In This Fine Town Of Arkham
"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown" - H. P. Lovecraft
On the fifteenth day of November, in the year of 1923, the night finally arrives. Arkham is a city of shadows, and as the sun sets, and those shadows lengthen, driving anyone with any sense for whatever shelter and sanctuary their homes can provide, it is those who thrive in the shadows that emerge. The date has been marked in the calendars of the rich and powerful of Arkham, and as it finally arrives, there seems to be a spark of electricity in the air. Anticipation? Excitement? Fear? Perhaps all three.
Dark carriages move through the winding streets of Arkham, carrying the old families and new money of the city towards where the city loses it's fight with the wilderness, towards the edge of the Wilde Woods. Deep within, Wilde Hall awaits. Some know the route well, or as well as anyone can know the shifting, inky depths of the Wilde Woods, while for some, it is the first time they have braved the darkness. Whatever the case, a strange silence settles over these dark carriages as they move through the trees, the twisting branches blotting out the dim light of the moon, high above. It is as if the shadows themselves absorb any noise, even the sound of a breath snatched away from the lips.
Tommy Bannerman reached the edge of the Wilde Woods a few minutes before the clock strikes six. Having done what he could to smarten up, in the hope that he would be able to blend in amongst the other guests making their way towards Wilde Hall, Tommy pulled out the invitation, holding it up towards the flickering glow of a nearby streetlight as he read the words printed upon it one more time. By now, he could practically recite it from memory, having poured over it a dozen times, but something about the words gave him a sense of confidence, quietened the voice of doubt that nagged at the back of his mind. Satisfied, he tucked it away into his pocket again, and glanced around the dimly lit street that he stood in. He was in the right place, or near enough. The invitation had included the details of half a dozen coaches, ferrying guests through the shadows of the Wilde Woods, and considering he hardly fancied the treacherous walk, Tommy had resolved himself to catch one of these carriages, even if it put his deception at risk.
As if on cue, the stifling silence of the fading evening light was broken by the rattle of wheels on stone, of hooves striking road, and a dark shape detached itself from the shadows at the end of the street, moving towards where Tommy stood. Squaring his jaw, and standing as tall as he can, Tommy did what he could to play the role of the pompous and the rich. What would Mister Script do? Almost without thinking, Tommy took a step out into the road, and held up his hand to flag the carriage down. The figure, hunched over the reins, turned it's head towards where the boy stood, and the carriage shifted slightly, turning towards him. Tommy allowed himself a smile, he had managed one small victory at least. Before he could feel too smug, another noise broke the silence, a yelp, then a crash of something clattering to the ground. Whirling around, Tommy's eyes strained against the shadows. An alley opening up behind him, leading away from the street, away from the carriage, and for a moment, he could make out nothing in the darkness, and then suddenly, a figure burst out onto the street, feet pounding. They barely seemed to see Tommy, barrelling towards him. He only had a moment to think, to act, or he would be sent sprawling!
Unaware of the commotion poised to take place across town,
Debora White glanced at the clock in her office, grimacing slightly as she saw the hour hand teetering on the brink of six. The time seems to have moved too quickly, the hour coming to hand too fast. For a moment, she questioned herself. Was she ready? Would she ever be? But then something caught her eye, and she caught herself. She needed to be ready. With a silent promise, she pushed herself to her feet, paused only to check her outfit and mask in the reflection of the window, and crossed to the office door. Her hand had already reached the handle when she stopped. It had only been a moment, but she had heard it, clear as day. She knew the office like the back of her hand, it was like a second home to her, so she knew the third step from the bottom creaked. It was that creak that had shattered the silence, that creak that had stopped her in her tracks.
Debora wracked her brain for a moment. It was late, after hours, the building should be empty. This time of night, the streets were empty. Her ears straining, Debora's breathe caught in her throat. For a moment, there was nothing, and then the distinct creak again, as whoever was on the stairs lifted their foot. She stopped herself from adding 'or whatever' to that thought. The dreams had been getting to her, she knew that, and since... Gritting her teeth, Debora pushed the thought out of her mind. The steps were coming regularly now, and whoever was coming would be there in a matter of moments. Her eyes darted around her office. She had to move fast, if she was going to move. She had to do something.
While others may be caught up in the darkness that grips Arkham,
Eugene Esposito was having no such misfortune. It had taken him a while to find the dingy speakeasy, but it was cosy enough, if in need of a lick of paint. The bartender was a stony-faced man, who had only offered Eugene a few words since he had sat down, but he had warmed up a little once he realised that Eugene paid promptly, and that he came back. Since then, Eugene had become somewhat of a regular, striking up an acquaintance with the barkeep, Thomas, one of the few people in Arkham that had given the New York journalist had arrived in the city. As Eugene finished his drink, he glanced up, and caught Thomas looking suspiciously at the mask that Eugene had donned for the evening.
"Say, what's with the get-up?" Eugene hesitated at first. The invitation that was burning a hole in his pocket had stressed the theme of the masquerade ball, the idea of keeping your identity secret, but he had started to enjoy Thomas' company, despite himself. There was something about the wrinkled features, the dark, squinting eyes. Shrugging slightly, Eugene put down his empty glass, gesturing slightly to Thomas as he replied.
"I've got an invitation to Wilde Hall. One of their masquerade balls this evening." The barkeepers face shifted, and the change took Eugene aback. He had grown so accustomed to the unflinching expression, that to see emotion there felt wrong, but there was emotion written across Thomas' face now. Eugene was so shocked that it took him a moment to even process what that emotion was, but when he did, he felt a shiver run down his spine. It was fear. The silence hung heavy in the air, before Thomas opened his mouth to speak, before catching himself, his mouth closing again. Without a word, Thomas simply reached out and poured Eugene another drink, not meeting the other man's questioning eyes.
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