I believe it was that great Eastern mystic Buddha that once said something like “The mind is everything. What you think is what you become.” These days, I think I’m in a lot of trouble. Perhaps Buddha is right and I should become trouble for someone else. These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink. It is time to end this thing. It is now May, yet the bitter cold persists. Pipes are bursting, the farms around the city are unable to seed their fields because the ground remains frozen, the dock workers continue to hibernate. Not that it matters, because cargo ships are unable to travel along the Miskatonic on account of it being a solid block of ice. The weather is so damaging that it has broken free of the strange bubble that usually surrounds Arkham, and has come to the attention of state authorities. Some meteorological fellows ventured down from Boston to attempt to find the cause of the strange pocket of cold that lingers over our town. I know this, because I was called in to attend to them when they, upon crossing the town’s official border, began screaming and clawing at their own throats. Imagine how much worse it would have been if they had discovered that the cold was caused by a giant evil entity being controlled by, or perhaps colluding with, the town’s one remaining bootlegger gang. I have to say, I do wish the government would give the town more of a heads-up when they’re sending officials our way. It takes quite a while for us to wash away the viscera, take down the new eyeballs from the back of the park benches, that sort of thing. One only gets to make one first impression, you know! Town Council has temporarily lifted their ban on speaking your thoughts out loud in an effort to gather ideas to combat the damaging cold. They sent out a list of rejected ideas via carrier pigeon. Unfortunately the pigeons all froze and plummeted out of the sky like artillery shells, so we had to go out and gather the information ourselves, rather than having it delivered to our homes. The rejected ideas include: Yelling at the cold to make it go away. Making the cold fall in love with you, and then breaking its heart by seeing other people. Writing “Cold – 1 = 0” on a giant chalkboard. A giant group hug to share body warmth. I think this one sounds nice, but the Council is dead-set against non-fatal hugging, so that’s that. The only real suggestion I have is that the Town Council destroy the ancient entity known as B’gnu-Thun, under the control of the gang known as the Riverboat Boys. So... do I just speak this thought out loud? Do I write it down and send it in to the Council? I’m certainly not sending it by carrier pigeon. One of those poor buggers cracked my windshield. Speaking of making first good impressions, we really must do something about the town’s landscapers. I realize we’re not getting any tourists right now thanks to the cold, and in fact we might all die if we’re not able to escape, but still, if we do ever have nice weather again, the tourists will come, and they’ll see those landscapers. Whose idea was it to release hardened violent criminals from the prisons to trim hedges? These are people known to have poked people to death with sharp instruments. But what does the city of Arkham do? It gives them sharp instruments! Okay, yes, granted, they’ve done a surprisingly good job keeping the grass trimmed at the cities’ parks. And okay, fine, I haven’t seen a weed growing, well... anywhere in the city. Still! We’re just handing out garden shears and spades and garden hoes and hatchets to people who have murdered other human beings with garden shears and spades and garden hoes and hatchets! Then again, the trees along the streets and avenues have never been kept in such tip-top shape before. You know what? I think I’m really going to have to rethink my position on this issue. Sure, the murder rates might skyrocket, but we’ll have splendid greenery in the city to soothe our murder-related sorrows. So that’s nice. How do I put this... One must be delicate, you know. Miss Commonprance and I finally, um, consummated our relationship. In a fully physical sense, I mean. Many businesses around town have closed up because of the cold and the violence of the Riverside Boys. But both of those things add to the workload of a doctor’s office. Would I like to close up shop and flee to a southern tropical locale? You bet your boots I would. But I have a duty to the people of this town, and I will not shirk it. Miss Commonprance feels the same way. She has been stalwart in her dedication to both myself and the beleaguered people of Arkham. On the day that... it happened, we arrived at the office at the same time. It was damned cold out, and we were both shivering like leaves in the wind as we hurried inside. We were laughing about how cold we were, and then we were rubbing each other’s arms to warm each other up... and then we were were rubbing other things. No, we are not married. I know some of you are therefore thinking of Miss Commonprance as a common floozy, but I will not hear of such talk! She is a caring, intelligent young woman, and I consider myself lucky to be the object of her affections. Plus, my goodness, those legs of hers go from here until next Tuesday. The gams on that gal are simply ridiculous. She has expanded my world to new realms of music (even if some of it is jazz), and taught me to see the world with awe-filled delight. All that said, I do feel rather guilty. I am keeping a significant portion of my life secret from her. But “my housekeeper and I are struggling to defeat a massive supernatural horror” isn’t exactly charming pillow-talk, now is it? I can only pray that my secret life does not harm her. I would never forgive myself for that. Enough about me for the moment. How are things in your end of the world, Dear Listener? I hope you’re not experiencing bone-shattering cold in the month of May. I also hope you’re not forced to keep dangerous secrets from your Significant Other. And oh! Do you have murderers trimming the trees out front of your house? I’m dying to know! As always, I am trying to improve my artistic sensibilities. I’m giving poetry another crack. See what you think: “The frost creaked in, uninvited, unwanted. The people continued, spirits undaunted. Lives lived under blizzard conditions, I seem to have lost gentlemanly inhibitions, My assistant repeatedly her backside has flaunted.” Is it good enough to try to get it published in a poetry magazine? Yes? No? What do you think? Remember how I mentioned tourism? It really is an important source of income for Arkham. Now, I must admit, Arkham perhaps isn’t the prettiest town in North America. But that’s just fine, since it’s covered in milk-thick fog at least half the time, and that hides some of the more eye-watering bits of the city. And yes, just like you, I do suspect that at least some of those tourism dollars go directly into the handbags of the famous prostitutes that float about the docks like beautiful water-flowers, albeit water-flowers with gills on their necks and a penchant for worshipping invisible towers made from the pelvic bones of their clients/victims. Still, what Arkham lacks in looks she makes up for with a deep and rich history. This is the only location in all of the Americas where the natives not only willingly gave up the spot to European settlers, they in fact encouraged the Europeans to take this location saying, and this is of course a loose translation, “That place freaks us right out, man.” Some of the oldest Christian churches in the Americas were located here, and a lot of them. Granted, all of them lived short lives, as far as buildings go, what with the being struck by lightning, spontaneous combustion, being struck by cows flung by high winds, being eaten by locusts, melting into piles of goo that smell like candle wax and Vieux Boulogne cheese, being struck by flying cows wielding lightning, or being chomped on by hideous slug-like monsters with upsettingly human-like faces. Still, the bones of those churches are to be found all over the city, carefully preserved in heritage zones. Arkham is also of course the birthplace of the Tip-Your-Server-Or-Die Law which is now sweeping across North America. There’s a whole diorama dedicated to this historic subject. For those that enjoy the occult, Arkham rivals Salem for its association with the evil forms of witchcraft and sorcery. I defy you to go for a walk in the woods and not trip over some antique mortar and pestle that was used for grinding the bones of toddlers for use in various potions and powders. Yes, Arkham is surprisingly quite the tourist hot-spot. But this brutal cold is freezing up the steady stream of visitors that is usually enjoyed by this city. To that end, Town Council has been asking around for ideas on how to get the old tourist trade a-flowin’ once again. They’ve sent out a list of ideas that they’ve already rejected, so that we don’t repeat them. These ideas include: Saying to tourists, “Hey, you think this is cold? You should meet my mother-in-law!” Running about town in athletic shorts and short-sleeved shirts in order to fool tourists into thinking it’s warmer than it actually is. Setting random fires along the downtown streets. Not only would this be dangerous, but it might cause people to huddle around the fires for warmth instead of going into the shops to spend their money. Dropping to the ground and saying “Let’s make snow angels, wheeeeee!” while laughing non-stop. Not only is the laughter disturbing, but there’s a chance you might stick to the ground and the already overworked fire department will have to come and pry you loose. And apparently it’s an absolute no-go to offer to rub tourists’ bodies in an effort to keep them warm. Well, I’m stumped then. What else is left? Here’s another attempt at some poetry. It’s a spontaneous haiku. Do you know what a haiku is? It’s a poem consisting of three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and the final line has five again. The haiku form is from Japan. To you know what Japan is? It’s a country. Here goes: Fear is my life now. Security? What is that? Hooty’s backside – wow! Is it just me, or do I seem to have a growing obsession? How embarrassing. I wish I could erase parts of these phonographic rolls. The next one will be less, uh, lascivious in nature. I promise. We’ve had a breakthrough! Miss Weetamoo’s brothers have been looking into buildings outside of the city limits for signs of the Riverside Boys, while I scour the city itself. (Three strapping young native bucks roaming around the city would probably get the police called on them for trumped-up charges.) They struck gold first. The Riverside Boys bought a resort. I don’t mean they rented out a couple of cabins in the off-season, I mean they outright bought the resort. I suppose when you’re the only bootlegging gang left in a thirsty city you can afford such extravagances. Chateau In The Woodlands used to be a place that families would visit over the summer. You know the kind of spot – individual cabins as well as larger buildings with apartments. Sailing. Swimming. I heard they’ve been trying out skiing on water by pulling people behind motorized boats. It was a wholesome place, sullied now by the presence of those gangsters. The Weetamoo brothers were able to sneak close enough to see that the man the Riverside Boys imported from the Middle East is there, being kept in one of the buildings. I suggested to Miss Weetamoo that her brothers and I could try to sneak in at night and liberate the gentleman. After all, it’s not really a woman’s place to engage in such dangerous activities. If you’ve listened to enough of these recordings I’m sure you can guess Miss Weetamoo’s reaction – she laughed at me. She really is... I need to find more words other than just “insufferable.” Obnoxious? Impossible? Disagreeable? You choose the adjective. I asked why it always has to be her alone. Why can’t men, at the very least her brothers, help her out with such dangerous missions? She said it was not their calling, it was hers. Additionally, if they were there, she’d only worry about their safety, which would prove to be quite a distraction. She immediately followed this declaration by asking me to come along. I asked why she wouldn’t be distracted by worrying about my safety. She laughed again and shrugged and said I’m not her brother. Also, she might have need of my medical skills if she or the Middle Eastern man are hurt. I asked that she try to refrain from hurting any of the Riverside Boys if at all possible. Yes, they are violent criminals. But some of them were driven to the lifestyle by economic desperation. She flat out said no, and that poverty or not, they had chosen evil. So... there you have it. We’re off to a resort that is probably heavily guarded by gangsters, bootleggers who have allied themselves with a powerful supernatural entity. I’d ask you to wish us luck, but luck seems very small in the face of such large obstacles, doesn’t it? We’re almost off, but I have time to add one last poem. If things go badly tonight, this may very well prove to be my last phonographic recording. It’s a ballad written in alternating iambic tetrameters and trimeters. Here goes: Off to defy winter’s father! A cancer to be cut! Mystery undone, blue bother! Miss Commonprance’s butt! Dagnabbit! Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the western horror novel “Hag’s Trail.”