To me, Dear Listeners, you will never be here, now. You will only ever be there, then. While you’re there, can you pick me up a chocolate milkshake? It’s milk that has been shaken!


These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.


My greatest piece of advice for you, Dear Listeners, is to continuously build yourself. Learn a new language. Lift weights. Learn how to play a musical instrument. Increase your knowledge of First Aid practices. Plant a garden. Do charity work.

Just to be clear though, I am in no way implying that you literally build yourself by sewing or gluing on new limbs taken from the morgue. Just because it worked for Sister Jeanne who works over at the Arkham Sanitarium does not mean that it will work for you.


Members of one of the remaining bootlegging gangs came pounding upon my back door last night. Yes, pounding, I tell you! Not knocking, not rapping, but a full on hammering with a fist bunched in anger.

I came downstairs expecting trouble, and brother, I got it! As soon as I opened the door four thugs of great size and questionable hygiene practices burst into my kitchen, demanding to know where “she” was.

I knew immediately to whom these ruffians were referring. Miss Weetamoo, of course. She had been gallivanting around town at night, throwing monkey wrenches into every bootlegging operation she could find. She got a bullet through her abdomen for her troubles, and had ended up on the floor where these ogres now stood, bleeding to death all over my checkered tiles.

The brutes wanted to know where “she” was, and only “she,” indicating that they did not know Miss Weetamoo’s name, only that a woman was the one who had been causing them so much trouble. A small relief though, as that very same woman was hidden in my cellar right at that moment.

The bootleggers knew from experience that I was a soft touch, and would not refuse to aid anybody in need of my medical practices, including some of their own men in the past.

The leader of the bunch, a man with a jaw so square you could use it to measure corners of rooms, grabbed me by the front of my shirt and shook me. He told me in a surprisingly high voice that I should, “Drop a dime,” on the “bearcat” or he was going to make me kiss a “bean shooter,” which I took to be a threat of some kind.

The other three men spread out around my house, making a mess of my office and den and thundering up the stairs with their clopping heavy feet to check the bedrooms. It was like a herd of buffalo had been let loose inside my domicile.

It was then that the lead goon, who still had a firm hold of the front of my shirt, spotted the door to the cellar. He asked me what that was, and being quite angry at the invasion, I unwisely replied, “A window.” He grunted, then gave me a headbutt that broke my nose and had blood dripping down onto his fist.

He dragged me across the room. I cast about desperately for a knife, but before I could reach one he was opening the door... to a pantry.

Believe me, I was as surprised as you. And relieved. And worried.

I do believe my house switched out the stairs to the cellar with that small room of shelves, complete with jars of preserved peaches and cranberries.

So, the gangsters did not find Miss Weetamoo that night. But, while they were still in my house, all I could do was worry that the house had filled in the entire cellar with dirt when it had made the change to the pantry. It was no easy task to keep such a concern from my face, let me tell you. At least I had my bleeding nose and swelling eyes to give me an excuse for my perturbation. 

The lead gorilla shut that door as his boys returned to the kitchen. They left with a stern warning – they knew no “dumb Dora” had checked into a hospital or a “cop clubhouse” after being clipped. So if she came around looking for help, I was to call them right away if I knew what was good for me.

They left then, going through the kitchen door and into the alleyway beyond. I snuck out and watched them and waited until I was sure they were gone before hurrying back inside and opening that door and, much to my relief, finding that the stairs had been returned. I gave my house an affectionate pat and a “Well done” and hurried down to find that Miss Weetamoo had slept through the entire thing.

I am, needless to say, anxious about what the future might bring, for myself and Miss Weetamoo. And the town in general, if it were to fall wholly into the hands of men like my visitors.

Also, I didn’t know if the house had created that pantry completely from scratch, or had borrowed it from some other household somewhere. If it was the latter, was there some housewife at the moment where the heck her jarred peaches had gotten to? 


I read the Arkham Advertiser every morning as I have my breakfast. I was surprised to find on page three of today’s paper the following: “Doctor Cornelius Plink is currently eating two fried eggs, brown toast, and three strips of bacon. This reporter makes special note of the fact that the doctor likes to dip his bacon into the egg yolks. This just in – the Doctor is now sipping orange juice from a mug that is meant for coffee, not juice. More to follow.”

I can’t say I care for having my life so closely scrutinized. Also, they’re trying a new font in the Advertiser, and I have to say, it just doesn’t hold the same authority as good old Monotype Scotch Roman.


When I arrived at my office this morning Miss Commonprance bet me twenty-five cents that a snail on the front steps would not make it all the way across before noon. She however instantly forgot this game when she saw the state of my broken nose and bruised and swollen eyes.

She fretted over me the entire day, forcing me to hold handkerchiefs filled with ice to my eyes when we were between patients. When pressed for an explanation, I told her that I had tripped and fallen into the edge of an open door. She looked me in my eyes... well, in the slits where one would presume my eyes were hidden... and proclaimed that I was a lousy liar.

She remained miffed at me for the rest of the day. So now I have an angry woman at the office, and a bossy one hidden in my home.

On the plus side, that snail on the front step really put some effort into it. I would have won that twenty-five cents. So... that’s nice.


We have received fliers informing us that the traffic police will be rolling out new hand signals and that all citizens with automobiles must memorize them at once. The signals include:

...Speed up, you drive like my grandmother walks. Slow down for construction. Inform on your neighbour. Admire the weather... while you still can. Detour ahead. Detour around a head. Your hat is too big, please remove it while operating a motor vehicle. Don’t look up. Don’t look down. Don’t look. Whatever you do... just don’t look.

I can’t wait until they install more electric stoplights in town so we no longer need to rely on traffic officers. This is getting ridiculous. 


Apparently there was quite the kerfuffle amongst our stargazers last night. A troop of Boy Scouts was out learning about astronomy and were the first to notice that a large swatch of stars, usually located in the same section of the night sky as the North Star, were gone. There were no clouds last night, the stars had simply vanished, leaving a big black hole in the galaxy.

Town Council rushed out a statement this morning, proclaiming that all was well, and that the Boy Scouts were quote “just a bunch of stupid-faces who are really terrible at using telescopes,” unquote.

First of all, I expect my town representatives to have better manners. I’d remind them that they are beholden to the people who voted them in, if our votes actually mattered and weren’t just used to feed the eternally-burning fire in the Town Hall’s boiler room.

Second, nobody is so bad at using a telescope that they’d just misplace dozens, if not hundreds, of visible stars from a night sky.
Either the Boy Scouts are pulling a vast prank, or Town Hall knows more than it’s letting on.

One simply doesn’t know whom to trust anymore.


The city has started giving out timepieces, for free. Handsomely made, the pieces are pocket watches with silver chains. Like many people, both men and women, I had taken to wearing a wristwatch during the war years. However, these pocket watches offered by the city are so attractive, that I had to stop and take a look at the municipal display out front of Bonhomme Lavergne’s Haberdashery and House of Voodoo.

The pieces are quite remarkable. There is a little scrolling wheel that tells you the month, and another that shows you the state of the moon. It’s the latter that gave me pause, and is why I didn’t take one of these attractive time pieces home with me.

Instead of showing the moon in its various phases of waxing and waning, it instead shows the moon with the words “hungry,” “infatuated,” “lascivious,” “obsessed,” “livid,” “drowning,” “yellow,” or “coming to get you” beside it, depending on the time of the month.

No thank you, Town Council. If I was that interested in the state of the moon, I’d take up astronomy with the Boy Scouts. And we all know how that turned out.


Construction workers and city engineers have started installing a series of fire hydrants around the city. “Good,” I hear you saying, because you have such a longstanding prejudice against house fires. But I must disagree, in a respectful but forceful manner. You see, the city already has fire hydrants, and they work just fine. These new hydrants do not shoot out water when they are activated. No, instead these new hydrants shoot out a thick stream of Bald-faced Hornets. If water from fire hydrants is shot out at fires, what would one possibly shoot a stream of a thousand furious stinging wasps at?


As always, allow me to pause in my recordings to inquire about all of you. Are you the type that is looking forward to winter? Do you enjoy skating or taking a trip down the side of a hill on a toboggan? Do you like getting dressed up in thick coats and colourful scarves? Do you have a woman hidden in your cellar? If so, I hope your reason for doing so is as justified as mine. Otherwise, you might be a problem.


The Town Council is apparently floating the idea of having various musical acts in over the upcoming Christmas season to help celebrate the holiday. “How wonderful!” you might think, as did I. Until I learned what kind of music they’re considering.

Jazz. They’re going to make it a quote unquote “Jazzy Christmas.” I feel nauseous just thinking about it. Wrong notes being played on every street corner while people nod their heads wisely like they really get it, man, when in fact there’s nothing to get at all and it’s just horrible screechy noise celebrating the happy tidings of the end of the year.

I have taken being threatened, being chased by a cloud, being in the middle of a bootlegger war, being in the middle of a war between rodents and amphibians, having pieces of the sky fall nearly right on my head, ridiculous laws, even more ridiculous taxes, having my housekeeper try to single-handedly fight violent criminals, Neanderthal-like police officers, missing stars, mysterious boxes, madness, insanity, hysteria, monsters that eat churches and synagogues, prostitutes that steal men’s pelvic bones to create invisible temples of worship, dockworkers with gills, dockworkers with gills that have gone missing, and the inability to get a really good steak dinner around here. But having my Christmas spoiled by jazz?! No sir! No, there is simply a limit to what even the most patient of men can stand. I am going to write a letter to Town Council right this minute and give them a piece of my mind!

I found my letter to Town Council pinned to my front door by a dagger with a long, curved, and inexplicably black blade. This is quite frightening. Even worse, I didn’t even get the chance to mail the letter off. I finished writing it last night and left it on my desk. And yet, this morning, there it was, an intimidating door ornament. I don’t think I’ve ever received a clearer message – leave the issue alone.

Still... jazz. God!


I leave you now with a piece of advice my grandfather gave me back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. “My boy,” he said, “always wear your best underwear when you’re going out. Someday you might be injured and end up in a hospital full of cute nurses and then one of those nurses will steal your pants and then where will you be?” Thanks, Grandpa.


Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the tongue-in-cheek fantasy novel “The Wizard, the Farmer, and the Very Petty Princess”