Overnight for Observation Episode 4 - The Ankle Angle

The leaves abandon the trees like they are ships on fire. Cold winds, born in the northernmost reaches of Canada, sail towards us, carrying snow as cargo. Daylight is a limited commodity. And yet the sidewalks and roads of Arkham stay free of ice. Perhaps rumours of an underground fire are true. If so... who, or what, stokes them? More importantly, can we somehow pipe that heat into my office? Heating bills are outrageous this year.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

A young couple moved in next door. They’re a handsome pair, the young gentleman being a business accountant. The young lady is pregnant, six months along, and I said of course I’d be happy to take her care into my practice. They had a couple of questions about Arkham. For example, they wanted to know why the swing-sets at the park at Armitage and Federal seemed to be screaming. Not in the sense that they are rusted, but in the sense that they sound like they’ve just seen their favourite grandparent murdered right in front of them. I wasn’t able to answer them, but I did get them a nice fruit basket as a welcoming present.

The annual Pipers’ Festival took place last week, during the last of the warm weather. Over two hundred pipe players? Pipists? convened on our little town. The playing was jolly and overall quite enjoyable. However, I don’t think I will be attending in the future due to the astonishing number of mice and rats that surrounded the edges of the town square as some of our local talent took the stage. Dozens of tiny pink ears and inkspot eyes... swaying in time to the music.

I... well, I saw one of Miss Weetamoo’s ankles today. Quite by accident, you understand! At any rate... yes... well... Is there some way to delete recordings from these infernal cylinders?

I sent the sample of dirt I took from the park at Armitage and Federal, you’ve been there, to Miskatonic University for further examination, using the instruments that I do not have access to. They sent me a note today saying they are quite cross with me as the dirt seems to be refusing to be examined. It does not show up at all while being studied via spectroscopy, shows as being completely inert in Gas Chromatography but still caused three minor explosions in the labs, and poked out a student’s eye during a microscopic exam. I was informed that they are thinking of suing me for all the damage, if it were not for the fact that they would feel silly listing “malicious dirt” as the chief source of their complaint.

Why should I be ashamed of having seen Miss Weetamoo’s ankle? We’re both adults. And it was, after all, an accident. I have nothing to be ashamed of, for I was not trying to see her covered bits. And she certainly has nothing to be ashamed of as her ankle is shapely and most comely... uh... How do I... Why is there no way to delete things from this confounded machine?

My house disappeared again last Thursday, apparently reappearing early Friday morning while I slept on the examination table in my office. This time, it came back with a new electric garage door opener. I don’t know where it nicked the device from, but I can’t say that I am mad about it.  

It’s time once again for me to urge your correspondence, dear listener. Where in the world are you listening from? Is it close by to Arkham, or halfway around the world? What can you see outside your window? What did you have for lunch? What words do you use for “grandmother” or “uncle”? Do your people get upset if some man, a man of medicine no less, one who deals in body parts on a regular basis, happens to see a woman’s bare ankle? Do let me know.

This morning, I found that the doors both to my office and to my medicinal storage closet had both been picked open. An inventory shows that a single unit of morphine was taken. What kind of thief, with access to all sorts of opiates and medicines, takes a single dose? A follow-up question: are these tiny rodent-like footprints I found by both doors somehow related?

Thankfully, there is no news at this time concerning the ongoing conflict between the various illegal rum-running gangs. I’ve scanned the papers, and seen nary an item about them. On my own front, I’ve gotten no further trying to figure out the mysterious sucker marks that appeared on that one gentleman some time ago. Perhaps it was not a sign of some strange new branch of gang-related violence, but was in fact just a one-off rogue octopus incident?

In the past, I have declined from engaging in local politics because politicians got us all wrapped up in that hideous war, and to be perfectly honest, I was not enamoured of them. However, living in Arkham has made me curious as to how a place like this is run. There was an open town council session late last week and I attempted to go. It was held in the Town Hall, the real one with the doors that move to different positions around the outside either on a whim or due to some grand design that I have not been able to fathom. I found one of those doors at the appointed hour, but it would not open for me until I answered three riddles, apparently presented by the door itself. The first was, “What goes up but never comes back down?”. The second was, “What can you keep after giving it to someone else?” The third quote unquote “riddle” was, “Have you been sneaking peeks at your housekeeper, you lecher?”. The door refused to let me in when I answered in the negative. Fine. Have it your way, Town Hall. I didn’t want to see a boring political meeting anyway.

I’ve started research on a new paper: “Arsenic and Syphilis: A Love Story”. I had written down on my schedule that I should like to go and see some of the ladies of the night that ply their wares near the river. Miss Weetamoo saw the notation and has been glaring at me ever since. Glaring as she dusts. Glaring as she cooks. Glaring as she winds the clocks. I’m quite sure I’ve had enough of it. I am contacting these women purely for research purposes and to make sure they are in good health, as any good general practitioner would do. Come to think of it, I don’t remember Miss Weetamoo glaring when I saw her ankle. Where was her steely-eyed righteousness then, hm?

I did it. I purchased myself a bicycle. A brand new Wastyn Special, shipped up special from Chicago! It’s been quite some time since I was up on two wheels, but much to my delight, I picked it up quite quickly. Now I am able to fly around the town like the wind itself. I prefer to ride during the day, when the sun is shining and the air is warmer and there isn’t something as dark as the night itself flapping along behind me in my wake. Bats. I think they’re bats. I hope they’re bats, anyway. 

Just this morning I received an official town notice, thanking me for voting in the last municipal election. This is strange because I did not even know there was an election coming up. Stranger still is the fact that the person who won the councillor seat for my part of the town has a series of slanted symbols in the place of their name. Perhaps this was some kind of error at the printer’s? I would consider myself better informed if I had been allowed to attend the town council meeting.

I’ve observed something unusual about my housekeeper, Miss Weetamoo. And no, you jokesters, I don’t mean her other ankle. It’s her hands. There have been a number of times now over the past year or so when she has come in with bruised and even bloodied knuckles. I’ve seen similar injuries on men who have been in dust-ups. When I queried Miss Weetamoo on the matter, she told me to mind my own Pints and Quarts. She really is the most bullheaded woman I’ve ever met.

Hullo! Here’s something interesting. It’s early morning as I make this entry, just before dawn. I’m preparing to head into my office. I just saw the milk truck go by. I’ve never really paid attention to the truck, but this time I glanced outside and saw that the side of the vehicle has what appears to be a snake-like picture painted down its length. Why is a snake-ish creature being associated with milk? Shouldn’t there be a picture of a cow? And more importantly, what have I been drinking?

We had our first snowfall of the year today. The thin dusting tossed down fat flakes that took their time drifting down from the Heavens. Are you like me, sure that one day you’ll find two snowflakes that are exactly the same? Well, this year, I did it. One perfectly formed flake drifted down onto the back of my right-hand glove. The second landed on the left sleeve of my coat... And then a third on my scarf, a fourth on my left knee. A fifth on the exposed bit of my right wrist. All perfectly identical. And all, if one cares to peer closely enough, to carry an eight-limbed creature in their centres... I find that I no longer want to go outside today. 

There has been a bit of a brouhaha down at the docks. If you’ll recall from a previous entry, the shipping magnates hired new workers along the docks. Workers that somehow do not require breathing apparatus to work on the bottom of the boats while they are still in the water. This caused quite a bit of consternation amongst the replaced dock workers and their supporters. Well, the new trouble is that the workers have become quite sluggish, doing less than a quarter of the work they did in the previous weeks. I was called in to examine some of them. Their eyelids are heavy, and they eat continuously. Down to a man, I think they’ve each put on at least thirty pounds in a short amount of time. I asked them various questions about their diets, exposure to possibly harmful chemicals and the like, but I couldn’t understand a word. Although they are speaking English, it all comes out of them like they have mouths full of water. Their heartbeats are down to almost nothing. They breathe at about a quarter of the rate of a man in a normal state of health. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were getting ready to go into hibernation for the winter months.

There was a murder in the alleyway behind my office! A member of one of the bootlegging gangs was found lying behind some trash cans. His neck had been snapped. Lying next to him was a pistol. Fully loaded. Whatever happened to him, it happened swiftly, because he didn’t manage to get off a single shot. Between you and I, dear listener, I am a bit relieved, because this was one of the hooligans that threatened me with violence if I continued to tend to the wounds of members of all the gangs, as opposed to working exclusively for his group. I didn’t think angels of any sort passed through Arkham. But it would appear that not only does the town have at least one, that angel has chosen to be my guardian. I hope to make his acquaintance someday, and shake his hand in thanks.

As I leave you at the end of this phonographic roll, dear listeners, I wish you a pleasant evening and a good sleep, with the chance to dream... or hibernate, if that’s more your cup of tea. Goodnight.