Don’t judge a fellow before you walk a mile in his moccasins, or so the line goes. But what if those moccasins don’t let you stop after that mile, and just force you to keep walking... and walking... and walking...

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

More traffic lights have gone up around town as the numbers of automobiles continues to climb. Arkham is starting to feel like quite the modern little cosmopolitan mecca these days, as opposed to the fog-shrouded backwater it was when I first arrived.

A quick question though – do traffic lights set cars that run red lights on fire in other cities? I’m not complaining. For once, I actually agree with one of the more extreme decisions made by the Council. Perhaps this trend will catch on across the continent. Well done Arkham, you’re leading the way!


Well, my approval of the Town Council was short-lived. It seems the Council has given the go-ahead to the Arkham Police Department to allow fistfights between citizens to continue, rather than breaking them up.

The Council could have issued a by-law requiring the police to break up the fight and make the participants air out their grievances in an orderly and adult manner. They could have asked the adversaries to shake hands, and part while experiencing the joy of renewed friendship and brotherhood.

But no. The Council instead decided to let the fisticuffs fly. Not only this, but they have authorized police to take bets on the winner, taking a cut of the winnings for itself. I swear, Town Council is going to tax us all to death.

I have considered investing my money, to have it work for me and grow, rather than just sitting there in the bank like a lazy lump. But I fear I know nothing about the financial world other than it exists and is quite possibly a magnet for men who wear blue shirts with white collars.

I went and had a quick chat with a local financial adviser, a fellow by the name of Tuesday Friday. He was a thin fellow with sallow yellow cheeks and bugging bloodshot eyes. While we spoke he continuously drummed his fingers on his cherry-wood desk and repeatedly said, “Whaddya think of that, Jack?!” as a kind of exclamation point to the sentences he spit out in my direction. 

I had him explain the general gist of the investment game to me, but I’m afraid I came away even more confused than when I went in. I was drowning in terms like asset-backed-securities, asset classes, bear markets, blood pacts, defined-benefit plans, unavoidable firstborn child clauses, initial public offerings, mandatory succubus seed extractions, and on and on. I was also drowning in the spit that came flying across that cherry-wood desk. Tuesday Friday really put some effort into pronouncing his plosives. 

Mr. Friday sent me home with a pamphlet that he hands out to all investment neophytes. But I have to say, I really don’t see how this silly thing is supposed to clarify matters. I’ll read just a small section of it to give you an idea of what I’m dealing with:

“Consider a man. He is an old man. An old man who carries regrets like a farmer carries kittens in a bag as he makes his way to the river. The old man wants to jump, but his legs no longer have any spring in them. He wants to sing, but his lungs are withered like grapes left on a vine. He wants to run, but his feet now weigh a thousand pounds each and his legs don’t have the strength to pick them up off of the pavement. 

But now, the old man is given one last burst of youth. Gravity is no longer his enemy. His feet kick up almost of their own accord and he runs, no! Gallops! Through fields, like a mustang that has never known a fence, only the wind and freedom. Fly, old man! Leap! Laugh and reach for the sun itself for it is there, oh yes, there, in the very heart of the sun, where you shall find a version of yourself that will forever defy time itself!

Financial advisor fees can range between 2% and 15% per year.”

I don’t... Is this advice? I’m going to save up a nice retirement nest-egg with this information? And 15%? Get lost! I’ll just take up robbing banks instead. Better to be the robber than to be the robbed.


How are your finances, dear friends that I do not actually know? Are you well off? Do you have a nest-egg set up for your future? Does your financial advice institution feature a laughing skull painted on the marble floor of their building’s lobby? I really am new to all of this and am eager to take any advice you might have on the subject.


Miss Commonprance showed up at my house yesterday evening, unannounced. Just barged right in, although she did take a moment to wipe snow off the bottom of her boots. She then proceeded to stomp her way through the ground floor, demanding all the while to know why I have been avoiding her as of late. Or, to state it in her colourful vocabulary, she had a “beef” with all the “baloney” I’d been “slinging” in her lap, and she had a hunch that I had another “bim” stashed away, and if I didn’t come clean she’d punch me right in my “beezer.” (I hope a “beezer” is a nose or eye, and not something else.) She wasn’t going to be another “Dumb Dora” who “carries a torch” for a “wrong number.”

Do keep in mind, I was trying to translate all of this while chasing her around the ground floor. In particular, I was trying to steer her clear of my study, where Miss Weetamoo and I had all of our research materials laid out, as well as Miss Weetamoo herself. Miss Weetamoo is most assuredly not my “bim,” yet is certainly an unattached woman, and a good-looking one at that, alone in the house of an unattached man.

I tried to entice Miss Commonprance back into the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate and a discussion about her concerns, but she wasn’t having it. I got in between her and the door to my study and demanded that she behave herself, but this just made her more suspicious.
  
I demanded that she stop this behaviour at once. She demanded to see inside of the study. I stated that I would not be bullied about in my own house. She burst into tears. Long story short, I opened the door to the study and let her in.

I’d like to say that I had noble intentions, how it was unfair of me to hide such an important part of my life from the woman I was romantically entwined with, but really I broke down because I’m just not good with crying women. It’s like they have some kind of mesmerizing effect on me. 

So in went Miss Commonprance... and found nothing. No notes, no reference books, and no Miss Weetamoo. It was just my study, and nothing more.

At this point, Miss Commonprance gave up, which was for the best, because if she had looked around upstairs she would have found Miss Weetamoo’s personal items in one of the guest bedrooms, which would have been far worse than finding the woman herself in my study. There were more tears, and then apologies, and Miss Commonprance begged me to tell her what she had done wrong that made me not want to see her so much anymore. 

I in turn soothed her female emotions by assuring her nothing was wrong, that with this cold there was an excess of cases of pneumonia and other exposure-related health concerns, and they had been running my ragged. All of which was true. I simply didn’t specify that the cold was likely being caused by a malignant entity working on the behalf of a bootlegger gang.

Miss Commonprance was quite embarrassed by the whole incident and was soon on her way, begging me to forget that it ever happened. I waved good-bye to her, closed the front door, and returned to the study to find Miss Weetamoo replacing all of our materials. I asked her how she had managed to clear everything out so quickly, she replied “magic,” and then for the rest of the day proceeded to mock me by speaking in Miss Commonprance’s manner, all “dish” this and “stuck on” that recited in Miss Commonprance’s high and breathy tones.

Insufferable woman. But she saved my skin, so I suffered in silence. At least it gives me extra impetus to take down the Riverboat Boys, just so I have a reason to escort Miss Weetamoo out of my house. But, for now, I guess I’ll have to continue to extend her some leeway, on account of her trying to save the lives of every innocent person in town. 


The bitter cold brought about by that evil B’gnu-Thun entity fellow has delayed all the joys of the advent of spring. Usually, by this time of the year Arkham citizens would be delighting in:

The smell of lilac.

Streets lined with rows of trees just bursting forth with light-pink blossoms.

Longer daylight hours, with the knowledge that there are even more to come.

The first days of not having to wear a heavy jacket.

The annual emergence of the water-breathing dock-workers as they stagger forth from their hidden hibernation chambers.

Birds bursting forth in glorious song as they strive to find a mate.

Birds bursting from singing too hard.

Newborn bunnies and ducklings. Or at least, the ones that don’t attack the homeless.

The first of fresh produce on market shelves, after a winter of eating preserves. 

Flowers shyly opening their drowsy heads to greet the warming sun. Of course, some of the flowers in the area of Arkham shout some hateful things, but for the most part, they’re quite lovely. Except the petunias. My goodness they’re racist.

The ability to open the windows and let in some fresh air. Assuming of course that your house will allow this.

Hmm.. speaking of assumptions, I just realized that I’m assuming that  B’gnu-Thun is evil and means us harm. What if he’s just a happy-go-lucky type of giant that just accidentally happens to exude waves of excruciating cold? Then again, he did help to violently wipe out one of the bootlegging gangs here in town, so... Yeah, he’s probably evil.

I think.


The time to act has come. We simply cannot wait for Town Council to make up its mind on this whole B’gnu-Thun issue. Word has reached our ears, those ears belonging to Miss Weetamoo and myself, that the remaining bootlegging gang, called the Riverboat Boys, has started to use B’gnu-Thun’s cold to extort innocent Arkham civilians.

Mr. Levi, owner of Levi’s Delicatessen, home of a wonderful Reuben sandwich if you ever pass this way, was reportedly told to start paying a monthly protection fee to the gang or he would lose his business. He refused, as any right-thinking citizen would, and a day later his establishment was encased in a wall of ice at least six inches thick. 

Miss Weetamoo and I are in complete agreement on this score – where livelihoods are threatened, lives are likely to follow. If we don’t put a stop to the evil alliance between the entity of coldness and the gang now, they might start to spread their icy reach beyond the borders of Arkham. This battle must be fought, and ended, here.

Miss Weetamoo has gone out in the dead of night, on her own. I insisted that I come with her, but she told me that she would only have to worry about protecting me. Rude. 

But possibly true. You’ll perhaps recall that I did see my former housekeeper in action, outside a log cabin in the middle of a deserted bit of forest, and it was... uncanny. She moved faster than a human being has any right to move.

So now, here I sit, in my study, rambling into this microphone, trying to ease my nerves as I think of her out there rousting violent criminals all on her own. Even now, I want to dash out and convince her to come home and let me handle it. I know that’s unlikely, I couldn’t convince that stubborn creature to open an umbrella in the pouring rain, but still, this doesn’t feel right, having a woman go out into the night to do a man’s job.

Perhaps even worse, she recommended that I prepare my office for emergency intakes of gangsters that would not be willing to go to the hospital. She also suggested that I be less than gentle in treating them until they coughed up information regarding how they contact this B’gnu-Thun, or even better, how to banish him back from whence he came. I have to say, she didn’t show much regard for my Hippocratic oath.   

Still, I suppose I should get off of my duff and get the office ready for emergency surgery, or at least to handle some bumps and bruises. I suspect Miss Weetamoo did not intend to be gentle with any gangsters that fell into her surprisingly strong grasp.

Do you believe any of this, Dear Listeners? Does any of this seem real to you? Two regular human beings fighting a bootlegging gang and its pet... monster? Demon? God? I am living this, and my mind keeps wanting to tell me that it’s complete nonsense.

What will people in the future think of me when they hear these recordings? If they think me mad, as they surely must do... how would I ever prove them wrong?


Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the creator of the text-based Choose-Your-Own-Path horror game “Ocean of Death.”