We wait for the first blessed hints of spring. But the winds howl, taunting us, flinging more snow in our faces. We ask who we have to sacrifice someone to in order to feel warmth again. Some of us, at least, are joking.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

The police are circulating a flier, telling the citizens of Arkham to be on the look-out for a dangerous fugitive. The fugitive in question is thought to be responsible for the deaths, and possible partial consumption of, a number of small pets in multiple neighbourhoods. And tipping over mailboxes. What truly chilled my bones about the flier is that the description matches that of the gangster that came to me with the mysterious sucker-marks upon his body. I’m worried that I didn’t do nearly enough for him. But in my defence, there was nothing in his diagnosis that would have led me to believe he’d be compelled to knock over mailboxes.

About two weeks ago we had a fellow here by the name of Buckminster Hedge, who advertised rides in his hot air balloon. He set up on the outskirts of town, and in fact attracted quite a crowd in spite of the cold weather. I suppose the allure of seeing Arkham from a bird’s-eye point of view is quite an attraction, I wouldn’t mind trying it myself. The very first ride was taken by the Molnarova family – Tomas, Nela, and young Matej. I stepped out of my office to watch them, as did many others in the area.

They mounted into the grey-blue sky. The balloon featured multi-coloured patches, and made for a most wonderous sight against the slate-coloured atmosphere behind them. 

And then... the balloon seemed to catch on something. Something way up there that had heretofore been the domain of the birds. We heard their screams all the way in the downtown area.

I hurried out and made it just in time to see them land, pulled down by an assistant of Mr Hedge, as well as some other town-folk who had been waiting in line. It was quite a struggle, since Mr Hedge himself was not able to help with the descent, on account of his having gone quite mad.

He wasn’t the only one. Tomas Molnarova was scratching at his own face. Mrs Nela Molnarova was howling at her left elbow, as if communicating with a far-off coyote. And young Matej, well, he was doing absolutely nothing at all. He just stood there like a little soldier at attention. I’m fairly certain he wasn’t even breathing for some time there. Lord knows why he didn’t die for lack of oxygen. 

The lot of them are now in Arkham Asylum. Nobody knows what they saw while up in the air. Plus now we all have to figure out what to do with a gigantic balloon.

Miles Showpony, D.D.S., my very good friend, finally succumbed to the many and immense charms of the gilled ladies-of-the-night that sell their bodily wares down by River Street. He came to me in a panic the next morning, confessing that he had paid a staggering amount of money to spend some time with one of the women in one of the shabby hotels that lay close by.

Out of personal, rather than professional, curiosity, I asked him to describe the encounter. He said, amongst other things, that it was, “revelatory, unprecedented, invigorating, particular, magenta, clarifying, perplexing, taxing, noisome but in a good way, nostalgic, focused, foreign, electrifying, and very very bendy.”  

His fear was palpable. I thought he was worried that he might have caught some kind of venereal disease. But no, what he was truly worried about was that rumoured temple made out of the pelvic bones of men. He kept patting his pelvic region with shaking hands.

On the plus side, he said he had never experienced an orgasm that profound. It made him see colours he never knew existed. So... that’s nice.

Had a police officer come by the office. He shoved a note from Headquarters into my hand. The note asked if I happened to have any spare human organs lying around. I asked “why?”. The officer shrugged and went on his way.

How are things going with you, my friends? Are you eagerly awaiting the first hints of spring? Or are you a happy winter person? Do you keep spare human bodily organs around your place of work or at home, and if so, why?

Miss Weetamoo, my housekeeper, had noted that the plumbing in my house has been making some rather odd noises. Squeaks in the upstairs water closet, moans in the kitchen, that sort of thing. I called in a plumber. Forsyth Pilsner is his name. He went about my home, upstairs, downstairs, into the cellar, clucking his tongue and banging on my pipes with a wrench. Finally he installed himself under the sink in the kitchen and got down to business.

Or so I assumed, anyway. Both Miss Weetamoo and I were drawn to the kitchen where we were to find Mister Pilsner half-hidden under the sink, his coverall-clad legs sticking out halfway across the floor. A tall fellow, is the plumber.

His large red toolbox remained closed. Instead, he had opened up a smaller black toolbox. On a cloth beside him were not wrenches or whatever paraphernalia one would usually expect from a plumber. Oh no. Instead, there were black candles, a single curved horn from a ram, and what looked to be a jar of thick dark blood. There was also a selection of cheeses and grapes, but I assume the latter was Mister Pilsner’s lunch.

Miss Weetamoo and I had been drawn to the kitchen because of Mister Pilsner’s muttering. Neither of us could quite make out what he was saying, but these didn’t sound like the self-directed utterances of a preoccupied mind, the kind of muttering we all do when trying to fix our car engine or figure out a government tax form.

No, this sounded more like there was a full conversation going on there, under my kitchen sink. I say “full” because the plumbing was clearly answering back. Needless to say, I can’t really recommend Mister Pilsner’s plumbing services to Arkham homeowners. Aside from the conversation with my pipes, he also charges a small fortune. And the noises from the plumbing are worse than ever.

On the plus side, Miss Weetamoo and I shared more than one glance while all this questionable plumbing activity was going on. I haven’t got along with her this well in months.

Well this is just too much. As a medical professional, I am of course all for enacting by-laws that protect the health and welfare of Arkham’s citizens. But a pamphlet has been sent around, listing by-laws that the Town Council is considering putting into effect.

Drivers’ licenses for baby prams? Nobody allowed to look up to check if the sun is still there on the first Friday of every month? Reporting any bodies found with human-shaped bites out of them followed immediately by taking a lifelong vow of silence? Honestly, we are becoming a bit of a nanny state here.

Regarding my plumbing, Miss Weetamoo had her grandmother stop by to do a cleansing ritual. The whole house now smells strongly of sage and clean magic, so that’s nice. Plus, the noises in the pipes have stopped entirely, after a bout of extreme screaming. So if you have any plumbing woes of your own, you could do worse than see Miss Weetamoo about her grandmother’s availability.

I do believe I’m starting to see strange encoded messages all around town. On billboards, on business signs, in the Arkham Advertiser... I would attempt to crack these codes, or at least jot them down, but it’s all made rather difficult by the fact that I can only see them in my peripheral vision. I asked Miss Weetamoo if she had noticed any such codes. She said she had not. She didn’t have time to discuss the matter though, as she instantly made up some excuse about having to go shopping and whisked her way out of the house. I wish she wouldn’t rush out like that. She didn’t give me the chance to ask her to pick up some grapes. The ones the plumber, Mister Pilsner, had, had looked delicious.

Just another note about Miss Weetamoo’s grandmother. I didn’t mention this earlier because, well, it’s a tad embarrassing. But as she was on her way out, lifted aloft on a steep wave of my thanks and appreciations of her service towards me, the old woman knocked into me, which in turn pressed me into her granddaughter, Miss Weetamoo.

In that exact moment, I thought nothing of it. She is a very old woman, after all, and such things can happen. But once we were alone on the street she wagged her white eyebrows at me and nodded up in the direction of her granddaughter and said, “Soft in all the right places, eh?”

Cheeky old thing. I haven’t been able to look Miss Weetamoo in the eye for days now.

Did you know that Arkham has its very own radio station? It’s true! I’m afraid I don’t have nearly enough time as I’d like for leisure activities like listening to the radio. Plus, I hear that the station quite often plays jazz music, which I’m afraid I’m still not sold on. But I did find myself with some free time on a Sunday night, so I fired up the radio.

I ended up turning it off after only a scant few minutes of listening. I’m afraid I don’t want to listen to a full hour of broadcasting dedicated to the howls and screams of those citizens that have defied the Town Council in some manner. No, I’ll stick with my phonographs and books, thanks all the same.

Finished another well-researched medical paper. World, you’re definitely going to want to read, “Arsenic: It’s Not Just For Offing Wayward Husbands” if, I mean when, I get it published!

Those of you that have followed along with these phonographic recordings will know that I’ve had a never-ending series of woes concerning my phone’s party-line. You’ll be delighted to know that I sprang for a private line.

Unfortunately, I cannot report a raging success. Now I am the recipient of a number of calls from a high-strung male individual who continuously screams, “Why does it feel so good? Why does it feel so good? Why does it feel so good?” over and over again. Who is this person? Why does he feel the need to share this experience with me, of all people? Is he talking about something of a sexual nature, or something else entirely? What feels so good?

A group of veterans from the World War have arrived in town. I believe there are about a half-dozen in all. Miles Showpony, D.D.S., a very fond acquaintance of mine, has asked if I’ve gone and met them, being a veteran myself.

I have not. I haven’t gone out of my way to make the acquaintance of any local veterans either. I don’t avoid them, you understand, I just don’t seek them out. For one thing, the veterans’ meetings here, or even in Boston, are for Doughboys, American vets, and being a Canadian, I haven’t been invited.

Which is fine. I don’t feel left out. If anything, I feel relieved. Sitting around, kicking about stories from the trenches and the hell-scapes that laid between them, is not exactly my idea of a good time.

Still, even though I didn’t seek out this new group of veterans, I did happen to see them on Saltonstall Street. They’re a ragged-looking bunch, clothes patched, cheeks unshaven, boots worn down at the heels. They’re skinny to a man, emaciated even. Summed up, they look like they’ve been on the move since the war, never settling down for a good meal, never mind to establish a home.

If they’re looking for a good place to rest their bones and build a nice, normal, post-war life for themselves, well, I expect they’ll be on the road out of Arkham sooner rather than later.

One of the benefits of living in Arkham is that it is a never-ending source of new material for medical papers. For example, let’s see what I have here... ah! Take for example this list of phobias that I’ve collected from some of the locals.

Fear of streetlamps that go out when one approaches them. Fear of toast that hasn’t been buttered. A fear of adding up the digits in a phone number in case they lead to something satanic. Fear of pocket change. A fear that the colour yellow is creeping into everything. Fear of unattended baby carriages. A fear of belly buttons or places where said belly buttons may be exposed. Fear of voices carried in by the wind, specifically winds down from Canada. I take a bit of offence at this one. A fear of clothing – this one explains the rising number in our nudist population. A fear of mirrors. Of eating meals with other human beings. 

My growing fear is... what if all these people are right?

There is a rumour circulating about town that the Town Council has been sacrificing... well, something... one hopes it’s something and not someone... in an effort to avoid paper-cuts. There is also a rumour that they are running a drive to collect mittens for the poor.

Someone has been scrawling graffiti all over town. On houses, on businesses, on the sidewalks, any surface that will take paint. I’ve seen one of these markings myself. It said, “They’ll turn your children into self-haters.” These fear-mongering markings are having an odd effect on the populace, making many vote against their own best self-interests. I almost hope there is some kind of dark magic associated with the graffiti; it’s more frightening to think that people would give into such unsubstantiated claims without any proof. Plus the spelling of the markings is truly appalling.  

A temperance group has managed to shut down the Knees Up Dance Hall. I’m not sure how this group of old ladies even found the place, as it seems to disappear when one isn’t specifically invited to attend one of its soirees. But find it they did, and cited Prohibition laws in order to have the party palace closed. That, plus they waved around placards claiming that any lips that touched alcohol would never touch theirs. Seeing their sourly angry faces, I’m not so sure that’s the threat they think it is. At any rate, the Knees Up is gone, at least for the foreseeable future.

Which means that Miss Hooty Commonprance is out of a job. Or at least she was. Yes, that’s right, I’ve hired her on as my nursing assistant. I was unable to resist her tears when she came to me with the news of the Knees Up’s being shut down. That, plus I truly am exhausted with having to run my office and practice all on my own.

It’s strange, but this seems, deep down in my bones, to be a turning point in my life. I can’t fathom why, I’ve merely hired on some help.

Speaking of my life, pray for it. I’m off now to let Miss Weetamoo know about this new arrangement. Good-bye, hopefully for just a little while.

Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the Ida Bly series of historical Noir thriller novels.