Handful of Dust Episode 2 - Sucker-marks and Gangsters

Returning home from my office, I opened my front door to find my house replaced by a gaping pit ringed with teeth and a roving slime-slicked tongue. So if anyone has seen a two-story Tudor-style home, I’m offering a reward.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

Concerning these recordings, I was encouraged by acquaintances to purchase one of these phonographic contraptions so that I may record my observations about our town. I’m flattered to have been chosen by prominent Arkham citizens to be the chronicler of our town’s events. Arkham is certainly unique in my experience, and worth experiencing, even if it is from some remote location and time. In fact, it’s probably wisest to experience Arkham in that fashion.

A contingent of young Italian men brought one of their number to my office just as I was closing up. I rather suspect they are what is known as “rum-runners”, and have been in a “dust up” with a rival gang. They asked me to keep their colleague’s injuries off the record, which I am willing to do. While writing up the bullet wound would be easy, I have no idea how I would explain the giant circular marks that were imprinted into his flesh.

Mrs Backlund came by, complaining once again about pains in her lower back. I can find no evidence of sciatica, compressed nerves, or injury in that region, and I rather suspect that she is lonely and comes to my office for the momentary companionship. I certainly don’t begrudge her this, except that she talks so much. That woman can turn a conversation into a Bastille of social obligation. I dare not turn her out however, seeing as how her husband is a clerk in Town Hall. Not that Town Hall, the real one, the one that casts a long shadow even when it’s noon and the sun is directly overhead. 

Speaking of shadows, have any of you noticed the shadows cast by the streetlights along the west end of River Street? I swear to you, those shadows do not move, no matter how much one cares to cavort or romp. They just lay on the sidewalk like solid things. And I swear that one of them is shaped just like me. I avoid going there at night now, because I find myself terribly tempted to stand at the feet of that shadow, my shadow, and to find out just how tightly we fit together...

The search for a nursing aid for my office continues. The latest, Mrs Parsnip, was efficient enough, if a touch cool with the patients. Granted, some of the people that walk through my door as drop-ins are indeed mixed up in circumventing Prohibition, or have a third eye carved into their foreheads. Still, that’s no call for bad manners. Unfortunately, Mrs Parsnip was the victim of a bizarre water closet accident. I never would have guessed that a toilet could back up with such tremendous force. Perhaps you read about it in the papers. Bon voyage, Mrs Parsnip. I hope those on the other side of the veil greet you in a warmer fashion than you greeted my patients.

At least my home is well organized. Thank goodness for Miss Aquinnah (uh-kwi-nuh) Weetamoo. A Wampanoag woman, don’t you know. She is a bit bossy, but as I understand it her people kept alive something of a matriarchal society, God help them, so I suppose it’s an inherited trait. I have no complaints. The house is spotless and she keeps me up to date on my bills. She does insist on having her grandmother perform some sort of cleansing ritual on my offices once a month, which makes the building rattle in a rather violent fashion, which is a bit off-putting. On the other hand, she makes a wonderful butternut-squash soup. 

And how are you, listeners? Any ailments I should know about? Joints that ache in wet weather? Perhaps a cough that you cannot kick? [removed] Are you drawn to a shadow in your exact shape, just laying there on the ground waiting for you to join with it to create a whole being that is defined by an unending hunger that would send you stumbling out into the world, biting and chewing your way through... Ah, yes, thank you Miss Weetamoo. I’m quite alright now.

I have continued my research into the peculiar round marks found on the torso of the rum-runner. The only reference I can find that comes close to those marks are the suckers found on the tentacles of the Cephalopoda, specifically the Octopoda. But according to this research, an octopus large enough to leave marks of such a size are simply not found in nature. It would be quite the scientific find to dig up the creature that left its calling card on that young man. Of course, that would mean further communications with a violent gang of illegal alcohol merchants. Should I pursue this? Perhaps some butternut-squash soup while I make a pro and con list. 

It appears I have been sleep-walking. I woke up, as it were, last night, on River Street. I have not known such fear since the war. I thought that the shadows had finally laid total claim to me, that I would merge with that standing shadow so perfectly suited to my own shape... but then I realized that someone had smashed all of the old-style streetlights. Never have I been so relieved to find myself in an all-blanketing darkness. I do not know who broke those lights, but if you hear my voice, my good sir, you have my eternal thanks.

A state tourist council from Delaware sent me a letter asking me for a written endorsement extolling the beauty of their state. Apparently, I am some sort of joke to them.

I have been further considering our octopus enigma. When that young man was brought in, his comrades in arms would merely say that he had been hurt in, quote, “an incident”, unquote. The bullet wound sustained in “the incident” indicates a fight, or an accident involving friendly fire. The key point though is the word “incident”, it is singular, not plural. This suggests that both the bullet wound and the sucker marks occurred in the same moment. Question — if the singular incident was either an attack or a friendly fire incident, does that mean the sucker marks were the result... of some sort of weapon? Further research is required... after a break for some more of Miss Weetamoo’s butternut-squash soup. 

I ventured past the square at Armitage and Federal yesterday, you know the one. It was late afternoon, and a most pleasant evening sun was laying a thick golden light upon the closely trimmed grass. Children were playing, tame dogs were romping, proud parents were seated on the benches and catching up on the local gossip. I crossed through the park along the cement path, and noticed that towards the southeast is a dead patch. No grass or shrubbery grows there. I watched a squirrel come up to that barren patch of grey earth, inspect it, then take the long way around. Curious, I bought a pack of peanuts from Mr Pacino at his cart. I de-shelled a handful of the nuts and scattered them across that bare patch and wouldn’t you know it? No crows flew down. No pigeons swarmed the area. The aforementioned squirrel climbed halfway down a tree, gave the nuts a longing look, then returned to its higher branches. Upon closer inspection I noted that even insects stopped at the edge of the earth, and forming a line, marched around it. I shall return with sample jars for examination back in my offices. I suppose I could just use the peanut packet and scoop up some of the odd earth with my bare hand... but I might get dirt under my fingernails, and who wants a physician with dirty fingers?

It’s nice to see that the sky is all patched up again, after that piece almost hit me a couple of weeks back. You have to give Town Hall this much, they’re efficient.

I’ve analyzed a sample of dirt from the park at Armitage and Federal Streets, you’ve been there. As far as I can tell, there is nothing wrong with this soil. But at the same time, there is nothing right. The earth contains no contamination that I can detect with my equipment here. It also contains no nutrients. It just... is. None of which explains why animals avoid that patch. The bigger question is, were all of the humans also avoiding that patch? And if so, was it deliberate, or subconscious?

I believe the war between the various gangs involved in alcohol smuggling is escalating. Three men came into my office just at closing time, yesterday. If I understand the situation correctly, they are members of a gang that rivals the young men that came in before. I was unable to help the man of this most recent trio, as he had been exposed to something that has driven him quite mad. Insanity is well outside my range of expertise. I referred them to the asylum, where they will do their very best to put the man’s troubled mind at rest. His two compatriots said that their colleague had been a captive of the other gang, and had been exposed to the pages of a book, as an experiment. I am worried that this purported book will be an addition of the much maligned “Encyclopedia Terrorificus”, which will give would-be censors more ammunition for their campaigns. As I have stated before, I am dead-set against censorship. However, I am beginning to wonder if the library should consider moving the volumes to the Encyclopedia out of the children’s section, or at least from the area near the guinea pig cage, as that creature has a noticeably enlarged cranium and has attempted to pick the lock on its cage.

I’ve heard that there is some tension at the docks. The ship-owners have called in new workers from Innsmouth, to clean and repair the bottoms of the ships. Local workers have been supplanted, and are not pleased about it. I understand the locals’ concerns, but one must admit, it must be nice having ship workers who can stay underwater for hours at a time with no breathing apparatus.

I suppose I should alert someone about the strange patch of earth in the park at Armitage and Federal. But that would mean interacting with Town Hall. The real Town Hall. Oh, it just occurred to me, what if Town Hall, the real Town Hall, already knows about that patch? And what if they don’t want anyone talking about it? Perhaps I’ll take a moment and think this over. A nice bowl of butternut-squash soup seems like just the ticket right now.

Last night, I heard footsteps around my house. From the sounds of it, from multiple bodies. No voices, just the sound of grit being turned underfoot, or under-feet. I went downstairs and called out the window, asking who was there. There was no reply. Just the sound of those steps growing closer, and seemingly coming from all sides of the house. I quickly repaired to my kitchen and armed myself with my largest carving knife, the scrolled silver one I use to carve turkeys and pheasants on holidays. I could not tell who was outside, or who might wish me some kind of devilment. Doctors are always targets for those that wish to acquire the drugs and medicines we have on hand. But perhaps those steps belonged to members of one of the rum-running gangs I had previously helped, now angry with me for aiding and abetting their competitors. And of course, this is Arkham, so those footsteps, well, perhaps they didn’t belong to mischievous men at all. I waited in the dark of my kitchen, smelling my fear, feeling the sweat drip from my temples and down the small of my back. I had been a medic during the war, but I learned enough in training to dish out violence if it was required of me. Those footsteps, surrounding me, came closer, closer, surely now they were just outside my windows. And then... nothing. The steps stopped. I heard nothing, then perhaps the faintest sound of a scuffle. I waited some minutes, then ventured forth to carefully stick my head out the front door. I saw nothing, I heard nothing. The threat, if such it was, had departed. Vanished into the night. Oh, I did see Miss Weetamoo passing by with some of her brothers. I waved to her and bid her to hasten home for safety’s sake. But as for the danger, it was gone, hopefully for good.

A happy day! I delivered the newborn of Mister and Missus Lewandowski. We had some concerns as Missus Lewandowski had a troubled pregnancy, with excessive back pains and exuding an inexplicable odour of sulphur, but I am elated to report that the child, a boy, is in grand health. Ten fingers, ten toes, healthy heart and lungs, and I find the slitted pupils to be quite charming. Welcome to the world, Maximilian! 

I see there is very little room left on this phonographic cylinder. So I shall leave you here, dear listener, with this advice my grandfather once gave unto me – moss does not always grow on the north sides of trees, so do not count on it to guide your way. In fact, don’t count on moss at all. As far as plant life goes, it is of a very low character.