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.

Meeting Otto Argo

The intrepid investigators were exhausted as they turned in at the Pawtuxet Hotel. It was too late to head for Martin's Beach, and they all collapsed in their respective beds. Jules Pollack didn't even have time for a single lurid thought about Diana Spinoza before he was out cold. The night was uneventful for a change, or so it seemed to the investigators. While for example Howard Lake was resting with his Luger under his pillow, Mrs. O'Flaherty saw a horrifying sight as she went to the rest room in the middle of the night. While rising from her sojourn on the commode, a dreadfully burned face gazed in at her with two eyes seemingly made out of white-hot coal. She shrieked, and the creature left, but it seemed that malevolent forced were still searching for Howard Lake. Mrs. O'Flaherty spent the rest quietly sobbing in her kitchen together with Burlington Jones and Diana Spinoza before calling Jules Pollack.

 

That Saturday morning also saw a new visitor call on J. Pollack Fine Antiques: Johnny Schwartz, a journalist from Great Britain representing "The Engineer" of 33 Norfolk Street, The Strand, London. Mrs. O'Flaherty once again called Jules Pollack, and a meeting was set up at Richard's Bakery on West Armitage. Irwin Bowers managed to slip into the meeting as well, and Schwartz turned out to be a charming British person who was investigating the new technology of the Topsfield Power Plant for readers overseas. A couple of well-placed telephone calls from Bowers did establish Schwartz as a journalist for "The Engineer". Schwartz was also quite curious about the other undertakings of Jules Pollack and his friends, and they spent several hours sharing fantastic stories with Schwartz.

Meanwhile, Moira Baker, "Mackie" MacNamara and Howard Lake went to visit Doc Brown for a number of reason, one being to retrieve Lake's automobile. That was not possible, since according to Doc Brown there had been some separation between the engine and the chassis. The disappointed Lake had to make do with an older Model T, not unlike Pollack's. It was promptly packed with dynamite around the fuel tank, and Doc Brown even had a small slab of a new kind of plastic explosive from Washington. It was split up between the investigators, with Mackie rolling ten small marbles of the explosive and stashing them in her brassiere. Moira placed a couple of slices in her handbag, and other slices were distributed amongst the investigators. Doc Brown did remind the investigators that the explosive was sensitive to impacts and electricity, and a not insignificant detonation when a hammer hit a piece of the explosive back at the Pawtuxet did destroy a low table and cause a fire.

Despite all the misgivings, it was decided to accept the invitation from Otto Argo to visit the Topsfield Power Plant. However, Lake and Bowers were to be backup, cleverly disguised as bird watchers on a he rainy and chilly April Sunday. They were armed and ready to light the fuse in their automobile and assault the power plants if something went wrong. That is, if they could find out that something had gone wrong. 

Otto Argo

Entering the Topsfield Power Plant on Sunday morning required a quick search of MacNamara, Pollack and Baker, but they had some firepower cleverly concealed in the vehicle. They were met in the spacious and futuristic lobby by a cheerful Bogislav Klimnik. They all went up to the top floor of the research building, and after a remarkably lengthy ride in an  enormous elevator, they stepped into an enormous but dimly lit room with a desk in front of three giant pillars at the end of the room. At once they noticed the strange humming sound that the investigators had noticed before: varied in pitch and tempo, almost sounding like disembodied voices, and leaving Baker, Pollack and MacNamara light-headed and with difficulties to focus and concentrate. MacNamara would have nothing of this, and she discreetly plugged her ears with two of the plastic explosive pellets. The man behind the desk greeted them: 

"I am Otto Argo. Please forgive the dark room, but I am suffering from a rare skin disorder, and I cannot bear intense light". Mackie promptly lit a cigarette, leading to an irritated "Do you not hear what I say? Put out the light!"

Mr. Otto Argo continued to outline his proposal to the three investigators. It was a travel proposal. Deeming that the investigators had seen and experienced such strange, wondrous and fantastic things, Otto Argo was now willing to transport MacNamara, Pollack and Baker to a celestial body called Yuggoth. This place was described in a fantastic, yet rather weird way, and despite promises of unknown and arcane knowledge as well as amazing sights, the investigators were not convinced. Otto Argo pointed out three cylinders labelled "MacNamara", "Pollack" and "Baker" which would enable the investigators to travel to Yuggoth. The would-be travelers now definitely opted out from such a journey.

Several armed guards in civilian garb now forcibly escorted the three investigators downstairs, where a curious operating theater was set up. Strange machines hummed and whined, while two of the revolting flying beings previously encountered hovered at the end of the steel gurneys, each one of them facing a set of weird surgical instruments that matched the ones found at Meadow Hill. Pollack and Baker were now almost entirely subdued by the weird humming sounds and strapped down to their respective gurney, but MacNamara pulled out the Pocket Knife of Doom with a deft move. She completely surprised the thug to her left, stabbing him straight through the eyeball. He fell down to his knees, blood spurting out of his ruined eye socket, as Mackie spun around and jammed the pocket knife into the kidney of another thug. But now, what was that explosion?

Armed Flying Horror

Moira Baker:

I am so thrilled to finally cross the great void, to finally fly across the great cosmic vistas, and to gain understanding of what we have experienced, as so many before us - and ahead of us. I have been promised to see the dark towers of Yuggoth as they stretch up above the great river of K'nai across the sunless plain lit only by the eternal stars. The earthly feelings are subsiding as I stretch out towards the abyss, to a higher knowledge, and to all the secrets hidden from ordinary mortals. The soul-singers of Ommon praising the lords of the elder ones, the mighty elementals treading between the burning stars beyond Andromeda, the blind servitors piping mindlessly at the apex of creation... all this shall be mine! Iä! 

But what is this? I am not going to fabled Yuggoth? My soul! My mind! My soul! Suspended in Stygian night, encapsulated between the planets for eternities!? What is that explosion?

Jules Pollack:

It is eerie not to remember my Christian name. Am I going or am I being reborn? It is very lonely, very cold, and the darkness is coming alive with unholy entities. They stare at me, they snarl, and I hear how they whisper about Yuggoth while licking their lips with barbed tongues. This place is horrifying, and the living darkness is turning into a color that I cannot name. I blinds me and burns me, and it feels like my flesh is slowly being stripped from my limbs and torso. I cannot bear it! My mortal self is akin to a speck of slowly dying dust, a pathetic ember that is going to be extinguished by the void... but what is that explosion?

By now, Lake and Bowers had rammed the building with a car filled with dynamite after having seen the two flying horrors descending upon the power plant. Bowers rolled around, a bottle of nitrous oxide in one hand and a pump action shotgun in the other, while Lake pulled out his Luger out of a ripped jacket. A secondary explosion shook the Topsfield Power Plant and silhouetted Lake and Bowers as they entered the building.

Quadruple Impressionism

It was Saturday, January 10, and the lengthy investigations by the U.S. Marshals were finally over. The Marshals had been polite, but very formal, and quite thorough. It was obvious that they had a very difficult time figuring out what really transpired at the Mitscher Ranch, but they also seemed to have a leaning to more natural explanations than the encounters that McCloud, Cannon and Ashford had experienced. There had also been the issue of establishing themselves in the Mitscher Ranch, renovating the building, and thinking of future business endeavors. Fortunately, help arrived in the shape of Harris Tweed, a mining engineer who preferred the name "Harry". He seemed skilled, albeit rather rough around the edges, and more than willing to tell off the lazy and inept. Esteban was also hired as a security guard and general assistant, while nurse Pettenkoffer was hired to keep future miners in good health. The three books that the investigators found in the Mitscher Ranch posed a particular challenge, as they were found to be deteriorating, slowly but surely. Lotus Ashford decided to look around the county for a photographer, and he founds a certain Joseph Mulroney, a sensitive young man who worked as a photographer to support his ambitious artistic endeavors. He attempted to photograph the pages, but the writing did not leave any imprint whatsoever on the plates, so it was decided to hire Mulroney to copy the texts by hand. Joseph Mulroney was more than eager to take on the job. 

Joseph Mulroney

It was now decided to scout the mountain that seemed to have been housing those flying monstrosities that had caused such mayhem. It was quite stiff hike to get up the mountainside, and much to their dismay, McCloud, Ashford, Cannon and Pettenkoffer only found a quite significant landslide. Judging from the lack of vegetation, it seemed to have occurred fairly recently, and the intrepid investigators could only speculate as to what might be hidden beneath the tons and tons of rocks and gravel.

  

Harris "Harry" Tweed

The investigators came back to the Mitscher Ranch just before sunset, and they were more than ready for a hearty dinner. As Lotus Ashford took the first bite of Harry Tweed's hearty but bland dishes, he made a note to himself regarding hiring a decent cook for the ranch. However, Harry also had some news, as a young lady had called upon the ranch looking for Frank Cannon. She left a calling card bearing the name of "Anna Gnospelius", and not much more. She had apparently inquired about an issue of transportation. It was agreed to seek out Anna next morning.  

The aforementioned morning was the opening act for yet another striking winter day in New Mexico. McCloud, Cannon and Ashford took their trusty bus into town to find out where Ms. Anna Gnospelius might be found. It turned out that she and her sisters were renting a ranch, more specifically the Pinetree Ranch just south of Lincoln. The ranch turned out to be freshly renovated, and it was painted white with pink and green details, all in a romantic New England-style that seemd very welcoming, yet out of place in New Mexico. The three sisters Gnospelius seemed equally out of place: gorgeous, well-mannered, oddly coordinated in speech and action, and very, very gregarious. The intrepis investigators were invited into the ranch house for tea, although McCloud decided to stay outddors while muttering something about "taking care of business". The circumstances did seem to bother Bill McCloud quite a bit, and it took him a good half hour before he decided to step into the ranch. 

Emily, Anna and Dorothy Gnospelius.

According to the sisters, they had rented the Pinetree Ranch for an art project. You see, they are all painters, and with the help of their manservant Benson, they were going to enjoy the winter in New Mexico by capturing the state, its inhabitants, and its stunning nature on canvas. As a matter of fact, a collector in Albuquerque, Mr. Wright, had already purchased four of their paintuings, and thay all wanted to know if Mr. Cannon might be able to drive the paintings to Albuquerque for a generous compensation? The impressionist paintings were done in thick layers of oil paint, and they depicted scenes from the Santo Domingo Gorge. This was a place name that made McCloud shudder. It was in that God-forsaken gorge that the Turner twins, Eliza and Mildred, disappeared, and McCloud had takein part in the search. Only Mildred was found, and she had lost her ability to speak, being entirely catatonic. Regardless, four sizeable paintings were placed in sturdy wooden containers and lifted into the bus. It was decided to depart next morning, January 12.

The bus was packed with a generous amount of supplies, and with Frank Cannon at the wheel, McCloud in the passengers' seat, and Ashford in the pack, the investigators drove down from the mountain range and onto the road to Albuqueque that would take them through the White Sands salt flats. After several hours on the road, the investigators noticed a thin layer of reddish sand in the vehicle, which irritated Frank more than a little. He preferred his vehicles clean, and in good shape. Frank Cannon stopped the vehicle and they all started looking where the sand might come from. It seemed as if the two shipping cretaes that contained the artwork also seemed to have included a small amount of sand, and it was decided to move the boxes to the roof of the bus.

By now, the sun was already low on the horizon, and it also seemed as if Frnk had left the road itself and driven out onto the salt flats. The intrepid investigators decided to set up camp for the evening, but also to mount a guard. As Lotus Ashford began his shift in the middle of the night, he couldn't help gazing up at the fantastic New Mexico night sky. After a couple of minutes, he also noticed a faint hissing sound, like sand flowing through an hour glass, or in this case, sand pouring out of the art boxes and onto the bus roof at a most alarming rate. Lotus really didn't know what to do, so he bolted down to wake up his compatriots. As Lotus scrambled down the skinny ladder, he saw movement in the passenger compartment amongst his sleeping friends. Were they experiencing a particularly restless bout of sleep? It seemed as if there was almost perpetual movement underneath their blankets.

Meanwhile, Frank Cannon was experiencing disturbing dreams of someone, or something, reaching for his thigh, and he reached down to brush off the unwelcome presence. He was horrified to abruptly wake up holding a thick white-ish snake in his right hand, fangs bared and ready to strike. His many years with venomous criminals paid off as he flung the writhing serpent into the driver's seat. He then immediately bolted out of the bus. McCloud woke up when Ashford staring telling about the snakes, snakes that seemed to be eveywhere, and with even more sliding down from the ceiling. Several of the venemous creatures were crawling on McCloud, and he pulled off his hunting knife, chopping the head off one of the serpents, but a second snale lunged and buried his sharp fangs in McCloud's lower left arm.

By now, all three of the investigators were outside the bus, and carrying lanterna and torches. The writhing mass of snakes seemed to shy away from the light, although McCloud did notice that the snakes did  not seem to be of any known North American variety. It came as no surprise that both snakes and sand seemed to emanate from the boxes containing the paintings, and Frank Cannon pulled them down as Ashford and McCloud kept the serpents at bay. McCloud was in some pain now, and feeling quite nauseous, despite the valiant attempts of his friends to treat the incision from the snake. Without further ceremony, the investigators torched both boxes and paintings, and within a minute there was a mighty fire, a fire that on occasion produced strange colors and sounds and the paintings were incinerated. Bill McCloud though for a second that he saw the face of Eliza Turner, the young girl that had diasappeared in the Santo Domingo Gorge last fall. By now, the snakes had crawled off into the night, avoiding the flames at all cost.

Several questions remained, though: what were these strange snakes (McCloud had kept a dead specimen for further study)? Who was this Mr. Wright, the art collector? What was going on with the Gnospelius sisters? Could an antidote be found to heal Bill McCloud's snake bite?