You know what you did.


These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.


I went to the police station to register a noise complaint against the people that live across the street from my house. It’s not so much the chanting, as it is the thunder that booms out from their house at three in the morning. I found the process for making the complaint quite strange, as the desk sergeant insisted that I be patted down, and then that I should pat him down in turn. I’m not sure if he was searching for weapons or if this was an ancient sort of greeting. Either way, he was surprisingly gentle with his frying-pan sized hands.

Credit where credit is due – the police department got right on that complaint. That very night, the chanting lasted a mere ten minutes before there was the sound of doors being kicked in, followed by bloodcurdling screams. After that, nothing but blessed silence.

I haven’t slept so well in months.


I came home from work last Tuesday evening to find two of Miss Weetamoo’s brothers on their way out, presumably after a visit to see how she was recovering from her wounds. Whatever was exchanged between them, I’m afraid it got my former housekeeper quite stirred up, because I caught her trying to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.

While she is indeed on the mend, she still has some way to go. She is, after all, recovering from a gunshot that went right through her abdomen. Nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you. She’s in no state to be traipsing around in the middle of the night. Especially when there are two groups of bootlegging gangsters out for her blood.
It was then that she told me that her brothers had brought news – one of the gangs, the one that owns and operates shipping warehouses located out by the highway, were rumoured to be bringing in a new shipment sometime in the coming week. A shipment of what? She couldn’t say, but seemed desperate to find out.

When I forbid her from going out, she looked as if she was ready to physically attack me. Nonsense, of course. I’m a full-grown man, and a war veteran on top of that. Whereas she is a dainty member of the fairer sex. I have no desire to manhandle a young lady, but I would have if it meant she was going to re-injure herself.

As it happened though, a physical altercation was rendered unnecessary as she banged her side against the kitchen table, doubling herself over with pain. I escorted her back to her cot in the basement. It was there that she took my hand and pleaded with me to go and try and take a peek at what the trucking gangsters were bringing into our city.

I didn’t understand her anxiety over the matter. The gang is comprised of bootleggers, they were therefore likely to be bringing in bootlegged alcohol. 

But Miss Weetamoo does not seem so sure. In fact, she has a firm conviction that they’re shipping something else into Arkham. Something that will help them turn the war against the other remaining bootlegging gang. Something, if Miss Weetamoo is correct, that they will not be able to control.


Motorized snowplows are out and about as the white stuff piles up on our fair city’s streets. I can remember when automobiles were a very rare thing, and we’d love a good snow fall because we’d hitch up the sleigh to the horses and go for an enchanted ride through the quiet of a seemingly sleeping town.

Now, everything revolves around cars, which means the motorized snowplows are rumbling around Arkham all day and night, sounding so very much like a hungry giant turning over rocks in search of a meal. It certainly doesn’t help things any that they also seem to be turning over a remarkable number of human-like bones. You can hear them cracking and tinkling against each other as they’re thrown into the snowbanks. Where are they coming from? The sky? If so... what up there is dying in such prodigious numbers to provide so many bones?


I’ve been considering if I should get Miss Commonprance a Christmas gift. I certainly intend to give her a bonus for all of her hard work in keeping my office running through the trials and tribulations of this past year. But that’s just a reflection of our employer/employee relationship.

But a gift is more personal. However, if I am to get her something, it can’t be too personal. It can’t be the kind of gift that says, “I expect something in return,” followed by an imagined wag of one’s eyebrows.

Ladies, you will always have my affection and admiration. But sometimes, you are an absolute nuisance. 


The town has put up the annual Christmas tree downtown. As always, it is an absolute beast, a spruce that towers up above the two-story buildings in the area. It has been beautifully decorated by the ladies’ auxiliary club, festooned with red bows and silver ball ornaments.

As festive as the tree is, and it is certainly very festive indeed, I do have some concerns as I observed that the tree leans its tip down and follows the progress of anybody walking by while pushing a baby in a stroller.

Each time, the tip of the tree strains a little further, and gets closer to street level. The branches shake. And I could swear I heard a gurgling noise like an empty stomach. 

On the plus side, all that shaking and swaying makes the ornaments glitter and shine in the golden lights emanating from the streetlights and storefronts that are open late... so that’s nice. 


Do snowmen spontaneously erect themselves in your hometown during heavy snowfalls? Just checking.


Wait... should I also get Miss Weetamoo a gift? We have had some... disagreements in our past. In fact, I fired the woman for snooping amongst these very phonographic rolls that you’re listening to right now. But, it turns out she was fighting on behalf of the citizens of Arkham against the violence of the bootlegging gangs. And she is, after all, going to be spending Christmas in my cellar. Does being someone’s basement dweller obligate an exchange of gifts?

Ladies, you know I hold you in high esteem. But sometimes, you do require some extra effort.


Groups of Christmas carollers are making the rounds, filling the crisp winter air with sentimental seasonal favourites. Here, there’s a group of children singing, “Jingle Bells,” in an effort to raise money for the homeless. There, an elderly a cappella group is raising its collective voice in a wonderful, heartfelt rendition of “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.”

Further along, we find an all-male group of police officers singing... uh... good lord, what is that sound? My god, it’s hideous! How can such noises come from the throats of human-shaped people! My ears! It feels like they’re piercing my ears with red hot needles! Oh won’t someone please make it-

Oh, never mind, it’s just “Away In A Manger.” Not to be hurtful, but those boys could really use some practice. 


I believe the spontaneous snowmen might be moving. I spotted seven of them on my way home from work, the closest standing on a yard just down the road and across the street from my house. When I later went to close the front curtains for the night, I could swear that snowman was a yard closer.

No, no... that’s ridiculous. Some child probably just built a second snowman after demolishing the first. Yes, that is far more likely. Why would snowmen move? And why would they head in my direction?


A couple brought in a boy to my office today, a little tyke of about five years old. It seemed the boy had mistaken tinsel on the family Christmas tree for candy, and had swallowed a bunch of the shiny stuff before his parents could stop him.

At least the little fellow didn’t choke on the stuff, so that was fine. However, most brands of tinsel are made from lead, which is not a friendly substance to little blood systems. We’re going to have to keep a sharp watch on the child over the next few days to see if he suffers from any symptoms of lead poisoning.

On the plus side, he seems to have passed the strands through his system without any trouble. Weird thing though – it caused his bottom some pain because it came out all tied up in the form of an ancient Egyptian scarab symbol.

Let me tell you, that was a new one on me. I looked up the scarab. To ancient Egyptians, it was a symbol representing transformation. I do believe my little visitor has an interesting few years ahead of him. 


Allow me to take a moment out of my reminiscing to wish you and yours all the best of whichever holiday you happen to celebrate at this time of year. How is your celebration coming along? Are you sharing wonderful food with the people you care most about in the world? Are you catching up on what your cousins have been doing with their time? Are you sweating over what to get two women in your life because you fear they will compare notes and decide to complain because they think the other received a better gift? Ah... the holidays.


A flyer was pushed through my mailbox with enough force to stick its corner in the wall in my hallway. What do we have here...

It’s a notice from Town Council. It says, “If any of the presents under your tree are moving, just pretend it’s a puppy. When you open the gift, make sure you lean in close, so that your face is right next to the top of the box. Please do not be wearing eyeglasses, as they might interfere with the process. Yours truly, the Town Council.”

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go take a look at what is under my tree. Right after I grab myself a hammer.


I ended up buying Miss Commonprance a stethoscope of her own as a Christmas present. Aside from running my office, she has been studying to become a nurse in the evenings. It is a remarkable load of work, yet she never complains. In fact, she returns each morning to the office with a sunny smile on her face. I wish I knew what kept her so cheerful all the time. I’d like a dose of it myself. The stethoscope is a fairly pricey gift, which means I’ll have to find something of equal value to give to Miss Weetamoo. God help me if they ever compare presents and one comes up far short of the other.

Honestly ladies, you have my greatest admiration, but sometimes your womb-based emotions can be quite exhausting.


I woke in the middle of the night to crunching sounds. I peeked through my bedroom curtains to see a number of those snowmen, at least a dozen, had gathered in my neighbourhood during the quiet of the witching hours. As I’m recording this, they have all turned to stare at my house. Why are they here? What do they want? Are they snowy angels of vengeance here to administer justice upon me? What did I do to offend them so?


While I wait here, crouched down in my study, keeping my voice down so as not to wake Miss Weetmaoo from her slumber in the cellar below, I suppose I should relate that I did in fact finally find her a present. At first I thought of getting her an upscale feather duster or perhaps even one of those new floor-cleaning devices that operate upon a vacuum principle. I figured a present of this nature would aid her when she looked for employment as a housekeeper once she had fully recovered from her wound. However, while I admit to having very little understanding of how the female mind, quite often wound up in hysterics, works, I do believe that such a gift might not be appreciated. Which is ridiculous – what greater gift can one give than a better tomorrow?

But then I thought, hey Cornelius, this woman isn’t going to have any tomorrows if she keeps getting herself shot up full of holes. And that’s how it hit me – a bulletproof vest!

It arrived earlier today. It is quite the contraption. It is made of silk, of all things, thirty layers of the stuff with a customized sewing pattern that reinforces its slug-stopping potential. It is held in place with straps over the shoulder as well as ties that wind around the wearer’s back. I do hope it will fit her snugly across the chest. Miss Weetamoo is quite... she’s not lacking in the... uh, area... Let’s just say that you wouldn’t require any straight lines if you were to draw a figure study of the lady.


The snowmen opened gaping maws in their crooked round white heads and began to sing. It’s a horrible sound, like the dying of a great beast, or the lament of a lost soul calling out across time to a love that has not existed for a millennia. My god, how the low rumbles hurt my bones! The high screeches feel like the whips of lashes across my skin! I don’t know how much more of this I can take! I feel my very mind peeling apart like a Christmas clementine, every jagged note undoing sanity itself! I am not a religious man, but if ever there was a higher celestial being that watched over us, I beg it now to come and ease my suffer-

Oh. They’ve segued into a rendition of “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” Not bad. Yes, not bad at all.


I presented Miss Weetamoo with her gift this morning before I set out for work. I meant for her to hold onto the wrapped package until Christmas Day, but she called that “Christian foolishness” and tore it open.

I do believe she liked the bulletproof vest. She scowled at it, and called it ridiculous. But then she turned her face to the wall, and from the hitching in her shoulders, I do believe she was crying in gratitude. Or at least, I think it was gratitude.

Honestly ladies, you know that I regard you with the highest bounds of admiration, but I do sometimes wish you’d control your wombs instead of the other way around. 


At any rate, allow me to close off this phonographic roll with my best wishes to you and your families for the holiday season and the New Year. I’ll leave you with this recording of the snowmen singing what I believe is their version of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Good-bye, for now.  


Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the western horror novel “Hag’s Trail.”