Overnight For Observation Ep 5 - Say Hello To Hooty

You have power over these words I’m speaking, dear listener. I feel your contempt, your hilarity, your sadness and your joy, and they all have power over my utterances. Shape my correspondence as you will, and use your power wisely.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

The Arkham Police Department has been quite aggressive in questioning me about the body that was found behind my offices a fortnight or so ago. They seem to think that I might have killed the man, because the break in the neck was so clean that they believe a medical professional might have done the deed. They are, of course, barking up the wrong tree. My purpose is to preserve life, not end it, even if it is the life of an ominous gangster. I’m quite insulted. And also worried. Was the gangster in question here to do me harm? And will my guardian angel, the one who actually performed the rearrangement of said gangster’s neck, be about to protect me if this happens again?

The dock workers, the ones with the gills and the rather bulbous eyes, have all disappeared. Vanished, without a trace. The managers and owners of the docks, ships, and warehouses are now in the awkward position of having to ask their previous, less gill-inclined, workers to come back to them. Between you and I, dear listener, this does fill my heart with a bit of immature glee. These shipping magnates consider me as part of their upper class enclave, at least until I insist that they treat their people with more respect and safer working conditions. At that point they suddenly all forget to invite me to their soirees. I hope those workers, the ones that can’t breathe underwater I mean, make those fat cats grovel a little before they make their return.

Egads, here’s something odd. A Town Hall worker is going door to door, handing out flyers stating that we citizens of Arkham should ignore the weather. I’m busy with work, and I would not have noticed the weather at all, but now I’m curious. I want to look out my office door, but the flyer says there shall be penalties applied for those ignoring the order to ignore. Oh, this is maddening. What is going on with the weather? What is going on? 

My house apparently now has a cellar. When did that get there?

Miss Weetamoo, my housekeeper, was kind enough to bring a picnic basket to my office for my luncheon today. Chicken salad sandwiches. She even made two. Perhaps she is worried I am becoming too thin. But her amicable visit suddenly turned sour when I thanked her and sent her on her way. She stormed out of here, slamming the door shut behind her. I didn’t even have the chance to ask her what the weather was doing out there.

You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, dear listener, did you? I am very curious about anyone who may be listening to my recordings, be it one week later, or decades after my hopefully natural death. Are you right-handed? What do you do for a living? How are your fingers? No arthritis, I hope. Do you have two elbows, and if so, do you enjoy them as often as you should? I do so hope all is well with you, and if all is not well, I hope you will let me know if there is any way I can be of assistance.

Another flier was shoved under my office door. It is now safe to observe the weather. One moment, dear listener... [removed] It’s slightly foggy. 

There are reports across the eastern side of the city that rodents of various sizes are staggering around as if drunk, tittering out noises that sound surprisingly like human giggling. A single empty morphine capsule was found in Christchurch Cemetery, surrounded by dozens of tiny rodent footprints in the dewy grass. If you’ll recall, a single vial of morphine was stolen from my offices some weeks ago. Did someone use that morphine to create an epidemic of opiate-addicted critters? That’s the last thing we need. And so close to Christmas!

Three days ago I had to make a late-night run to an elderly lady who had a severe allergic reaction to a spider bite. That will teach her to bite spiders. On the way back, I crossed over the Boston Maine Railroad Line, which lies just north of the Miskatonic River. I spotted a train there, long and black. The train had no lights, only sparks coughing and spitting from its wheels and smokestack. When it moved, it made a sound not unlike the laugh of a deep-chested hyena. Where had it come from? Where was it going? I couldn’t say. I’ll tell you this though – from the sound of the screams coming from the passenger compartments, I can’t imagine the destination is anyplace pleasant. 

Miss Weetamoo has been coming by my office more often. For the briefest moment, I confess I thought she might be looking to spend more time in my company. But yesterday she concerned herself specifically with the sample of dead earth I had taken from the playground at Armitage and Federal Streets. She asked me multiple questions – what could cause earth to be completely organism-free like the sample? Why would it spread? Is it toxic? Not exactly the type of dialogue one expects from the hired help. When I asked why she was so curious, she shrugged and told me that she had to make conversation somehow, since I was so bad at starting one on my own. Really, the woman is truly the very picture of impertinence.

Christmas time is well nigh upon us. It’s an awkward time of year in Arkham, specifically for parents of young children. We of course receive tales from other towns and cities of how jolly old Saint Nick scampers down chimneys to deliver toys to all the good little girls and boys the world around. This leaves local parents with some explaining to do, as all Arkham chimneys are lined with spikes to keep out the more aggressive breeds of bat... and those other things.

I think I might have passed one of the clerks from Town Hall last Tuesday, as I was making a quick stop to Levi’s Delicatessen. I of course was unable to directly see him, or her, or... miscellaneous, but my left eyelid has not stopped twitching since then, which is a common symptom of such an occurrence.  

Following that Tuesday, there was that Wednesday that absolutely everybody in town is still talking about. That of course was the day that the Arkham Advertiser ran that front page that was entirely black. But not black black, more of an overwhelming sense of falling into an endless void-black. Everybody who saw that front page, including myself, fell asleep for the better part of the afternoon. And now, my good friend Miles Showpony, the top local dentist, has told me that he had a sudden rush of patients who all reported having a pair of extra teeth growing towards the back of their mouths. I must confess, this news has me constantly running my tongue over my own teeth. Things do feel a bit more crowded back there.

In my ongoing attempts to be a better member of the Arkham community, I went to last week’s Town Hall meeting. It wasn’t held at the real Town Hall though, it was held at the other one. The pretty one, with the stained glass windows where apparently nothing real gets done. The meeting was one hour long and nobody said a thing of value. In fact, nobody said anything at all. We were forbidden from speaking. I cleared my throat once and earned quite a few stern glares. On the bright side though, afterwards there were some excellent finger sandwiches from Levi’s Delicatessen.

Bishop Tantrum asked me to stop by. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Always screaming, is Bishop Tantrum. He managed to write me a note, which is no easy task when one is constantly screaming at the top of one’s lungs. It said that I should not give up on the people of Arkham, that there were good people here, well worth fighting for. I asked him just what I should be fighting, but he passed out, as he does, from all that screaming. Still, when a screaming man of God asks you to fight the good fight, you commit. 

There was a heavy snowfall Monday before last. But then it stopped. The snowfall, I mean. I don’t mean that there was no more snow in the sky, there was plenty. I mean... it stopped. Every flake ceased its descent at precisely 6:39 P.M., and hung completely motionless in the sky for roughly one minute and six seconds, despite the steadily blowing cold wind. Then it started up again, blanketing us with more of the white stuff. It was like a phonograph had been stopped mid-spin, then started up again. I was going to bring it up in that Town Hall meeting, but you know how that went.

A young lady, claiming the name of, I kid you not, Hooty Commonprance, came to me with a sore ankle. She is a dancer in the dance hall down by the docks, the Knees Up Dance Hall, and is worried about how long her ankle, which she had sprained, would keep her from being able to work. She was quite charming, although I only understood about half of what she was saying. She kept using phrases like, “The Cat’s Pajamas” and “The Eel’s Ankle” both of which I believe means something is good. She works at a “Juice Joint”, which perhaps means “dance hall”, although she wagged her finely arched eyebrows when she said it, so perhaps it means something more. She was quite flirtatious, tapping my biceps as I examined her ankle, saying she didn’t know a doctor could be quite so gentle, and asking if I was a war hero, which I assured her I was not. Miss Weetamoo stopped by partway through the examination, bringing me a packed lunch, and the conversation became more difficult as Miss Weetamoo kept banging about plates and utensils as she unpacked my food. At any rate, you listeners out there looking for a doctor should know that I apparently “know my onions”, which I believe is a recommendation from Miss Commonprance.

Civic workers have been sent out to round up the aforementioned giddy rodents plaguing our fair town. When they caught up with some of the vermin down by the docks, the mice did not run. Instead, they just laid about with heavily-lidded eyes, and gently waved their paws at the workers as if they were suggesting that the workers should just relax for a bit. The workers, confused by this turn of events, are asking the town for advice on how to proceed. This will take place in another Town Hall meeting, so I’m not expecting much.

Miss Weetamoo wagged a finger at me today for not letting her know I had an empty tea cup in my study while she was doing the dishes. I swear that woman looks for any and every reason to nag at me. Anyway, I told her that she was right, that I should pay attention, but I had been too swept up with work and perhaps needed a bit of fun to clear the cobwebs from my mind. I told her that Miss Hooty Commonprance, she of the wounded ankle and “Cat’s Pajamas”, had invited me to come see one of her shows at the Knees Up Dance Hall, and perhaps I would take her up on the offer. Miss Weetamoo glowered at me, but could find nothing more to say. I think we can chalk that one up as a win for yours truly.

The fellow, and by “fellow” I mean “gangster”, with the odd suction marks on his torso returned to my office one night last week just as I was closing up. I was apprehensive at first, since another gangster had been found dead behind my office not so long ago. However, this man was in no state to do me much harm. He was quite emaciated since last I had seen him. His cheek and collar bones poked out. There were exceptionally dark bags under his eyes. I could have played his ribcage like a xylophone. He insisted that he was eating more than double his usual amounts, but it didn’t matter, he was continually hungry. Of course, the main attraction, as it were, was the collection of octopus-like sucker marks that crisscrossed his chest and back. I had expected them to fade over time, but quite the opposite had occurred. They were a brighter purplish-red than I remembered, and had raised up from his skin somewhat, like overturned dinner plates. I insisted that he go to the hospital, but he refused, saying that I was the only doctor in town that the boys trusted to keep my mouth shut. I’m not sure I like being the go-to sawbones of violent booze smugglers, but I did swear an oath to help everyone, and I shall always endeavour to keep it. I gave him a prescription for a heavy dose of vitamins which he is to follow, which will be followed by steroids, if necessary. I would test him for various toxins, but I lack the equipment to make a thorough investigation. If only he would tell me what caused the marks, but upon inquiry he shut his lips and shook his head. Saints preserve us from stubborn patients!

The town attempted to set up a skating rink for the general public near Town Hall. However, since the ice screams every time someone puts a blade to it, admittance is limited to adults only since it seems to be overly traumatic for children.

As I bid my adieu from you and this particular recording, I leave you with a bit of wisdom I picked up during the war. If you find yourself without direction, look that way. No, not that way. No, not that way either. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the Ida Bly books, Noir thrillers set in post-war Los Angeles.