I just removed a patient’s cyst. The patient’s cyst was sentient. It insisted that I stop. I would have sympathized, but the sentient cyst silenced my soul by repeatedly stating that it stood with Kassogtha, whatever that is. And it seems that said Kassogtha demands serial screaming infant sacrifices. The patient’s sentient cyst insisted that I censor my cynicism. Not being cynical, I resisted the cyst’s insistence and persisted with the procedure. The cyst desisted, and no longer exists.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

I had to go to Town Hall, the pleasant one I mean, to re-register my land deed. Something to do with the fact that my house keeps disappearing and reappearing. Anyway, even though this Town Hall is pleasant, the clerk I dealt with was not. Would it kill civil servants to at least attempt to be nice?

I’ve just had word from my friend, Miles Showpony, D.D.S., that the clerk from Town Hall was found dead. He had a pleasant smile fixed on his face. Well... that answers that question, I guess.

It seems that many people of Arkham consider me to be some kind of world traveller. That is not the case at all. I have been to Europe, it’s true, but what little I saw of it was blown into a hellish mud-scape by countless artillery shells. Instead of vistas of ancient forests, I saw barbed wire. In place of centuries-old European architecture, I encountered rubble. I did not absorb a worldly perspective, I absorbed blood and screams. Still, this apparently makes me quite the cosmopolitan in contrast to the vast majority of Arkham residents. Most people are born here, live their entire lives here, and die here, without going much past the town’s limits. My question is – why? With all the awful things that happen in this place, you’d think someone might want to take a weekend trip to Old Quebec City, or perhaps a fortnight’s sojourn in Greece. What keeps Arkham’s people so bound to this city? And is whatever it is wrapping me in its webbing even as we speak?

I’ve always wished that I could have a bit of an artistic flair. So, I pulled out a notepad and attempted to write some poetry. Except... this isn’t what I wrote. It’s all gibberish. “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”? It doesn’t even rhyme!

The search for the missing dock workers continues. Town folk of all backgrounds have come together to find out whether the dock workers survived whatever flood may have washed away their brother a couple of weeks back. Excitement was high, and there were a number of times when we thought we had found them, but it was just Bishop Tantrum’s usual screaming instead of a shout for aid. We had to ask the Bishop to retire from the search party. On the plus side, I’ve finally been able to spend some time chatting with the ladies of the night from River Street. They really are stunningly beautiful. Even their gills are quite attractive. Pearlescent, you know, when seen in a certain light.

I’ve been asked by friends if there are churches in Arkham. There certainly are. A great many of them, in fact, of multiple denominations. They are all on the small side. Usually, you can tell a town or city’s focus, its core principles if you will, by what kind of building towers the highest. In Chartres, the cathedral draws your eye. In New York, towers race to the sky, each trying to be the altar of financial gods. Here, our biggest building by far is the central structure of Miskatonic University. Here, knowledge is king. Knowledge of what... well, that is what I’m still trying to figure out.

Speaking of edifices, one grows used to bell ringing. Bells have been used for centuries to signal to citizens the break of dawn, the noon hour, and the setting of the sun. However, here in Arkham, it is that same previously mentioned grandiose building at Miskatonic U that has the loudest bells. These bells however never ring at daybreak, high noon, or dusk. No, they ring at odd times, never quite at noon, never precisely at the arrival or departure of the sun. Just what those bells are signalling... and to whom or what they are sending those signals, I have not been able to suss out.

Miss Hooty Commonprance, the dancer from the Knees Up Dance Hall, came by for a follow-up inspection of her sprained ankle. She was quite flirtatious again, smiling as she planted her ankle into my outstretched hand. She did pout a bit when she said I hadn’t come to see her at her club, at which point I confessed that I had looked for the Knees Up one night a little while back. She explained to me that you can only find it if you get an official invitation, at which point she produced a calling card, and wrote my name on its back in a flamboyant display of penmanship. She handed it over with a wink, and when her fingers brushed mine she let them linger perhaps a bit longer than was strictly necessary. She laughed and said that I was cute when I blushed. Which of course is ridiculous, doctors don’t blush. It wasn’t until later than I realized Miss Commonprance had said that the reason that I wasn’t able to find the dance hall was that I hadn’t been officially invited yet. What does that mean? That the dance hall actively hides from the uninvited? And does that mean I would not be able to bring a guest? Not that I can really think of too many people that I could invite for an evening out in my presence.

You’ll perhaps recall that some days back many of us from the town went in search for the missing dock workers, fearing they might have drowned during their hibernation. (A sentence that assuredly could only originate here in Arkham.) We had no luck finding the workers. I did however find a colony of hibernating toads, buried deeply into the banks of the Miskatonic River. They caught my interest because it seemed, in a quick glance, that they had constructed something in the frozen mud around themselves. My curiosity drove me out into the cold last Sunday, and I returned to the banks. I was right... the toads had indeed been busy before they went into their long slumber. They had constructed what could only be described as a number of small mud huts. The biggest of these huts, about the size of a breadbox, resembled a church. I could not see inside of the small structure, but a rancid smell greeted my nostrils as I bent down for a closer inspection. Which begs the question... what is the local toad population worshipping, and is it a friendly god?

On occasion, I will offer my services to the insane asylum when they are short staffed, or a sickness breaks out, that sort of thing. Recently, the psychiatrists have encouraged the inmates to create paper mache masks to display how they are feeling. I suppose their mental caretakers thought this would be a way to help identify mental ailments, and perhaps it is at that. However, it is a decidedly disturbing feeling to walk through halls peopled with silent figures all wearing pale white masks depicting interior mental conflicts.

I was finally able to confront my housekeeper, Miss Weetamoo, about her avoidance of me. I had not laid eyes on the woman in perhaps three weeks, which was highly unusual. I am not the type that believes employees should not be seen or heard, but should just be some kind of utilitarian fairy or goblin that scurries back into invisibility once its duties are complete. Miss Weetamoo has become more... Well, suffice to say, I am concerned for her well-being. Just as I am for all of my employees. If I had other employees... Never mind all that. The point is, I went out the front door of my house at the usual hour I depart for my office. But instead of carrying on, I went a block away and ducked around the corner, then peeked back. Miss Weetamoo appeared almost instantly from the other direction and made her way inside my house to commence with the housekeeping. I snuck back to my house via the alleyway and did my level best to keep quiet as a mouse as I let myself in through the back door. I swear that woman must have the ears of a fox though, because I caught her trying to rush out the front door. I demanded that she stop on the spot or that I would dismiss her from her post. I do believe that even then she was of a mind to leave; I saw her hand reach for the front door’s knob. But then she let it drop. I asked her to turn around, and she, with much reluctance, complied. It was then that I learned why she had been avoiding me for the better part of a month. She had been beaten. Her face was recovering, but she still had the lingering marks of a fattened and split lip, and a swollen eye, as well as some bruising along the sharp and bold line of her left cheekbone. Perhaps you think me emotionless based on these recordings. I know that sometimes I can come across as monotone, without feeling. Miss Weetamoo herself has teased me about trying out an emotion after hearing parts of my recordings. I assure you, my lack of expressive behaviour comes from nervousness while recording myself, not from a lack of feeling. I certainly had a stew of emotions upon seeing her face in that state, and it took some effort on my part to retain a detached medical professionalism. I asked who had done this to her, what man would dare to treat her in this manner? Do you know what that... that... sassy, yes, sassy woman did? She laughed! She laughed at my concern for her safety. I’m afraid those heated feelings I mentioned got the best of me, as Miss Weetamoo was likewise was consumed by her own, and we had quite a row, right there in my hallway. She finally got around to asking, in a surprisingly loud volume, why I cared so much about her face, stating that I never seemed to care about it before. I told her it was my job to care about injuries done to human beings. For some reason this, above anything else said during our exchange, sent her into a fury, yelling that perhaps I should concern myself more with the face of my quote “dance hall tart” unquote, presumably meaning Miss Hooty Commonprance, from now on, rather than herself. I told her I might just do that, seeing as how Miss Commonprance had given me an invitation on a card, which I then proceeded to fumble from my billfold and wave in the air. Miss Weetamoo spun around, stormed out the door, and slammed it shut behind her, hard enough to make the door-frame shake. I had appointments, patients to see, so I could not wait around for her return, if indeed she returned at all. Perhaps that was for the best, because I surely would have dismissed her from her position while I was still swirling about in a red mist of anger. Later, at the office, after I had cooled down some, I realized that I had never received an answer to my question – who had placed his hands upon Miss Weetamoo in a violent manner?

A note to myself – see to having my house’s front door knob replaced. It has been twisted and somewhat crushed. I think by Miss Weetamoo during her hastened exit. How does a woman crush a piece of metal like that?

Never mind about the doorknob. My house had vanished again when I got home. I spent the night in a hotel. The next morning the house was back, with a new doorknob in place. How does one thank a house for a job well done?

Enough about my worries for the moment. How are you all doing, dear listeners? Are you a world traveller? Where have you been? Or where would you like to explore? If you were to wear a paper mache mask that described your inner conflicts, what would it look like? Do you have a housekeeper that is wearing out your very last nerve? Do let me know, won’t you?

If you’ll recall, the local bootlegging gangs moved their war from the alleys and backwoods out into the open a couple of weeks back. They engaged in heavy gunfire around the park at Federal and Armitage. I’m sure you’ve been there at least once or twice. While the police department hasn’t said anything about the gun battle... well, most of them really don’t say anything at all, they just grunt and shrug their back humps in an expressive manner... People around town, like my good friend Miles Showpony, D.D.S., said that one of the gangs had been digging in that strange patch of dead earth in the park when the fight broke out. Which leads to all sorts of questions. Why is one or more of the gangs interested in the dead soil? Is there something hidden in it, like a stash of alcohol? Or are they looking to bury something in its cold embrace? I suppose a truly concerned citizen could go to the site and try to dig some of it up him or herself... Although at this time of year the ground is frozen solid and might hurt one’s hands. Not good for the sort of fellow where hand-strength and steadiness could make the difference between life and death. Like a doctor. Yes, best to leave such things to the local authorities.

As I leave you, I beg that you consider the following. The odds that your parents got together, and before them your grandparents, and then your great-grandparents, and so on, going right back to the dawn of humanity, were astronomically against your favour. But here you are, nonetheless. And just think, you could have turned out so much worse than you actually are. Well done, universe. And well done, you. Until next time...

Overnight for Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the horror story “Lacey Lane Makes Plans For Her Future.”