[IC] Act One: Savannah

As Lillian walks down the corridor and into the common room next to the stairs, her eyes are drawn to a drawing of some sort on the wall. As she looks more closely, wincing a little as she bends down, she notices that there are several small pictograms here and there, some drawn, some inscribed with some sort of implement, some even seem to be smeared bodily fluids (blood if she has to guess). They're all different, and some she doesn't recognise at all, but the ones she does resemble things like the evil eye, and various protective symbols, particularly ones that are supposed to stop scrying, though they're from a variety of different cultures. There's also one that looks like a mouth of some sort, and weirdly, depending on how you look at it, it seems to be moving its lips, as if it's whispering. Getting closer, Lillian is even half sure she imagines it is whispering to her, but that's obviously silly. Come to thin of it, now she's closer, it's not a mouth after all, and m=not moving, of course, more like a water damage mark that must be glistening a little of the dampness and humidity. In fact it really doesn't look anything like a mouth at all now. Why on earth should she think it did? Does she have some sort of concussion? She doesn't feel too bad though. I mean, how could she think this mark was a moving human-sized mouth, with chapped lips, and showing broken, brown teeth within it as it the lips moved and it whispered at her?

Gabriel offers the chair to Mrs Blakey, silently encouraging her to rest a moment to recover from the shocking attack she suffered.

He then addresses the man they came all this way to meet.
"Mister Henslowe... I am Doctor Walker, and these are my collaborators. How are you feeling today," he starts, in the warm, interested tone he uses in his first encounters with patients.

"The family of your old friend Walter Winston asked us to find out more about his past... We travelled from New England for this purpose. You see, unfortunately Mr. Winston passed away at the beginning of this year." He pauses to observe Henslowe's reaction to the news.

"We understand Mr. Weston Winston spent time years ago here in Savannah, and possibly... in California. If you don't mind me asking... what was the nature of your acquaintance?"

At the mention of Winston, Henslowe perks up, but at the news of his death, he seems to deflate, shrink in on himself, crestfallen, and stays silent.

Lillian leans forward slightly, studying the poor fellow. The news of his friend's passing clearly hurt even after all this time.

Lillian pulls her chair slightly closer to Mr. Henslowe and leans forward ever so slightly, in part to get a better look at him; she naturally becomes sympathetic when she says, "My condolences; I'm so sorry for loss. "

Douglas Henslowe sits, now slumped in his chair rather than sitting ramrod straight as before. He seems to ignore the rest of you for a few seconds, in his own reverie, mumbling "I'm the last one now. No-one to corroborate. Was any of it even real?"

When Lillian leans forward and speaks, it brings him out of himself a little. "Thank you" he says and then sits up a little. "So, what can I tell you?"

When Dr Walker repeats his question, he nods, and begins.

"Walter was our leader. He'd made his money in pharmaceuticals, you know, and had enough to fund our group, the company was run well so he didn't have to do much himself any more. It was Walter who gathered us together, to battle the perversity in the world that this cult represented. He was a good man. A good man. We were travelling the country, hot on the trail of the cult that started all this. We questioned people, gathered evidence, took pictures, travelled all over. We were like detectives, armed with our secret knowledge, the occult stuff. It was an exciting time. Exhilarating."

He pauses, swallowing, his mouth working without issue for a few seconds before he continues.

"We'd followed the drugs all across the country, all the way till we got to Los Angeles. That's where the bulk of our investigation took place. That was the hub, where they were making them. That's when it all went wrong."

He pauses again, lost in thought, or fogged by the drugs he's on. You wait for him to continue, and eventually, after another few seconds, he does.

"That's where it all went wrong. That's where all the terrible things happened. Katherine, she was our photographer, archivist, records keeper. She hated that the cult could operate like it did, in secrecy, that people would cover up something so vile rather than bring it to light. She's the one that caught wind of what was happening that night. I saw her get ripped apart by...by that thing. Vince was a tough guy, Walter always called him our fixer, good with a gun, good with his fists. Always down to business, always ready with a drink to calm the nerves. He's the one who waded right in there, that night, brought hell to some of those cultists with his shotgun. I saw him go down in a mob of those wretched scum, those big knives they had. Knew then that he wouldn't be getting back up. F.C.Kullman was our occult expert, known far and wide back in the day, he was. Walter had to pay him a pretty sum to get him to come to LA with us. Bit of a stick in the mud, but brightest mind I ever met. I saw his wheelchair overturned, but didn't see what got him. It was him and Walter did the research, found out what ritual they were planning, what they were summoning. They used the drug money to pay for everything, F.C. was the one who figured out they were already in contact with that thing, the thing with the thousand mouths. and that they were going to summon it, or an avatar of it, some kind of incarnation, in that barn outside the city. We rushed out there as soon as we got word that so many of the cultists were meeting up there. Katherine had organised some locals to keep an eye out for us. I remember Walter saying the stars were right too, that night, whatever he meant by that. So we rushed out there, guns and home-made firebombs to put an end to it, to stop them. To...save the world, I guess. And a lot of people died that night. The fire was horrific. Then the shootout. I know I shot some people that night. Probably killed a few. But then that thing."

Henslowe sits again, staring into space, the searing memory of the night etched into his face. He swallows again, his mouth dry, his lips making a rasping sound as he draws them back over his teeth before continuing.

"It began tearing people apart - it's own people. People were running everywhere, some on fire, screaming, some even threw themselves into the fire. Then it came for us, and I saw Walter panic. I'd never seen him panic. Then all I know is I was bolting, running through the high grass, the fire behind me, sobbing. Like a coward. Like a damn coward."

He sits quietly, tears rolling down his worn cheeks, still staring ahead as if none of you are there, and he was back in Los Angeles in 1924.

Samuel glances to his companions before speaking. "You feel guilty for living when they didn't. I saw it after the war... even during it. Still wrestle with it some nights. Wish there was some magic cure to let you come to terms with it, but that's entirely on you. Some people move on, some people let that guilt consume them. For what it's worth... you did nothin' wrong. Survival is a powerful instinct."

His tone is surprisingly soft, and he pauses for a moment before continuing. "The idea of living for those who couldn't... that's what got me through. Mostly, at any rate."

Gabriel is struck by the level of detail in the insane man's outburst. He's had years to refine it, of course. Parts of the account seem hallucinatory. The thing with the thousand mouths, classic delirium... Yet, there is something quite lucid in the man's words. The mention of a drug makes his clinical sense flare up. An explanation for the hallucinations?

He nods at Samuel's comment, feeling a pang of pain for the man. Very generous of him, trying to comfort Henslowe with his own trauma... a remarkable fellow...

Then, addressing the in-patient gently, "tell us about this drug... what did it do to people who took it? And what was the involvement of... Edgar Job? He is here, right?" he observes the man.

Mouths? Did he draw that sketch on the wall? Or Edgar? Best stay quiet for now. Wait, didn't Douglas keep a journal?

Henslowe looks up at Samuel as he speaks, and nods, briefly - just a slight movement of the head, but an acknowledgement. This guy gets it it seems to say.

When Dr Walker asks about the drug, he shrugs.

Just some drug they were manufacturing and selling to fund their rituals. I didn't try it, obviously. I suppose it does what all of those kinds of things do. Gets you high, ruins your life.

When Dr Walker mentions Job's name, he grows visibly angry, his knuckles whiten as they grasp the table edge, as if he's ready to flip it in his rage.

He was one of them! On the other side! One of those responsible for that...that thing! Responsible for all those deaths!

At this outburst, Dr Keaton intervenes.

You didn't say, Dr Walker, that you were going to ask such pointed questions. Perhaps we should cut this interview short, to save Douglas from getting too worked up, especially with what occurred earlier.

He heads for the door to call for an orderly, but as he does so, Henslowe grabs the pen and notebook that Dr Keaton left on the table. He quickly scribbles a note, rips the page out of the book and hands it to Samuel, and then places the pen back on top of the notebook.

"I hid my notebook back at the estate with a secret key to understanding more of what was going on back then. What's almost certainly still going on, since we failed. Ask Frank Hickering, back at my estate. Frank Hickering. Give this note to the groundskeeper at my estate on Old Hope Road, he'll let you look around."

Dr Keaton and an orderly return seconds after, and Henslowe is taken away, looking back at the group as he exits the room and nodding to Samuel.

The note itself reads:

Samuel quickly folds the paper and pockets it before the doctor and the orderly return. When Henslowe looks back, Samuel makes eye contact and returns the nod but says nothing.

Leaving the room, Gabriel apologies to Keaton. "I misunderstood you, my bad, doctor. I thought you wanted to observe how he would react to a new interaction, and see him relate afresh with someone new... Sometimes observing how patients negotiate a new acquaintance is very revealing as you know... Henslowe is an interesting, faceted personality, for sure. "

I must be more careful, or he will cut our visit short.

" I wouldn't mind meeting this Job, to get a personal impression on someone Henslowe perceives so negatively. I will not be over inquisitive, I assure you... What can you tell me about him, clinically speaking?"

Lillian has no idea where this is going, but it is interesting, if frightful. It then also occurs to her that there are recording studios in LA.

That's the hidden journal, then.

"Goodbye, Mr. Henslowe, thank-you for your help."

Dr Keaton has you wait in the same interview room while he goes off to get Edgar Job prepped. It takes a while - almost 20 minutes - before the door re-opens and Dr Keaton walks back in, a scrawny man behind him, and a large orderly behind him.



Edgar Job is a small, scrawny man, skinny, with stubble all over his face and scalp. Dressed in the white scrubs of the patients at Joy Grove that hang baggily over his skinny frame, he looks almost like some prisoner of war than a patient. He's a little slack-jawed, and his eyes appear slightly unfocused, like he isn't really here, or at least, not entirely.

"You got a cigarette?" he asks the group collectively, sitting slouched at the tale, one arm resting on it, the other raised as if to accept this cigarette as soon as it's produced. His voice is similar to his physique - thin, reedy, a little nasal.

"Fresh out," Sam replies. "Mr. Job, why are you here?"

Edgar Job blinks slowly, and his mouth opens slowly, his thin lips giving way to nicotine-stained teeth. He speaks in a drawl, but not a southern drawl like the locals here, more that of someone slow, or drugged. "The orderly brought me here." he says. There's no trace of guile or sarcasm in his voice though.