Broadway Lights: From Nefertiti Studios to The Explorer Club

The intrepid investigators were finally assembled in the salon of J. Pollack Fine Antiques, and it was the evening of April 26. They were all relieved to be back after endless hours of questioning, but Diana Spinoza was particularly pleased to see Jules.

"Jules, honeysweetie, I am so glad that you are back. Back! It was woefully dull not having you around, and I was beyond bored. You spend far too much time working, and I wish we could have some fun instead, like going on a holiday, or just going to the beach. Why didn't you take me to Martin's Beach? I got to sit here with old Burly Jones, and Mrs. O'Flaherty, and you didn't even call!"

The situation was getting increasingly awkward, and Irwin Bowers reached for his nitrous oxide while Mackie MacNamara was trying to get some flame out of her lighter.

"So, Julie, do you know what I did in my prodigious spare time? Something that might please you, I think..."

Jules was perhaps looking forward to some little naughty and inspiring stunt, but he looked dumbfounded when Diana Spinoza continued.

"You see, I went through some, or perhaps all, of the notes and books that you've found on your trips and expeditions, and aren't they exciting! I think this is so fascinating, and I realized that I still have my borrower's privileges at Miskatonic, so I decided to do some more research, especially regarding that weird German, von Juntzt. But enough of this. Julie, how about we retire for the evening?"

Jules Pollack had little sleep that night. He really did not know what to expect. And his liquor cabinet was empty.

Following the letter to Mackie inviting the investigators to New York and Nefertiti Studios, the next morning was spent planning and packing until a visitor arrived. It was Johnny Schwartz, the British journalist, and he very much wanted to interview Jules about his trips. Schwartz believed that this would be of great interest to readers in Europe. Jules had business to attend to, but he did tell the investigators that Schwartz had been making himself known over the last couple of weeks. Schwartz had visited Pollack in the Arkham jail, and they had had quite a few conversations. Diana Spinoza also mentioned that he's been in the store before, and that he'd had some difficulties finding the restroom, which seemed to be the universal excuse for snooping. Jules left it to the investigators to continue. 

It was strange conversation. Johnny Schwartz did seem to have some knowledge of the cosmic aberrations that had been encountered, and he whispered the dreadful name of Yog-Sothoth to the investigators, suggesting unearthly cults and repeatedly asking if anyone had additional knowledge to offer. Despite not having discussed any responses, the investigators displayed a truly united front in stonewalling the journalist. Lake giggled a bit at the mention of unmentionable beings from primordial times, of Hyperboreans, Lemurians and the priests of Mu. Moira Baker seemed like innocence personified, Irwin Bowers listened politely, seemingly nonplussed, while Mackie simply looked bored. If Schwartz was frustrated, he did not display it, but he left after several hours without having gained any information.

The intrepid investigators had booked tickets on an early morning train to New York, and there bags included everything from tuxedos to plastic explosives. Jules drove them to the trains station, promising that he'd join them in a couple of days when business had been tended to. The train trip was uneventful, and the train arrived at Grand Central Station just after 4pm on Tuesday, April 28.

 

The accomodations at the Hotel Ambassador were indeed luxurious. The owner of Nefertiti Studios, Patrice Montague, seemed to have spared little or no expense, and the investigators could not help listen to the many languages that could be heard in the lobby as foreign dignitaries were rushing to some meeting or enjoying beverages in one of several bars. After checking in and inspecting their respective rooms, Mackie, Moira, Howard and Irwin took their time to get ready for this evenings' cocktail reception at Nefertiti Studios, which was located just off Herald Square. The doorman flagged a cab just before seven, and the merry party stepped out at Herald Square just about 25 minutes later.

Nefertiti Studios was located on floors eleven and twelve in an enormous office building nestled on 33rd Street between Herald Square and Penn Station. The door was opened by Patrice Montague himself, and he was overjoyed to finally meet "Dr. MacKenzie and her friends." The cocktail party was a fairly intimate affair with just about a dozen guests in the spacious studio, half of which was the actual tailoring shop, and half being a two-floor mix of runways, photo studios, and offices. Patrice Montague introduced the investigators to the other guests at a brisk pace: Kelly Ventura, Montague's partner and stylist extraordinaire, Richard Strauss, the steady hands on the helm of Nefertiti Studios, Connor Branagan, one of the foremost social coordinators of New York City, as well as another six or eight guests that became a blur of flashing smiles, cigarette smoke, perfume, tuxedos, and brief, alluring eye contact. There were also some odd accents to the event: one guest was wearing a tuxedo made entirely out of soft but very shiny leather. One of the female guests seem to be wearing patent ballet shoes. Yet another guest kept toying absently with a studded leash. 

Champagne was being served constantly, and all of the investigators found themselves quite buzzed quite soon. Mackie MacNamara filled her handbag with canapes, while Irwin Bowers found himself in the company of Clive Blake, a well-known fashion photographer, and his special friend Serge. An animated discussion about photography led to Bowers being offered a blow-by-blow in the bathroom, a popular destination for several guests. Bowers gladly accepted at least one form of blow, and he was elated.

  

                           Kelly Ventura                                 Patrice Montague

  

Richard Strauss                          Conor Branagan

However, the investigators were feeling both overwhelmed and tired just after 10pm, although Irwin Bowers was having a fantastic time. It was nevertheless decided to leave the event, despite the incessant protests from Bowers. Moira Baker was already considering what to give Bowers to cut his incessant babbling short. He simply wasn't the best photographer in the world, and that was that. 

The investigators were looking for a cab when they heard somebody yelling "you fuckin' faggot!" from an alleyway. This was followed by the dull thuds of kicks and fists hitting soft flesh. There was clearly no time for pleasantries, as Lake pulled out his Luger, Bowers fired a shaky warning shot into the night sky, and Baker yelled to the bunch of thugs to not move. All of this was trumped as Mackie threw half a brick covered in plastic explosives into the alleyway, where it exploded with a window-shattering bang. This became the queue for the six and seven hooded thugs to run for it, and the investigators turned their attention to the victim. It turned out to be Victor Aymes, who had attended Montague's cocktail event. The young man thanked all of the investigators profusely, and they walked out to find cabs. Aymes was charming, and he expressed sincere hopes to meet the investigators again before jumping into a cab.

Victor Aymes

The cab ride back to the Hotel Ambassador provided some additional amusement as Moira Baker finally injected Irwin Bowers with some fine Laudanum. Nothing more of Bowers was heard until breakfast.

Mackie MacNamara was however woken up by room service. Not too early, though, but early enough to be irritating. Fortunately, the bell boy was only bringing yet another invitation, this time to the prestigious Explorer Club on the Upper West Side. The curator, a Mr. Anscomb Blakely, was inviting the investigators to a dinner and conversation about exploration and discovery. Mackie did not mind at all, and she RSVPed as the bell boy waited. Additional plans were discussed over breakfast, and an outing to the Brooklyn Museum was considered. Moira Baker had a different suggestion, though. Why not inquire among the antiquities dealers about how and why Johnny Schwartz had asked around for information about Jules, Mackie, and the other investigators? They decided to start off at Hightower Fine Arts and Antiques and Mr. James Partridge II, who had helped Jules Pollack in selling many of the antiquities and fine arts that the investigators had found in Egypt two or so years ago.

Mr. Partridge was quite glad to see the investigators again, and he was nurturing the hope that they might have more items to sell, but alas, no. Yet. Mr. Partridge did indeed remember Johnny Schwartz, who had visited Hightower Fine Arts and Antiquities four or five weeks previously. He had left his card, and he was in the company of a gentlemen who may have spoken Russian, but who did not introduce himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Schwartz seemed to speak Russian as well, and they had a fairly intense conversation. Irwin Bowers suddenly remembered a chat between Henry Chester and a bartender, who claimed that some Russkies were looking for Jules Pollack...  

Three Painters and a Red Right Hand

Special agents Smith and Jones were indeed waiting for the intrepid amigos after Martin Diaz, the reporter, spy and madman, had been apprehended. As he was led away by the Albuquerque police, Cannon, Ashford and McCloud still had no clue who Diaz might have been referring to when he was ranting about a "master". Smith and Jones asked several questions, many of them over and over, before reminding the investigators of their patriotic duties. By then, it was approaching midnight, and the investigators decided to get some sleep and leave in the morning. 

The journey back to the Mitscher Ranch started in the morning of January 14 after a hearty breakfast. It was quite uneventful, and they realized that they had time to visit father Bose before it was too late in the evening. They arrived at St. Mary's church just as the vesper was rang, with a few congregants quietly praying in the church itself. Father Bose eagerly asked the investigators if they were at church to convert, but despite the negative reply, he invited McCloud, Ashford and Cannon for dinner. It was hearty meal in good company, and Father Bose was glad to hear that they had met up with The Collector. They clearly had a long history of friendship, and The Collector was, according to Father Bose, "a friend of the church". The other accounts of the trip to Albuquerque and the Gnospelius paintings seemed to bother Father Bose, and yet he tried to calm Cannon when he angrily accused the sisters of attempted murder. Father Bose told the investigators a bit more about the strange Gnospelius sisters, about his concerns, and a bit about his own thoughts concerning the true nature of the sisters. He shared his observations about their last name, and the Greek meaning of "gnosis", as in knowledge, and that the sisters ranged from quite young to middle aged. But then, living in remote New Mexico does strange things to the imagination. Father Bose would not necessarily label the sisters as a malign force, but they were strangely disconnected, yet astute observers of so many aspects of the world in its entirety. The latter quality was supposedly manifesting itself in their paintings.

The Three Amigos decided to take a a late night trip to the beautifully renovated ranch where the sisters resided. They were all almost expecting some weirdness, or at least something fantastic, but the ranch was peaceful and calm. Dim lights could be seen through heavy curtains, and a faint, somewhat eerie song from a Victrola could be heard.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWtFtB0Z-AQ

The following morning was bright and sunny, although the chilly winter kept temperatures at a less than pleasant level. Esteban, Frank Cannon, Nurse Pettenkoffer, Lotus Ashford and Bill McCloud were enjoying the standard breakfast of pork, beans and eggs down at the enormous kitchen table when Joseph Mulroney, the promising young artist and photographer came in. The poor man looked as though he hadn't slept for days, with a patchy stubble crested two eyes with layers of dark circles. He smiled at the assembled breakfast eaters, sat down, and simply stated "I have finished transcribing the book". He smiled again, took out a gun, placed it under his stubbly chin, and blew his brains out. McCloud was so close to firing Mulroney's gun out of his hands, but even his considerable skills did not match Mulroney's swift actions. Nurse Pettenkoffer refilled her coffee cup with shaky hands: "I believe he's dead." Nobody disagreed.

This morning calamity weighed heavily on the intrepid investigators, but they nevertheless decided to visit both Father Bose and the Gnospelius sisters after taking care of the final arrangements for young Mulroney. together with Henry Carlyle, the coroner, and his unnaturally skinny assistant Mortimer. Father Bose was distraught to hear of the fate of young Mulroney, especially since he'd been a good Catholic. 

The Gnospelius sisters were already out painting in the chilly air of January in New Mexico. They greeted the investigators in triplicate, and then Benson, their manservant, appeared, quite ready to serve tea. The initial confrontational tone did mellow as the sisters charmed the visitors, although it was at times frustrating to make any sense of the sisters seemingly random conversation. Nevertheless, it was decided that the sisters would be commissioned to paint the Mitscher Ranch, an offer the sisters gladly accepted.

Following these hectic January days, life seemed to return to a semblance of normalcy. Running the ranch and establishing the Ashford Mining Company did require lots of hard work. The Gnospelius sisters did commence painting a series of paintings of the Mitscher Ranch, including its surroundings and some it of its inhabitants

The Gnospelius sisters didn't really bother anyone, and they were very polite. Yet, any form of longer conversation was simply difficult. All of the three sisters, Emily, Anna and Dorothy, were self-obsessed, and seemed to have great difficulties concentrating, although they were all completely focused when actually painting. It was almost impossible to grab their attention while painting, and equally impossible to keep their attention when they were not. Any attempt to have a stringent conversation led to a fragmented series of questions and remarks, the verbal equivalent of their splotched palettes.  

The Ashford Mining Company and the Mitscher Ranch were coming along nicely, although Lotus himself could not help feeling like things were going a bit too well, like if there was something he had forgotten address, or at times as if there was some impending calamity hovering just out of sight as the sun set below the Capitan Mountains. There were several new hires, though, besides Harris Tweed, nurse Pettenkoffer, and Esteban the Vachero. Most of them had been interviewed by Harris and Lotus together, and in some cases Harris had ventured as far as Albuquerque and Santa Fe to find suitable talent:

• Chef Michel Thibaude had been working in San Diego, but he wanted to see something new, and this was the opportunity. Besides, Mr. Ashford payed well, so why not? Despite his service in the French Navy, Chef Michel was not interested in maritime matters at all. As a matter of fact, he suffered from late onset mild thalassophobia, which made New Mexico perfect. Chef Michel was instead very interested in the art of sausage making, and he looked almost blissful as he mixed raw meat with spices, slowly pushing it into the entrails that had been finished as sausage casings, as to not rupture them. Frank Cannon still didn't really approve. Despite the fine dining, there was something to be said of beans, bacon, toast and coffee. Or cawfee, as Cannon pronounced it.
  
  
  
  
  

• Roberto Fernandez, or El Greco, the ranch foreman. Bill McCloud had met "El Greco" before, but he was then just Corporal Robert "Bob" Fernandez, an irritating little shit who clearly wanted to  prove himself before the war was over. He was an "F", not for "failure", but for "foolhardy." Something must have happened, though, since this was not the same man. He was quiet, and actually imposing, but gentle. He clearly preferred the company of animals to men, although some would just say that he's shy. So far, nobody seems to know why he's called "El Greco".  

• Bjorn Larsson, a mining foreman, and for obvious and unimaginative reasons called "Swede" Larsson. A cheerful optimist, and good company on any occasion, but no pushover. He's not adverse to clearing up any disagreements with his two sizeable fists, although he does not start fights himself. Swede Larsson is a teetotaler, but his prodigious intake of coffee keeps him perpetually buzzed. He loves to play the piano, but he fancies himself being much more accomplished than he actually is, much to the horror of any audience. 

• The maid Marita German. Much more than a maid, but not quite a butler. A local, born and raised in Lincoln County. Bill McCloud was in awe. His bath was drawn even before he he had really though about it, and his shaving kit was laid out together with his six-shooter on top of a fresh towel on a stool next to the bathtub. McCloud looked at the steam coming from the bath and thought "Of all the nice women in this region, they managed to pick this sack of potatoes. But then, I think I do not mind living under these particular circumstances, and I'll save my dancing and romancing for when I have time off."  

• An accountant, Mrs. Eleonore Harrington. An old company stalwart sent down by Lotus Ashford Sr.  Upon reading the telegram, Lotus Ashford folded it neatly and looked out through the office window. "Thank goodness father sent down some help. I was about to get overrun by all these receipts and ledgers, although I must see that Mrs. Harrington doesn't interfere in the running of the actual Mitscher Ranch. For God's sake, I remember being scared stiff of her when I was eleven or twelve. Back then she must have been...oh, 99? I do not know."

Then there was J. D. Magruder, the new sheriff. Not previously an officer of the law, but he'd hanged horse thieves and been riding shotgun on stage coaches in his youth. Frank Cannon eyed the new sheriff from head to toe, and then back again. As a cop turned PI in New York Fucking City he believed himself to have seen every imaginable kind of lawman, and then some. "Well, this is here seems to be the tough and quiet type. I can't say I know too much about horse theft, but I do know one or two things about horsing around." Frank Cannon thought  to himself while pouring Sheriff J. D. Magruder a stiff whisky. 

"The way I like it is my whisky neat, my county quiet, and my gun loaded." Magruder looked at Frank Cannon across the rim of the shot glass.

"We'll get along just fine then" Frank Cannon said. "Just fine." He downed the whisky without further consideration.

It was just after noon on Friday, March 6, 1925, when Father Bose came to visit the Mitscher Ranch. The Three Amigos were sitting on the porch and enjoying a post-lunch smoke, and Lotus Ashford motioned the good Father to join them. He sat down on a rocking chair, gently putting it into motion as he started to explain the reason for his visit:

"Gentlemen, I have an odd problem, and perhaps you cane help me. You see, several of the inhabitants of Carrazozo as well as Lincoln are suffering from a strange and dangerous affliction. They are withering away, refusing food and in certain cases water. Yet, they are quite happy and satisfied. These are strong people, family providers, hard workers, and yet, they are dying. Both Catholics and Protestants. Their families are in despair, and although it started with just one or two cases, we now have four here in Lincoln and another eighteen in Carrazozo. I know you've had some experiences with the odd and the unusual, and I wonder if you might be able to help me figure out why this is happening."

The Intrepid Investigators were more than willing to assist, and they gathered some equipment as well as Nurse Pettenkoffer before visiting the four cases in Lincoln: three men and one woman. Scenes of misery, concern, and desperation as struggling families faced what seemed to be the irrevocable decline of a loved one that had been health personified just a few weeks ago. Ashford, Cannon and McCloud worked hard, and after thoroughly examining the afflicted and asking all of their family members a long series of questions, the pieces slowly came together. The dying inhabitants of Lincoln had all met a stranger, a tall handsome stranger in a dusty black coat. He was a promising joy, satisfaction, and blissful content, which led to the afflicted individuals giving up on life entirely, while happily withering away. A smiling Dolores, who used to be a healthy 120 pounds of wiry muscle, but now just a skeleton with tissue, added to the description of the stranger by wailing "IL MANO DERECHA ROJA! IL MANO DERECHA ROJA!"

ARKHAM ADVERTISER, Monday, 13 April, 1925

 TOPSFIELD POWER PLANT EXPLOSION

The Topsfield Power Plant was destroyed in a series of powerful explosions followed by a conflagration that left the Arkham Fire Department helpless to curb the flames. The cause of the explosions remains to be determined, but it has been noted that Dr. MacNamara, Ms. Baker, Mr. Lake, Mr. Pollack and Mr. Bowers, all of Arkham, are held by the Arkham Police for questioning, although some of these individuals were severely injured in the blast. Mr. Lake has also been charged with reckless driving. Neither the owner of the power plant, Mr. Otto Argo, nor the site manager, Mr. Bogislav Klimnik, have been available to comment. 

Mayor Jonathan D. Bryce held a press conference this morning, and he stressed the serious nature of the explosion, and how Arkham has been plagued by a series of violent events over the last week or so. Mayoral candidate Dunstan Dunford accused Mayor Bryce of displaying "yet another example of his legendary ineptitude" in dealing with the current bout of violence, while Councilman Bedford Duvall pointed out that the destruction of the power plant will lead to a permanent power shortage in the Miskatonic Valley.

Deranged Doctor found outside Arkham

An individual later identified as Dr. Peter Maxwell was found running around the forests north of Arkham in a state of acute mental distress. He had no memories whatsoever, and he was dressed in a full surgeon's outfit, including facemask, gloves and goggles, and a scalpel.

Dr. Maxwell had just graduated from the Miskatonic University Department of Medicine. He was a recipient of the Francis B. Peabody prize for Academic Achievement together with Mr. Herbert West in 1924. Dr. Maxwell has since been left in the caring hands of Dr. Herbert DeVos and Head Nurse Abigail Dawson at the Arkham Sanitarium.  

Dr. Maxwell

Interview with a Fish Man

Miss Corinne Hill had the opportunity to speak to Jebediah Pike, an inhabitant of Kingsport who has cultivated an odd pastime, or even obsession, over the course of several years: he thinks he is a  fish man, a creature of legend and also associated with many myths from Arkham County. Mr. Pike invited the journalist from the Arkham Advertiser to visit his small house in Kingsport. It was a quite unique abode, very well kept, with lots of art and objects that remind the visitor of fish and the sea. He was particularly proud of what he claims is one of the actual gate keys to the lost city of Atlantis, although it may strike the astute observer that vague lettering spelling out "1872 Oregon State Fair" still can be noticed along the admittedly impressive key.

The following conversation was recorded:

- Mr. Pike, how long have you been a fish man?

- I have been a fish man my entire life. Well, I was originally a fish boy, and very interested in the sea and aquatic life, but when other boys started on the path to adulthood, I developed gills.

- Gills?

- Yes, you  heard right. Here, let me show you my gills (removes collar).

- Mr. Pike, these bear a striking resemblance to folds of skin with some dander...

- Indeed, but I can use these folds to stay under water for more than two minutes! 

- Fantastic! Now tell me, How does one find suitable company as a fish man? Are there some nice fish women to be found in Kingsport?

- I often attend the tea dance at the Mermaid Café, and yes, there might be someone special with whom I take swims when the water isn't too cold. As a matter of fact, we are planning a small wedding at the Boston Aquarium this July.

- That is great news, congratulations to both of you! Some people are, however, afraid of the sea, and there are quite a few legends of malicious creatures from the sea. Has this ever been bothersome to you?

- In general, the fine townsfolk here are quite used to my "fishy" habits, and I supply both Arkham and Boston with some of the finest fish on the market. I also dress up as King Neptune with trident and all, or even a mermaid, for various pageantries in the Miskatonic Valley. People around here know me well. But there was this one case, when I had heard vague rumors of a fish-themed church in Innsmouth, quite a ways north of here. They were not at all glad to see me, and I was fortunate to have an automobile so that I could make a fleet escape. 

We may not have found out much more about what might be behind some of the myths regarding mere-folk and fish men, but I am so very glad to be living in one of the richest regions of the United States when it comes to sheer eccentricity.

Mr. Jebediah Pike.

B&L Bankruptcy

The Barrow and Locke Mining Company has been declared bankrupt after a violent strike that led to an investigation by the Massachusetts Board of Labor. Several workers had been poisoned by unsafe practices, and legal action will follow.

Strange Find in Fire 

Following the explosion and fire in the Topsfield Power Plant, Arkham police discovered the remnants of three individuals, apparently triplets. The Arkham Police did not divulge further details, but unconfirmed information indicates that this may be a lead in the case of the Handley triplets that disappeared in 1869.

South by Southwest

              
It was a relief to enter Albuquerque, especially considering that McCloud was in quite some pain after the snake bite. He was also dizzy, a tad nauseous, and just not feeling well. McCloud was howewer also quite the stoic, and he endured in private agony until the bus stopped by the small Albuquerque General Hospital. By then, McCloud was feeling a bit better, although still far from good. The doctor at the General Hospital was very helpful, but he could not even identify the remnants of the snake that Frank Cannon displayed. Nevertheless, McCloud seemed to be heading in the right direction, so the Three Amigos departed for the upscale Franciscan Hotel, where hopefully Mr. Wright, or The Collector, would be waiting for them in the Art Deco finery of the hotel. He was supposedly already downstairs, in the tea room, so it was decided to split up: Lotus Ashford would survey the situation from the bar, while Frank Cannon and Bill McCloud sought out The Collector. Hotel staff where more than eager to point the two gentlemen in the direction of The Collector, and McCloud and Cannon found themselves in the presence of a tall and extraordinarily well-dressed tall man who introduced himself with a little bit of a Southern accent. Tennessee perhaps?

The Collector

 
The Collector seemed quite eager to hear about the painting that he'd purchased from the Gnospelius sisters, and he offered Cannon and McCloud lunch, which was a most lavish affair. He himself did not partake in the lunch, but he did smoke prodigiously while engaging the investigators in conversation. He turned out to be a witty and charming man, and he claimed to be just what his nickname implied: a collector of objets d'art, especially from the American West and Southwest. The Collector pointed out that he had some hired help available to transport the boxes with the paintings, and they all stepped out to the Frank Cannon's waiting bus. It was now time for Frank Cannon to ask some real questions, and he thrust his trusty .38 snubnosed revolver into the midriff of The Collector. 

"There is really no need for that". The Collector looked down at the revolver with a mix of sadness and disdain. Cannon could not help notice that The Collector's body was rock-hard, like a well-trained sportsman. "Oh yes, there is" Cannon assured. "We were attacked by a surge of snakes in the middle of the night, all seemingly coming from the paintings. We had to destroy the artwork, but we kept the receipt. Who are those Gnospelius sisters, really?"

The Collector seemed noticeably saddened as Cannon and Ashford told him about the destruction. He suggested that they all go back to the tearoom, put away the gun, and ask the friend at the bar to join them for a talk.

Seated once again, The Collector lit yet another cigarette. "The Gnospelius sisters are... quite special. They may not know this themselves, as they seem quite innocuous or even downright unaware, but it is said that their paintings contain figments of events transpired, or other, strange, visions. I commissioned them to paint the Santo Doming Gorge, considering the reputation of that place. It may very well be that the rumors were true, then. I am so very sorry for your inconvenience, gentlemen." 

The conversation continued for some time, and eventually The Collector mentioned that if they were from Lincoln, would they know Father Bose? Lotus Ashford did day that this was the case, and The Collector asked if they could carry a letter to the good father. Frank Cannon agreed to this, and The Collector took out two pages of cream-colored letterhead and a fountain pen. He quickly penned a letter, signed it, and placed it in an envelop that was handed to Frank Cannon. Before parting ways, The Collector mentioned that they should seek out his friend Timothy Harper at the University of New Mexico, who happens to be a herpetologist. He might be able to identify the snake-and-a-half that McCloud had kept.

Professor Harper the herpetologist.

It turned out that the University of New Mexico actually was a sister university of Miskatonic University back in Arkham, and Lotus Ashford recognized the crest of his alma mater at the main entrance. The Department of Biology was still open, and Professor Timothy Harper was available. The herpetologist's office was a cavern of taxidermy, with all kinds of serpents, lizards and other kinds of creepy crawlies adorning almost every surface of the dimly-lit office. Harper was more than enthusiastic to lay his hands on the dead serpents, but even a thorough investigation could not indicate the exact breed of snake. The specimen did indicate some rather primitive features usually found in prehistoric serpents, and not in the snakes of the American Southwest. It was most curious, according to an increasingly agitated Professor Harper, who then very much wanted to show the investigators the afternoon snake feeding. He had several particularly fluffy rabbits that would be an excellent snack for Livia the boa constrictor and the vicious king cobra only known as Ralph. Ashford, McCloud, and Cannon politely declined and left for the Franciscan Hotel, where The Collector had ensured reservations.

Special Agents Smith and Jones.

Upon return, the investigators found two grumpy-looking individuals in cheap suits waiting for them. The two men introduced themselves as Special Agents Smith and Jones, and they wanted to ask some questions, mainly about whether the investigators had any associations with known Communists, as The Collector was on the Federal watch list. The Special Agents were entirely devoid of humor, but they were quite concerned about whether the investigators had agreed to deliver any items on account of The Collector. The agents also reminded Ashford, McCloud and Cannon of their patriotic duty, just in case.

Before settling in, the investigators simply could not resist opening the letter from The Collector to Father Bose. The contents seemed trivial enough:

Albuquerque, January 14, 1925. 

My Dear Father Bose, I hope this letter finds you well. Unfortunately, I am writing you to tell you that pressing business will keep me away from Lincoln, although I could most definitely use one or two of Magda’s fine tamales. However, next time I will make a point of traveling straight to Lincoln, since I believe we have quite a bit of catching up to do, something I really look forward to. Meanwhile, take good care of yourself and give my very best to dear Magda and that little rapscallion Rodriguez.

Humbly yours in Christ, C

However, by exposing the letter to heat from a candle, it turned out that there was also some form of five-digit code written in invisible ink on the empty part of the second page. Why would an art collector communicate with a small-town priest in code? The speculations ended abruptly when the Three Amigos heard the sounds of glass breaking from Frank Cannon's room across the corridor. The investigators barged in, only to find the hotel room trashed and the window to the fire escape open. Someone was running down the fire escape, but McCloud was going to get him! McCloud rushed down the stairs inside the hotel and around the building, but the snake venom made him a bit slower than usual, and the person got away, leaving only his hat lying in the parking lot. Nothing was stolen from Cannon's room, so something else was afoot. An inspection of the hat showed the name M. Diaz embossed inside, but also a newspaper clipping inside the hat to improve the fit. The article was written by a journalist named Martin Diaz. Despite the early evening hour, the investigators had little problem finding the address of Diaz. The Three Amigos opted for an evening trolley trip to 110 West Federal Street.

From the diary of Lotus Ashford:

I am nursing a most dreadful cut and bump on the back of my head, and the ice pack provides little relief. This is the result of being attacked by a Martin Diaz, a deranged Mexican journalist and in all probability, a (former) spy. God knows who - or what - might have been Diaz's master when he leapt out of the window to attack me, his face a twisted mass of anger and desperation, and his eyes entirely devoid of any semblance of sanity. I am most fortunate to have friends such as Bill and Frank, since they could pry away that madman Diaz from my throat. Ruiz kept going on about a letter, and the letter in question seems to be the letter written by that enigmatic Collector to Father Bose.

The nefarious spying activities seem to have been conducted during several years. He was documenting US troop movements close to the border as well as other items of presumed national interest. His reports were concealed on the backside of a painting, but the last one was written more than a year ago. It was a report from Lincoln County.

My head really hurts, and look, there's Special Agents Smith and Jones!  

Martin Diaz in happier times.

Topsfield Terror!

It was April 26, two weeks after that dreadful Sunday at the Topsfield Power Plant. Mackie MacNamara was finally allowed to leave the Arkham hospital, although she was still covered in bandages. She joined her fellow investigators at the Miskatonic University Library, where Professor Henry Armitage, head librarian at Miskatonic, had decided to meet them. The Intrepid Investigators were perhaps not their most intrepid-looking. Jules Pollack looked permanently worried, which was emphasized by a deeply furrowed brow. Moira Baker was still sporting a bandage around her head, where the strange alien beings had attempted to open up her cranium and remove her brain. Surgeons had assured her that there would be minimal scarification, but Moira remained concerned. Irwin Bowers was looking unnaturally perky with a tinge of mania after having taken a long whiff of nitrous oxide, while Howards Lake seemed nervous and on the edge. He was perhaps still concerned that the strange biomechanical monstrosity would find him him again, and he had been sleeping poorly ever since the last encounter with the entity. Dark circles under Lake's eyes and a stubbly chin betrayed his predicament.

They were all seated in front of Professor Armitage in the dimly lit interior reading room of the Miskatonic University Library. Armitage was unclasping an old book, perhaps ten by seven inches and quite thick, and probably quite old. Two other books were propped up on stands, but not yet opened. Armitage cleared his throat and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know you have been through a lot, both recently and on your various trips. I know I should have sought you out previously in this capacity, but I frankly did not realize that you had delved so deeply into these strange alien beings that seek out our planet and its riches. Now, the beings you dispatched, did they look something like this?" Armitage pointed at a drawing in the book.

The book seemed to emit a musky odor, and Bowers sneezed before once again reaching for his nitrous oxide. Armitage continued: "The ancient folklore, while cloudy, evasive, and largely forgotten by the present generation, is of a highly singular character, and obviously reflects the influence of still earlier Indian tales. This material, moreover, closely coincides with tales which I had personally heard from elderly rustics in the mountains of New Hampshire. Briefly summarized, it hinted at a hidden race of monstrous beings which lurked somewhere among the remoter hills—in the deep woods of the highest peaks, and the dark valleys where streams trickle from unknown sources. These beings are seldom glimpsed, but evidences of their presence have been reported by those who have ventured farther than usual up the slopes of certain mountains or into certain deep, steep-sided gorges that even the wolves shunned.

These things seem content, on the whole, to let mankind alone; though they were at times held responsible for the disappearance of venturesome individuals—especially persons who built houses too close to certain valleys or too high up on certain mountains. Many localities came to be known as inadvisable to settle in, the feeling persisting long after the cause was forgotten. People would look up at some of the neighboring mountain-precipices with a shudder, even when not recalling how many settlers had been lost, and how many farmhouses burnt to ashes, on the lower slopes of those grim, green sentinels.

But while according to the earliest legends the creatures would appear to have harmed only those trespassing on their privacy; there are later accounts of their curiosity respecting men, and of their attempts to establish secret outposts in the human world. There are tales of the queer claw-prints seen around farmhouse windows in the morning, and of occasional disappearances in regions outside the obviously haunted areas. Tales, besides, of buzzing voices in imitation of human speech which made surprising offers to lone travelers on roads and cart-paths in the deep woods, and of children frightened out of their wits by things seen or heard where the primal forest pressed close upon their dooryards. In the final layer of legends—the layer just preceding the decline of superstition and the abandonment of close contact with the dreaded places—there are shocked references to hermits and remote farmers who at some period of life appeared to have undergone a repellent mental change, and who were shunned and whispered about as mortals who had sold themselves to the strange beings. In one of the northeastern counties it seemed to be a fashion about 1800 to accuse eccentric and unpopular recluses of being allies or representatives of the abhorred things.

As to what the things were—explanations naturally varied. The common name applied to them was “those ones”, or “the old ones”, though other terms had a local and transient use. Perhaps the bulk of the Puritan settlers set them down bluntly as familiars of the devil, and made them a basis of awed theological speculation. Those with Celtic legendry in their heritage—mainly the Scotch-Irish element of New Hampshire, and their kindred who had settled in Vermont on Governor Wentworth’s colonial grants—linked them vaguely with the malign fairies and “little people” of the bogs and wraiths, and protected themselves with scraps of incantation handed down through many generations. But the Indians had the most fantastic theories of all. While different tribal legends differed, there was a marked consensus of belief in certain vital particulars; it being unanimously agreed that the creatures were not native to this earth.

The Pennacook myths, which were the most consistent and picturesque, taught that the Winged Ones came from the Great Bear in the sky, and had mines in our earthly hills whence they took a kind of stone they could not get on any other world. They did not live here, said the myths, but merely maintained outposts and flew back with vast cargoes of stone to their own stars in the north. They harmed only those earth-people who got too near them or spied upon them. Animals shunned them through instinctive hatred, not because of being hunted. They could not eat the things and animals of earth, but brought their own food from the stars. It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never came back. It was not good, either, to listen to what they whispered at night in the forest with voices like a bee’s that tried to be like the voices of men. They knew the speech of all kinds of men—Pennacooks, Hurons, men of the Five Nations—but did not seem to have or need any speech of their own. They talked with their heads, which changed color in different ways to mean different things, and with strange clicking sounds.

All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century, except for occasional atavistical flareups. The ways of the Vermonters became settled; and once their habitual paths and dwellings were established according to a certain fixed plan, they remembered less and less what fears and avoidances had determined that plan, and even that there had been any fears or avoidances. Most people simply knew that certain hilly regions were considered as highly unhealthy, unprofitable, and generally unlucky to live in, and that the farther one kept from them the better off one usually was. In time the ruts of custom and economic interest became so deeply cut in approved places that there was no longer any reason for going outside them, and the haunted hills were left deserted by accident rather than by design. Save during infrequent local scares, only wonder-loving grandmothers and retrospective nonagenarians ever whispered of beings dwelling in those hills; and even such whisperers admitted that there was not much to fear from those things now that they were used to the presence of houses and settlements, and now that human beings let their chosen territory severely alone.

The Vermont myths differed but little in essence from those universal legends of natural personification which filled the ancient world with fauns and dryads and satyrs, suggested the kallikanzari of modern Greece, and gave to wild Wales and Ireland their dark hints of strange, small, and terrible hidden races of troglodytes and burrowers. No use, either, to point out the even more startlingly similar belief of the Nepalese hill tribes in the dreaded Mi-Gou or 'Abominable Snow-Men' who lurk hideously amidst the ice and rock pinnacles of the Himalayan summits."

"But what would these strange... Mi-Go do with some form of radioactive technology on top of a hydro-electric power plant? They sure seem to have left those hills, right?" Jules Pollack was quite anxious to find out, but he also wanted to get to the bottom of this, since he needed a drink.

"There were ancient and elaborate alliances between the hidden outer creatures and certain members of the human race. How extensive these alliances were, and how their state today might compare with their state in earlier ages, we had no means of guessing; yet at best there was room for a limitless amount of horrified speculation. There seemed to be an awful, immemorial linkage in several definite stages betwixt man and nameless infinity. The blasphemies which appeared on earth, it was hinted, came from the dark planet Yuggoth, at the rim of the solar system; but this was itself merely the populous outpost of a frightful interstellar race whose ultimate source must lie far outside even the Einsteinian space-time continuum or greatest known cosmos. It seems quite likely that the blasphemous were attempting to rein in the awesome energies of the Cobalttorium-G to built a gatewat or a portal between our planet and distant Yuggoth, or perhaps even more remote and distant places. The Mi-Go would then be able to access our world at their leisure for God knows what nefarious purpose. You see, if these aliens become more interested in affairs here on Earth, we might find ourselves in a most difficult and desperate situation!"

"But why, o why were they going to send our brains into thee void?" Moira was still shuddering at the thought of a seemingly gleeful space crustacean cutting into her forehead.

"Well, since you mentioned it..." Armitage reached in under the sturdy table and, to the horror of the investigators, pulled out a Mi-Go brain canister featuring an intact brain.

"I acquired this specimen from Professor Jones of the Religion Department. His son had apparently, well, stolen, the cylinder from an almost abandoned monastery in the remote parts of Tibet where it had been kept for at least two centuries. And yes, we have tried to contact the brain through wiring and electricity, but it seems to be dead, or perchance dormant. This could have been you, Miss Baker!"

"But why were they so interested in me?" Mackie shifted in her chair, The wounds were still hurting quite a bit.

"You are, after all, quite the scholar, no matter what the likes of Professor Thornton-Smythe might say, and judging from your accounts, you have encountered avatars of such strange multi-dimensional existences as Yog-Sothoth, and other weird beings of sea and land. Your knowledge would be quite valuable to the Mi-Go, and knowledge is something they truly respect - and collect." Armitage put down the brain cylinder and covered it with heavy velvet cover before continuing. "Mr. Lake, is it not quite the irony that you nevertheless managed to destroy the Topsfield Power Plant? I do wonder how the Mi-Go could spy into what seems to be various alternative futures. Were the naked triplets part of this precognition device? We will never find out now, unless we find other examples of Mi-Go technology, or some other source. Oh, I also have this to show you." Professor Armitage reached into his jacket and pulled out a small box with a strange scalpel-like object. 

"I believe this might match some of the artifacts you found up in the ruins of Meadow Hill Manor." The investigators nodded. "This was found by a Mr. Lotus Ashford in Lincoln, New Mexico, earlier this year. Mr. Ashford used to be a resident of Arkham, you know, and Miskatonic is his alma mater. It seems as if this object was found in a ranch owned by a Mr. Otto Argo, who subsequently disappeared or even perished. You might find this information strange, but so do I. So far, the connection seem unclear, and I am certain that we'll have more to discuss. 

"So who or what did I actually shoot in the head then? Otto Argo seems to have been some form of automaton, not unlike what is stalking Howard." Lake could not help looking over his shoulder at the mention  of the weird killer that remained at large.

"I really do not know. Is Otto Argo merely a construct? Was he once a human? Is there still an original Otto Argo? We cannot know for sure. Anyway, before we part ways, I would like to recommend that you take a trip out of town, preferably a longer trip. There are old and strange groups and powers who would probably like to engage you in a wide variety of particularly unpleasant ways, not too mention that both mayor Bryce, councilman Bedford Duvall and the Arkham PD are more than a little upset due to the destruction of the Topsfield Power Plant. I may have managed to pull a few strings to avoid lengthy prison sentences, but there is only so much I can do."

The weary investigators had many difficult decisions to make. Also, whatever happened to Bogislav Klimnik, the terrified doctor, and was the man-machine hunting Lake still around?

    

 ARKHAM ADVERTISER

Saturday, April 11, Morning Edition

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Strange Fowl Found

Two lumberjacks found the carcass of strange beast in the woods immediately north of Arkham this morning. The creature was just short of five feet, and it had some semblance to a crustacean, albeit with wings. The carcass was however badly deteriorated, not to mention sporting several bullet holes, and quite a few parts of its anatomy had been reduced to foul pools of particularly odorous ichor. The lumberjacks attempted to bring the carcass back to Arkham for further examination,  but to no avail, since the carcass separated into lumps of jelly-like matter when lumberjack Bartholomew Knowles attempted to pick it up. The creature did resemble some of the strange mountain creatures mentioned on fairy tales, although it is assumed that the carcass simply was a mauled and rotting predatory bird.

 

Nefertiti Fashion Shoot Blocks Times Square  

The Nefertiti Studio House of Fashion ran rampant across Times Square this Thursday as they ushered in designers, fashion models, and celebrities into the Astor Hotel on Broadway. Famed fashion feature Mr. Patrice Montague claimed that there will an grand event later this spring and that "I am conquering couture for New York and the United States!" 

Blythe D'Amour modelling a Nefertiti Studios dress for the Spring salon.

Future Flying: All Movies on Board!

Imperial Airways brought entertainment and glamor into the air on April 6 when the regular flight between Paris and London included the screening of a movie. The chosen film was "The Lost World", and the film was enjoyed by the comfortably seated passengers as they sipped cocktails. 

The Santo Domingo Gorge and Grant County

The Santo Domingo Gorge is a local legend in Grant County, New Mexico. According to native American lore, the gorge was created when the White Painted Woman attempted to cut off the head of The Snake and gashed the earth, leaving the gorge as a mark. Snake slithered away and entered the bowels of the earth, and he was banished from the lands of the Chiricahua Apache.

The Santo Doming was probably named by missionary father Juan Perez dos Molinos (1723-?) during his epic trip around the Spanish colonies. It is said that Molinos actually wrestled with the Devil himself in the gorge when Lucifer tried his faith on a particularly dark night. Molinos claimed that his many subsequent visions were a result of this spiritual melee.

In 1823, a unit of Mexican cavalry scouting what is now Grant County was ambushed by a tribe of Apaches that they hadn't encountered before. The battle was brief, but exceedingly brutal, and the Mexican cavalry, commanded by Capitan Felipe Martinez del Mazo, pursued the Apache into the Santo Domingo Gorge, where del Mazo was impaled by fanatic defenders. The Mexicans eventually defeated the Apache, and they found a community in particularly poor shape, the result of inbreeding and zealous use of certain herbs that debilitated many of these particular Apaches. The survivors were deported, and the community razed to the ground by Tenente Martin Arreola, who died shortly thereafter, although the circumstances remain unclear.

The Santo Doming Gorge facing north.

The Santo Domingo Gorge was explored again by Herbert Longfellow, a geologist, anthropologist and gambler, in 1866. He led a small party into the gorge, and they found the ruins of decrepit buildings as well as an amazing array of petroglyphs of unknown origin. He interviewed several members of other native American tribes as well as some American settlers. They were all very wary of the Santo Domingo Gorge, and they would stay away from it. On the other hand, the countryside around the gorge is not suited for neither farming nor grazing.

Following rumors of gold being found in the Santo Domingo Gorge in 1881, the German prospector Henry (Heinrich) Altmeier and his son Eric decided to try their luck. They rode into the gorge on a chilly November morning, and they never made it out. Another prospector, Bedford "Slim" Jackson, found their corpses in January that following year. It was said that it seemed as if they had killed each other, but this was not confirmed. The official cause of death was an unexpected rockslide.

In June of 1924, twin sisters Eliza and Mildred Turner wandered off into the gorge in the middle of the night. They were only wearing night gowns, and their disappearance led to search parties being dispatched into the area of the Santo Domingo Gorge. Mildred was found after six days, but she has remained catatonic since.

Henry Farny, "Renegade Apaches", 1892.