Overnight For Observation Episode 3 - Don't Pet The Police

There are new signs about town that read “Please do not pet the police officers”. This raises any number of questions.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

Speaking of police officers, the Arkham Police Department has concluded that there are now enough automobiles in the vicinity to warrant proper traffic control. To that end, they’ve posted a man on a kind of pedestal at one of the downtown corners to direct said traffic. He uses a shrill whistle, which is good, because otherwise the officer in question only seems to communicate with grunts that emerge from his fat-lipped mouth, located under his rather prominent and craggy brow. So, fair to say, he’s not much of a conversationalist. On the other hand, his third arm seems to be coming in quite handy for waving on the conveyances and their drivers.

Old Mister Connor Tormey missed his appointment some days back. Mister Tormey has not missed a single appointment since I moved here. He’s never been late, or even just on time. He has always arrived at least ten minutes early. As he is quite old, older than you think, I became concerned. As he does not have a phone in his house, I was obliged to walk over to his home after I closed up my office for the evening. He lives on Lich Street, near Peabody, don’t you know? It was with some trepidation that I rapped upon his front door, fearing the worst, because he is just shy of being ancient. I feared I would have to fetch the police to help me break in, only to find him slumped face-down in a bowl of congealed pea soup. You should see what soup does to a human face after awhile. It’s almost completely unappetizing. Happily, my fears were unfounded, because Mister Tormey opened his door almost immediately, with a smile upon his well-wrinkled face. He seemed confused when I brought up the missed appointment, but that can be forgiven, as he is so old. However, there was something more unnerving than the forgotten appointment... he seemed to have forgotten who I was as well. There was no recognition of me in his eyes. It was like we had never met. I queried him about how his rheumatoid arthritis was bothering him these days, and he replied that it was no trouble, and that I shouldn’t worry about him at all. Which made me worry all the more, because I made the arthritis up. He has no such condition. He never did.

Mrs Kovalenko, one of the town’s esteemed librarians, came to me with a most perplexing case. Words have started appearing on her skin. At first, she thought she had somehow wet the ink of certain books with some kind of solvent, enough to transfer the words to her skin. She tried to scrub them off, to no effect other than to give her skin an unhealthily raw and pink look. Upon closer inspection, it appears that the words are actually under her outer epidermal layer. I don’t believe they can be removed without surgery or perhaps acid drops, neither option being particularly tempting, and will leave Mrs Kovalenko scarred. She is however becoming particularly aggravated as the words, which are now creeping up her neck towards her face, appear to be from some kind of bawdy romance which she insists she has never read. I too would be perturbed if I had the words “bosom” and “well-timed thrusts” imprinted just below my jawline.

I regret to say that I will no longer be buying local produce. My housekeeper, Miss Weetamoo, has always brought food from her people’s reservation to cook my meals. However, as she was away for a few days, I was reduced to cooking for myself. I went my local market and bought various sundries to make myself a vegetable soup. However, once home I sampled a carrot and almost immediately found myself falling into a profound slumber that lasted the entire afternoon. While asleep, I dreamed of tall men with hats and no faces leading me in a chain of enslaved humans into the maw of a great chomping machine of some kind. No, I think I do believe that I will stick to the food Miss Weetamoo brings from now on. On a side note, grocery prices are astronomical these days. Three heads of lettuce for 35 cents? 20 cents for a single pound of beans? What are these foodstuffs made of? Gold?

There was a brief bit of joy in the quest for a new nursing assistant. I had one Mrs Davis in my employee for a period of two weeks. What Miss Weetamoo is to home-keeping, Mrs Davis was to nursing and office management. She was efficient and intuitive. Unfortunately, she met with an unfortunate physical correspondence between a dangling piano and the sidewalk. She died to the tone of a middle C-sharp. The search continues.

Speaking of Miss Weetamoo, she has warned me to be on the look-out for suspicious-looking men. Unfortunately, this being Arkham, that narrows it down to every male between the ages of thirteen and ninety-nine years of age. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not ruling out the twelve year-olds.

A new development concerning the strange patch of earth at the park at Armitage and Federal. You know the one I mean. Over the past two or so weeks, the patch has grown. Its outer reach now lays under one of the feet of the children’s swing-set. Within that same amount of time, I have had a plethora of broken bones and noses, scraped knees and elbows, and bruised tailbones, all child-sized, all found in children injured while enjoying those very same swings. While I do not have any substantial proof to link the injuries to that strange patch of dirt, it’s certainly an interesting coincidence. The real puzzle is why nannies continue to put their charges in those swings, laughing as they watch as the small bodies are flung into the air.  

As always, I am eager to hear more from the world. And since you are my world, listeners, I enjoy hearing from you. What is going on in your lives? Have you visited with your grandparents? Did you get around to reading that book? Have you been teleported to Delaware against your will? Do get in touch and let me know.

The guinea pig from the children’s section of the library finally managed to pick the lock on its cage and has set itself free. I never thought I’d say this, but... fear the guinea pig.

More action in the battles between the various rum-running gangs. A member from one of the organizations came to me, asking me if there was such a thing as a sound that might drive a human being insane. I told him that my Hippocratic Oath demanded that I tend to all ailments and wounds, even those of vicious gang members, but in no way was I going to involve myself in causing harm to others. The gentlemen, if I may be so loose with the term, threatened me and told me that I would be sorry that I had turned my back on him. He left by the back door, which leads out into an alley. I heard a noise somewhat like a gong being rung, then a startled cry, and a crash. I raced out back to find the aforementioned gang member lying in a heap amongst overturned garbage cans, rubbing his head and, if you can believe it, crying. This tough character had been reduced in an instance to a blubbering child. I asked him what had transpired, he told me that he had “slipped”. I got nothing more out of him, and he scurried away. I returned to my office, as puzzled as you are, dear listener, able to make neither head nor tails of the affair. Oh, I looked out the front window and saw Miss Weetamoo passing along, probably shopping. She gave me a smile and a cheery wave hello. Good woman, that. Pleasant, you know, despite her bossiness. Anyway... I have no idea what happened to that gang member.

I am to be interviewed by a young lady for the Arkham Advertiser. It’s to be a piece about my service in the war, how I came to move to Arkham, what I think of the town, that sort of thing. I suppose I should be flattered, but I have gone through the Advertiser’s pages and seen nothing about falling pieces of sky or weird patches of dead earth near the playground. Isn’t that the strangest thing... a woman reporter!

I wrote to various places of learning and study that concern themselves with maritime life. I imagine you’re as curious as I am to find out more about those strange sucker-like marks I found on a bootlegger some weeks back. The replies have not been particularly helpful. Harvard wrote back that they are serious people without time to be wasted on replying to practical jokes. Some wit at Oxford drew a man with an octopus for his head. The octopus is holding martini glasses in its various appendages, and is quite drunk, with liquor bubbles popping around its head. I did not write our own Miskatonic University, since they do not have a marine biology department. And yet they still sent me a reply. A professor in their medieval metaphysics department, of all things, cautioned, nay, urged me to never contact anyone about this matter ever again, if I valued my life... or my afterlife. I think I preferred the insulting drunk octopus-man to this last one.

Speaking of the Arkham Advertiser, have you ever seen a newspaper with so much space dedicated to an obituary section? And why do the obituaries also include animals? I suppose I can understand wanting to pay tribute to beloved pets, I’m an animal lover myself, don’t you know? Still, I mean, look at this: “Barbara Chancer was a beloved mother of three,“ etc., followed by, “Ralph Colchester was a veteran,” etc. Followed by, “Farmer Lambert is bereft of seven lambs. We hope the gaping maw by Christchurch Cemetery will be appeased.” Now just what are we supposed to do with that information?

I’m thinking of purchasing a bicycle. I haven’t ridden one since I was in short-pants, and I will probably make an awkward spectacle of myself. Still, I remember the glee of having the wind rush by as one pumps those pedals like Lucifer himself was chasing you. Perhaps I’ll use it to go investigate this lamb-eating maw that is supposedly over by Christchurch Cemetery. 

Miss Weetamoo gave me a chiding when I slightly burned my hand yesterday. She had baked me a batch of brownies. I was distracted when I reached for one, and touched the tray instead. Miss Weetamoo clucked her tongue at me and ran my fingertips under cool water. I think someone needs to be reminded just exactly who is in charge here.

I’ve just concluded penning my latest paper, “Erectile Dysfunctions and the Many Uses of Electricity”. I shall proceed to shop it around to the usual medical publications. Wish me luck!

I tried to have a conversation with Miss Weetamoo about how she was my employee and how I was the king of my own castle. She laughed at me, patted my arm, and gave me a brownie. Insufferable woman. Excellent brownies though.

On the weekend, I took a day-trip to Wenham Lake. It was a lovely day, kissed with a last burst of summer-like warmth. The sun was out, fluffy clouds sat in the cerulean blue sky. Sail boats crisscrossed the surface of the lake. This disconcerted me, as there was no wind. If there was no wind, then what was making those sailboats zip around so gosh-darned fast?

I was having trouble with my telephone. It’s a party line, so one expects to come across voices, other than the one you’re connecting with, from time to time. However, for about a week there I could swear I heard some unending whispering in the background of all my calls. I couldn’t quite make out everything the voices said, but I do believe the words, “believe,” “obey”, “seeds”, and “comply” came up on repeated occasions. I called up the phone company and they were surprisingly prompt, arriving not more than fifteen minutes after my call to them. I don’t remember what they did... actually I don’t really remember much of anything from that evening now that I think about it... Why am I thinking about a swinging wristwatch and being strapped to a chair? ...at any rate, I don’t hear the voices on the line anymore.

For some unfathomable reason, you listeners keep asking to hear more from my grandfather. He of the tales so tall they bump their noggins on the sun. Be it on your heads. I will end this phonographic roll with this bit of advice that he once rendered unto me: Bears are dangerous. Mother bears protecting their cubs are more dangerous still. But the most dangerous variety of bear of all is the one that doesn’t know that it is a bear, because then they follow no bear rules. Until next time, listener...