Book Two - The Psychogeography of Terror

[makken123Tabs]

Eddie Sharpe, journalist

He can see that Isaiah is eating steadily. Eddie wonders what his pasta shapes are named, Sea shells, I guess.

[DadsAngry]

Dr. Clarke:

"Mr. Wilkins who did this? How did you know of this place? Was it the scene of one of the cult murders you spoke of?" Dr. Clarke says in astonishment at the detail in which the wall is decorated. He examines the walls closely, which was something that he was not able to in Turkey.

[Grognardsw]

Charters Book Shop
Providence, RI
Sept. 15, 1925

On the way back to his book shop after seeing the courtyard mural and Carcosa still in it, Reginald Wilkins ponders the possibility of the drawing being some form of gate. Dr. Clarke asks Reginald about the photos of the Mt. Latmos cavern.

Reginald has been studying the subject of gates lately, putting in long hours of reading the Pnakotic Manuscripts. And the interest Raymond Randolph expressed in the subject of mystic travel further stokes Reginald's curiousity. The reluctant occultist has, for the first time in his career, actually studied an alleged spell. The Find Gate incantation is suppose to reveal Gates, oherwise known as portals that can transport a person from one locale to another. If the grimoire is to be believed, such a locale could be otherworldly.

Reginald opens the book to the pages devoted to te Find Gate ceremony...

He reviews the ritual and gathers chalk, candle, incense, ash, and a pen knife. Together with the book he heads back out to the courtyard mural. Reginald invites Dr. Clarke and Dr. Morgan.





Brown University
Providence, RI
Sept. 16, 1925

The next morning Isaiah Bartlett and Eddie Sharp stand before the John Hay Library at Brown University.



Inside they are to meet Howard Lovecraft, a minor writer of pulp fiction in the weird and fantastic vein. Eddie is to play the role of Horace Whately, an aspiring pulp writer who is an acquaintance of Ubaid Hazrabad and Ambrose Carcosa. Eddie is a little nervous about this charade, and the association with Carcosa. Eddie/Whately is suppose to talk up Lovecraft, get writing advice, read Lovecraft's latest draft story, and most important find out what he can about Carcosa and cults. Isaiah isn't quite sure what he is suppose to be or do, but the old man can be wily.

Isaiah and Eddie walk through the lobby toward the reading room. They note the polished wood of card catalogs and tables, the shining marble floors, the hushed atmosphere, the smell of paper, the fastidious Brown students going about their studies.

Any final questions before you meet the man?

[makken123Tabs]

Eddie Sharpe, journalist

"Whately, I'm Horace Whately," he repeats over and over to himself. "I'm ready--Mr. Bartlett?"

Did I read somewhere that the phone conversation with Lovecraft is in a thread?

You been to John Hay Library, Grognardsw?

[Fulci]

Isaiah Bartlett, wise old man

Isaiah and Eddie/Horace go through their cover stories once more before entering the library.
Isaiah plans to introduce himself a reader of fiction, who is setting up a small fund for young writers. Horace Whately is one of his first authors. The writers are getting a small sum of money each quarter they publish at least a single story. Lovecraft is a potential candidate.

"I'm ready, Mr. Whately."

He combs his untidy hair. He is wearing his good jacket, so to pass as a patron of arts.

[Mant72]

Dr. Francis Morgan:

Before returning to the courtyard mural, Dr. Morgan turns to Reginald and Dr. Clarke and asks, "Should we bring the crystal with us, or secure it someplace? I think we should probably place it in a safety deposit box for the time being, until we can get in contact with Mr.Archer. I'm hesitant for the crystal to leave our sight; however, I'm also reluctant to take it with us to the courtyard. We know it is connected with gateways and time travel in some way, and whatever is conjured up at the mural site could react adversely with the crystal and prove dire."

[DadsAngry]

Dr. Clarke:

"Hmm yes, good thinking Frank. Edith and I will take the crystal and secure lodgings for us while you accompany Mr. Wilkins back to the courtyard. I'll contact the B.O.I. and inquire about Mr. Archer once we has our rooms." He nods to Dr. Morgan and then to Edith for confirmation.
"Mr. Wilkins any suggestions on a good hotel in the area? I have heard the Biltmore Hotel is a fine place to stay."

Right before Dr. Morgan and Mr. Wilkins leave for the courtyard Dr. Clarke pull Frank aside and speaks to him softly.
"To be perfectly honest that mural make me uneasy. It brings back memories that I do not wish to relive. While you're there examine the floor. Look to see if it possesses the same geometric symbols that were found in the caves. Remember the circle of metal on the floor, about 6' in diameter. It was connected at three concentric points to the large metal box in the center which held the crystal. Be careful, chap don't let Mr. Wilkins out of your sight. I fear his knowledge might be his undoing and I don't wish it to be yours as well." He says as he holds out his hand out to greet the man goodbye.
"I'll call back here once we have secured lodgings."

OOC: Before Dr. Clarke and Edith goto the hotel they will make a quick side trip to a general store. Dr. Clarke wishes to pick up a pistol.

[Mant72]

Dr. Morgan:

Dr. Morgan shakes Dr. Clarke's hand, gently squeezes his shoulder, and hands him the valet containing the crystal. He smiles nervously and says, "I will be careful my friend, and you and Edith please do the same. I fear that we are all in danger while we have this crystal in our possession. I will try to find more answers, and we will return to the bookstore to meet you later this evening.

Prior to leaving to examine the mural, Dr. Morgan also wishes to stop off to procure a pistol, ammunition, and a flashlight if at all possible. Dr. Morgan is accompanying Mr. Wilkins to examine the mural and to assist Reginald if he gets into any danger or trouble. Dr. Morgan is in no way participating in the gateway ritual, just observing as a scholar and offering support.

[Grognardsw]

Dr. Clarke and Dr. Morgan procure pistols and part ways. Reginald and Dr. Morgan motor over to Court Street and the mural.


Carcosa is in the mural.

It is about 6:00 pm and sun is beginning its slow descent as Reginald sets up before the mural. He chalks out a circle outlined in Xaqloui language signs, arranges candles and incense, and uses his pen knife to slice his palm and drip blood into a small bowl of ash. Dr. Morgan looks on in fascination. Only his recent experiences allow him to consider that what Reginald is doing isn't complete balderdash. Reginald opens the Pnakotic Manuscripts to a certain page, not completely trusting his memory on such a complex ritual. He begins chanting, occasionally moving his hands in funny ways, at one point rubbing the blood-moist ash on his eye lids.

Dr. Morgan shoos away some kids and a wino.

Reginald intones words in an unknown tongue for 20 minutes, his concentration intense. For 40 minutes, his mind becoming aware then of something beyond the concrete wall...

There is no place in here, nor moment. No familiar semblances. The mind-forms here being concerned with nothing that's not ultimately mind itself. The shapes here have no correspondence in the formal world. Reginald's mind stretches, attempting to assemble foreign concepts. The forms - they are the shape of Yevtushenko's poems, Chopin’s etudes, Gödel’s math, he thinks. Here in these incoherent oceans of unmolded possibility, systems of thought provide the only landmass. Theory and belief are all we have to walk upon, where language is a shell-swept beach, where algebra's an endless ghostly boulevard.

Suspended in this glimmering continuum, islands of supposition, continents of paradigm, tides of opinion lap in fabulous lagoons of proof, bringing a slow erosion, gradual change of contour. Here, the shifts in understanding are tectonic, diastrophic rumbles in the core, volcanoes of renaissance threatening to spit their heat and gold to cover all the world with their bright, dangerous precipitations. Smuts of change and novelty unwinnable borne on the wind streams of cold inspiration.

The depths are soundless, off the map, there is no sextant that will read the constellations here, yet are there hazards, undertows of falsehood, eddies of delusion in the bedlam reefs. Riding elated swirls of reason, bear in mind that nothing is unsinkable. Beneath these fog-banked ambiguities rear intellectual icebergs.

No paranoid Magellan named these straits, eccentric Heyerdahl or drugged Cabot, the toothpicked scums of shattered coracle and surfs of splinter stitch the white caps to these slick gray shores, with here and there the footprint of some prior explorer, inmate or philosopher. Beyond a ribboned shingle of assumption, shifting dunes of creed, there is the scorched air whiff of a synaptic ozone, spindrift, gusted from cerebral tropics. Underfoot, a tide line litter of rejected notions, worm-shot timbers from wrecked ideologies, discredited beliefs. In reason's rock pools is seen a ferning coral of dead humans.

Above, strong light bursts out through solipsistic cumuli. The dazzle of near comprehension leaves a gibberish of phosphorescent scribble on the psychic retina. Over these beachheads of corpus callosum, strung between two hemispheres, there burns an equatorial sun of fact and data. Best not risk the information tan that brings disfiguring lines of ignorance or, worse, the sunstroke of religion. Make for shade. The tree line looms ahead. Pull back the snarled anxiety of bramble and plunge ego first, into the undergrowth. Miasmal thicket darkness here, its chill immediate. Press on. Thorned snags of dogma tearing at the ankles, out into the sudden dappled bright, the eerie cross breeze of a clearing. The atmosphere here coruscates, thick with impending diamond. Through the spike lit blur an intimation of delirium's foliage clipped back, ordered into a Magritte topiary. Now a bordered path, redolence of park and arbour, wind chime scent of honeysuckle. With each step, a burgeoning of form, a greater density. Belatedly, the thought occurs: What life might this ethereal clime support? Ecologies of ectoplasm? And what Flora? And what Fauna? The air here crackles, viscous and intense, humid with meaning. The posited terrain grows steeper, rising up towards the domed pavilions of the spectre garden, flickering radiance of its exhibits brushed across the sky ahead. Struggle upslope the last few yards, become a headlong rush into the raw mouth of this brilliant wind.

Fogs envelope Reginald as up ahead a darkness parts his consciousness. Stepping forth is Ambrose Carcosa, smiling in welcome. He reaches his hand out for Reginald. "You made it."

Dr. Morgan watches Reginald with some concern. The book dealer's eyes are shut tight, his head weaving. After only 10 minutes of chanting he collapses.

The spoilered words are from Alan Moore, from a spoken word performance.

[Mant72]

Dr. Morgan:

"Reginald!", Dr. Morgan cries out as he rushes over to Reginald's collapsed form and carefully checks for a pulse.

[Grognardsw]

"Oh David, this will certainly do," says Edith Walton to Dr. Clarke.



"Welcome to the Biltmore," greets the doorman.

[DadsAngry]

Dr. Clarke:

Dr Clarke with Edith in hand approach the front desk.
"You know Edith this is almost like a vacation. Well actually I'm on leave until further notice so this is a vacation, a strange one at that. We should live like it." He then speaks to the clerk. "My good sir, I would like a suite for three. One high up with skyline view of the city and away from below deck berthers. One with possible special or extra security. I ask that not to slight your other clientele, but ever since my good friend and author was murdered in his hotel room by unsavories while visiting New York, I'm always extra cautious now when I travel to unfamiliar cities."

[Grognardsw]

A Reading Room
John Hay Library
Brown University
Providence, RI
10:00 am, Sept. 16, 1925



Arkham Gazette Reporter Eddie Sharp and wise old man Isaiah Bartlett walk into the reading room where they spot, according to Reginald Wilkin's description, Mr. Howard Phillip Lovecraft. He is at a table, with a notebook, folder, newspaper and encyclopedia spread out before him.

At their approach Mr. Lovecraft stands and introduces himself.

"Mr. Whately I presume? Good morning, I am Howard Lovecraft.



It is satisfying to meet a fellow enthusuiast of tales macabre." He reaches out to shake Eddie (aka Horace Whately) hand, and glances expectantly at Isaiah.

[Fulci]

Isaiah Bartlett, wise old man

Isaiah is not much of an actor, and he reasons that he has a better chance at portraying a somewhat eccentric patron than a "true macabre aficionado".

"Good morning, Mr. Lovecraft. My name is Isaiah Bartlett, and I am, too, an enthusiast. Not as an author, but as a reader... Unfortunately, my eyesight is failing me, and lately I have to rely on my servant reading to me. But this is, of course, not what I came to talk to you about."

A few short, violent coughs interrupt his speech, then he continues:

"But I am trying to keep up with new voices in American literature. And I feel it's time to do something in return. I am offering young authors a stipend, a small quarterly sum, to help them concentrate on their writing. My lawyer is working on turning my little endeavor into a foundation - you see, I have no illusions on just how many years I have left..."

A bitter smile appears on his face: this is something he is not making up.

"But since I am here so far, I like to interview any prospective authors (and as you may have already guessed, you are one!) personally. Mr. Whately was the person who brought your works to my attention, and invited me over. I hope you don't mind if I stay."

[makken123Tabs]

Eddie Sharpe, journalist

"Likewise, Mr. Lovecraft," responds Eddie or Horace Whately as Howard Lovecraft believes.

"Yes, as Mr. Bartlett said," says Whately, "I recommended you to receive his stipend. I admire your imagination, Mr. Lovecraft," he explains and gushes, "I thought The Temple most excellent--Karl Heinrich's 'message in a bottle' . . ." he stops, obviously thinking about, and enjoying his memory of the story.

[SocraticLawyer]

Reginald Wilkins, bookdealer

Dr. Clarke:
"Mr. Wilkins who did this? How did you know of this place? Was it the scene of one of the cult murders you spoke of?" Dr. Clarke says in astonishment at the detail in which the wall is decorated. He examines the walls closely, which was something that he was not able to in Turkey.

Obviously, this is before Reginald tries the Find Gate spell. "These pictures were taken in an underground tunnel, beneath a jazz club that Carcosa frequents. I think one of the gangsters that was arrested, Mr. McCoy, may have committed one of the ritual murders there, or at least close by. Sadly, he was of no help when we interviewed him. I hear he has been released from custody."

Fogs envelope Reginald as up ahead a darkness parts his consciousness. Stepping forth is Ambrose Carcosa, smiling in welcome. He reaches his hand out for Reginald. "You made it."

Reginald tries to make sense of his surroundings, but abandons the idea because it makes no sense. There is no surroundings, only sense of ideas.

He remembers, somehow, Ambrose Carcosa. He remembers the dark deeds of his friend Timothy, and of McCoy, and the other murders. "You!" he says. He gets up on his own, without taking Carcosa's hand. Reginald tries to formulate the question that he wants to ask Carcosa. "Why are you doing this? Who are you?"

[Grognardsw]

At the John Hay Library

Eddie Sharpe, journalist

"Likewise, Mr. Lovecraft," responds Eddie or Horace Whately as Howard Lovecraft believes.

"Yes, as Mr. Bartlett said," says Whately, "I recommended you to receive his stipend. I admire your imagination, Mr. Lovecraft," he explains and gushes, "I thought The Temple most excellent--Karl Heinrich's 'message in a bottle' . . ." he stops, obviously thinking about, and enjoying his memory of the story.

Mr. Lovecraft nods to Eddie/Horace and Isaiah. "A most noble effort Mr. Bartlett. I believe the genre is slipping into sensationalism. Freeing the writer of commercial concerns through your grants allows the author to elevate his craft to the art it deserves to be. I am humbled you would consider my scribblings worthy of your attention."

"Ah yes, The Temple," he continues, responding to Eddie/Horace. "Well it is a pleasing enough yarn, as they say, though my vision for future stories is well beyond that. Tell me Mr. Whately of your own writing aspirations."





Earlier That Day

Dr. Clarke:
"Mr. Wilkins who did this? How did you know of this place? Was it the scene of one of the cult murders you spoke of?" Dr. Clarke says in astonishment at the detail in which the wall is decorated. He examines the walls closely, which was something that he was not able to in Turkey.

Dr. Clarke studies the pictures. He sees primitive pictograms, symbology, and writing in the unknown tongue. He now has more detailed pictures to complement the photographs Edith Walton took before the hideous monstrosity attacked. Further study and cross-referencing, perhaps with the books Reginald Wilkins mentioned, may yield more insights.

Reginald realizes the unknown writing is in part the Xaqloui language, that written by Timothy Carver in his notebooks, and seen in occult tomes such as Unausprachlichen Kulten and Pnakotic Manuscripts.





Now, At the Biltmore Hotel

"Certainly sir, we have a suite available for three," says the front desk clerk to Dr. Clarke. "We take pride in our service and security."

His eyes widen at Dr. Clarke's mention of a murder. "My goodness, we hope such violence never occurs at the Biltmore."

He pulls out the guest book. "Now, who shall be the third party in the suite with you and your wife?"

Edith blushes.





In the Courtyard

Reginald remembers, somehow, Ambrose Carcosa. He remembers the dark deeds of his friend Timothy, and of McCoy, and the other murders. "You!" he says. He gets up on his own, without taking Carcosa's hand. Reginald tries to formulate the question that he wants to ask Carcosa. "Why are you doing this? Who are you?"

Carcosa smiles, his eyes glowing red for a second, and he says: "Ph'ch' 'ai oltmyoi Ugthaa, Tegoth."

Reginald's mind rebels at the strangeness of the situation. He gets dizzy and collapses.

Reginald's insights...

- Reginald loses 1 Magic Point, and...
- Reginald San. loss [1d3] = 3 Reginald loses 3 San points.
- Reginald knows this is a Gate. To where, he's not sure. He can safely assume the mural in Club Zothique is a Gate, and given that mural was identified as the cave in Mt. Latmos, it probably goes to that location.
- Carcosa's Xaqloui phrase, is it familiar?

He awakens with Dr. Morgan's face looking over him with concern.

[Mant72]

Dr. Morgan:

Dr. Morgan leans over a prone and unresponsive Reginald Wilkins and pries open one of his eyelids to examine his pupils. Suddenly, Reginald awakens with a gasp and Dr. Morgan immediately assails him with a barrage of questions, "Are you okay? What did you see? What happened?" He then catches himself and calmly says, "Forgive me friend. I need to give you a minute. Rest here for a moment until you get your bearings." Crouching beside Mr. Wilkins, Dr. Morgan glares at the mural with circumspection and uncertainty.

[SocraticLawyer]

Reginald Wilkins, bookdealer
Reginald gasps, taking large breaths, eyes opening and closing rapidly. "Ph'ch' 'ai oltmyoi Ugthaa, Tegoth," he says, looking around. He sees Dr. Morgan, but appears not to recognize him for a moment. He looks around for a few seconds and seems to get his bearings, somewhat. "The threshold ... the ..."

He looks around again. He is talking more to himself than to Dr. Morgan. "It was written on the chalkboard. Below the jazz club. He was there." Reginald shakes his head, and tries to make some sense of his recent experience. "That's how he's doing it. He can travel, just as Dr. Randolph did. To and from Latmos, and Providence, and God knows where else. He is even more dangerous than we imagined."

Character sheet updated.

[DadsAngry]

Dr. Clarke:

Now, At the Biltmore Hotel

"Certainly sir, we have a suite available for three," says the front desk clerk to Dr. Clarke. "We take pride in our service and security."

His eyes widen at Dr. Clarke's mention of a murder. "My goodness, we hope such violence never occurs at the Biltmore."

He pulls out the guest book. "Now, who shall be the third party in the suite with you and your wife?"

Edith blushes.

Dr. Clarke grins and that remark but does not correct the clerk.
"Dr. Francis Morgan is the other occupant. He should be arriving in a few hours. My wife and I would like to have dinner up in our room. Can that be arranged?"

Dr. Clarke signs the hotel ledger as Mr. and Mrs. David Clarke and finishes any other paper work. When the porter attempts to carry the valise Dr. Clarke insists on taking himself and tips the porter two dollars. On the way up to the room Dr. Clarke tells Edith about his poor friend who was murdered in his hotel room.

"Poor Elias, he was a good friend and excellent author. He spent a lot of his time in the dark jungles of Africa researching tribal myths and customs. Apparently while visiting this January in New York he was murder in cold blood in his hotel room. As far as I know his killer have not been brought to justice. You and your father spent some time in Africa did you?"

Dr. Clarke and Edith will eat dinner and wait for a least two hours before call the bookstore to see if Mr. Wilkins and Dr. Morgan have returned. In the mean time….