From the diary of Irwin Bowers:
- Unintelligible.
Insert: a calling card.
"Great meeting you today, and stay in touch. Glad to help you with the McClure case"
- Jerry Christmas, New York Times, Times Square, New York.
From the diary of Mackie MacNamara:
What a keepsake. It was well worth it. What would have happened with Mackie, the High Priestess, Howard, the Hanged Man, and Moira, Death?
I had gazed upon you
longingly, but I could not have imagined the carnal pleasures that I
experienced and thoroughly enjoyed together with you. You followed me to a new
level, a new plane of pleasure, and I would like to invite to share these
experiences again, but without the awkwardness of our first exploration. I have
reserved a suite at the Waldorf Astoria on Wednesday, and I will meet you for
lunch in the suite at 1pm. Dress for pleasure.
Lovingly,
Victor
From the diary of Jules Pollack:
The weeks just get stranger and stranger. Mr. Franz Alter took Moira to a psychodabbler calling himself "Sun Ra" to reach out into her subconscious and to figure out if Moira actually killed someone last weekend at that disjointed series of events that led to Moira, Mackie and Howard being holed up in an apartment close to Times Square and dodging klansmen while suffering from hangovers. Sun Ra was apparently an impressive presence: Tall, self-confident, and a most creative and gifted musician. And yes, he considers himself to be an incarnation of the sun god Ra, with his small Harlem apartment decorated with random elements of Egyptian-style knick-knacks. Whatever he did seemed to help, both Moira and Franz seemed better off when they returned, although they were definitely carrying a whiff of reefer. Speaking of such things, I need a stiff drink!
Sun Ra, a jazz mystic.
From the notebook and prescription pad of Franz Alter:
It is difficult to write this. Have I been over-dosing on some of my own chemicals? I am not prone to hallucinating, but there is really no other way to understand the disturbing things I have seen this week. First of all, the Dinana Spinoza woman is clearly insane in her self-imposed quest for knowledge of some fictionalized alternative history of the planet. She clearly managed to find a young librarian at the New York Public Library, flirt with him (G-d knows what else), and convince him to steal some weird old folio from the restricted stacks. Reading the 18th century folio and practicing the instructions for some overly dramatic ritual seems to have been too much for her, and she ended up comatose.
I could not see any use in repeating this ritual, but my newfound friends seemed quite anxious or maniacal. Then there was this issue with Bill the Talking Cat. Mass hypnosis, ventriloquism, or something else.? Why did Moira Baker shake the cage of the poor animal? The sight of that adorable cat bouncing up and down in the cage while Karen the Hen tried to take off was enough to induce instant and extreme zoophobia.
Then we have the issue of the death under Grand Central. A railway worker, Henry McClure, was found dead, possibly after falling into a tar pit. Jules Pollack sensed foul play, but he blames the death on some "eldritch horror" supposedly summoned by Diana Spinoza! Oy gevalt! Candles were lit, chants were chanted, sage and wine was flung in different directions. I have to agree that is was somewhat suggestive and all, but I really could not believe my eyes when the air felt as if it was full of electricity and a really rotten stench filled the hotel room. A weird undulating black mass of tendrils, maws and otherworldly extensions seemed to rise from the intricate patterns on the floor, and it rose above the heads of the chanters, seeming intent on devouring Mackie or Moira. The chanting was reversed, and the strange entity seemed to shrink back into the raised lines on the floor, and eventually reverting to the intricate lines that had been left by Diana Spinoza. What had I really experienced? Was there something similar to this ...this formless spawn really running amok under Grand Central Station?
From the diary of Moira Baker:
We were invited to this cocktail reception at Nefertiti Studios on Friday, May 8, and it was more of a workday that ended up being a cocktail party. It was a much more well-attended affair than previous events, and even the young actress Clara Bow - the "It" girl - was there. I also noticed a tall man dressed in an immaculate white suit and sporting a monocle, who was approached by Franz Alter. This well-dressed gentleman was even taller than Franz, but they seemed to find several topics to discuss before heading over to Jules Pollack, who all of a sudden was tending bar in a flurry of cocktail shakers, strainers, spoons and liquor bottles.
I was standing together with Irwin (Bowers) at the other end of the room, when three women in fantastic dresses approached us. They were both fascinating and irritating, seemingly talking with each other, to each other and for each other. They were also ludicrously self-absorbed and exhausting to talk to, but they eventually introduced themselves as the Gnospelius sisters; Emma, Anna and Dorothy. They all seemed to find us quite funny, and it was actually quite difficult to follow their meanderings to from a wide variety of subjects, but they did tell us that we, meaning all of us Arkhamites, will be going on a long trip soon. Very strange indeed.
The tall man in the white suit eventually walked out together with Jules to the adjacent balcony. He apparently introduced himself as "The Collector", and he provided Jukes with a calling card that listed a P.O. Box in Los Angeles. The Collector smoked constantly, and he clearly had some knowledge of our strange experiences over the last couple of years. He also spoke of Victor Aymes, and the priesthood of Mu. According to The Collector, these individuals were much older than they looked, and they should not be trifled with. On the contrary, they could prove to be quite dangerous. We all looked at Mackie, who was dancing away with Victor Aymes on a small stage at the end of the grand ballroom. The couple seemed to be adored by the dancers closest to the stage, and the music and the dancing was become increasingly frenzied. Then all of a sudden, Mackie and Aymes disappeared behind a curtain, We decided all of us to follow Mackie, and I took the lead, elbowing myself through the crowd, which by now was cheering jubilantly as balloons dropped from the ceiling.
There was stairwell behind the curtain, and it led to a mezzanine floor with three doors, and I sensed that Mackie and Victor Aymes might have entered through the center one. I threw myself with all my might at the door, but to no avail, so I decided to destroy the lock with some well-placed revolver rounds. Then I simply crashed through the door under the weight of my comrades. We were all looking into a sizeable but empty apartment, and Aymes was conducting a weird and disturbing ritual together with Mackie. Was this actually going to be the moment Mackie became the High Priestess of Aymes, that Mackie had hinted at previously?
A fierce fight erupted in the room. Irwin and Jules tried to outflank the doomed couple, while Franz Alter was given Jules's bottle of whiskey to turn into a firebomb. The bomb was hurled, flames lit up the room, and shots were fired. Victor Aymes looked disappointed, resigned, and gorgeous. After uttering "God, you're so dull," he simply vanished.
From the diary of Howard Lake:
It is a fascinating book, probably from the mid-18th century. I had never heard of it, but Father Zacharias at the Syrian-Orthodox Church a couple of blocks away seemed really apprehensive, or even scared. It fits in with some of the mystic tomes and documents we've encountered, hinting at older beings pre-dating mankind and disturbing alien entities that came to Earth eons ago. I do not know what "Zhothaqquah" might be. The Nahariya Manuscript would also be quite valuable, even if the authors are unknown. I wonder what we'll do with it?
The Nahariya Manuscript, property of the closed stacks of the New York Public Library:
Eighteen sheets of
parchment bound a thin folio into can be found. They are written in a mixture
of Latin and old English with a smattering of Aramaic.
The actual summoning spell is mainly in the two latter languages.
Excerpt from the Nahariya Manuscript:
Athens, c. 1740, author unknown.
It is in the black abyss of foul
N’kai that Zhothaqquah resides, and men from K’n-yan, from Mu, from Aegypt,
from Macedonia, from Constantinople have sought him for the promise of
limitless power and the most foreboding levels of arcane knowledge. To turn the
minds of men and to facilitate every whim, no matter how decadent. But alas,
the common fate is instead to be devoured by that terror of the depths, of the
sunless caverns, and of the dark desolation. Zhothaqquah’s servitors and spawn
roam these hellish subterranean caverns, and they will ooze around the basalt
statues of terrible Zhothaqquah, beings of viscous and semi-liquescent
substance, quite opaque, much like undulant ophidian forms.
…A few daring mystics have
hinted at an ancient origin of the fragmentary Pnakotic Manuscripts, and have
suggested that the devotees of Zhothaqquah were as alien to mankind as
Zhothaqquah itself…
(Different
handwriting)
I
am sitting alone at the empty shores of the Mediterranean in ancient Nahariya.
I thought that losing so much, so very much would give way to desperation, but
I have resigned to my fate. I have been running like a woman possessed after
that descent into the depths with my compatriots, and Wilbur, my stalwart
friend and companion was the only one to make it out besides myself. It was to
no avail, though. The spawn found us at night on the road from Jerusalem, and
although we were well-armed, and with Wilbur’s extensive military training
quite prepared, we stood little chance against these denizens of the deep. I
could not see if our blades or our pistol really caused any effect, and I doubt
it. I only managed to flee from the spawn by brandishing a lantern and smashing
it in front of the weird creature, but somehow they found me soon again. I am
now so tired that I will hand my soul to God, if there is such a thing, and try
to remain brave as the darkness closes in.
Pages from the Nahariya Manuscript:
Early Saturday morning:
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