All the dogs across the city are howling as one. Whom are they howling for? They howl for thee, dear listeners. 

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

I can’t be sure, but I believe that the medical journals and books that I receive are being censored, or perhaps outright swapped before they reach me. It’s most unhelpful. Take this example. Under rheumatism it says, “You probably deserve it.” Or here, under Whooping Cough it says, “Helpful, so that others may easily find you in a dark mine or cave.” What am I supposed to do with that?

News of my close friend and confidant, Miles Showpony, D.D.S. You may recall from a previous phonographic recording that he had finally given in to the temptation presented by the beautiful water-breathing prostitutes found down by River Street. Because of his moment of weakness, he is now in a panic that said prostitutes may come to remove his pelvic bone in order to add it to their rumoured invisible temple, which is of course made up of a great pile of such pelvic bones.

He is now going to some great lengths to protect that region of his body. He told me that he now wears a kind of iron pelvic girdle with a padlock, hidden under baggy trousers. He’s finding it inconvenient though, as it keeps banging into the faces of his patients as he leans over them, in some cases causing bloody noses or iron allergy reactions.

I suggested to Miles that now might be a good time for him to take a vacation. But Miles pointed out, quite rightly, that his absence might lead some of his regular clientele to seek out the other prominent tooth-man in town, Prophet Belyaev, D.D.S., who is most assuredly not a close friend and/or confident of mine. Nobody wants that. Nobody.

The Town Council is throwing its annual Winterfest celebration. The festival’s proceeds this year are going to the upkeep of the town’s trolley horses. I find this a bit strange since the town’s trolleys have been running on electricity for some years now, but so be it.

The festival is much like any other fair you’ve been to. Bunting and banners are hung along the streets. The smell of dozens of different kinds of food enrich the air. An ice castle is built, large enough to have multiple rooms, the bedroom even coming complete with beds made of ice. Uncomfortable, I’m sure, but quite lovely.

And then there are the games. Ah, the games. Games of chance where a young man can win his best girl a prize. Games that test and tax your dexterity, accuracy, and reflexes. Games where you knock down bottles with a baseball, shoot miniature rifles at paper targets, or try to toss a still-bloody internal organ (presumably from an animal) into a milk jug. 

 Games where you worship a being you are not truly allowed to know, being informed only that this entity is so worthy of your awe and fear that you would be a fool not to grovel on the ground and shout out your praises at the top of your lungs.... 

And they have these candy apples. Apples dipped in candy! Can you believe it?!

Bishop Tantrum has been calling people up and telling them, as best he can between his never-ending screams, that we should all beware of knock-off crucifixes that have apparently found their way into a number of homes in Arkham.

It was difficult to understand what exactly makes a crucifix a “knock-off” as opposed to the genuine thing, again, because of all the screaming. But the gist of it is that if your crucifix melts and dribbles down around your hand while you are using it to ward off any sort of religiously-obsessed blood-sucking entities, then you probably have yourself a crucifix of inferior quality.

Those of you who heard my previous phonographic recording may be wondering if I told Miss Weetamoo that Miss Hooty Commonprance is now my medical assistant at my office. Yes, yes I did.

How did that go, you ask? Better than I expected. Miss Weetamoo barely raised her eyebrows, said she was sure I knew best, and continued on with her housework. I’m not sure why I was expecting anything more. Why should Miss Weetamoo care about the people I work with?

You probably thought I’d forgotten about all of you, didn’t you? Never, dear listeners, never! So let me hear it. Spring is right around the corner, can you feel it? Does your family celebrate Easter, and if so, do you do anything special? Have you tested your crucifixes to make sure you have the genuine article?

I saw Miss Weetamoo and her brothers at the Winterfest. She was throwing baseballs so hard that she not only shattered the milk bottles, but they continued on to punch holes out of the back of the booth. The game proprietor had to duck for his life more than once, and will probably be plucking glass shards out of his hair for some time to come.

My God, that woman is strong.

Miss Hooty Commonprance worked her first day with me. Since she has no medical training as yet, she will be handling appointments and ordering supplies, things of that nature. She’s looking up nursing courses at nearby educational institutions, and is hoping that Miskatonic University has what she needs since A) it’s close by and B) she says she has an “in” there, whatever that means.

She’s very eager about the whole thing, and her cheerfulness has added some energy to my practice. I’ve noticed that since she took over booking the appointments, the visits by adult men for check-ups for, well, anything at all, have shot way up.

Her working with me has also led me to notice that my offices are smaller than I once thought. I had been under the impression that my offices were quite roomy, but Miss Commonprance and I seem to keep bumping into each other. Not to worry though, I’m sure we’ll become a well-oiled machine once we’ve been around each other a bit more.

Word has reached me that Miss Weetamoo has been banned indefinitely from Arkham’s Winterfest on account of “stupendous amounts of property damage.” 

It occurs to me, dear listeners, that I’ve never given you any real reason to trust me. I’m quite certain that if I heard these recordings, without having visited Arkham first, that I would assume they are the rantings of a madman or the pranks of a shameless charlatan. But what can I do to earn your trust? You can search out some of my medical papers in various publications, so that can verify my medical claims at least. But what difference will an essay entitled “Lobotomies: Why Take Things Out When You Can Put Things In?” make in your belief of local toads worshipping at shrines? Or make you believe that we truly have a police force largely made up of what appear to be Neanderthal-like men? I’d ask you to take me at my word, but how can I when the words are so very weird?

Speaking of weird words... “wakerife.” I repeat, “wakerife.”

He came back. That gangster, that bootlegger, the one with the strange sucker-marks across his body that first came to me all those months ago. He is a shell of his former self. He is emaciated, yet ravenously hungry. He is exhausted, but couldn’t sit still after I had invited him into my offices, after hours. He begged me for help with one breath, then snarled at me in a voice not quite his own and told me not to dare to touch him with the next.

He has clearly been living rough. His clothes were filthy and shredded. The sole of one of his shoes was hanging from the bottom of his foot. His fingernails were long and ragged.

As you can imagine, I made sure all of my scalpels and other sharp instruments were well out of his reach, and well within mine.

I asked him what I could do for him. He replied in that unearthly voice that he was almost done feeding, and then it would be time to sleep. Not knowing what to make of that, I asked if I might be permitted to see the marks on his torso. 

He asked, “You wish to gaze upon my glory?”

I replied, “Yeah, sure.” 

He ripped open his shirt, what little there was left of it. But as soon as he himself looked down at his chest, he let out a howl of anguish and then sprinted out into the night.

I barely managed to get a look at the marks, but the quick glance I did take has kept me awake for three nights running. Those marks have become bubbles within his skin. Bubbles that are somewhat transparent. And in the dim light, I swear I saw... things squirming around inside of those bubbles.

Eggs. I think the marks were eggs.

“Ulotrichous.” That’s another weird word. [having woolly or crispy hair)

Rumours are flying about town that someone at Miskatonic University is onto something big. Really big. World-changing big. Speculation is rife, everyone seems to have their own theory about what the big break-through just might be.

Some say they have discovered realities nestled right next to ours, sharing the same space, and that they are figuring out how to say hello to our reality neighbours. Others firmly believe that they have found a way to put human evolution into high gear, progressing us the equivalent of thousands of years in mere months. Others still are certain that they’ve invented a new shade of purple.

The other big news out of the university is that they are going to allow girls to be cheerleaders at sporting events, right alongside the boys. Girl cheerleaders... can you imagine?!

Oh look, another flier from the Town Council has been pushed under my door. Why can’t they use the mailbox like any other reasonable being? So what does this one say... Well, surprise, surprise. They’ve added a new tax. A pole tax. For once, this doesn’t affect me, since I don’t have any poles.

Some of you may recall that I wanted to flex some of my more artistic muscles, in my off hours. In the past, I tried poetry, but that didn’t work out so well.

This latest attempt, I tried my hand at painting. I tell you, the pure joy of am unblemished white canvas and jars full of untouched paints. Together, along with the painter’s imagination, they can transform that canvas into anything. Anything at all!

Now, I did not expect to be a Rembrandt right out of the gate. I would have been happy with a simple house on a field of grass, or perhaps a picture of a cheerful sun emerging from behind some contrasting clouds.

Unfortunately, I got neither. I didn’t get anything I wanted at all. Because every time I applied a colour to the canvas, it turned a shade of purple, and moved itself, slug-like, to a new position.

This happened over and over again until I was left with... a face? I think? Something that looks very hungry, at any rate. And of course, something that looks very purple.

I wonder if the University is to blame for this.

I’ve been finding my phonographs have been advanced, with new grooves in the phonograph, as if someone has been recording something in my absence. But when I play it back, I hear nothing. Do let me know if you catch someone else using my device, won’t you?

Apparently an unusual number of people about town have started parting their hair on the opposite side of their heads. They don’t know why they’re doing it, they just all decided to give it a go, all on the very same day.

I rather suspect the University might know more than they’re saying though, as they have issued an advisory to those people that made the change, that they should be on the look-out for the following symptoms: excessive nose bleeds, wart-encrusted ring fingers, a strong desire to drink sewer water, an allergy to wool, and death.

As we finished work today, Miss Commonprance laid her hand on my knee and suggested we get something to eat. I made fumbled excuses as I fumbled my things together and retreated out of the office fumblingly. Her delighted laughter chased me right out the door. I have her teasing me at work, Miss Weetamoo’s ever present annoyance with me at home... If ever I needed one of my grandfather’s platitudes, now is the time. Where are you, Granddad?

Well, he’s up near Lake Simcoe in Ontario, that’s where he’s at. But he doesn’t have a phone, so he might as well be on the moon.

Ah well. Perhaps you, dear listeners, could help me instead. If you have any words of wisdom about women, I’d be more than happy to hear them.

So, until I hear from you, good-bye for now.

Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the Encyclopedia Terrorificus series of scary children-friendly books.