You’re heading west, chasing the last of the day’s sun. As darkness envelops you, road signs flicker in and out of sight. Fog rolls in, blanketing the road from your view. Out your right side window, you see mice and toads locked in a death struggle. To the left, you spot a purple cloud in coveralls.

Welcome to my home.

These are the recordings of Doctor Cornelius Plink.

Two or so weeks back a mysterious box was located in town. Police towed it out into a field, and asked for volunteers to open it. When no volunteers came forward, they made Hank Prescott, the hardware man do it. I suppose they chose him because he has crowbars readily available, and also because nobody likes him.

We ordinary everyday Janes and Joes of Arkham weren’t allowed to see the opening of the box. But the story goes that Hank pried off the lid of the box and opened the top. A black and clingy sort of smoke wafted out, curling tendrils around Hank’s biceps in an almost sensual fashion.

At that point, Hank leaned forward and peered into the box. As far as I know, he did not tell anybody what he saw inside its murky depths. Instead, he hammered the top of the box back down, turned, walked all the way back into town without uttering a single syllable, and signed himself into the asylum. I’ve heard that he is currently quite happy, spending his days constructing birdhouses out of paste and Popsicle sticks.

I of course am as curious as everyone else as to just what Hank Prescott saw inside that mysterious box. Was it evil? Was it beautiful? Was it alive? Did it fill Hank with an overwhelming desire to craft birdhouses out of Popsicle sticks, or is that just a coincidence?

I fear we shall never know.


Well here’s a change of pace. Mister Eric Meyer, a local real estate agent, was elected to the Town Council. I’ve never known of an ordinary citizen being placed on the Council. It was especially surprising to young Mister Meyer himself, seeing as how he did not run for the position and nobody can recall there being any sort of election.

But never mind all that. I say well done, Mister Meyer! I’m glad an ordinary citizen, someone who understands the trials of everyday life in Arkham, is going to be representing all of us on the Council.


Never mind. Apparently Mister Meyer showed up for work on the Council this morning, entered Town Hall, the real Town Hall, not the fake one where all the flowers are not flesh-eaters, and abruptly came out not five minutes later. “NOPE!” shouted at the top of his lungs was the only comment he would give on the matter.

The class struggle continues. 


This Justin. Not this-space-just-space-in, But this Justin, Justin Brackwell, he got to my office just in time. A spice and herb merchant, is Justin. He used to carry just about everything, but now he specializes and trades just in thyme. I thought he was going to be late, he seems to run by his own internal clock, Justin Time, without much consideration for others. But this time he wasn’t on Justin Time, so he did manage to make it just in time, this Justin.


I grew more and more curious about the damage done to West Church, so one day last week, after work, I strolled over and had myself a bit of a look-see. All of the police sawhorses were long cleared up, and I was able to walk right up to the stone walls of the church.

I naturally had been puzzled by the pockmarks of damage that defiled the church’s stately stone walls, because they looked like burn marks. At this point, you may very well be asking, what on Earth can burn stone in such a manner? A very fine question indeed, dear listeners. I had been chewing that one over myself.

As I drew nearer, the bite-sized puzzle became more than a mouthful when I saw repeated marks within each of the soot-like burn marks. There were gouges in each burned area. The gouges were all parallel, making evenly-spaced little trenches in the stones. I’ll be a quill-less left-handed porcupine if those gouges didn’t look almost exactly like teeth-marks. Human teeth-marks, more or less, like one might leave behind after taking a hearty bite of an apple.

It would appear that something, or someone, has been dining on the church. 


Town Council has issued a new by-law, stating that nobody in town may bring new Golden Retrievers in as pets. The by-law states that this particular breed of dog is “just too friendly for the public good”. They suggest Chihuahuas instead. 


There has been another desecration. This time, Arkham’s only synagogue was targeted. Sadly, this part of the world is not unfamiliar with the ugly spectre of antisemitism, but as the damage to the synagogue's brick walls is exactly the same as the damage done to West Church, soot-like colouring and human-like teeth-marks included, it seems this is more of an anti-religious activity in general, rather than specifically targeting our Jewish neighbours.

I’m beginning to wonder if this person, or persons, or person-like entities, are attacking these edifices because of the religious connection, or just because that’s all they can eat.


Although I’ve handled a lot of brains, I am no psychiatrist. Still, in my idle hours I’ve been musing about how we relate to time. Do we perceive time as one great long flowing river? Or do we instead take in time in tiny little increments, and think our minds stitch them together, somewhat like the single frames of a Douglas Fairbanks motion picture that are laced together on celluloid?

If it’s the latter, could one snip out a moment of time and insert a different snippet? How drastically different would that newly inserted snippet have to be from the original before it changed our personalities? For example, if someone snipped out my memory of enjoying a bit of music, and inserted a snippet of my having a lusty old time killing a hobo, would that be enough to turn me into a blood-thirsty killer? 

Could the reverse be true? Could we snip out a killer’s memory of the joy of killing an innocent victim, and replace it with a memory of being more than content just picking up litter in a public park and placing it in a trash can? How many such snippets would we have to replace before we turned the monster into a man?

Ah, don’t mind me. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.

Or... did I?


I say, here’ something new. The Arkham Advertiser has added a traffic section on page 7. Let’s see... Washington Street is to be paved east of Sentinel Street... Aaron Snodgrass out at the top end of Peabody Avenue has just gotten himself a brand new Ford Model T, well done, well done... Traffic officers from the Arkham Police Department are going to be issuing new hand directions along with good old “stop” and “go”. These instructions must be committed to memory by all drivers by Monday of next week.

Among these instructions are new hand signals for “construction ahead”, “DUCK!”, “beware of flooding,” “stop drinking that molasses,” “you hair looks great today,” “impartiality is not good enough, you must choose,” and “I know what you’re thinking, and I want you to knock it off, you utter pervert.” Egad, there’s simply no way I am going to be able to memorize all of these hand signals inside of a week. 


They found him. The gangster who had been impregnated with... something. To be more precise, they found his body, or what was left of it, at the bottom of the hole in the dead patch of earth in the park. You know the park I mean, the one at Federal and Armitage that’s part of Independence Square.

Once again, the police brought me in to do a clandestine autopsy. Which means that once again, dear listeners, I’ll rely on your discretion. I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this.

The gangster was covered in dirt, which makes sense, because he had been buried in that dead patch. However, there was no evidence of any soil in his trachea or lungs, which indicates that he didn’t breathe any in. This in turn indicates that he was either already dead when he was buried, was supplied air through some kind of tube or pipe connected to the surface, or... that he no longer required breath. This being Arkham, I do not favour the more rational explanations over the irrational.

The most likely cause of death was the most obvious. The egg sacks, if that indeed is what they were, had burst open, rupturing the gangsters skin. He would have bled out.

The detective agreed. But what he was really after, and, I imagine, what we are all truly wondering, is just what burst out of those egg sacks.

I’m afraid I was of very little assistance in that matter. I can only analyze so much in the morgue, and they would not let me take any samples to my office. I suggested they have the remains of the egg sacks analyzed at Miskatonic University, which is, I imagine, what they have done.

The unsaid hung in the air over my head during my drive home. The impregnation might have been an accident, I have no way of knowing. But the cultivation of that dead patch of earth by other gangsters, and their planting their pregnant comrade in the earth as they did, that suggests planning. Deliberation. It’s possible that someone in the gangster world knows exactly what popped out of those egg sacks, and they welcomed it.

Which leads to the question – what was so important to someone in the rum-running underworld that they were willing to sacrifice one of their own in order to bring it to life?


I keep dreaming about eggs. Large eggs, tiny eggs. Blue and brown and speckled eggs. Eggs that lie on hay, and eggs that stand on their point on a rock by a raging ocean.
In each of these dreams, these dancing expressions of the unexpressed portions of my psyche, the egg cracks and whatever is inside begins to push its way out. I cannot see its form, not yet, but oh, its so close to being a part of our world, to being free of its egg-y constraints. I am filled with an almost parental euphoria, so much so that I feel compelled to reach out and peel back the egg to let its inhabitant free... And then I wake up shivering.

I think I’m going to stick with just toast and bacon for breakfast for the foreseeable future.


A mighty blast of trumpets was heard crashing across the sky at noon, yesterday. At first, we all thought it might have come from Miss Welsh’s music school, where youngsters mangle a variety of instruments in an effort to produce something that vaguely sounds like a C-sharp. Most of us take the long way around so we can avoid the music school. Miss Welsh is a fine lady, if you can get past her third eye, but the cacophony that crashes out of her school is so profoundly grating that one can almost see the air shimmering in distaste.

But no, yesterday’s trumpets were something else entirely. They were stupendously loud, scaring anyone that heard them. Also, they actually managed to produce an actual recognizable note, so that immediately disqualified any chance of it being from Miss Welsh’s school.

Miss Commonprance and I went outside. People all up and down the street were popping out of shops and automobiles to look upwards. The sky was a perfect azure blue, the kind of sky you wish for outdoor weddings and three-legged races. 

We saw nothing. If the trumpets had heralded some kind of heavenly host, they were invisible. If they were to pronounce the arrival of a hellish horde, they remained trapped underground.

As best as any of us could figure, the only thing that the trumpets could have heralded was the opening of Mister Byeak Hyeon’s restaurant. 


Which Miss Commonprance and I took advantage of. I was a big fan of Mister Hyeon’s hot-dogs when he had his stand by Town Hall, and I’m pleased to say that the restaurant version might be even better. Well done, Mister Hyeon, you’ve still got it!


Speaking of Miss Commonprance, once we had returned to the office she took my hand in hers and told me that she wished she could help me more. She said she hated to see me worrying all the time, always exhausted. Her usual good-time gal flirtiness was gone, and when I looked in her eyes, I saw nothing but genuine concern.

I have to say, it’s been a very long time since anyone has looked at me like that. Perhaps never. And that the look came from a beautiful woman who shares my interests... well.


It’s over. It’s done. I went home early on Friday after Miss Commonprance’s insistence that I learn to rest some more. I took her up on her idea, and arrived home to a strange noise... my voice.

I entered my home study and found that Miss Weetamoo, my housekeeper, had helped herself to my phonographic recordings. What’s more, she had found my hidden safe in the floor, somehow opened it, and was listening to the recordings that I had hidden because they contained information that could get me in trouble with the police or Town Council or God knows who or what else...

If you’re thinking that I was infuriated, you’re thinking quite right. I was seeing red. Mad as all get out. None too pleased. Wound up. Peeved as peeved can be. More than a little annoyed. Fuming! Steaming! Raging!

I demanded an explanation, but Miss Weetamoo, a woman who can usually be relied on to tell you just what she’s thinking, was at a complete loss of words.

I was not. I used my words to tell her that she was fired. Done. To be gone from my employment immediately never to return.

Now, hours later, I’ve calmed down. Somewhat. But the sense of betrayal is still fresh and strong. It hurts.

The question now is – will Miss Weetamoo tell anyone else about what I’ve been recording on these phonographs?


Overnight For Observation was created by Daniel Fox. Daniel is the author of the historical horror novella “Fertilizer”.