It wasn't the adress he had trouble with, in as much that old towns like Arkham was so archaic that the new street signs occasionally didn't correspond with the old names. It was the damn fog, keeping the Ford to a slow pace as Richard scanned the houses for the right number. On his left he noticed an odd looking fella smoking a cigar or something, eyeballing him as if he had a massive scar across his face. Oh yeah, he did.

On his right however he finally found the house, looking worse for wear than must have been Jeremy's neighbours. "You sure let your setup slip, didn't you Jeremy?" Richard muttered to himself, pulling up to the sidewalk a couple of houses afterwards. Passing the derelict ruin of a mad house sitter, the private detective saw the people congregating outside the house; a mountain of a man looking like a badly concealed G-man, another further back looking like your average Joe carrying a case. This was going to get crowded then, considering the letter mentioned more than Richard alone being contacted. Richard felt like he was behind the 8-ball, he rarely worked in teams these days.

"Let's get this over with then..." he continued to mutter, turning off the ignition and exiting the Ford. Rain poured down onto him like old guilt overcame you before the big sleep, making Richard turn up the coat and pulling the hat down his face as he casually walked back towards the house and the people. About to call out to the mean-looking torpedo outside Jeremy's house, he was cut off by another guy popping his head out of the door and shouting something. Something about seeing any paint on a window? Richard slowed his pace, looking back and forth between the bulky man outside and the ragged loud-mouth on the inside. "Oh shit, it's gonna be one of those cases, ain't it ol' Barker?"

"No paint on that window of yours, pal. The place sure could need a few buckets of it though, this place looks worse that a whorehouse at lowtide. Who are you? Harry Everfield?"

Ambrose was curious with the figures who entered the worn-down house and his mind drifted to possible explanations for the figures, one such explanation was that these were some of the old man Jeremy's allies and might be trouble for the boxer. It seemed in this day and age many had always sized up the Titan Tull, after all, beating such a mountain of a man would garner massive respect from peers but few outside of boxing ever followed through. This was something that the man was cursed with but he thanked the stars the number of street fights with ruffians bent on proving something was in the single digits. However, any new people especially ones in this land could be enemies and Tull had to mentally prepare for such a conflict.

He walked ever so slowly to the house his footsteps echoed on the crumbling sidewalk while his black umbrella took the brunt of the rain but drizzles from the wind caught him in the face and on his suit. This place seemed to be miserable and he was already ready to leave this forsaken land of rain. Just as he neared within 300 feet of the house a head popped out of the structure shocking him just a little bit and his question left him confused.

"Umm hello, good man! I..umm I do not see any paint on the window but my eyes are a bit off in age and this dreaded rain has blurred things further. However, if I may tell me good man is the house you currently occupy is that 1111 South Curlew Drive?" He said in a booming but friendly tone infused with just a tinge of confusion about the whole situation. After he finished the sentence Tull turned his head and spotted another man watching from afar he was a bit blurry as most things far away were but Ambrose knew it was a man. He gave him a simple wave with his massive hand and turned back to the odd fellow in the building.

The man with the cigar was starting to get nervous. He didn't like how many people were showing up to Old Jeremy Tarfelt's place. It was still a crime scene for crying out loud. Dirk Garther's teeth clenched tighter on the cigar in his mouth. The frustration that had been building up ever since he'd moved to Arkham was starting to reach it's climax. A week ago he would have called it irritation, and chalked it up to acclimatizing to a new police department, no different from the way most people felt when they started new jobs. That was before he and his partner had seen the red light on the corner of 5th and Dawn, and had called in to the precinct from a telephone booth to see if their assistance was needed. It had been.
They were told to head to 1111 S Curlew Dr. to help with a missing persons case. Dirk scoffed, it hadn't been much of a missing persons case. He shook his head. To be a missing person cases someone actually had to be missing. But there was no question where Harry Everfield was.
He'd yelled at his superiors when they decided to close the case a day later. He'd insisted he be given the case, determined to do justice to the crime that he was sure had taken place in that house. The house where five strangers were now milling about.
He noticed one was keeping his distance. It was hard to make him out since he was farther off than the others, but Dirk could still make him out. He could be trouble. Then again that loud fella that had drove by could be up to no good too. The others hadn't done anything to strange, though Dirk had nearly arrested them both on the spot when they'd walked inside the house.
Dirks ears perked up at the mention of the paint on the window. Interesting. They acknowledged it's existance. When he had pointed that out to other cops most of them had pretended not to notice or care. Still that didn't prove they weren't suspects, or that they didn't know anything about Harry. He needed to wait a little longer, needed to see what else he could find out about them. The first two claimed to be there about Harry's letters that'd he'd sent out. Normally Dirk would have been inclined to believe that. But with the strange things he'd seen the last few days... Dirk cracked his knuckles idly. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

Ferd raised an eyebrow as the two newcomers nearly spoke over eachother. The large man, who Ferd could now see was balding, had answered first, but he had only barely finished when the other one spoke up. Ferd did a slight double take when he noticed the second mans appearance. If the term "gumshoe" could have taken on a life of it's own, then it would have looked like this man. He stifled back a laugh. True the man might not be a private eye, but it'd sure be a shame if he wasn't.
Ferd addressed both men, "No paint on the outside huh?" He tapped his foot for a moment, walking all the way out of the living room and leaning against the doorframe. "That sure is strange." He bit his lower lip, about to slip away into deep thought, when he remembered the newcomers had asked him some other questions, and that the detective looking one was still approaching the front door.
Ferd felt a sudden chill. He suddenly felt very aware of the crumbling house around him, remembering that the symbol in the window had to have been put there by someone, probably the same people who had somehow caused the inside of the house to undergo nearly a century of rot within a matter of days. His eye's darted back and forth between the two strange men standing outside the home. He realized he'd been assuming that they had been called here by Harry as well, and he'd nearly welcomed them in without a second thought. But what did he know about them? They could easily be responsible for whatever was going on here. They could be hostile. He felt a shiver go up his spine as without warning his mind began to imagine what men with the power to age a house by a hundred years could do to a human body.
He straitened up, putting his hands in his pockets. This was no time to be sloppy, sloppy men were dead men and he didn't plan on dying just yet. He called over his shoulder to Val, "Hey Val, come on down." Looking back at the strange men, he said louder, "We've got a situation." It crossed his mind that he wasn't really sure he could trust Val, but he figured that if Val was his enemy it would be better not to let the man know that Ferd was suspicious of him. Keep your friends close and enemies closer as the saying went.
Alright. He took a long shallow breath. Show time. With that he dropped into survival mode, his face and body losing all forms of expression, becoming blank slates for him to write on. What did he need right now? Should he appear naïve? No that left to many variables. Should he be forward and tell everyone his suspicions? No that could provoke a head on attack if they were hostile. No the best thing right now was to obtain as much control of the situation as he could.
His eyes became steely, his posture commanding, and his voice took on a tone of authority.
"I don't know who you two are, but you'd better not come any closer just now." If Val could be trusted, then Ferd knew if it came to a fight he could really use whatever firepower the man had with him. Hoping Val was on the stairs and was watching him by now he spread his hand wide behind his back and waved ever so slightly. He then used it to pat at his coat pocket, pretending he was looking for something. He hoped Val got the message. The last thing he wanted was for the man to come out guns blazing, so hopefully he understood that Ferd wanted him to have whatever gun he had at the ready. Just in case.
Turning his attention back to the strangers, Ferd used the hand he'd used to signal Val and jerked a thumb behind him, gesturing towards the stairs he hoped Val was descending. "My partner and I have a developing situation on our hands." Folding his arms he glared down at the both of them, "I'm sorry to say it but right now we are going to have to ask anyone we find nearby this house to produce some proof of identity, and a damn good reason for being here. " He paused for dramatic effect and raised an eyebrow, "We don't have enough information on this case to put anyone above suspicion."

Valentino was upstairs observing the street after warning Ferd of the visitors that seemed to be flowing down the street. He was rummaging through the letters, the first one he ran across was an envelope that was covered in this strange writing, something about it gave him the heebie jeebies. He signed a cross and flipped that one to the back, maybe Ferd should deal with that one. The next one was stuffed with about five letters. Almost one was addressed to people unknown to Val, except two of them, one for his father and another for Ferd. He saw Ferd run out and start yelling some nonsense about some paint to one of the visitors. He made his way to the top of the staircase and observed. The large man spoke in professional tone while the definitely smaller man pattered on quickly. The small, quick talking man activated Val's instinct for coppers, he squinted his eyes.

Val strolled down the stairs hands stuffed in his pockets, his left hand wrapped around his 9mm Beretta with his other hand clutching the letters he found upstairs. Partner huh? Ain't that a pretty picture, but when in Rome. Usually the only partner Val really had was a lookout or the occasional passenger he took up north.

"Well we gotta dick and some kind of strong man, we might be starting our own freak show, eh boss." Val chuckled at his own joke as he took his spot beside his newly found 'partner,'

" Now I might have left some identification back home, but that doesn't excuse the rest of this poor ensemble." Val kept his pocket gun pointed at the two men, hoping they had names that matched the letters. Otherwise this whole thing might have to be handled and Val really wasn't feeling the need to send these folks up to Saint Peter.

Saying that this case was getting stranger by the minute was an understatement. As Richard walked closer towards the neglected house, rain pouring down and running off his fedora, he got a closer look at two he could see around the house - the big fella with an umbrella and the window-paint guy who'd yelled at them. There were something about the two of them, though it was the big brute of a man he recognized. The name didn't come to him at first, though it was at the tip of his tounge. Too bad the rain drowned out Richard's thoughts, not to mention the loud-mouth who talked to the unknown duo.

Richard walked up to the house just in time to stand beside the big guy, in front of the house in clear sight of the first man inside - clearly someone called "Val" was already inside tearing the place apart. Richard could see the marks in the doorframe, clear signs that someone had entered by force. Crowbars? Probably. "Yeah…strange is the adjective I was lookin' for, mister…?" Richard replied to the nameless man in the doorway, dressed in a trenchcoat too big for him to be taken seriously and a tie that'd make your mother-in-law frown. Without warning, he was told not to come any closer because of some 'developing situation', ordered to show their identification and in turn have a pocketed gun pointed at them. Well if that wasn't just peachy? "My, my, such a lot of guns in this town and so few brains…"

The guy in the trenchcoat had acted like he was a cop or something, using said jargon and calling the Italian-looking guy "partner". Richard couldn't figure out if he was lying his ass off or not, though one act stuck out to him - the moment of hesitation: the brief span of time when he 'became' a cop, as if he needed to get into a role. Either this guy was lying, or he was just a lousy cop, both of which could be true, though Richard was paying more attention to the group as a whole. And yes, the gun.

"I can answer that for ya, big bal, that's 1111 South Curlew Drive." Richard calmly answered the man named Ambrose, slowly reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out a wallet for the two 'authorities' to see. He wasn't moving quickly or violently, making sure they didn't get a chance to shoot him - unless his mouth got him shot again. "And I suppose none of you two are Mr. Everfield or Mr. Stockhold then?" Richard asked, pulling out his private detective-license from said wallet and handing it to whomever of the two guys from the house, refusing to hold his hands up and instead taking this as calmly as he could. If he was scared shitless or not was difficult to say, but having lived, worked and bled in New York made you a tough son-of-a-bitch.

"Unless you two can't read, that says I'm Richard Barker of New York City. Private detective, licensed by the NYPD. And this…" Richard introduced himself, while putting his hands back in his raincoat fingering the Colt police revolver holstered underneath. Before he could continue, the name finally popped from his mouth as he turned to look at Ambrose. "Tull…Amrose Tull, ain't it? You boxed with my Sergeant back in '15, Jackson was his name. Gave him one helluva beating, good show. But that raises some dingy questions, and I might be ringin' the wrong tooter here…" Richard nearly answered for Ambrose, his hands slowly moving in and out of his raincoat as he took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting the cigarette and smoking it like he was born with it. The lighter, for a brief moment only, was seen to have the NYPD badge etched into it. Richard let the cigarette dangle loosely from his lips, eyes moving back and forth the group, his eyes only hinting at the last man across the street. "Who are you two, where are your badge, what are you two and all of us doing here, and who's the long-nose over there?" Richard took another puff of his cigarette, clearly finding some amusement in the situation, though no humour. "'cause you two better not be a pair of bunnies and off us two. I've got a pal in the Boston PD who knows I'm here. Sock me, and you'll be in a world of trouble. Understood?"

Ambrose paused when the strange man told him to produce some ID and warned him of approaching any closer. To the man, this sudden mood swing from curious to authoritarian raised concerns that festered inside his mind. At least the detective that now neared him seem to be trustworthy at this very moment at least. When Richard spoke of his old opponent Jackson it eased his internal tension and he spoke back to him in his usual tone.

"Oh, I remember that man the old Jackson "The Dynamic" Kilten, I do say that was one of my better fights in my youth. I didn't think anyone would remember such an event but here we are." He said before turning the attention back to the demanding duo in the house.

Richard made his demands first and then followed Ambrose in full agreement, "Now sir in the house you are being unreasonable with your request and frankly, I do not think you deserve any ID from me. If you want to talk like a gentleman and tell me and this good man, Mr. Barker, why you are in such a distasteful house I am happy to open up." Ambrose said in his oddly posh accent. He was just minutes in this adventure and the confusion of all this was really gnawing on his mind. A part of Tull assumed this was some weird trick orchestrated by old man Jeremy and those inside the house were goons brainwashed to defeat Mr. Barker and him but why was still a mystery. Regardless, Tull was ready for a fight if it came down to it. After all the two men did just make demands to the strangers furthering the tension. He clenched his right hand which held the umbrella with unusual might the stalk of it made slight noises as if buckling under pressure. Tull wasn't mad but ready and he hoped Barker was too if it came down to it.

Val released his gun and reached into his coat to whip out the stack of letters he had. He began to flip through it,

"James Anderson, hmm no. Ah Ferd... Smith, Christ above those limey bastards really have no imagination. Ambrose Tull and Richard Barker." Val put remaining letters back in his coat and handed out the named letters, keeping his own hidden away.

"Strong man, I'd probably ease up there with those Frankenstein mitts you call hands. I found a drawer filled with letters addressing, who I assume to be the people sent here for this little investi-whatever, I don't think it's," Val flourished his hands searching for fancier word before settling, "Unfair to ask who you are. This is Ferd over here and I'm Val. I'm not sure exactly what in the little baby Jesus' name is going on here either, but obviously some serious shit went down in this place.

Val kept both hands out, trying to convey what he thought was innocence. The eyes of the man named Barker shifted quickly between Ferd and Val as seemed to be trying to decipher them. The tall man named Ambrose, which definitely seemed too upper class for boxer, was an interesting fellow. Apparently a good boxer and well spoken, an intriguing combo. Val hoped that these aren't the kind of folks to rock the boat too hard, he really just wanted this adventure to hit the breaks a little bit.

Ferd could see the tension in the lines of everyone's faces as he demanded identification. Well that wasn't exactly what he'd been going for. He'd wanted to take control of the situation, not inspire tension and distrust. What was with people these days? Mafia members he could understand getting itchy trigger fingers around authority figures, but why did both of these men look ready for a fight?

Val's comment about starting a freak circus nearly broke Ferd out of his character. Forget crime, the man should have been a comic with that mouth on him. Ferd felt a small amount of relief when Val more or less backed up his act. He'd been worried the man was going to ignore him completely.

Then the detective looking fellow spoke up. Ferd resisted the urge to nod in admiration of the man. He was showing a great deal of observational and diplomatic skill. On top of that, from the way he was keeping his cool in what had become a tense situation, it was clear he'd been in his fair share of tight spots. Ferd had to wonder where that experience came from. He didn't show the aggression most military men did, and as he'd observed earlier, criminals didn't take well to authority figures normally. Police service perhaps? Ferd was further intrigued when it became clear that he'd noticed that Val was carrying, and proceeded to make it known via several small non-threatening gestures that Val wasn't the only one with a pistol in his pocket.

Ah, and there it was. the comment about a police boxing match, and the lighter with the NYPD badge etched into it sealed the deal. Former police then, apparently turned private eye. Ferd shelved questions as to why for the time being.

He looked at the identification the man had produced. No letter. That was a small problem, without that the man could just be pretending he had a reason to be there so he could spy on whoever Harry had called upon. However the man clearly had no intentions of producing any further documents. To bad. Then the man warned them that if he were killed here there was a cop in Boston who'd make them very sorry. Ferd raised an eyebrow. What was WITH THESE GUYS? Did he really look that threatening. Then Ferd thought to look over at Val. Ah. He turned back to the street, deciding that between Val and himself the two men might have legitimate cause for concern. They didn't look particularly friendly, and unfortunately Val's appearance didn't lend any credence to Ferd's fabricated authority. Whoops.

The large man who was apparently named Ambrose Tull then spoke up, surprising Ferd with his educated speech patterns. Not often you ran into a giant, bimbo of a boxer who could count without using his hands, forget about sounding educated. Ferd couldn't keep himself from raising an eyebrow at the mans attempt to disrespect Ferd's false authority as politely as he could. Didn't deserve any ID? And an implication that he'd be willing to fight over it? Not the behavior he expected from common citizens, especially educated ones. Honestly, had it recently become standard practice for people to brawl with police over something as simple as a request to see some ID? Ferd did feel an involuntary shiver go down his spine at the sound of the umbrella creaking under the man's grip. Just how many poor inanimate objects had been tortured by those ham-fists? Ferd didn't envy any man who'd faced this boy in the ring.

Ferd stood silently, as the men finished speaking. Best not to give them the idea that their demands had any real power over him until he had a better idea who he was dealing with. Better to appear unfazed he'd thought. Now that they'd wrapped up and he knew that one used to be a some sort of professional boxer with a stubborn streak, and the other a gumshoe to match his appearance Ferd wasn't sure what to do next. Plus there were the guns to throw into the mix. Though Richard had been forthcoming, he'd also made his preparation for any kind of fight to go down more than clear. And Tull had basically just glared at Ferd and verbally spat all over his supposed authority. Now what? They both had asked for Harry and Jeremy, but neither had deigned to explain their reason for inquiring after them. Though it did strike him as odd that they would ask after Jeremy when anyone here about the letters should have known the man had been missing for quite some time. That was a tad unsettling. Then Val spoke up.

Ferd turned his head to look over the letters Val was going through. He felt a wave of relief roll over him. It appeared Val had found an envelope containing a list similar to the one Harry mentioned in his letter, along with papers describing Jeremy's relationship with each individual. So at the very least, men with names matching the ones just given by the two newcomers had likely been sent letters asking them to come. It did cross Ferd's mind that it was possible those letters had been intercepted, but he decided to shelve that for later as well. For now it seemed best to take the out and wait.

He let his body relax, and he put his hands back in his pocket, letting his relief spread across his face slowly. He glanced over at Val as he handed the letters to him and finished speaking, clearly concerned that the others might still want to fight. He choked back a smile at Val's attempt to seem non-threatening. It wasn't that it wasn't successful, it was just that Ferd was fairly certain he detected a degree of discomfort in the mans face, as though he wasn't accustomed to being the peacekeeper in a group.

Allowing his body to re-enter it's customary slouch, Ferd spoke to the two on edge men, "Sorry for the confusion there fellas, but you read the letter's Harry sent out." He shrugged with a small twinkle in his eye, "Can't be to careful. For all I knew you coulda been those shadowy blokes that did this to Jeremy's door, and assumedly the rest of the house." He looked at Richard and chuckled guiltily, taking his hands out of his pocket and shrugging. "As for a badge, I haven't got one. Not these days anyway." He reached into his pocket again and gently took out his wallet, showing his drivers license, and pulling his own letter out as well. "I do have these though. You can look em over if you want, after all turn about is fair play and all that." The inspection of his ID coming to an end Ferd turned and walked back into the house, pocketing all of the papers in his hands, and waving everybody in.

"Listen guys we've got a lot to talk about, and we might as well do it out of the rain." He stopped and turned, waiting for everyone. "The couches have gotten a bit moldy though, so I don't know if I'd recommend sitting in them." He kicked idly at some rotted wood on the floor, "Val and I will fill you in, though I don't think we know much more than you since we only got here about a minute or two before you. We haven't even figured out where Harry is yet." Or if he's even still breathing. Ferd thought to himself.