[IC] Act One: Savannah

Act One: Savannah



Theme Tune

Date: 26 May, 1937

The group assembles at the airport again three days later, all driven to the place through the narrow country lanes outside Arkham by Frank Kearns, who seems pretty happy at the prospect of flying again. Once at the airport, he starts to deal with the various tasks of prepping the plane, checking the plane's equipment, making sure he has enough fuel, and creating and lodging flight paths. Ms Winston Rogers is also at hand, to see you off, give you wishes of success and safe flight, and to hand you banker's drafts to cover your expenses and fees - the equivalent of about 3 months wages for each of you, for what she expects to take maybe a week. As you clamber into the plane, obviously a private one, and lavishly furnished with plenty of storage space, you notice that the maps and books have been stowed in the plane in bespoke shelves that allow the various tomes to remain in situ during flight. There are several other shelves here that remain empty.

When you are all ready, Frank heads to the cockpit and puts a headset on, and begins talking to the small airport's control tower. As he taxis to the runway, he switches to a plane-wide system and says "Should take about 8 hours folks, maybe a little longer depending on the weather. Buckle up. There are flasks and food in the galley at the back when you get hungry."

He takes off on the short runway, speeding into the air at a steep angle, and you can soon only see the ground through wisps of cloud. There's a bit of turbulence, but nothing that none of you can't handle.

---

A short interlude

Trent Holloway was surprised when his cousin, a lawyer up in Arkham, contacted him to ask if he was still in Atlanta, and whether he was free to help some people. "Should only take a week or so," he was told, and so had readily agreed. Sounded simple enough - basically just hire a car, get some rooms in Savannah (for four people in total including himself), and help them look into a guy named Douglas Henslowe. In return he'd been given a banker's draft for a considerable amount - enough that he wasn't sure this was entirely legit, except that his cousin was a steadfast quaker himself and above reproach. And so here he was, waiting at a small airport just outside Savannah, waiting on a aplne - the only one due in tonight - to arrive.

---

Just over eight hours later, he lets you know that you're coming in to land. It's late evening, and as you step from the plane into the Savannah evening, it's hot still, and humid. The airport is only small, similar to that at Arkham, and you see a car waiting for you by a small hangar, a man stood by it. "I'll be staying here to check on the plane, if you need to get a message to Ms Winston Rogers, let me know, you can find me here. Looks like that guy there is your contact; Ms Winston Rogers said she'd be sorting something out for you. Good luck." WIth that, he heads over to the hangar to open the door and bring the plane in.

Impending Doom Points: 4

It is the first time she'd flown and the experience was both exciting and discomforting, but Lillian is determined to stay awake. After a long while, this had become hard to do; by the time the aeroplane lands, she is quite tired and hungry - she's not eaten on board, but she took a stale something with her for later.

Filled with trepidation about her lodgings, she exited the aircraft lugging her case in her usual manner and waited to be addressed by the stranger first, or introduced by the others.

This has been Gabriel's longest flight, and definitely the first aboard a privately owned airplane. He has flown for conferences before, but not as far South.
He spends most of it observing from the window of this rare vantage point. First the multitude and variety of human activity, decreasing in scale until the particular becomes the general, blending in the distance with hundreds, then thousands, hundreds of thousands parallel lives.

Puts things in perspective... Seeing the grand scheme of things. Our concerns and personal struggles become insignificant in the wider context.

Eventually, the journey comes to an end, and he is happy to feel solid ground under his feet. Thanking Frank for the smooth flight, he walks towards the man Frank pointed out, extending his hand.

"I am Dr. Gabriel Walker, pleased to meet you. These are my associates, Mrs. Blakey and Mr. Weston. Very kind of Ms Winston Rogers to arrange for you to pick us up."

Samuel settles in. He knows better than to distract their pilot during take off, but once they're at cruising elevation Sam pokes his head forward. "Hey Frank... kinda nice to be flying without people shooting at us for once, eh?" Sam lets out a good natured laugh before promptly moving back to see what they had in the way of food. What better way to spend his time? It wasn't as if he could go for a walk.

---

Once they land, taxi, and debark, Sam turns to Frank. "Frankie, you sure you're going to be alright here? Got everything you need? Does it lock up right proper? Please tell me you still have your sidearm..." There is a twinge of concern to the Marine's voice. He had put some thought into what their benefactor had said... and hadn't been able to shake the idea that if there truly was an element of danger, it may spill over to the people around them.

Reluctantly, he accepted that Frank was staying here and moved to join his two travel companions and their new driver? "Samuel Weston, pleased to make your acquaintance," he said as he offered his hand.

Lillian nods quickly towards the man at Dr. Walker's introduction.

She didn't immediately offer her own hand, but she briefly looks around to see if there is a car, or perhaps to see if there is anybody else about.

The newcomer is standing by a car. You don't see anyone else around - looks like this was the last flight coming in, and it's a small private airstrip. Presumably there was / is someone in the control tower to give you permission to land, but they aren't around here.

The man introduces himself as Trent, and says that he was asked by Ms Winston Rogers to arrange hotel rooms for you and to hire a car. He'll drive you in to town, take you to your hotels, and leave the car with you so you have transport for the duration of your stay. He says you can leave the car at the airport when you're done with it, he can pick it up from there.



He's dressed in what you soon become accustomed to - dark trousers, shirt and tie, and a hat. The shirt has the sleeves rolled up, and though it's in the evening now, he runs a handkerchief over his brow and neck every now and then to deal with the sweat - the humidity is through the roof as well as the heat. It feels like you're sitting inside a warm, wet mouth or something.

As you drive into town, with the car's roof down (which at least gives you some relief from the heat and humidity, as your hair ruffles in what passes for a breeze), you notice that it's somewhat run-down, gas lamps sputter as you pass them, sending a yellow glow across the road that divides the city into slices of dark and light, windows lit within reveal the iron bars across many of them, and much of the place is in shadow - what could be lurking here?



The city itself is obviously old and run-down, as if it's on its last legs. You drive past half a dozen small park-like squares, lined with brick rowhouses, churches, and the like. There are trees everywhere, with Spanish moss dripping from them. The streets themselves are also made of brick in the main, with large wrought iron gates dividing up parts of the city.

Lilian is dropped off first at her hotel - Trent apologises, but Savannah, being one of the capitals of the south, hasn't yet fully loosened the Confederate grasp that once held it firmly, and this is one of the few that caters to Black visitors. "I picked the best one I could, but it still ain't much," he says ruefully. He gives you the details of the hotel that the others are staying at in case of emergency, and helps you with your bag.



The drive to the hotel where the gentlemen will be staying is only a few minutes - the two places are surprisingly close, but the areas are very different. While still not a grand hotel, the building is better kept, there is better lighting around the area, and it generally has a safer feel.

The heat and humidity hit him as he takes the first few steps towards the driver. It is oppressive, unbearable for a New Englander like him. He feels tired and uncomfortable in a matter of minutes. Damn it... how can anyone live here? And it's only May!!

As Lillian is dropped off at her underwhelming hotel, a rather awkward moment, he hastens to call after her as she heads towards the entrance, "Mrs. Blakey, maybe after settling in our respective rooms, it won't be too late for dining together?"
He confirms the logistics with Trent, to ensure his proposal is feasible.

"This is miserable." Even with the breeze of the car, the humidity was stifling. Samuel was simply sitting, but sweating like back when he was on a forced march. When the Doc mentioned dinner, Sam nodded in agreement... not that Mrs. Blakely could likely see him, but because it was a good idea. The more time they spent together, the easier it would be for Sam to keep an eye on both of them. He was already concerned about Lillian, being alone as she was. He took consolation in the fact that as they had just arrived, anyone who might be related to this nonsense they were investigating likely didn't know about them yet.

"If we can find somewhere suitable, certainly, Doctor." Lillian welcomes the idea, but isn't sure how likely it could be.

"If it isn't manageable, then I will come find you in the morning."

She carries her case up the flight of stairs and after a brief discussion about herself, finds her room. It could be much worse, it seems relatively clean. She finds it in the Green Book, so that offers some assurance.

At their hotel, Samuel was pleased to note the plumbing. It was a luxury that many homes simply didn't offer, although Sam had a feeling it would become more common with time.

His room was on the second floor, and Sam found it plain but well kept. The shower and commode were a blessing, and well worth the price... not that he was paying. But if he was? Worth it. He had travelled light, so unpacking his bag was quick. His spare clothes were tucked into dresser drawers, and his boots were put by the door. He loaded his 1911 and put the holster on his belt before sliding his sidearm in. He always missed the weight on his hip, feeling incomplete without it. With it? With it, he felt whole.

Pulling on his light jacket, hemmed a touch longer than normal to help with concealment, he stepped in front of the sink. His sink. He smiled, then splashed some water on his face before stepping out to find the Doc.

After refreshing in the hotel room, the water a welcome relief from the stifling humidity out there, Gabriel sits for a moment to reflect about how segregated these parts are, and what that will mean for their work. It will be a hindrance, for sure. It seemed important to find some shared territory where it is deemed acceptable to be in the presence of coloured people.

He regroups with Samuel, sharing his concerns about these unexpected hindrances slowing them down.
"That man Trent left us the car - care to drive, Mr Weston? You have the better eyes and reflexes of a younger man. Let's go fetch Mrs Lillian and go find something to eat. We can brainstorm where to start on a full stomach..."

"Excellent plan, Doctor," Sam replies, taking the keys and heading outside to the car. "We need a restaurant that will serve all of us, though... perhaps we can ask at the desk?"

"Yes, let us go. Mrs Blakey had that Green Book with her, I wonder if that can be of any help to find an address. Frankly, I didn't know such a directory existed."

The man at the hotel desk seems a bit uncomfortable when Samuel asks for a restaurant that serves both black and white customers. "Sir, this is a segregated state. You won't find any restaurants that serve both here," he eventually replies.

Lillian packs certain valuables into the handbag, then heads downstairs to wait, asking questions to get her bearings, wanting to know where she could acquire groceries.

"We'll make due, thanks." Samuel replies, leading the Doctor out to the car and heading to pick up their compatriot in this little excursion.

"I'm afraid I was rather optimistic, about being able to share dinner, Mrs Blakey. It looks like, until we find a better solution, a hot dog taken from a stand and eaten in the car will have to do, for tonight. I don't like this, we will need a shared base of operations. Any suggestions would be welcome. I was toying with the idea of using the hangar where our employer's plane is housed - perhaps that is out of town enough to serve our purpose without being bothered by these silly segregation laws..."

"Sounds good, Doctor. Frankly, I'll probably eat at least two. We can pick up some groceries in the morning. Maybe we should acquire a camp stove and the other such accoutrements that will let us eat and work together."

The trio part for the night, having made plans to reconvene in the morning at the Savannah Library that was indicated to them.

After an uncomfortable night (the humidity making sleeping difficult, and the electric fan in his room just barely shifting hot air), Gabriel meets the others at the Library, luckily within walking distance from their hotels. He is wearing lighter clothing to try cope with the heat.

"I hope your night was more restful than mine... my old New England body is decidedly not compatible with this climate..." he says to his colleagues. Then, pointing at the Library entrance, "Shall we?"

Savannah, Georgia. 27 May 1937

The day starts quite pleasantly, the mist off the Savannah river providing a cool shade from the sun, but within half an hour of you all rising, the sun has burned its way through the mist and is subjecting you to the twin horrors of heat and humidity. On her way to meet the others, Lillian stops off to buy some essentials, food, and a portable gas stove - perfect for a picnic in some out of the way spot where the three are unlikely to be bothered by any of the local Klan affiliates.



In the daytime, Savannah reveals its fading grandeur; antebellum buildings that haven't seen much upkeep, newer buildings near the hotels that haven't used the same quality of materials, and cobbles and weeds peeking through the asphalt of the city roads. As the three of you meet up at the library, the humid stink of the river finds you, and clings to you, a cloying taste in your mouths a reminder of what once provided the lifeblood of the city, now in its last days with no other signs of industry to replace the shipbuilding trade that once reigned here.



The library itself is quite large, and Dr Walker soon finds an eager research assistant in the form of a middle aged librarian who points him in the direction of local archives. The library itself is in the same building as the offices of the Savannah Morning News and Evening Press, one of the local newspapers. There's precious little, at least in recent years, about the Henslowe name - the only thing that Dr Weston can find concerning Douglas Henslowe is a record of his birth announced in the local press in the society section, back in 1882. He also finds that the Henslowe estate (at about 13 miles to the southeast of Savannah itself in a rural area) is at 23 Old Hope Road, and the current owner is listed as "Virginia Henslowe." It seems the estate was built in 1801 on land owned by the Henslowes, and was run as a plantation for many years, covering a large part of what's known as the Moss Island Peninsula - so called because with heavy rain, the peninsula often effectively becomes an island - but that most of the land has been sold off over the years, leaving only a small remnant left to the family. Dr Weston also finds a map of Savannah and Environs, and marks the location of the estate on it.



He also finds out that the other address - 513 West Henry Street - is, as he guessed, a sanitorium, the Joy Grove Sanitorium. Its head, Dr Lawrence Teake, is said to be retiring soon, and his protege, Dr Jonathan Keaton, is expected to replace him when he does.

Sharing and commenting his findings with his companions, Gabriel says "it is the opposite of what I initially suspected: the property out of town is the family estate, while the Henry Street address is the sanatorium. Henslowe wrote most of his letters from the sanatorium... with a brief period in 1933 where he wrote from what must have been home... By 1934, he was back at the sanatorium."

Lillian had assisted fetching and refiling as Dr. Walker worked the best she could, but she was also looking for anything in the newspapers about an unusual number of missing persons around that fateful August '24.Lillian updates her own notes with Dr. Walker's research, "Perhaps taking a look at the family estate should coincide with lunch. Away from this stretch of the river," she adds, pulling a slight comic face.

Lillian scours the newspaper records, but finds little in August 1924 about missing persons, whether unusual or not. Whatever happened in 1924, either it didn't make the news here for some reason, or happened elsewhere.

"I'm not a lot of help here, I'm afraid. I can certainly carry things for you though, Doc," Sam says apologetically. "Same goes for you, Mrs. Blakely. Just tell me what you need me to go get."

That being said, Samuel does keep an eye out for anyone who seems interested in their group. His primary role was to maintain security, and he fully intended to carry out his duties.

As much as the humidity of the location is punishing, knowing it would change nothing the Marine doesn't even bother to complain. He unbuttons his top button and adjusts his collar as he carries documents for those far better suited to research and academia in general.

Samuel keeps an eye out on the surrounding scholars, librarians, and readers, but other than the occasional sour look at the sight of Lillian in the place, no-one seems to be inordinately interested in what you're doing. Most have their own noses firmly ensconced in books and haven't even registered that there's anyone else in the place, it seems.

There's nothing that you can find about them other than the previous report - that last Psychoanalysis roll was for either knowing them (would have required 2 successes), or knowing anything about their work (1 success).


Where to now?

"Well... I think it is time to pay the Henslowes a visit at their estate out of town. Feel like driving, Mr. Weston?"

"Of course. It's the least I can do, Doctor."

Once everyone has gotten in, Sam will fire up the car and begin heading out of town towards the Henslowe estate. As he drives, he generally stays pretty quiet. However, as they get close to the destination, he does speak up.

"Just so it has been said aloud, once we contact the Henslowes we won't be operating unknown in the area any longer. While I would like to believe we won't be in any danger, we cannot be certain."

It's midday when you leave the library and head for the car. Driving through the streets of Savannah you pass many old stone buildings, often moss- and ivy-covered, with iron railings standing on guard like ragged swords or teeth protecting their inhabitants, though judging from the several broken or boarded up windows that you see, not all of the buildings have (legitimate) dwellers within.



It takes a good ten minutes before you start to leave the confines of the city - driving past West Henry Street, you notice, a nice enough neighbourhood of old Victorian buildings in the main from what you see - and edge into the more rural parts of Savannah and the surrounding countryside. Here, the buildings are much sparser, older, and in many cases, even more dilapidated - those you can see, at least, since many are plantation houses set well back from the road behind uninviting and formidable walls, almost all covered with more Spanish moss and ivy. The tree-lined roads that you travel on - which get worse as you go further, eventually becoming dirt tracks with ruts formed where mud has dried - hang with more Spanish moss, which blot out the sun but don't make it any less humid; you're all sweating within minutes of getting in the car.



Everything is wet and still, as if the trees themselves were sweating. The road is made of red clay, which has a distinct aroma, and which clings to the tires as you drive. The sides of the road are a morass of trees, moss, and swamp-like soft ground, and the air is abuzz with biting gnats, their tiny mouths searching for any patch of skin available fot them to feast on.

After a half hour or so, in which you get turned around a couple of times, and miss turnings which are hardly distinguishable from bare patches of clay rather than the roads they purport to be, you arrive at the Henslowe Estate. Like many of the buildings you'd driven past, this one is hidden from sight behind tall walls - build in a time when keeping inhabitants in against their will was the norm, rather than keeping visitors out, but now perhaps doing the latter rather than the former - at least six foot high, capped with wrought-iron spikes. Large wrought-iron gates stand closed; behind them you espy more of the same as outside - trees covered with Spanish moss, a clay road that leads out of sight, and the stench of swampland, brackish water, and rotting wood. By the gates is a bell and clapper attached to a chain. You can't tell when the last time the gates were opened, but you're guessing it's been a while.

"A lack of fresh air seems to be a real problem in this city," Lillian says in her deeper Harlem accent.

"This place is really creepy!"

"Can't disagree, on both accounts," he replies, getting off the car and immediately embraced by the sticky, oppressive air.

"Glad you were driving, Mr. Weston. I would have got us stranded down some of those muddy backroads..."

He looks at the bell, and at the unkempt aspect of the property. "It doesn't look like someone lives here... let's try ringing. Virginia Henslowe was the registered owner we found. Let's see..."

He pulls the chain with brio.

The bell clangs loudly and repeatedly, eventually the ringing dying away in the still, hot air. Minutes pass, the only sound the constant buzzing of insects that try to eat you alive, nipping at you with their tiny teeth, and you're about to give up on there being anyone here, when you hear the sound of something - or rather, somethings - heading your way. Curious, you wait, and after another minute or so, a man appears, three very large dogs (you'd guess at least part mastiff, but the other thing crossed with them must have been bigger than a mastiff) by his side which each give you looks that suggest if the gate wasn't there, you'd be their next meal. The man is fairly old - you'd estimate in his 60s at least - with a grizzled, unkempt beard and hair that hasn't seen the interior of a barber's in quite some time. His clothing is distressed but hard-wearing, and judging from the aroma, even at this distance, hasn't been washed anytime recently. Under his arm is a shotgun, double barrelled, pointing down.



"Visitors ain't welcome" he says in a southern drawl, his voice harsh and rough, like he's been existing on coffee, whiskey, and cigarettes for half his life. As he speaks, his words filter out through the several remaining teeth that he still has. "An' I know you ain't invited, cause we ain't invited you."

Taken aback, and uncertain if he is more worried about the three dogs or the shotgun, he ponders his response.

Remember your violent patients. Don't contradict them.

"We all... agree on that, mister. But, tell us... how does one get invited, if one wants to speak to Virginia Henslowe... about her brother, Douglas?"

He observes the man's reaction at the mention of each of those names.

"Mother Henslowe ain't takin' visitors. If'n you wanna see Mr Henslowe, you'll want to visit Joy Grove, that's where he's livin' now. An' he ain't her brother, he's her son. You wanna try to talk some sense into that poor boy's head, you try him there."

The man walks off, away from the gates, while the dogs stand on the other side watching you.

"We're trying to figure out what happened, that made him lose his sense in the first place. If he's as bad as it sounds, he won't be able to tell us. Mrs. Henslowe might have insight... and you might as well," Samuel calls out. "If she isn't taking guests, perhaps you'd be willing to help instead?"

"Old Mother Henslowe don't know what got into him, and neither do I. You wanna know what's wrong with him, you go and see him and ask him yourself. See what you're getting yourself into."

His voice trails off as he goes wherever he's going. Looks like that conversation is at an end.

One of the dogs slopes off after him, the other two stand and watch you.

Turning to his companions, Sam asks the obvious question... "So then... do we believe him? About them not knowing I mean?"

Feeling a little better with the shotgun pointing away from them, he says "Hard to tell, with so little to go by..." he murmurs. "What seems clear to me is, we're not going to be let in there, today."

He looks at the posts along the street, to try figure out whether this remote location would have a telephone line. Maybe she doesn't take visitors, but might answer a telephone call?

You can see some wires heading into the property, up high and down the road a ways. Make a Civil Engineering roll.

There are several lines entering the property - at least you assume so - they seem to enter along a partition wall with another property, and some may go to the other place. You notice both electricity and telephone lines that enter the Henslowe property though.

He points out the lines to Weston and Lillian. "Looks like they have a telephone line. Maybe Mother Henslowe might be more ameenable towards a phone conversation... hopefully their number will be listed in a directory. We'll see."

The strange man's words keep echoing in his mind, like a bad omen. 'See what you're getting yourself into...'

"That sounds like a better idea for now, Doctor. I also think we might as well try the Sanitorium, as per the kindly offered suggestion," Lillian says, happy to get away from staring canine eyes.

The drive back to Savannah is much like the route to the Henslowe Plantation - you get stuck in the clay mud, you take several wrong turns (the roads, if you can call them that, are mostly unmarked, so you are never sure quite which road you are on. There are several unmarked (private?) roads which look exactly the same as the "proper" roads too which doesn't help.

All in all, with a break for a spot to eat, by the time you get back to Savannah, it's late evening, and as Dr Walker knows, the sanitorium is likely to be closed to visitors by this point.

"Not our most productive day, unfortunately," Sam says as he leans on the car, watching the sun set. "And now, someone knows we're here asking questions. Just in time for us to have to seperate for the night."

The man shifts uncomfortably. "Unfortunately, you Mrs. Blakely are in the more difficult spot. There don't seem to be too many hotels available to... you. Which means you'd probably be easier to find. And you're alone, because the places that accept you won't accept us."

He closes his eyes and sighs, before reaching under his jacket. "Tell me, Mrs. Blakely, how much do you know about firing a pistol?"

Samuel hands over his sidearm and the spare magazines, providing her with basic familiarization with the mechanics and the basics of firearm safety -- even if she's familiar.

"Well, I feel we made a little progress all the same, Mr Weston : we learned the relation between Virginia and Douglas Henslowe, and know for sure now that Douglas is still in the Sanatorium... also, his mother's reluctance to receive visitors could be interesting in itself."

Upon parting ways with Lillian, he wishes her a good night.

Before retiring for the night, Gabriel will ask at the reception of their hotel to peruse a telephone directory of the area, if one is available (otherwise, it is a first thing in the morning visit to the Post Office).

The receptionist passes Dr Walker a slim phone directory. The number for the Henslowe residence is unlisted, however.

"Thank-you, I've practiced with a Colt .25 before, but this .45 seems it might be too large for me to comfortable with, Mr. Weston."

Nevertheless, Lillian practiced loading and unloading it. Then tried to lay it in her bag. She passed the spare magazines back.

"If I've used this and then need to reload, I'm probably out of luck. I'll return it to you in the morning.

"It's all I have," Sam says apologetically. "It's heavy, but it does its job well. Served me well in the war, and it'll serve you well here." He takes the spare magazines back with a chuckle. "You're right about that. Just don't anticipate the break, and don't rush. One well-aimed shot that hits, or is close enough to force your assailant down, is better than all seven going wide."

When they drop Lillian off at her hotel, Sam meets her gaze and gives a nod. "Stay safe. If you can't... give 'em hell."

When the two men arrive at their lodging, Samuel shakes his head dismally and confides in the doctor. "I'm supposed to keep the both of you safe. It bothers me that the best I can do for Mrs. Blakely is to give her my sidearm and wish her luck."

"Hopefully she won't need either, Mr. Weston. The gun, or the luck. Let's be optimistic. After all, so far we haven't stepped on anyone's toes. A little early, maybe, to be in the sights of enemies..."

Longing for a shower to dispel the stickiness that clings his shirt to his skin, he shares the dead end of his hunt for the Henslowes' number. "No joy with that phone number, I'm afraid. The lady of the estate isn't listed. Oh well, better luck tomorrow. Have a restful night, Mr. Weston."

Lillian makes a beeline for the room, places the gun out of sight, but in reach under the bed and settles in for the night. The best she could, anyway.

Savannah, Georgia, 28 May, 1937

The night passes slowly, as each of you toss and turn in the humid night. The windows are all open to let some of the meagre breeze enter, though it does bring with it a somewhat foetid air from the river. The morning sees you awake, safe and secure, if not well-rested. You meet up again outside Lillian's hotel, and climb into the car once more, since West Henry is still a fair walk away, and even this early, the humidity is wreaking havoc with you, sweat stains immediately appearing and beads of sweat starting to roll down your faces, salty drops entering your mouths and stinging your eyes. You can certainly see why a hat is a necessity here.



It's only a few minutes away, at least, and you pull up in front of a large building. The area has steadily gotten more down market, the street filled with old public buildings and large residences turned into apartments. 513 West Henry is a large, imposing building, A sign outside reads "Joy Grove Sanitarium." Kudzu covers a large part of the facade, with tall, narrow windows - barred, you notice - lending it a looming verticality.



You walk up to the entrance, where you enter into a fairly large waiting room, a nurse at a desk in one corner and several chairs set out in the area, potted plants, and nautically-themed paintings on the walls. The walls themselves have seen a fairly recent lick of paint, but look to have been done by a well-meaning amateur rather than professionals. The nurse smiles at you as you approach, and offers you a book to sign in and asks who you'd like to see. There are several doors - some with very sturdy locks on them - one of which is ajar and next to the nurse's desk. When you mention the name of Douglas Henslowe, a man puts his head around the door and gives you a quick once-over.

The man is in his mid 40s, slender, lightly bearded, bookish with round spectacles, and dressed in a good suit under a white coat, his hair still thick and still slightly more pepper than salt to it.

"You want to see Douglas? Are you friends, or relatives? I don't believe we've seen you here before. I'm Dr Keaton; I'm the physician who's been working with Douglas.

Gabriel steps up to Dr. Keaton, and produces his calling card from his jacket's inside pocket. "Ha, Doctor, we are in luck, then. Allow me to introduce myself, I am a colleague. Gabriel Walker, I am an Alienist practicing at Pickering Psychopathic Hospital, in Arkham Massachusetts. I am a Doctor in Psychiatry from Brown University in Providence, nice to meet you."

He allows the man to check his credentials on the calling card. "We are here on behalf of the family of a man with whom Douglas Henslowe extensively corresponded. I wonder if we can borrow a few minutes of your time to talk about your patient, Doctor?"

Having reclaimed his sidearm from Lillian when she joined them, Samuel now stands in the Sanitarium acutely aware of its weight on his hip. Even though it's hidden by a light jacket, a fleeting moment of concern aboit the safety of carrying around the touched crosses Sam's mind.

"Of course, always a pleasure to talk with a man in the field. We can go to my office if you'd prefer. And these people with you are...?

You're not sure whether the invitation includes the rest of your entourage - after all, if they are not themselves alienists, he might not wish to bore them with jargon, or may wish to discuss a case that involves confidentiality.

Meanwhile, the nurse gives Samuel a smile. A fairly knowing smile?

Gabriel thinks quickly on his feet, trying to gain access for his companions too. "Thank you, doctor. Oh, of course. This is my secretary, Mrs Blakey. And Mr Weston is... a detective, also hired by the family I work for..." he says.

"Shall we?" he adds, trying not to leave the doctor too long to think about his companions' credentials.

"Mrs. Blakey. I've been assisting Dr. Walker at the request of the correspondant's family."

Lillian latches on to Gabriel's explanation.

When the doctor introduces him as a detective, Samuel opts not to say anything at all and let the Doc sell it.

Samuel recognises the receptionist as someone out for herself - fluttering her eyelashes at him, smiling and so on - and may be susceptible to some sort of approach if you wanted to follow up, get her on your side, or have her do something that might be unethical in her position. With Lillian, however, she's all business.

She has you all fill in forms - indemnity in case anything happens to you within the hospital "in case the patients act out" in which you retract the right to sue if anything should happen to you within the walls of the place. Dr Walker recognises this as a standard waiver - his own place of work has something remarkably similar, and he wonders idly if it's perhaps a boilerplate legal document that many such institutions use. Before he leaves with Dr Walker, Dr Keaton also requests that anything that could be used as a weapon should be left with the nurse at reception - if any patients got their hands on anything, it could all go terribly wrong, and you would be liable for the results. Again, this is something standard to the industry.

Dr Keaton then takes Dr Walker into his office, leaving Lillian and Samuel with the receptionist. It's quite spacious, all dark wood panelling and a large dark oak desk, cabinets alongside the walls containing books, antique apparatus, certificates and the like. It appears that records are kept elsewhere.

"Such a remarkable case, I'm sure you'll agree," Dr Keaton begins. "It's so rare to see an example of shared psychosis, of course, and both Henslowe and Job have been pretty adamant at times of their certainty. I don’t know exactly what happened to these men out in Los Angeles, but whatever it was, involving gunplay and murder and a fire, it was too much for them to internalize, so they’ve concocted elaborate stories that externalize their fear into some kind of terrible monster."

Job... a new name is added to this intricate story... he thinks. We must ask our employer if she has ever heard the name...
"oh... How fascinating, and most rare indeed. Tell me, Doctor, do you have both patients here? What a unique opportunity for a case study... Perhaps one day you could present your findings in our New England centres of Academic excellence... Brown, Miskatonic... Boston... Tell me, Doctor. Have they been here long? I would consider it an incredible privilege to briefly observe your patients."

"Douglas Henslowe corresponded with a man called Walter Winston, in Aylesbury, MA, who himself suffered a drastic mental breakdown following circumstances we are trying to clarify, in or around August 1924. It is Winston's own mental decline that I am specifically interested in. These Los Angeles incidents you mention... did they occur around that year, in the accounts of your patients? And do they ever mention Walter Winston?"

Dr Walker, after a few minutes of talking with the man, realises that flattery would probably be the better way to approach him if he wants to appeal to his baser instincts, or to use his professional clout and abilities if he wants to get the doctor talking comprehensively about Henslowe's case (and Job's).

"Ah, you know Mr Winston? You should have said! How is he?" His eyes light up at the mention of Walter's name.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Winston passed away at the beginning of this year. It is his family that asked us to learn more about any circumstances that may have contributed to precipitate his mental decline... how did you know Mr. Winston?"

"So, tell me... this Henslowe-Job shared psychosis seems to present some similarities with cases of Folie à deux, as described by the French theoreticians..."

When Sam catches the woman making eyes, he offers her a smile while trying to pay attention to the medical back and forth. When he has to hand over his sidearm, he clears it and hands it to the receptionist. "It's big, but I'm sure you can handle it just fine," he says quietly and smiles again. Nothing wrong with a little flirting.

He follows the doctors into the facility, and observes everything while saying nothing. This isn't his arena, and he knows enough to let the subject matter expert take the lead.

The nurse (Nurse Hampton according to a name badge) giggles as Samuel offers her his gun and flirts at her, pretending to blush.

- -

In the office, Dr Keaton replies to Dr Walker's questions.

"I don't actually know Mr Winston, I just recognised the name from Douglas' letters to him over the years. Such a shame, please pass on my condolences to his family. I should probably write to them myself - do you have a name and address of whoever has taken over his business interests or family investments?"Dr Keaton talks for a good 10 minurtes more on the case of Henslowe (and Job), in generally clinical terms. The important parts for your investigation are as follows:

"Henslowe arrived here in 1924, though he was released several times over the intervening years but kept coming back of his own accord. He was last released in 1932-33, but became obsessive and violent to others and himself, and was committed at that time. He's currently under a court order that does not allow him to leave other than on temporary leave to his mother, Virginia Henslowe, though that hasn't occurred since he was committed. I requested that Edgar be transferred here from Los Angeles so that I could treat the two of them together. He arrived later that same year. Of course, given the nature of his crimes, and the dangers to himself and others that he poses, he's here in lieu of being incarcerated in prison for robbery and the downgraded manslaughter charges from the events of August 13, 1924. While both have made considerable progress, I doubt either of them will ever recover or be released from here."

Dr Keaton then suggests that Dr Walker meet Henslowe himself; he offers a tour of the institution to Dr Walker and his employees first.

"I can mention you to my employers for sure, I am not at liberty to disclose their details for confidentiality, as I am sure you will understand, being in the profession..."
Hmm... that was very unsubtle of him...

Edgar Job... good, we have a full name

"A tour of your facilities with my colleagues would be wonderful, Doctor. You have my thanks. Perhaps during the tour you could refresh our memory on the Los Angeles incidents, they seem to have been very serious in nature... And I have heard great things about the work of Dr Teake, will we have the honor of meeting the man himself?"

Lillian looks around, a tad nervous at first. Walking around a place such as this is not an aspiration of hers, but for the moment she settles down in to a period of quiet observation.

Lillian notices that one of the doors leading off of this room isn't locked and barred like most of the others - and it's ajar. Looks like filing cabinets in there. Now, if someone were to keep distracting the receptionist, someone else could probably sneak in there.

"So tell me, how do you deal with this humidity my dear? It is simply oppressive. If I wasn't out with the good Doctor, I'd likely be far less dressed," he chuckles, keeping Nurse Hampton engaged.

Lillian sees the door ajar and goes for a softly footed, in plain sight move towards it. She pulls a handkerchief out of her handbag, so as to plausibly wipe her face.

Lillian looks embarrassed and drops her handkerchief.

"Sorry, is there anywhere and I can freshen up? I'm a little flushed," she says awkwardly.

Nurse Hampton looks over at Lillian, then looks to the door that's ajar. She smirks a little, then turns to Samuel and says "You know, what I really like to do is embrace the humidity. I like going dancing, really working up a sweat. Perhaps you could take me out dancing tonight? Maybe after dinner? Then I might be too busy gazing into your baby blues to see what your..." she pauses and looks over at Lillian "...friend... there might be up to."

Samuel looks up at Lillian with a shocked look.

"Now I'm curious... but not so curious as to pass on dinner and dancing with an attractive nurse. So tell me, when do you get off?"

Gabriel leaves Dr. Keaton's office to regroup with the others, informing them of the doctor's offer of a tour of the facilities.

He catches them in what seems an awkward moment. What's going on here? he thinks, trying to read the room.

Lillian snatches up her handkerchief, "Oh, that'll be splendid, I'm sure," her eagerness to be out of the room overtaking her misgivings about being close to the patients.

Lillian scoots into the file room - unsurprisingly filled with filing cabinets - to the sound of Nurse Hampton saying "You get caught in there, you're on your own."

She quickly finds the cabinet for H - and soon finds Henslowe's file. Reading through quickly, she discovers several things:

* Henslowe has been here for quite some time, in some form or another, and is under medication. * Henslowe has undergone "confrontation therapy" with another patient here, Edgar Job, which consists of putting them both in a room together as if by chance, and allowed to interact. Keaton's notes suggest that this has occurred several times - each time, when both men were medicated, they have treated each other with wary suspicion and Keaton characterises the pair as "wanting to end the encounter quickly" and without much real interaction. When he introduces the pair together when both were unmedicated, however, his notes reveal that "they eyed each other angrily" before "EJ rushed DH screaming 'you tried to kill me but I'm still here' over and over until they were seperated again."

* There are notes which suggest Keaton is writing a book on the two, describing their "richly intertwined delusions and psychoses. Could be my Glimpse of Madness." This is all Lillian gleans from Henslowe's file. Does she want to search for Edgar Job's file too? Or does she think that would be pushing her luck?

A flustered Lillian grabs at the opportunity to have a look in the room, as the Nurse Hampton seems not to care. She reads quickly, taking it in.

At the moment Lillian passes on searching for Edgar Job's file, as she's too flustered. She almost drops the Henslowe file on the floor as she puts it back.

Lillian re-enters the reception area looking even more flustered than when she went in. A few minutes later, Drs Keaton and Walker return.

"If everyone is signed in, and any weapons have been deposited with Nurse Hampton, shall we begin the tour?" Dr Keaton says.

Dr Keaton unlocks one of the doors leading off of the reception area, and takes you into a fairly wide corridor, locking the door behind him. It's a little darker here, the electric lighting caged and yellow, looking like accusing jaundiced eyes; doors off of the corridor are sturdy. Dr Keaton takes you along the first floor, pointing out offices, a locker room, cafeteria, common rooms, a drug dispensary, a games room, exam rooms and interview rooms. He leads you into one of the exam rooms, pointing out the soft padded walls that have been newly fitted. It seems the first floor is mostly administrative and common areas. The walls have peeling paint, suggesting that money is tight for repairs other than the new exam rooms, though the locked and barred gates between sections of the hospital seem well-kept and maintained.



When you enter the common rooms, which have a few patients in them, mostly slack-jawed and staring, or sitting nodding to themselves, rocking back and forth and muttering in their seats, you see the outside windows - thick bars and ivy half cover them, leaving the room somewhat in shadow too. There are a few plants here and there in various stages of either starvation or over-watering, and again peeling paint on the walls. A few pieces of artwork - nothing special, mostly amateur work, pastoral scenes and the like - dot the walls. There are a couple of sky lights - this room has no other floors above it - but they are grimy, unwashed for possibly years. A few people play cards, though you aren't sure if they're following any particular game rules with the battered cards, and a couple even sit reading books - or at least stare blankly at the books in front of them. There are a couple of bookshelves here too, filled with tattered and spine-broken paperbacks, mostly cheap genre fiction from 20 or more years ago.

"You'll notice the original Victorian porticos and other features," Dr Keaton points out, "and here of course is a painting of our esteemed founder, Dr Lawrence Teake, who was here when it was first opened as a hospital in 1897! A painting shows a stern, bearded man. "We do what we can, despite our limited resources, of course."

As you walk past the dispensary - with several patients shuffling slowly to the counter, several staring at the group, one waggling his fingers at you as you pass, and another softly tapping his own head and muttering something. Dr Keaton leads you upstairs. Here the walls are partially tiled with some water stains, and the doors are sturdier and with small grilles in them. As you pass them - revealing the inside to be cramped, off-white, with little decor or furniture other than beds - a few faces stare out at you. As Samuel takes in the sight of one poor unfortunate hanging out at his door, the man smiles, leering, and draws a finger across his own throat in the unmistakable common gesture suggesting Samuel's imminent demise.

At one point, Dr Keaton pauses to ask an orderly to have Douglas Henslowe brought to one of the interview rooms on the ground floor. As he does so, you spot another orderly bringing a large man out of his room a little further down the corridor. Suddenly, the man breaks free of the orderly - it's so quick, you have little time to realise what's occurred before the orderly is down on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, and the man is charging towards the three of you. Impending Doom Points: 4-1+3=6

Samuel happily agrees to dinner with the nurse, before following the others into the facility itself. It's a depressing sight, and he can't help but feel bad for the people there... patients and staff alike.

And then it happens.

In a flash Samuel falls back into old habits, moving forward in a burst of speed intent on engaging. "Stay back!" It sounds stern, a command from a man used to being listened to. Sam meets the large patient head on, doing his best to throw his forearm up as he ducks under and to the side of the patient's line of sight before attempting to grapple the man and press him.to the wall to immobilize him without hurting him.

The man seems to anticipate Samuel's approach, pivoting with a speed that shocks the ex-soldier and that makes him think the man could have had a good career as a football player, and despite Samuel's best efforts, the man shockingly twists past him and continues to head straight for Lillian and Dr Walker.

"What on Earth?!?" he exclaims in shock at the violent patient's attack.

Lillian attemps to ward off the attacker.'s savage assault!

Alas, her attempt is doomed to fail...

"Mrs Blakey!" he shouts, seeing the out of control inmate ramming her. He steps forward opening his arms wide and putting himself between the patient and Lillian to prevent another attack on the woman.

Samuel, already irritated that he didn't stop the patient from charging into Mrs. Blakely, will rush the troubled man and attempt to bring him down before he can hurt anyone else.

Poor Lillian Blakey slumps to the floor as a result of the attack on her person.

"Stop this nonsense now!" he bellows at the charging patient, trying to restrain him as he has seen the orderlies in his own hospital do.

Dr Walker somehow manages to trap the patient's arm with his own, and presses down his his foot on the back of the man's leg, sending him roaring and cursing to the floor. Within seconds, two large orderlies appear, who relieve Dr Walker of his burden, and then very shortly after that, another appears with a large syringe; within moments of being thus subdued, the patient is sedated and taken off back to his room, his head snapping back and forth as he is led away, as if trying to bite his captors or some invisible presence.

"My apologies! As you can see, we must always be on guard here, for our patients are not always acquiescent and pacific. The doctor seems a bit ruffled, and seems concerned that Lillian is not harmed unduly (he offers to give her a quick check over in his office if she requires one).

"Well, that whole exchange was embarassing," Samuel mutters as he approaches the others. He wants to speak, but remembers the doc gave him a cover story and doesn't want to say anything that might blow it so instead he remains quiet.

Gabriel recovers from the violent interruption, straightening his spectacles and catching his breath.

He then checks on Lillian. Only once they are satisfied she is a condition to carry on the visit, he will accept Dr. Keaton's offer of a tour of the premises.

I wonder why Keaton hasn't answered when I mentioned his mentor Teake... better not insist for now - don't want to preclude us the promised tour and a possible encounter with the patients, he thinks.

Lillian just holds her face for a moment, involuntarily checking her jaw isn't broken through a short series of peculiar facial expressions. She's going to need her makeup to cover the bruising sooner than later.

For now, she's ready to go on.

"... as you may need me."

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.

"That... is correct. Now, Mr. Job, do you remember why you're hospitalized?"

Samuel wasn't good at this, but when both of his companions looked at him when Edgar was brought in, he took the hint. Sam figured if he could get Edgar talking, the others might be able to make sense of it all.

At least, he hoped so.

"Dr Keaton doesn't want me to relive those days, or uh...to, uh...externalise my fears. He don't like me talking about monsters unless they're me. It's harder to remember these days exactly what happened anyway. I'm on nine different pills, you know. They're not too big. Blue ones and red ones. Two capsules. The other ones are, you know, they're just pills. Say, you got a cigarette?"

He looks hopefully at Samuel.

Gabriel observes the interaction with interest, then reaches for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. He stops, looking at Keaton for permission.
"May I?" he asks.

He will give one cigarette to Job if he gets the Doctor's permission.

Edgar takes the cigarette, puts it between this thin lips, and, after it is lit, takes a long drag from it, holding the smoke before letting it stream out of his mouth, which turns into a smile. He's a somewhat enigmatic figure - certainly Dr Walker can't get a good grasp on what makes him tick just from looking at him and his reactions. It could be that he's a little deadened by all the drugs he's on, which affects his mien and makes him hard to read.

"Thank you," he says. "If I can answer any of your questions, I'll try to."

Lillian tries to get her own read on Job, before approaching the underbelly of the beast, still somewhat nervous after being attacked before.

Lillian watches Edgar carefully as he deals with the others. It seems obvious to her that his slowed reaction to questions is due to the drugs he's on, that he's trying to be helpful, but is very wary of upsetting the progress that he's made so far. Lillian thinks that Edgar might respond to just about any approach, but that his fogged state might make him miss out information, as would his desire not to undo his progress in treatment. It might be worth asking him to start from the beginning, with how he was brought into the cult, as that seems safest.

"I understand Dr. Keaton doesn't want you to focus outside of yourself," Sam begins again once Edgar has his smoke, after glancing to each of the doctors in the room, "but we'd like to understand the full scope of what lead you to be institutionalized. What monster did you believe you ran across?"

Dr Keaton interrupts as Samuel asks his question:

"Let's try not to focus on the supernatural or make-believe in this interview, ok?" he asks, looking at Dr Walker rather than Samuel.

Edgar, meanwhile, sucks on his cigarette, as if trying to smoke the entire thing in one go before anyone takes it off him, then, emitting a cloud of smoke, says "I'm not supposed to ask about that night, what happened that night. About Henslowe's friends. About Echavarria. I'm not ready yet."

He looks to Dr Keaton, who adds "it's ok Edgar, you can answer about that part. No mumbo jumbo though."

Edgar mournfully, it seems, puts out the cigarette, little more than the filter at this point.

"We didn't really have a name, we were just, you know, Echavarria's, you know, people. I guess you could call it a cult. It's as good a word as anything, yeah. I met him around the time I was at UCLA. George introduced us, I think. George Avery? Ayers? I swear, I can hear his voice, see his face, why can't I remember this? It's all still hazy."

He pauses before continuing, his face a little scrunched up as if trying to think, before returning to his placed, if slightly vapid look.

"That Echavarria, if that was his real name, had a heck of a library. Creepy books. He gave us ideas for things to do, sex things, and things to say, out of those books. Threw damn crazy parties. Sex. Drugs. I was basically high from 1923 through August of '24. So my memory is not good. I remember, you know, a lot of sex. And the drugs Echavarria got us. Potent stuff. He promised us all. Promised me power. He said that, 'power.' Said we'd all get whatever we wanted when Gol-Goroth was here. We called him the Fisher from Outside for some reason. This...isn't what I wanted. Echavarria put spells on us. Or on me, anyway. The night of the summoning. This spell, I guess it was kind of a big deal. He put it on me the night of the summoning, right before the Fisher, or, or, the Thing, before it showed up. I don't know what it was supposed to do, but I survived, so...maybe that's something. It had long weird weird limbs and no head, but mouths, lots of mouths. I couldn't really make it out, and I didn't really try. I know I was screaming. Just screaming. and then I stabbed that guy."

At the mention of this Gol-Goroth, Dr Keaton clears his throat, a clear if implicit warning, but Edgar continues:

"This one guy, with a shotgun. Vincent Stack. He just blew Echavarria away. Shot him right down. I stabbed the guy with Echavarria's knife, this big ugly knife, a few times. To get away. I was so sure he was going to kill me too, I'd been right by Echavarria's side when he shot him. I had to do it, to get away from there. I just ran the hell out of there, through the fields. I knew it was wrong. I see his face every night. I can't undo it, so it's best if I move on, That's what Dr Keaton says. Whatever that thing was that we summoned...it wasn't what we were promised. It wasn't what he said it would be. And that thing is still out there."

"Why are you certain this thing, this Fisher from Outside as you called it... was real, and not a result of say... a bad reaction to the drugs?" Samuel asks, not acknowledging Dr. Keaton's earlier objection but trying to explore a connection between the mumbo-jumbo and the real world. Sam wasn't a therapist, but he hoped attempting to bridge the two would appease their host... at least long enough to get some more answers out of Edgar.

"I was there. I saw it happen. So did Henslowe. Ask him."

"Can you tell us anything about this George A. that you met, Mr. Job, please? What he did, what he looked like?" Lillian asked.

"He was a professor at UCLA, when I was there. Don't know what he taught though. Not maths. Glasses, pencil moustache, middle aged, you know, professor type."

Samuel nods at the information. It was sounding as if UCLA may well be a destination at some point. With a soft clearing of his throat, Samuel continues his line of questioning. "Thank you, Mr. Job. Now, regarding what you witnessed... I've been told you can see, hear, and feel many things under the effects of hallucinogenic drugs. I'm just trying to understand how you know what you saw? I appreciate that you were there, but you yourself admitted to being under the influence for an extended period of time. I think we can all agree the easiest explanation for what you witnessed would be the drugs, Mr. Job. But based on Dr. Keaton's guidelines for your recovery, it seems you don't believe that to be the correct explanation. I'm not taking a side, mind you -- I'm just trying to understand. How do you know something when your own senses deceive you?"

Samuel falls silent, waiting for Edgar to reply. He wants to glance at Dr. Keaton, but he doesn't allow himself to. He keeps his focus on the patient, and trusts the line of questioning was grounded enough to keep Dr. Keaton from outright objecting. Depending on Edgar's response, though, their interview may well be coming to a close...

"You ever seen people you know being ripped apart by something? Just come apart as their limbs are wrenched from their body, and eaten in front of you? You smelled what that's like? You tasted their blood on your tongue as you get sprayed with it? You heard those inhuman sounds it made? You want to see if I'm hallucinating, you go out there and see ofr yourself. Get yourself eaten."

Edgar starts to rise from his chair, an incredulous look on his face. Dr Keaton attempts to pacify Edgar, and glances with an annoyed look at Dr Walker, as if to say control your man.

"I think that's enough. Orderly, please take Edgar back to his room."

The orderly complies, leaving the room with Edgar.

"I noticed some graffiti on the wall on the way in. Reminds me of the things Mr. Job was talking about. Perhaps it should be painted over," Lillian says to Dr. Keaton.

"That was pretty disturbing. "

Dr Keaton gives a vague, non-committal "promise" that he'll have the graffiti seen to, as he ushers you out. He talks briefly with Dr Walker again about his research, and the unique nature of the relationship and shared delusions between Henslowe and Job, eventually leaving you at the side of the road next to your car.

Samuel won't press for any work related information, beyond asking how her day was. Although she's certainly welcome to vent if she needs to unwind in that way. He's just there for an enjoyable, pleasant evening.

Savannah, Georgia. 28 May, 1937

After a quick breakfast, having met up in one of the many parks near the river again, you climb back into the car and make your way back over to the Henslowe estate. It's just as hard to locate this time as the first - there are so many unmarked and poor roads that are little more than tracks in the rich, red mud that it's easy to lose your way.

As you pass by one fork (unmarked, of course, you spot a brown dog with obvious mange laying on a patch of grass under a heavily moss-laden tree. As you drive past, it lifts its head towards you, but soon drops it back down and starts to scratch at a flea, the sight of your car unremarkable enough not to stir it to life.



Eventually, after only a couple of false turnings, you recognise where you are, and soon you arrive at the gates to the Henslowe estate again. Once more you get out of the car, your shirts sticking to your bodies with sweat already, and Samuel tugs hard on the rusted bell chain. You hear the dogs before you hear or see the old man again, chuntering as he comes (you think about both the dogs and the "constant disturbances," though you doubt there's been anyone else here since your visit yesterday. As soon as he sees you, the shotgun, initially pointing at the ground, raises slightly under his arm.

"You again? Didn't make meself clear yeaterday? You ain't invited, so clear off. " He offers a smile, of sorts, though there's no pleasantness involved, just black gaps between the few remaining stained teeth left in his mouth peering out behind his unkempt beard.

"Yes sir, you did make it clear," Samuel says, holding up both hands (the note pinched between two fingers) as he is holding his hands wide open in what he believes is a non-confrontational gesture. "However, Mr. Henslowe gave me this note to give to you, and insisted we speak with one Mr. Frank Hickering."

Samuel will hold the note forward and approach the gate slowly to pass it to the groundskeeper. "I assure you, we are only here again at his behest."

"Frank who? No-one here o' that name." His face crinkles in puzzlement and distrust, but he does edge forward and reach for the note through the gates with his left hand, then retreats to a safe distance and reads it, his lips loving along as he slowly reads the note. After he finishes reading it, he turns it over to see if there's anything on the other side, then reads it again, his lips moving in the same rhythm as before, before looking up at Samuel as if trying to see if he matches some invisible description within the note.

Eventually he sighs, says "Looks like Mr Henslowes's hand, all right. Guess you'd better come in then. and produces a large key, with which he opens the lock and chains around the gate, and with a loud screech of unoiled metal, opens the gate enough for you to come in. "Lucky, Bullet, Spike, mind now. No eatin' 'em unless they do somethin' bad." He doesn't smile as he says this last, and you aren't sure whether he has a sardonic sense of humour, or means it.

"You want to leave your car there, or bring it in?" he asks, and does whichever you prefer.

"I'll lock 'em up in my house" he says, and you aren't sure if he's talking to you or the dogs, "That way you don't get bit. Less'n you come across the gators. One o' 'em got Bluster, and he was my best dog till then. You need me, I'm in the house behind the big house. It'll be the one with dogs barking when you come near. An' don't go botherin' Ol' Mother Henslowe, less'n you want the dogs set on you."

That seems to be all the instructions he has for you right now, so he wanders off, the dogs in tow, watching you carefully as they go towards the left of the large antebellum mansion you see ahead through the trees. The earth here is the same claggy clay that sticks to your shoes, and as you walk closer towards the building, you see that what you took for painted white magnificence is more run down, the white paint peeling, striped with mud and moss, and the wooden veranda sagging in places.

"Thank you sir," Samuel replies to Carruthers after pulling the car in and parking. After watching the man leave, he turns to his companions. "Is it possible Frank Hickering isn't a person? It sounds like a detective novel, but what if Frank is dead and buried? Or the artist who painted a painting? Or there's a statue of him? Mr. Henslowe seemed sure he was at the estate... but clearly not in the capacity we believed."

He will walk in silence, and allow the others to contemplate the situation and offer their own (probably far more accurate) insights.

"That's very strange, yes. That Carruthers strikes me as the kind of man who definitely knows who comes and goes in the estate. Could Hickering be a fabrication of Henslowe's mind? Or maybe, as you say, he used the expression talk to figuratively, to mean read Hickering's journal, for instance. Maybe a book... " he speculates.

Looking at what's visible of the mansion, he adds, " and the brute is preventing access to Mother Henslowe... Hmm. "

Eventually, he points in the opposite direction to where Carruthers and his puppies went. " We might as well explore the grounds. Maybe there are other buildings. Servants' quarters of old, stables... That kind of thing. Just hope Hickering isn't a horse..."

He steps at 90 degrees from the mansion and starts walking.

"Well, Mr. Henslowe did make reference to his journal in his letters. It seems probable that it could be here somewhere," Lillian ventures.

"Hope Frank isn't an alligator. I'd rather stay away from water, I think," she says, her voice low.

As you make your way around to the right of the house, you see that it really is in quite a state - there's obviously been no upkeep of the property for years, other than maybe a few patchwork repairs here and there that have themselves fallen into disrepair.

As you walk around the mansion, and through the grounds generally, you notice several things:

The back of the property doesn't end in a wall, but in swampland, the land gradually giving way to swamp and water, dotted here and there with the odd tree sticking out of the morass, and tall grasses in clumps. You can also see an abandoned car half submerged in the swamp, as well as what could be either logs or alligators. The sounds of insects are constant out towards the swamp, and only slightly less prevalent elsewhere in the estate.

There are the remains of crumbled walls in the swamp and more hidden behind some of the several clumps of trees in the grounds that are still formed of firm clay, reeds poking out through gaps in the cracked walls.

There are a few other outbuildings, mostly sheds that you can see near Carrother's cottage, a wooden shack.

In the deeper parts of the swamp, you can see a large chimney jutting out - presumably the remains of a large house that has been overrun by the swamp.

Behind the house, near the edge of the swamp, is what appears to be a small family cemetery, you can make out several tomb stones, large crosses, and a weeping angel statue.

And of course, there's the house itself.

"Well damn. There's a lot to cover. Perhaps we should have packed lunch?" Sam shifts in the humidity as his eyes scan the grounds. Eventually, he grunts a bit.

"Alright, well... I think we have to acknowledge that making our way into the swamp is at least a potential requirement for our day. The house and car could belong -- or could have belonged, really -- to this Hickering fellow. That said.... I think the graveyard is a good starting point. Fewer gators at any rate."

His eyes sweep the grounds again. "I hope."

What on earth? The swamp is swallowing this place inch by inch...

Glad to turn his gaze away from the encroaching swampland as Sam points at the graveyard, he answers, "Seems like a sound idea to me, Sam. Could Hickering be buried there, I wonder?"

He follows Weston towards the cemetery, watching his step, careful to walk on solid ground.

The cemetery is small, and abuts the swamp - so much so that you feel the bodies interred here will be in danger of disappearing into the muck within a few years. There are 22 markers in total, but many are worn with age and almost unintelligible. Only 8 are still legible:

• David (1856-1921) and Virginia (1854-[blank]) Henslowe; tall stone cross
• Jonas Douglas Cokeridge (1897-1917); modest stone cross
• Grant Henslowe (1880-1917); modest stone cross
• Douglas Henslowe (1882-[blank]); modest stone block
• Mary-Margaret (1880-1882) and Anne Mary (1882-1883) Henslowe; weeping angel
• John (1873-1929) and Mary (1873-1929) Cokeridge; tall stone cross
• James (1831-1879) and Mildred (1834-1881) Jones; modest stone slab
• Zachariah (1830-1862) and Millicent Henslowe (1832-1899); modest stone slab

"What? they have a ready grave for Douglas... and one for Virginia, more understandably, seen her age."

He looks eagerly around in search of clues.

Dr Walker, as he is closely inspecting the grave markers in hope of trying to discern whether Frank Hickering is one of them (he isn't), discovers that several of the graves have faded blue ink marks on them.

He points out the ink marks to the others. "How strange... what do you make of this, Mrs Blakey?"

"Not sure, Doctor. Only, I wouldn't be surprised if the those who passed in 1917 are in reality still lost in France. John and Mary Cokeridge's grave seems to be a tragic story too; they were both born in the same year and passed in the same year. 1929."

Lillian considers if it is worth following up and then swats at an insect.

Gabriel leans closer to the ink marks. "Has someone written over these? Or used ink to trace from the grave markers?"

He tries to see if anything legible can emerge from closer scrutiny.

It's impossible to say. It's not on all of them, and even then only faintly on some of them, and doesn't appear to be where something was traced or written.

Walker inspects the grave destined to Douglas. "Why on earth would one do something like this? It's not like they had to reserve a plot of land... With so many acres of estate. Nor it is a place in a family mausoleum..."

He leans closer.

Samuel will insoect some of the stones where the writing has been lost to the ages and the elements and attempt to discern if a rubbing might provide anything legible.

Nothing unusual about Douglas' grave marker. It was a fairly common thing to do, to have your marker already bought and placed, just ready for the body when they did die. It's the same thing with Virginia's.

Samuel finds nothing that would really help - there might be "18" in there as a date perhaps, but even that's pretty sketchy. He can maybe work out a letter or number or two here and there, or at least guess what they might be, but as for actual names or dates, it's impossible to say. A rubbing might help a little, but they're so far gone (even the legible ones listed above are based on guesswork here and there) that it probably wouldn't reveal anything.

He wipes sweat from his forehead and turns to look at the house from this perspective.

"What do you say, my friends? Maybe the house itself will offer more clues? Carruthers only prevented disturbing Virginia Henslowe, but we have free access to the rest of the house and grounds, granted by Douglas?"

"We could check out the drier outbuildings, including those overrun by the trees first. I'm not sure we'll find anything, but it makes sense to be thorough."

"True... Since we're outside. But let's watch our step, please... I don't trust this swampy terrain. More suitable to malaria-carrying mosquitoes than to humans..."

He follows Lillian.

Sam follows along, keeping his eyes open for logs to be wary of.

The ruins almost hidden by clumps of trees are little more than broken, plain walls, and collapsed doorways, with little or no roof left, and the inside given way to the elements - bushes and even a small tree are growing inside one of the ruins, bursting forth from the hard-packed clay that forms the floor like an eager tongue pushing between earthy lips and teeth.

There's very little here, though it does give you a vantage point to see the ones in the swamp, which seem very similar, albeit smaller - seems like one building out in the swamp, while here in the trees there are 4 or 5 similar ruins.

"I suppose one could consider this scenic, after a fashion."

Lillian recognises, them, eventually as she looks at the bare walls, the rusting remnants of the roofs, and from the fact that from here, the mansion itself is hidden from sight - which means the reverse too. She also realises why the other two perhaps haven't recognised these structures.

The Henslowe estate was a southern plantation. These were the slave quarters. The other building, being apart from these ones, was almost certainly the kitchen, kept away from the other buildings in case of fire, as often the slaves would be locked inside these buildings at night to sop them from escape.

"Oh. Oh my."

The realisation leaves Lillian cold.

Realising that the others were looking at her with some concern, she slowly elaborates. She then adds,"I think that one is the kitchen, seperate to inhibit arson and food or tools being stolen for escape attempts. The other buildings being lockable night cells for this plantation's slaves. Let the swamp take it all."

Samuel narrows his eyes as he looks out over the sinking buildings. "Let's check the rest of the grounds... although if we cannot find anything further we may have to venture back here."

The car is only about 20 feet out, and judging at the angle at which it is laying there, the swamp is only about 2 feet deep at that point.

There are several "logs" around though, and at least one of them seems to have eyes watching you.

Samuel recognises the car as a 1909 Ford Model T, and judging by the level of rust on it, it's been there quite some time - probably longer than Henslowe has been in the sanitarium in fact. If that's the case, he realises, it's doubtful that Henslowe has left anything in there that would be of use, especially considering the dangers of the alligators present in the swamp.

"What say you, we can take a look at those sheds over there, next? They seem close to Carruther's cottage, but we should be cleared to check there. Unless the dogs protest, of course, " he says.

"It seems safer than some other options, Doctor," Lillian nods, "I hope the dogs are tethered."

She sets off in that direction.