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Call Of Cthulhu

The Thing At The Threshold

Ever thought something is happening in the Universe that you can't quite see? You were right!

This Campaign brings together a team of investigators, looking into the rising flood of Cults in 1920's America.

The Story So Far....

Three friends sit in a plush lounge in a mansion in the north end of Arkham, Ma, sipping cognac. Two gentlemen sit in leather chairs , one in his early twenties, the some twenty years his senior, the older man smoking a pipe. Opposite, a beautiful woman lounges on a matching couch, stroking a purring black cat.

“So what have you called us over for, old man?” says the elder man to the younger, in a thick british accent.
“Well, you know I’ve been talking about setting up a paranormal research group here in Arkham. Well, I think we might have our first case,” smiles the younger, well spoken man.
“And what makes you think we want any involvement, Hal?” asks the young lady.
“Because, my dear Nelly, you’re at a loss for what to do, with my father recovered, and there is a phsychological element which may interest you. As for you, I know you’re interested in psychoanalysis, so this would be good research.”
“So what’s the case?” asks Fred.
“There’s a chap coming over to talk to us. I’ve also invited a couple of the press,” smiles Hal, refilling Fred’s glass and then his own. Nelly covers her glass, refusing a refill.
“Press? Papparazzi?” she asks.
“No, these are from the local paranormal rag. Thought it might be good to get an expert perspective. Meanwhile we need to come up with a name for our group,” his grin widens, like a little boy who just formed a gang.
“Paranormal rag? Not Enigma?” asks Nelly, sitting up.
“That’s the one. Some chap called Jeremiah Jones. UFO follower…”
“Jeremiah!” screams Nelly, obviously furious. She throws the cat to the floor.
“Woah! Calm down Nell, you know this bloke?” says Fred, standing, trying to calm the young woman.
“Sure. He’s my cousin and he wrote a piece about my mom that wasn’t too flattering. That was two years ago and I haven’t spoken to the bastard since.”

There’s a knock at the door and a butler enters, “Master Green, the magazine gentlemen are here…” he is interrupted as two men barge past, one handsome fellow in a straw boater and a chubby guy with a camera round his neck. The chubby one is dabbing his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief, and breathing heavily..

“Jeremiah Jones, reporting for serv…woah, Nelly!”

SMACK!

Jeremiah clutches his burning cheek as Nelly glares at him, “Well, I guess I deserved that. How you doin’ cuz?”
“Bastard!” she shouts.

“Nelly, have a seat. I’m sure we can discuss this later,” says Hal, trying to calm the situation, “Our patron is due any minute now.”

She sits on the couch and folds her arms, sulking.
“Gentlemen, welcome,” smiles Hal Green, Millionaire Playboy.
“This is my partner, Phillip Graves. He takes the pictures,” smiles Jones.
“Well, you know Nelly Jones, and this is Frederick Johnson, Research Physicist at Miskatonic Uni.”

The Yorkshireman shakes hands with the journalists.

“So what’s the story?” asks Jeremiah.
“Well, we’re waiting for the man with the story, he’s due any minute now,”
With that, there’s a knock and the butler enters, “Gentlemen, Ma’am. Mr. Simon Ulrich,”

A bespectacled, welldressed man in his early forties enters, carrying a raincoat. He has a hat in one hand and somewhat flusteringly extends the other as he introduces himself. Hal shakes it.

“My name is Simon Ulrich. I am here because I would like you to look into a concern, which is somewhat delicate, and relatively insubstantial.”

He stands in the middle of the lounge, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders.

“Please, let me take your coat. Have a seat,” says Hal, hanging the man’s coat over and empty chair before pouring him a large cognac, “We’re here to help, Mr. Ulrich.”

“I have a good friend, his name is Peter Crosswell. He has recently been subjected to a constant stream of unsettling events, which is the reason I have taken the liberty of speaking to you in his stead. It began with the death of a close relative. As a result of this death he was bequeathed the Crosswell house, to which he moved from New Jersey, and is now struggling to build a new life for himself. He is an orphan, which might go some way to explain his independent temperament and his antisocial demeanour. I was a close acquaintance of his recently deceased Aunt, and I see my role quite clearly as protector of Peter’s interests. He has no other family,” he excuses himself when he yawns slightly and continues, “Recently Peter has confided in me that he believes the Crosswell house to be haunted. These delusions started approximately one week ago, but I have only recently persuaded him to authorise me to seek professional advisers. We hope to find the explanations for these so-called supernatural annoyances. I confess that I have had no time to spend the night there myself. However, as a realist. My opinion is that it is nothing more than the creation of a fatigued mind.”
“If you can start this evening, after the workmen who have been renovating the property have finished their work for the day, then I would be very grateful. I believe the human mind can take only a limited amount of stress and I fear for the boy’s health.”

He hands you each $50 to cover expenses and writes the address of the Crosswell house, which is in Davenham, 30 minutes drive from Arkham, and his own phone number of a square of paper. I expect the case should take no more than 24 hours.
“I can be contacted on the number at any time. Good day gentlemen, ma’am.”

“Intriguing, my friends, eh?” grins Hal, “An adventure – how exciting!” he rubs his hands together, “Please allow me to provide any supplies you may need – just say the word, and my man here will get them. I shall pack my trusty revolver as well, just in case the ghosts we seek are not yet dead! Grimes,” he hands his fifty dollar bill to the butler, “Make sure this goes to the homeless. And prepare some bags, lamps, candles, gas, blankets, rope, holy water and my revolver.”
“Holy Water sir?” asks Grimes, scribbling down the list of things he’s expected to obtain, “That is not easy to just obtain.”
“Get whatever you can,” replies Hal, waving the butler aside.
“I’ll obtain medical supplies. I need to go to my house to obtain a few items,” says Nelly.
“I’ll get some grub sorted out,” says Fred, “We should also do some research before go to the house, though I think the Davenham library would be a good start.”
“Fine, meet up outside in an hour? I’ll drive,” says Hal.
“I’ll bring the staff car as well, if it’s all the same. I’ll have a fair bit of equipment to bring if this is to make a story,” winks Phillip.

You head off to your respective homes and offices, to collect what you require. Snow starts to fall. Returning to the Green House, you see a shiny silver Mercedes-Benz SSK parked up, with Grimes polishing the hood. The boot is open and is half filled with supplies, to which you add your own. Jeremiah and Phillip pull up in a battered black Ford Model T, tripods, cameras and lighting equipment in the back seat.

Hal emerges, pulling on brown leather driving gloves, and a pair of driving goggles, “Let’s go.”

The drive to Davenham is about 30 minutes along the coast. It is only 2pm so you pass the turn off to the Crosswell House and continue towards the town.

Jeremiah and Fred decide to take the library. Phillip plans to phone local newspapers and find what he can. Hal suggests checking into this Mr Ulrich as well, “After all, he could be pulling a fast one, trying to get the house for himself, claiming the young man is insane.”

Nelly goes off to make some calls of her own. You agree to meet up back on the main street at 4.30pm, to get to the house well before 5pm.

Fred and Jeremiah
The library building is a creation of classical esteem. It’s high ceilings, stone walls and floors make alarming echoes, announcing your entry. If the architect intended this, he did not account for the weighty slumber of Edmund Blithe, the resident librarian. It takes a good deal of poking and shaking to wake him up, but once he is awake, he is as protective of his books as a mother hen is of her chicks. The epansive room holds tall corridors of towering shelves, sparsely populated by what seems to be the bare minimum of dust collecting items of literature that qualifies it for its designation.
After some research, Fred comes up with an article of great weight, covered by the Boston Globe newspaper in March of 1927 (Handout One) You find nothing else of relavence.
While there, Fred also looks up any history of supernatural events in or around the town. There is one reference to Davenham in a book called Boston Myseteries, mentioning the Bramble Walk, a mile south of the town. A horseman with a pumpkin for a head, is said to haunt the lane. Fred shakes his head and smiles.

Nelly
Nelly pays a visit to the Herald Street Hospital, one of Davenham’s more modern buildings. She is met by a middle-aged matron nurse. Other hospital staff bustle about there business and the woman softens as Nelly shows her credentials. After some very difficult pursuading, she gets access to the hospital files but finds nothing of any use. The files are very badly organised and there is no chance without reorganising everything. She also asks the matron about Peter Crosswell, but she has no recollection of anyone by that name.

Phillip
Phillip contacts the Boston Globe for information and is given details of the 1917 cutting (Handout 1) There is nothing else relating to the house or family. Calling Enigma, his own magazine in Arkham, he gets the archivist to pull any old articles on Davenham, only finding a brief piece on the Bramble Walk, almost verbatim of what was printed in Boston Mysteries.

Hal
Hal finds a good restaurant and has lunch, skimming through the local paper, but finds nothing of interest.

Meeting up at 4.30pm, you share what you have found before driving out of town towards the house. The Crosswell house is located well away from the main streets of Davenham. As you arrive you see workmen bustling about the grounds. The house is a detached twin storey structure with a short, untidy pathway leading past a simple rusted gate. The building is moderately sized but unremarkable in appearance. A smoking chimnet perches off-centre to the roof.
Many of the windows are either missing or broken; the house is obviously receiving considerable repairs. Replacement windows and roofing tiles are stacked precisely in piles under the front porch. There are also signs of fresh mortar in between the red brickwork as you approach.

Parking your cars, you head towards the gate and up the path. Approximately twenty feet of snow-covered land wraps the building, surrounded by an unkempt golden birch hedge; it holds little of interest. Amongst the overgrown shrubs, weeds and grass are littered fragments of the building; rotting floorboards, an old dining table and chairs that are broken and splintered.
A small wooden framework is located at the far end of the garden. “A dog kennel!” says Jeremiah, bounding across the snow toward it. He finds a three foot piece of leather, with a coin-sized identity disk attached. Although it is corroded, he can just make out the name, Winston.

The only object of glory in the garden, is an ancient oak tree, snow capped and standing proudly. It stretches magnificently into the cold air and seems to watch over the house in a protective way.

“It’s cold, can we get inside,” says Nelly.
“Of course, my dear,” says Hal, striding toward the door, ignoring the workmen who promptly ignore him.

Rapping on the front door, it is promptly answered by a young man. He is slight and tall, with grey flecks in his auburn hair. He is dressed smartly and his handsome face holds a gaunt quality.

“Ummm, can I help you?” he asks, nervously.
“Peter Crosswell? Hal Green,” holds out a hand to shake, “Ulrich sent us.”
“Ah, yes, the investigators. Well, come in, it’s cold outside.”

Stepping under the porch and through the front doorway, a hall leads to the heart of the ground floor of the building, with sturdy doors on both sides of the corridor. The passage in relatively dark once the door is shut and cobwebs are in abundance. Underfoot, the floorboards creak with age. Through this unwelcoming curtain wafts the wholesome smell of cooking food.

“I am just cooking some vegetable stew. Would you all like some?”

“What do you think my friends? Some stew would take the edge off the cold weather. Perhaps we could also ask you a few questions to get a bit more information on the incidents that you have been experiencing?” says Hal.
Peter nods and smiles, “I’ll dish up, go through to the lounge,” he points to a door on the left.
“Most kind,” says Fred, opening the door and stepping into a large room, well lit by six windows.
“None for me thanks,” says Phillip, “I’m going to set up the camera for a group photo,” and he heads out to the car to get some equipment. Jeremiah follows Peter to the kitchen.

Fred, Hal and Nelly step into the lounge. Tattered and peeling wallpaper hangs from the walls and a threadbare carpet stretches across the floor, open patches revealing floorboards beneath. Cracks reach out across the ceiling and plaster has fallen from the walls. A pile of debris has collected in an area next to an open window place, in the southeast corner. An old battered sofa and coffee table are the only pieces of furniture this room holds. Nelly dusts off the sofa and perches on it, trying to contact as little as possible.

“Nelly, you’ve become spoilt in your old age!” laughs Hal, “It’s just dust!”
“Old age? You know I’m only one year your senior!”
“Just kidding!” smiles Hal.

Jeremiah enters the lounge, followed by Phillip and his camera and tripod, which he starts to set up. Peter comes in with some steaming bowls which he sets on the dining table.

“Forgive me, it’s not much and there’s nowhere to sit, but I hope you enjoy it.” He says, passing bowls round.

The soup both smells and tastes good. You all stand to eat, except Nelly who remains on the sofa. Peter stares at the wall as he eats slowly. He is very obviously on edge.

“It’s very good of you to share your dinner with us, Mr Crosswell,” says Fred to break the silence.

“Do you want to tell us about what has happened in the house, Mr Crosswell?” asks Phillip, “Your friend, Mr Ulrich was a bit skimpy on the details. Unless, of course, some of you researchers would like to come into this cold, as it were?”

“Not at all, I would be most interested to hear about the exact nature of these manifestations. You consider the house to be haunted, Mr Crosswell, is that correct?” says Fred, putting his empty bowl on the table and taking out his pipe.

“Please, call me Peter. There is not a great deal to tell really. I hear noises at nice. Thumps and bangs mostly. Sometimes chanting.”

“Is there one particular place you hear this?” asks Jeremiah, scribbling quickly on a note pad.

“Usually it’s when I’m sleeping and the noises wake me. But I have heard them throughout the house when I have got up to investigate. I don’t mind saying, it’s freaking me out a lot.”

“And so it would any man,” says Hal, reassuringly, “This is a fine house that you have here. Such a shame it was allowed to fall into disrepair.”

“The workers are getting things done as quickly as they can. I hope the house will soon retain its former glory,” smiles Peter, taking your dishes, “Please feel free to look around the house. I’ll be in here if you need me.”

He takes the dishes to the kitchen and returns as the flash bulb goes off and, a group picture of all of you, with the exception of Phillip, is taken.

Taking a wooden cigar box from beneath the table, Peter takes out a set of clay tiles, with strange symbols marked on them. He shuffles them like cards and lays them out on the table.

“Please, don’t mind me, I do this to occupy myself in the evenings,” he says, staring at the tiles.
“Is it some kind of game?” asks Fred, puffing on his pipe.
“No, it is Mah Jongg, an ancient form of Oracle from China. I could do you a reading if you like.”
“No thanks, I keep my feet firmly in the present thank you very much,” replies Fred.
“I’d be interested in a reading,” says Nelly, walking over to look, “I had my Tarot Cards read once.”
“What would you like to know?” asks Peter, gathering up the tiles and shuffling them.
“How about how this investigation will go?” she replies.

Peter begins to lay out the tiles in a square, three on each side and one in the centre. He turns the centre tile face up.

“This one has a direct effect on all sectors and is the basis of the whole reading. The card here is ‘East’ – this suggests something of personal importance; something that offers a large range of options. Possibly it may require commitment, involving you in something of lasting importance.”

He turns the three tiles on the right side of the centre, one at a time.

“These three are known as the Eastern Cards. They represent your present situation. The third will tell something of future developments. ‘Carp’, this is the symbol for tranquillity and deep thought. It signifies wisdom, but may mean a compromise in a difficult situation. ‘Unicorn’ is the power to see into the future in Chinese Mythology, a talent which has passed on to those mortals who gazed into pools of water, by the light of it burning horn. It suggests the ability to recognise people for who they really are."

Nelly glances at Jeremiah before focusing on the table again.

“The third card is ‘Jade’, prized above gold in China, but is a useless dull rock when dormant in the ground. It is only by human hands that it is transformed to something more. Jade is also the sign of immortality; it does not rot or decay, so might represent hard work, long friendships or a sense of justice.”

He then turns the cards beneath the central card.

“These are the Southern Cards and represent your inner self and unspoken desires. The third card suggests and answer. ‘Knot’, this is a sign of problems and anxieties, nagging doubts and fears. On a more positive note, it could mean teamwork and a long term project. ‘Insect’ signifies industriousness and high activity over a short period. Also a comparative weakness that might be unforeseen. The ant building its city or the silkworm spinning its thread are examples of the cards meaning. The third card is ‘Earth’, literally meaning a large open space, but symbolically suggests stability. It can also be a sign of travel, over water, to another country.”

“The Western Cards warn of short term obstacles with the third card showing the way forward. ‘Seven Stars’ indicates imagination; a sign that your plans and ideas should be put into practice as soon as possible. ‘Toad’ is a symbol of life in Chinese Mythology. The Card’s full title is Three Legged Toad, also a sign of sickness and healing, usually in a positive sense but it may also represent the unobtainable. The third card is ‘Pine’, the symbol of firmness and strength, which may symbolise a lover or family. It is particularly directed towards a person of the arts, one who uses diplomacy over violence, the pen being mightier that the sword.”

Again, she looks at Jeremiah, who is fiddling with the fountain pen in his top pocket, smiling to himself.

“The Northern Cards are the last three in the reading. They reveal greater difficulties that may have to be overcome. The very last card represents the final outcome of events already in motion. ‘Entering’ shows doors that are not easily opened, which could offer new and significant opportunities. ‘White’ is the unknown or the blank parchment. The final card is ‘Fire’. This is a grave warning. It represents destruction and the draining of resources, both mental and physical. Less literally, it suggests great intelligence and effectiveness.”

Peter slumps down onto the sofa, exhausted from the reading. Outside, night is drawing in.

“We’ll leave you to rest,” says Hal, “That reading was very…interesting.”
You light your gasoline lanterns and leaving the lounge Hal leads the way across the hall. Beyond the entrance hall are two more doors. Opening one you find a small dark and bare walled room that holds a number of broken crates and cardboard boxes on the floor. Towards the rear of the room is what looks like a hat stand and jutting from the north wall are five coat hooks. There is nothing else of interest in the room so you try the next door. The room beyond has had its floorboards totally ripped out, revealing bare foundations two feet beneath the level of the doorway. The floor looks safe enough and stepping in you see the room is filled with empty book shelves.

Another door leads off from this room into a Dining Area. The room is bare of furnishing apart from a hulking Grand Piano, which has fallen through the apparently unsafe floorboards onto the main foundations of the house. From the dining room, a set of stairs run up to the next floor and there is an entryway to the kitchen.

“Come and look at this,” says Jeremiah, heading for the kitchen, “I came in looking for a cellar door. Old house like this has to have a cellar. Peter didn’t know if there was one.”

In the kitchen you see a large cast iron stove with a now cooling pot of stew on top and a large fireplace that crackles and spits as the fire is dying down. Jeremiah points to a point on the floor next to the fireplace. There is about a three feet square section of the floor that is a different texture to the rest.

“What do you make of that?” he asks.

“Hmmm – that’s interesting Jeremiah. What do you make of it?” asks Hal.
“Not sure. Looks to me like something used to be here that has now moved. I’ll leave you chaps to it. I want to have a look at that library,” replies Jeremiah, leaving the kitchen.
Phillip sets up his tripod and camera.
Fred bends down and examines the discoloured area of flooring and taps it with his pipe. He then gets up, brushing dust from his trousers.
“These stones are pretty thick. Hard to tell if there’s a space beneath,” he says, “What we could do with is some sounding equipment of some sort. See if there are any empty spaces below this floor. I could possibly ask the university if they have such a thing. Of course, we may want to use brute force and see if there is anything under that section of floor. One of the builders may have some tools we can use.”
“Good idea, I’ll go and get some tools,” says Hal.

A few minutes later he returns clutching a pile of picks shovels and jimmies, “The workmen are gone for the day, so I helped myself. I stopped to ask Peter what he knows of a cellar, but he is fast asleep.”
“Fred, take a look here,” Says Nelly, looking at the bottom of the stove.

Following her gaze, there appears to be wood underneath the stove.

“If I’m not mistaken, the size of this stove matches the size of that section of floor,” says Nelly.
“You could be right,” nods Fred, “Let’s see if we can shift it.”

You hear a banging at the front door and then hear Jeremiah shout, “I got it.”

Removing the pans from the stove, Fred, Hal and Phillip drag the stove across the stone floor, revealing a wooden trapdoor beneath. As Fred is about to flip the door open, Phillip moves over to his camera, “Hold on, old chap, I want to get a shot of this one.”

The flash goes off as Fred lifts the trapdoor, revealing wooden steps leading into the darkness. Nelly lights two gasoline lamps and hands one to Fred. You gather around the trapdoor and look below.

Staring into the moist darkness of the room, shapes can be deciphered as if through thick fog. Shining the lights in, you see the steps lead down to a stone floor. The granite block walls are coated with moulding algae. Unrecognisable shapes blend into each other, there is a smell that can only be described as akin to that of a fresh autumn morning.

Jeremiah enters the kitchen, with another man, with a thick moustache, dressed in rain coat and fedora hat, “Guys, this is George O’Riordan, I asked him to join us as he has a little experi….”

Suddenly a wave of darkness rises into the air; it animates silently like a moving picture. The appalling monstrosity pours out towards you like a fetid ocean of a million eyes. Tentacles thrash and slither, upon which phosphorescent mucous growths burst and silently splatter, offering only disjointed suggestions of its horrible self. You feel that you will surely die.

“Sweet Jesus,” mutters George, crouching and curling into a ball.
“Ye Gods! What is that thing,” says Hal, pulling his own .45 and standing in front of Nelly, “Nelly, get out of here – it could be dangerous!”
Jeremiah pulls out a .38 and takes aim. Phillip pops a new bulb into his camera to take a picture. Fred backs off in horror.
Nelly faints.
The camera’s flashlight goes off at the same time as Jeremiah’s gun, the muzzle flashing and two rounds rip through the thing, smashing a window behind.
Two tentacles whip out from the thing, grasping Jeremiah’s left arm, lifting him into the air. He screams and there is a loud crack as his arm is broken and he is thrown to the floor. (-10hp)
“Someone burn the thing!” shouts Phillip as he jumps over Nelly and through the door.
Fred grabs Nelly by the underarms and drags her out of the room.
Hal stands, frozen to the spot, still aiming his gun in shaking hands. A huge eye blinks in the centre of the monstrosity before the room fills with white noise like an out of tune radio, before vanishing in a cloud of green gas.

Phillip appears moments later, shotgun in hand, “Where’d it go?”

Everyone remains quiet. George stands and dusts himself off as if nothing happened. Fred brings Nelly round with some smelling salts. Jeremiah is still lying against the kitchen wall where he was thrown.

Philip keeps eye on hole, his shotgun ready to blast anything that comes out.

"Well now we know where the noises came from. The question is where did the damn thing go? Down it's hole?" says Phil, looking more than a little panicked. Seeing nothing else emerging he lowers the gun and urges Hal to lower the gun and sit on the kitchen floor

“What…what was that?” asks Hal, slowly coming round, “I’ve never seen anything like that, not even at Eton!”

"Nelly, Nelly are you okay?" shouts Fred.
“I’m fine,” says the nurse, walking back into the room, shaking her head, “Oh, I fainted,” she looks very embarrassed, “Thanks for bringing me round Fred and dragging me out. I owe you one for that!”
“What the bloody 'ell was that anyway?” says Fred, glancing at the hole, “Jeremiah looks like he's taken a beating. Lets get that armed trussed.”
George says to no one in particular in a gruff New York Irish accent, “Now what in Hell's name have I got myself into?”
“All I remember is that horrible smell, much worse than death, I think it made me black out,” replies Nelly, checking over Jeremiah’s arm, “Now that’s a tidy crack, It feels like a clean break though, nothing else is broken, probably some bad bruises and strains. Although he has suffered some pretty bad trauma. His spine is luckily not damaged so we can move him. I need some volunteers for that. He's badly concussed, and got a bump to his head, I can't look at that properly until he's moved.”

George and Phil move to help.
“Weird thing is, that sound before it disappeared,” says Fred to no-one in-particular, “ I don't know how many of you have worked with wireless technology but it sounded like the noise between stations. Radio interference. Maybe that's how it travels, through radio waves.”

As if having a sudden brainwave, he leaves the kitchen and you hear him running around the house.
“I can strap it up but we need to get him to a hospital at some point,” Nelly says, talking to the others as if Jeremiah wasn’t there.

Jeremiah looks up and grins, “Welcome to the party George!”

Once Jeremiah’s armed is strapped in a sling and Fred comes back having looked for electrical appliances, and finding no power in the house at all.

“Mr Crosswell is still asleep where we left him. He must be a deep sleeper to have slept through the gunshots,” says Fred.

Jeremiah introduces you all to George O’Riordan, a New Yorker who claims to have sensitivity to the Paranormal. Jeremiah invited him along to test his claims for his report in Enigma.

After all having a shot of whisky from Jeremiah’s flask and Fred having a smoke of his pipe you decide to have a look in the cellar. The first thing you notice is a symbol inscribed onto the underside of the trapdoor. It is a five pointed star with a flaming eye inset in the middle. None of you know what this represents.

Phillip leads the way with lantern and shotgun in hand, cautiously climbing down the steps. One at a time you follow into the dimly lit cellar. Algae covers the floor and walls. A number of wooden boxes, also covered in algae, are scattered about the room along with the remains of a saturated writing desk. Much of the cellars other items are unrecognisable amongst sodden papers and children’s toys.

Poking around, George and Hal uncover a number of symbols etched onto the floor, none of which you recognise. Fred finds a single sheet of paper that is surprisingly untouched by the dampness, even though the accompanying leaves of the book are totally decayed. It contains intricate, abstract diagrams, which interweave unmethodically around the page. He takes the page carefully.

Finding nothing else, you climb out of the cellar and back into the kitchen.

“There are more rooms upstairs I looked in before. I suggest we have a more detailed search up there. Something strange has happened in this house,” says Fred.

Climbing the dusty stairs, you reach the head of the corridor that accesses the upper chambers. In contrast to the rooms below, the first floor rooms have not yet been upset by the renovation workers. Nevertheless, not a single item of décor adorns the walls and a tired grey carpet curls at the edges throughout. As you reach a bend in the corridor, Nelly and George stop and look at the ceiling. There appears to be trapdoor above. George is the tallest and can just about reach the door. He gives it a couple of shoves but cannot shift it. Phillip has a go and pushes the door open first time. A pull-down ladder sits at the entrance, which George pulls down and climbs up, taking light and his gun.

The attic is a large open area the size of an entire floor. Shards of starlight cut into the room through the damaged roof. George climbs in completely and the rest of the group follow. The attic has an almost magical feel about it yet it emanates a terrible cold, far colder than the rest of the house. It did not seem to be this cold outside when you came in. Aside from the dust and cobwebs, there is nothing to be found here.

Continuing to search the upper floor, you find a closet with nothing of apparent interest other than an old yard brush and a collection of antique furniture polishes. Beside that is a bedroom, an icy wind cuts into your face as you open the door. The panes of glass from the opposite window have been broken by the enveloping arms of the great oak. Rain and sleet pour onto a single bed which is deteriorating at the far side of the room. Everything in the chamber is utterly decomposed from the wardrobe and dressing table to the damp squelching of the carpet fibres underfoot.

“When I came in here it felt as if the floor was about to give way. I suggest we leave this room be,” says Fred.

Opposite is a bathroom. The wash basin and bathtub along with the usual toilet utilities are readily usable and seem to have been cleaned up. The walls are clean but cracked and fresh water flows from new brass taps.

Beside the bathroom is another bedroom that has been noticeably tidied. There are fresh blankets and linen on the bed and pressed crisp clothing in the wardrobe. Jeremiah crouches and picks up a small wooden piccolo underneath an unsettled area of carpet to the rear of the bedroom. It is obvious it has been lying there for some time.

Opposite this bedroom is the master bedroom – the largest room on this floor and it seems the workers have taken this room for their rest area. A variety of chisels, hammers and work plans lie untidily between twin wardrobes at the far right of the room. After a search of the room, Phillip comes across a loose floorboard which he uncovers finding a small notebook beneath. Its pages have not weathered the march of time too well, but can be read easily under your lanterns.

The book’s written contents are few, and seem to be a journal, mostly containing nondescript ramblings concerning ornithology. However, the March entries make more interesting reading. (see Handout 2)

“Interesting...I wonder if the Peter referred to in the journal is our Mr Crosswell?” says Hal, “I assume that it must be and that for some reason his father decided to lock himself in the cellar having converted it into an office. Therefore I guess the strange drawings we found must be the work of Howard Crosswell, Peter's father. Perhaps he went mad, or got into some bad stuff before he died.”

“I think that with everything we've learned then it seems more than likely that Peter is the young chap referred to in the journal. We really do need to have a word with Peter, make sure we have the facts straight, get everything out in the open so that we can avoid anybody else getting hurt,” adds Fred, “Seems to me he's been involved in some strange things in his time and his father seems to be the key.”

“I think we should awaken Peter, show him the drawings and the piccolo and see what he says. He may recognise the drawings and I think the piccolo must be his. If he is not too disturbed, we can then raise the question of how his parents died and possibly show him the journal extract,” says Hal.

“Now we need to do this tactfully as Peter seems to be a fragile type, no wonder from what he's witnessed in his life,” says Fred, “So we need someone soothing and tactful to speak to him. Nelly, my dear, fancy having a word?”

“Sure, I’ll try my best,” says Nelly.

“Perhaps Phillip could photograph the symbols in the cellar so we can record them,” says George.

“Good idea,” says Phil, “But could someone come to the cellar with me. With what came out of it before, I’d rather not go alone. I don’t think I can carry gun, light and camera all at once.”

“No problem,” says George, taking out his .45, spinning the chambers and checking it, “That damn monster shows up again, I’ll be ready for him this time.”

“I’ll join you too,” says Hal, “Safety in numbers and all that.”

As you all head downstairs, there’s a banging on door. As you reach the foot of the stair, Peter emerges from the living room, and goes to open it. George pulls his gun, just in case.

Standing in the doorway, coat pulled closely around him is Simon Ulrich, your employer in this investigation.

Peter seems pleased to see him. The two shake hands and Ulrich walks in.

“My God man, what happened!” says Simon, looking at Jeremiah’s arm in astonishment. Come on, let me have a look.”

He takes Jeremiah and settles him on the couch.

“I strapped him up until we can get him into hospital. Pretty clean break, by the look of it,” says Nelly.

“You did a good job. Are you a nurse?” says Simon.
“Indeed. I served in the war. I wasn’t aware you are a doctor.”

Peter looks at Simon and then at you.

“I am,” says Simon simply, “So, what have you learnt?”

“Actually we were hoping you might answer a few questions, or Peter might. Something bad happened here years ago,” says Fred, lighting his pipe.

Again Peter glances at Simon, looking a little unsure of himself.

“I think perhaps there will be no need to go back to far. We are aware of the history in the house and only want to know what is happening now. What have you seen?” says Simon.

“Something was in the cellar. Some kind of..” begins Fred.

“A god-damned monster, is what it was,” interrupts George.

Peter pales and gives a panicked look to Simon.

“And you are?” asks Simon, unimpressed by this outburst.

“This is George O’Riordan,” says Jeremiah, “I invited him as an…independent observer.”

“Monster is perhaps a little strong. I believe it was some form of hallucination caused by gases pent up in the cellar. The cellar did hold some strange things though. A number of symbols inscribed on the floor,” says Fred.

“Fred, are you saying it was my imagination that threw me against the wall?” says Jeremiah.

“I’m still not certain what happened,” says Fred.

“We were about to take some photographs,” says Phil, “To investigate further.”

“There will be no need for that, gentlemen. Is there any other evidence of anything paranormal?”

“Nothing we could find,” says Hal, “A few seconds after the initial sighting, it was gone.”

“Very well, thank you gentlemen, madam, I think you have completed what I required. You can be of no further help here.”

You are at a loss as to why you are ushered out of the house so quickly, but respect Ulrich’s wishes and leave, driving back to Arkham.

You go back to your day jobs and forget about the events at Davenham. Jeremiah’s arm is set in plaster-of-paris and Fred studies the parchment he took away with him. (Handout 3)

After a call from Philip to meet at the Dark Abyss coffee house in Arkham old town, you meet up there on 25th March at 3pm. Everyone is there except Fred.

“Where is Fred anyway?” asks Nelly.
“Said he had some business at the University. He was pretty cagey about it,” says Phillip.

The photographer throws a handfull of photos on the table. “A copy for each of your albums.” The pictures show you all in the Crosswell House and then a shot of the grisly thing in the cellar. Nelly shivers when she sees it.

“I’m still having nightmares about that thing,” she says.

“I've just been handed a new assignment. It’s to investigate Bramble Walk and the haunting there, do you fancy helping out?” says Phil, “Jeremiah’s on the team anyway. I’m afraid there is no pay. I’ll get expenses from the paper but that’s about it.
The only thing I know about it is what I found in Boston Mysteries when I was researching about Davenham. It mentioned the Bramble Walk, a mile south of the town. A horseman with a pumpkin for a head, is said to haunt the lane.”

“I’m game for that,” says George
"Phillip, I'll join you in your investigation of Bramble Walk if I may be of service," says Hal

“Has anybody dug anything more up about Crosswell?” asks Phillip.

“I took the police Commissioner out to lunch but I didn’t get a great deal out of him. Just what we already knew really. He confirmed that the boy that survived is the very same Peter Crosswell. Seems he’s been in Arkham asylum since the incident and only recently came out,” says Hal.

“I found out something interesting,” says Phillip, “Dr. Ulrich is really Dr. Simon Jones of the Arkham Sanitorium. That makes sense if Peter was there all this time but why was the Doctor using more than one name. And what happened to Howard? Do you think that picture is of him? Or something from beyond? I actually found out what happened to Peter's Father, Howard Crosswell. He disappeared soon after his wife died. I got this from The Boston Globe <<See Handout 5.>>”

“I had no idea that Ulrich was a doctor until he looked at Jeremiah's arm,” says Nelly, “I smell something fishy going on here. Did anyone see the way Peter acted around him. Its obvious the guy worships and fears the man at the same time. I did a little asking around Simon Jones after Phil told me his identity last week. He is one of Arkham Sanatoriums most reputable practising psychoanalysts and has been there for years. I guessing, but I assume he took care of Peter when he was inside.”

“Does anyone else suspect that Mrs Crosswell's death was a case of murder?” says George quietly, “We saw from the diary that she suspected her husband of having an affair. Perhaps he set the dog on her. Or perhaps it wasn't the dog, maybe it was some hell-fiend he called up with all his pentagrams and what have you.”

“Fair point, George,” says Jeremiah, “The dog has something to do with it, that’s for sure.”

“Who is this Graham?” adds George, “The rings were in the pocket of a coat Mr Crosswell last wore when he visited this other man. Also could we also track down the photographer and see if he has any insight into the family?”

“Already tried,” say Phil, “He died last year in an automobile accident.”

“I tried and find out who this Graham is - from local records, asking around etc. I found nothing,” says George, “I did hear something though, totally unrelated. Apparently there’s a bounty out on an escaped loon. Apparently was released by a fellow psycho who got his hands on the keys from the Sanatorium boss. Mr Navet is his name – Frenchman. Complete nutjob apparently, most dangerous man in the place. Now I’ve done my fair share of bounty hunting in the past so it should be child’s play. $300 in the bank, long as he’s alive.”

You drink coffee and talk into the night…

“Now you have to admit, the idea of a pumpkin-headed rider is pretty laughable,” says George, pouring a nip from his hipflask into his coffee,”The kind of thing you use to scare kids with. But anyway, what more do you know about this haunting, Phil? How long’s it been going on. When does the apparition usually appear?”

“I know very little, though The Legend of Sleepy Hollow springs to mind,” says Phil, “I’m going to check the newspaper files on the place. Does someone want to check the library and local land office?”

“I’ll do the library, so to speak,” says George.

“I’m fairly suspicious and I suspect the evil frog and Dr Ulrich are somehow connected, I want to find out if I’m right. Anyone want to go undercover at the nuthouse for me?” says Jeremiah.

“Much as I hate to, I have to agree with Jeremiah. It should be easy for me as a nurse to go undercover at the Sanitarium so I’ll take care of that. I’ll see if I can find out more about our good doctor while I’m there. Especially since I can’t get any information about the man from my contacts. He’s like a ghost, he really creeps me out, but I’d like to get to the bottom of this and quite soon.”

“So what of this frog, are we going to try and track him and take him down,” says George.

“I’ll assist you,” says Hal, “Perhaps my gun will prove to be more useful against a flesh and blood target,” whispers Hal.

The door opens with a bang and Fred enters, looking like he’s just run a marathon. He stumbles in and slumps into one of the soft leather chairs.

“Thought I’d find you lot here. Will someone get me a coffee?”

Jeremiah gets up to get Fred a coffee.
“Forget coffee, you could do with something stronger,” says George, handing Fred his hipflask. Fred takes a slug and hands it back.
“George, you should keep that thing away in public. Prohibition hasn’t been repealed yet you know,” whispers Nelly.
George nods and hides the flask, looking to make sure nobody noticed.
Jeremiah hands Fred a steaming cup of java. The Englishman’s hands shake as he takes the cup and puts it on the table.
“Thank you. Much appreciated old chap,” says Fred, “Bloody ‘ell, you wouldn’t believe the night I’ve ‘ad. Was doing some research in the library for a friend of mine when some sort of wild animal got in and smashed the place up. In the process of this it revealed and entrance to a secret room. I ‘ad a look but there didn’t seem to be much there.”
He takes a sip of the coffee, before continuing.
“The police turned up and I 'ad difficulty explaining to them what 'ad 'appened. Only just got out. Thing is, I'm worried about my friend Jonathan. I was supposed to be meeting up with him but he seems to have disappeared. Even more worrying when you consider he was going on about cults and whatnot. What the bloody 'ell have we got ourselves involved in? Anyway, once we've 'ad a rest I'd like to try and find out what's happened to Jonathan.”
“You poor dear,” says Nelly, touching Fred’s hand.
He smiles and nods, taking more coffee.

“I have a new haunting job at nearby Bramble Walk. Reports of a headless horseman. And Dr Ulrich needs investigation,” says Phillip.
“Remind me who Dr Ulrich is,” says Fred.
“Dr. Ulrich was our employer on the Crosswell case. He is really Dr. Simon Jones of the Arkham Sanitorium. We’re still unsure why he used an alias,” says Nelly, “We’ve also heard about a patient from the sanitorium that escaped, a Frenchman by the name of Navet. We were planning to track him down to claim a reward.”

“Then maybe we can look into this escaped lunatic as a possible way to our Doctor friend,” says Fred, “Also I suppose we could check out this haunting but, if you ask me, swamp gas and subsidence seem to be the likely culprits. They can account for a lot you know...I think...well it's just a theory. God! I don't know.”

“I tried a little research on this haunting but it seems to be a recent event,” says Phillip.
“If you ask me the best way to deal with this is going to see it for ourselves,” says Jeremiah.
“Fair enough, but first I want to try and contact my friend Jonathon. I’ll use the public phone,” says Fred, getting up a little unsteadily.

Minutes later he returns, “No reply. To be honest, I would love someone to drive me up to his house, check on him.”
“Safety in numbers, we can all go. The roads should be clear at this time of night,” says George, “We can always visit Bramble Walk tomorrow – it’ll still be there!”
You agree, finish you coffee, grab your coats and get into your cars. Stopping at the University first, Fred goes in to procure Jonathan’s out of town address, it’s about half an hour away, out in the sticks.

On route to the house, you follow a lengthy mesh of treacherous, rural lanes before reaching a tall perimeter wall, capped by snow and smothered in green ivy. George calls his car to stop and gets out, walking over to a hedge. The rest of you get out to see what he’s looking at. Embedded in the hedge is a chimney pot, still warm to the touch. He also points out car tracks on the road, “These are only an hour or two old,” he mutters.

Getting back into the cars, you drive on. The tyre tracks continue to run parallel to the wall before meeting the entrance to the estate. The heavily buckled gates hang concavely, as if hit by a mighty locomotion from within. The perimeter wall surrounds about 150 feet feet of grounds.

The garden is a torrid sight; all manner of flora, hedge and sapling have been violently uplifted and strewn amongst freshly ploughed trenches, like giant claw-marks in the earth. The whole area appears to have been the subject of an exaggerated and ghastly storm.

A short driveway leads directly to the smoking remains of a large three-storey building. It is not lying demolished, apparently victim to an explosion of enormous magnitude.

“I saw this place in Homes and Gardens. Didn’t it win an award for architecture or something?” says Jeremiah.
“Last year. Impressive place,” replies Fred, “But what the hell happened? I sure as hell hope those tracks were Jonathon’s getting away from here.”

You get out and grab torches from the trunks of the cars. An automobile is parked untidily in front of the once ostentatious main entrance; its pillars of white marble, toppled and broken across a dozen same styled steps. A section of the far wall seems also to have taken the force from some extraordinary onslaught. Remarkably, its broken blocks have failed to damage an unusual sculpture that adorns the far west corner of the garden, near the heaped shell of a less fortunate out-building.

“Good lord – what a mess!” exclaims Hal, “What on earth could have caused such a scale of destruction? Let’s check the car and outbuilding to see if there we can find any trace of Jonathan.”

Fred dashes over to the car with Phillip and Hal not far behind. George and Nelly remain where they are and Jeremiah goes toward the statue.

The car is a Buick Touring H6 and has not been well maintained. The Black paint work is heavily stippled by rust. From the outside it appears relatively sound but on as you approach, you see a shallow concave in the bonnet of the vehicle and both windows on the driver’s side are frosted, not from cold but from the probable impact of missiles. The driver’s door is wide open and the leather of the driver’s seat is lacquered with blood. Fred gasps as he sees it, “Jonathan!”

George and Nelly come over at this point to see what is happening.

Meanwhile, Jeremiah examines the statue. It is a grey-stone sculpture, completely undamaged by the devastation around it. The piece is of a spindly humanoid form caught in a tragic struggle for the heavens, the whole thing reaching fifteen feet into the air. Around the base of the statue are richly engraved symbols above which are the initials G.O. and the date 1886. Jeremiah recognises the symbols and excitedly starts the scribble them on his note pad.

As Nelly looks at the inside of the car, George pops the bonnet and looks at the engine.
“Looks like it’s been used recently, engine’s still warm. Seems fuel line has been severed as well,” says George.
Nelly notices more blood under the car and finds the single key to the car, held on a monogrammed ring bearing the crest of the Miskatonic University.
Further searching of the ground reveals evidence of a sickening and sadistic demise. Stretching away from the car, revealed by your torchlight, lies an unspeakably horrid mutilation of flesh and bone, five feet wide, which leads to the shattered remnants of the mansion steps. Fred is distraught, and leans against the car. Hal consoles him.

“Guys, I think you should see this,” shouts Jeremiah and you go over to the statue, revealed to get away from the gory scene at the car.

“These symbols are Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphics. Fairly simple runes, taken from the Egyptian Book of the Dead and I’ve been able to translate,” says the reporter reading aloud for all your benefit.

“Hail to you oh wondrous, oh mighty Drakka! I am the original power of Kreon who alone can judge between the combatants. I have prevented their fighting and I have wiped away their mourning. I have buried their dead and I have sealed the energy material whence it would fly away. I have done all that you commanded in the matter, and in the time that preceded the storm I have spent the night within and around my Eye (the moon). I am devoid of ill will and have come that you may see me now in the Mansion of Him of the double face in accordance with all that was commanded. The old men are under my control and the little ones belong to me.”

“Very impressive, Jeremiah,” says Hal, “I had no idea you were such a scholar.”
“I have my moments,” smiles Jeremiah, slipping his notepad into his jacket pocket.

“I suggest we head inside and see what’s going on. Whatever that blood was seems to have crawled inside. I’m not saying it’s your friend, could be anyone,” says George.

Hal runs over the potting shed first and looks inside, but finds nothing but small potted trees and shrubs and a number of tools. Many of the smaller plants have withered and it looks like they have not been tended for some time. Holes in the roof evidently let in rain water.

Heading back round to the southern side of the mansion and the bloody marble steps, you all slowly enter. Those of you with guns, draw and load them, just in case.

As you step into the rubble strewn south section, Fred, Phillip and George notice the remains of a staircase under which something metallic is shining. Picking through the rubble, they find a mangled cage of polished bronze. Within the distorted bars is the motionless body of a canary, rigid and frail and although dead, seemingly untouched by the surrounding violence.

“Poor thing died of shock,” says Nelly, looking closely at the bird, opening the cage and examining it. The body is still warm and its beak oozes the smallest blemish onto its yellow breast. Replacing it into the cage and setting it down, you continue to search.

After a few moments you smell and foul odour amidst the smoke. After a few minutes you identify an acrid and offensive stench coming from under a pile of bricks

From here you can get to the eastern and western quarters of the house though the eastern side appears to be totally demolished.

“I’m going to get my camera and take some pictures of this place, especially that statue,” says Phil, leaving the rest of you looking warily at the bricks.
“I’ll take a look in the western side. Anyone want to join me?” says Nelly, her voice quivering.
She looks at Fred, his face drained pale. He seems to be hanging back from the bricks. As Jeremiah steps closer to the vicinity of the smell, Fred speaks a warning, his voice sounding fragile, “I’d be careful, we don’t know what may still be hiding.”
Ignoring Fred, Jeremiah steps closer, “George, cover us with that cannon of yours. Hal, give me a hand with these bricks.”
Hal steps forward, glancing at Fred, before picking the bricks off.
“What the hell is that?” exclaims Jeremiah as he uncovers something. The rest of you gather closer to see, as the bricks are removed faster and see what is there. It is the fast decaying remains of something of unearthly birth, the source of the evil smell. Nelly covers her mouth with handkerchief, Fred turns and throws up.
Contorted bones lie on the ground, amidst throbbing vessels of flesh; severed, cracked an tearing as it bleeds a thick pumping treacle of gross coagulation into the earth.
“It’s the same,” coughs Fred, “The same thing that came through the library window.”
“I hate to tell ya Fred, but that’s no wild animal I ever saw,” says George, his gun still trained on the thing.
“I’ve seen some strange things in my time at Enigma, but nothing like this,” says Jeremiah, “Phillip, get that camera in here,” he shouts.
Phillip runs in, out of breath, his cheeks red, “Wh..what did you find?”
The clear the path and he looks at the thing, “Oh my god, what is it?”
No one answers and he soon sets up his tripod and manages to get a shot before the thing decomposes into a pool of slime.
“I got pictures of the exterior and that statue,” he says, folding the tripod.
Jeremiah throws bricks back onto the thing.

“Did anybody see any nearby houses on the way? Maybe somebody saw or heard what happened here,” says Fred.
“The place seems pretty secluded. Last house I saw was a couple of miles back,” says Hal.
“We should see the western quarter and get out of this place,” says Nelly, more eager than ever to get this over and done with.
You all agree and step over the rubble toward the western quarter of the house. The section contains a very large mound of rubble from the roof, standing at thirty feet at some points.
“Looks like some of the walls are still standing under that lot,” says Jeremiah.
“I agree, there’s most likely a section under there sheltered from the rubble. We should pick our way through – Jonathan may be trapped in there. Nelly, I suggest you go wait in the car, this is no work for a lady.”
Nelly complies, returning to the car, glad to get out of the rain.
You all roll up your sleeves are start picking your way through the remains of the roof, unpiling the mudded masonry. It’s hard, back-breaking work and you all get covered in dirt from the filthy masonry. After some thirty minutes you manage to come through to solid wall, evidently with a room behind it. Picking further along the wall, you come to an unbroken large pained window. The thing is covered in mud and you cannot see into the room. Jeremiah wipes off the some of the mud and notices something etched onto the glass in one corner. He cleans it up and peers at it.
“I know that symbol,”says Hal, “It’s known as an Elder Sign. I read about it somewhere, supposed to protect from evil spirits or some such.”
“Well, we ain’t no evil spirits,” grunts George, and smashes the glass with a brick. Clearing the glass, he climbs in first, shining a light around the room.

The buried chamber is calm and settled and remains intact. Stepping into the room, it feels like an unnatural cavern that might collapse at any moment.
In the centre of the room sits a heavy desk containing several oddments such as pens, ink and plenty of fine quality writing paper. There is a paperweight of singular interest, a jagged pebble of black marble with striking veneers of reds, yellows and whites. The desk has one locked drawer which George tries to pick, gets frustrated and then smashes open with the butt of his gun.
“Is there really need for that kind of violence?” says Fred.
“Well, he ain’t coming back anytime soon,” quips George, reaching into the remains of the desk, pulling out a leather journal, bound with red ribbon and a yellowed ancient looking papyrus.
Fred takes the journal and opens it, finding just one single brief passage of text on the first page, just inside the cover and written in Professor Moore’s unmistakable hand. <handout 6>
The papyrus holds a hand drawn map showing the proximity of the Dead Sea <handout 7>. On the reverse of the sheet are hundreds of hieroglyphics similar to those found on the statue outside.
“I could translate this, given time,” says Jeremiah.
A waste paper basket sits beneath the table and contains several of the finest sheets of ink stained paper, along with what is apparently a draft of the letter to Peter, you presume , Crosswell.<handout 8>
The shelves around the room contain many books on ancient languages, history, archaeology and even an inclusion of the Welsh folk tale, The Legend of Bedgellet. Amongst the two-dozen or so tomes of various kinds, two books lie open on the shelf: An Encyclopaedia of Marine Life by Valery Chalton, with a book mark in a page detailing the behaviour of the Hermit Crab in strict detail; and, underneath the encyclopaedia is an English leather bound copy of a book called Unausprechlichen Kulten by von Junzt, with a page marked with black silk <handout 9>
In the cabinet, wrapped protectively in muslin cloth, is what appears at first sight to be a Faberge egg of unremarkable design. Touching it carefully, Fred points out it is made from glass and decorated with tarnished brass fittings. Phillip asks to take a closer look. His military knowledge identifies it has a reinforced metal body and was probably designed as a projectile of some kind. The design looks as if the top was meant to be unscrewed but the metal has corroded to a point that it won’t open without considerable force.
There is nothing else in the room.

“Let’s check to see if there are any secret doors and search this place first. If we don't find him here we can have a quick nosey round the rest,” says Phillip.

“There are clearly several avenues of research here,” says Fred, looking paler by the second, “Personally I'm all for getting out of here as fast as possible. I don't feel safe here at all and I'm feeling....not good. In fact I think I need rest urgently.”

“How can this place have survived in such pristine condition while such destruction abounds around it?” asks Hal of no-one in particular.

“I suggest that we leave this house of death, the stench is beginning to seep into my clothes and I don’t have a change of shirt with me.”

“We should get the projectile to a lab and examine it,” adds Fred, “Also we need to research the Emerald Statue and whoever this Howard chap is.”

”I agree that we should have the projectile examined by professionals while Jeremiah translates the hieroglyphs on the reverse of the map,” says Hal. “It would be most useful to understand what the map actually shows, apart from the obvious, of course!”

”Palestine is also an obvious thing to look into,” says Fred, “Also, more remarkably, it seems that Peter's father is still alive and he may well know the whereabouts of this gentleman in England. We need to grill him for info not matter how mad he is.”

”I would like to try and find out if Jonathan has any property in England,” replies Hal, “I will ask some of my contacts to see if we can find anything at the Land Registry there in Jonathan's name. That way we might be able to trace Peter's father and find out some more about what has gone on before. Let's join Nelly in the car and return to somewhere less chaotic where we may collect our thoughts.”

Fred nods, then suddenly starts to faint. George catches him and lowers him to the floor, “Poor old feller must be exhausted. Jeremiah, go get Nelly.”

Jeremiah runs out into the rain and gets Nelly from the car, with her medical bag. Soon Fred is brought round with the aid of smelling salts and you get him into a car.
You agree to part ways; Phil will get the police to this place, though George suggests he make it anonymous. They won’t take kindly to finding the place obviously ransacked; they’ll assume those that found the room intact took items from it. Phil agrees and stays behind to take a few more shots before he makes the call.
Jeremiah goes off to translate the hieroglyphs and Hal to find information of Howard’s house in England. Nelly agrees to stay with Fred and get him home safely.

You all agree to meet at 4pm the next day at the coffee house.

Saturday 26th March 1927

By the afternoon of the next day you meet at the coffee house. All are there with the exception of Fred. Nelly tells you she checked on him on the way and he’s taking some bed rest. He’s had a few books brought from the University to research the Palestinian link. You each sit and tell what you have found.

Jeremiah begins, “I went home to translate the hieroglyphics. It was a long and very difficult task and I didn’t have enough research materials. I went to the University first thing in the morning. By 3.30pm, I had made good progress but would require at least another day to complete the translation. The following is what you have so far.

I spent yesterday at the table of the Old Ones; I am They of Living-Kind, the Keeper of the first gate and blind to my freedom or duty to the empire(world). So I have the title Lord of Eternity, and truly did never, nor will I ever have name, meaning or existence.
Him who is in his burning in the Celestial Waters is the keeper of the second gate; the Great Old One who creases his own light. His fiery breath is in the faces of those whose hearts would move against us. He is a flame, the burner, the son of a flame, to whome was given his head after it had been cut off. My cavern is opened, the spirits fall within the darkness. Hail to you, Starry One and the sun folk of Fomalhaut.
Fly like the swallow; as for any god or any of the dead, who shall not lick their lips over him this day, shall fall into the depths of the iron barley, in which lies the Keeper of the Third Gate. He is the Field of Rushes whose height is infinite.”

“I took few more photos before heading home,” says Phillip, “I tipped off the police anonymously as George suggested. This morning I took the photos in to be developed and decide that Jeremiah should write the story. The Editor told me to hold on til I have the full story. I did some more research on Bramble Walk but found nothing new.”

“After dropping Fred off with his wife I went home,” says Nelly, “After a good night’s sleep I took the egg to the archeological department at the Uni. The Professor Jameson is more than happy to help.
“It appears to be similar in design to a Faberge egg. Just as delicate though a great deal less valuable. It appears that the top could be unscrewed but I don’t want to try it – there is corrosion around the top, perhaps caused by some form of acid. Other than that, there’s not much else he could tell me.”

George has nothing to say and you turn to Hal, who seems excited to tell his news, but was waiting for you all to speak first.

“After a number of phone calls to London I eventually discover a Dr Howard Crosswell based in a village called Tearnmouth in Devon. He has been the local vicar for the past seven years, living in St Helen’s Church. There is also record of ten years ago of ownership of a building called the Steadman Lighthouse off the Tearnmouth coast.”

“This morning I called the Church. It turns out he left yesterday, to visit his son in America! He must be here by now!”

“What the hell are we waiting for,” says George, rising from his seat, “Let’s get over there!”

You all leave the coffee house, and call on Fred. He’s out of bed, and when you tell him that Peter’s father is here, he quickly dresses and despite his wife’s objections, joins you to drive to the Crosswell House.

It has now been over week since the investigation at the Crosswell House and as you pull into the drive you see that the repairs are progressing admirably. Every window has panes of glass and much of the roofing has been suitably enforced. There are no builders in site though this is no surprise as it’s approaching six on a Saturday evening.

All of the ground floor and many of the upper floor windows have curtains draped. Getting out of your cars, you approach the front door and Fred knocks. There is a thirty second interval before the door is slowly drawn inward by an old man dressed in the customary robes and collar of a man of the Christian cloth, of a lower order, whose features are startlingly similar to those of Peter Crosswell. The elderly man, in a clear but feeble voice speaks, “Good evening, what is you business, gentlemen? Madam?”

“Howard Crosswell, I presume,” smiles Fred, holding out his hand to shake.
“Indeed, but you have me at a disadvantage,” replies the man, gently shaking Fred’s hand.
“We have been doing some work in the house, to aid your son’s recovery.”
“Ah, that would explain it. I have traveled from abroad myself to take care of my son. It is cold, come inside and have a drink.”

As you walk through the familiar hallway and into the lounge you can detect a strong medical aroma.

“What is that smell?” asks Nelly, “I’m a nurse and I don’t recognize the aroma.”
“Many years ago when I was an active member of the Miskatonic University I was fortunate enough to discover a particular root amongst the rain forests of central Africa. Its most singular property, as well as the overwhelming scent, is its mild calming effect. I have used the last of it at my son’s bedside to ensure he rests soundly.”

The lounge seems a little more accommodating than it did when you were last here. There is the smell of fresh putty drying on the windows, aided by the roaring fire. There is little in the way of furniture other than four simple dining chairs and a coffee table but the room is essentially clean. Howard produces a small pipe from his pocket and offers his tobacco around. Fred happily takes some and fills his own pipe.

Jeremiah notices something under a pile of books – a newspaper cutting from the Boston Globe announcing the return of Jonathan Moore.

“You have an interest in Jonathan Moore, Mr Crosswell?” asks Jeremiah, taking cutting and looking at it.
“Jonathan is an old friend of mine so when I saw the article in yesterday’s newspaper, I was naturally interested,” the old man replies, “I have brought two helpers to attend to my son’s comforts, and while he rests he shall want for nothing. Fazl ul-Rehman and Baba are from India; they speak only a little English. You will not fail to notice that they are twins.

The lounge door swings open and two men clumsily present a tray of condiments and place them onto the small coffee table in front of you. The brothers are dressed in clothes that are an uncomfortable blend of their traditional North Indian dress and the uniform one would expect of a contemporary butler. One of them clumsily pours tea into the cups and Howard talks about his time India.

“Well, if you will excuse me, please make yourselves comfortable,” says Howard, downing his tea, and smiling as he leaves the room.

“I would be cautious to discuss our progress with him until we know we can trust him,” whispers Hal, “He states that we cannot fail to notice that his aides are twins, but they are not even slightly similar. In my view they cannot be even related.”

“I agree, one is much taller than the other and limps with a very curious shuffling hop,” says Fred.

“And that constant smiling?” says Phillip.

“Smiling? They looked very solemn to me,” says Fred.

“I think something is amiss here,” says Nelly, “We all seem to have perceived something different.”

”I can only wonder,” replies Hal, “Are they perhaps thugs or fakirs of some description trying to take advantage of an old man, and have him under some kind of spell so that he thinks they look identical? Their clumsiness also surprises me - if I was to hire a man servant with that level of clumsiness they would be out on their ear within minutes. No gentleman expects his servants to be clumsy.”

The men that you recognize as Baba and Fazl ul-Rehman step back into the room. They close the door behind them and stare through you in a way that is at first embarrassing and then deeply disturbing. Their features appear to fall away, shifting out of proportion, as if bursting from the seams of their clothing. Green scaled flesh ripples and moves . From a now gaping jaw-less mouth comes a non-rhythmic croaking, that increases in volume as the spectacle mutates into obscurity.

You are not sure when this absorbing wave of tiredness overcame you. Attempts to stand bring on muscle spasms that cause you to fall back into your seat.

You hear the distant chiming of a clock, it is dark when you come round to your senses. The fire has burnt low and the oil lamps has burnt out. Hal finds a candle and lights it, illuminating the room and everyone rubbing their eyes and foreheads.

None of you are sure what happened but concur something caused you to hallucinate. Slowly you get up and George draws his gun, before slowly opening the door. There is no sign of life and he grabs an oil lamp from the hallway and gets Hal to light it. As a group you walk into the hall and shout out but the house is silent.

Looking around the house, it appears that the place has been ransacked as if there had been a long hard struggle or search. Since your last visit, the upstairs rooms had been given new floors and there is a noticeable smell of fresh timber as you approach the staircase. As you wander through the rooms, the oil lamps all appear to have recently burnt out. A large grandfather clock on the upper floor landing denotes the time as just past 9pm.

Investigating the first bedroom, you notice that many of the workmen’s tools that were hear before have gone.

In the Child’s Bedroom you find Peter Crosswell, bound and gagged, sprawled on the mattress. Fred cuts him free and Nelly brings him round with some smelling salts. The young man seems relatively unstressed.

“Peter, what happened? Who tied you up?” asks Hal.

“A man who claimed to be my father bound me. I am feeling very tired. I need to rest,” replies the young man.

Hal helps him to his own bedroom and settles him into bed.

“I think we need to see the cellar again,” says Jeremiah, “The rest of the house is empty, bar Peter, and I assume the man claiming to be his father was looking for something.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to see anything down there. I just need a lie down,” says Fred.

“Poor Peter – I hope that nothing of value to him has been taken by these ruffians masquerading as butlers,” says Hal, “Fred, why don’t you keep Peter company in the lounge and have a lie down to rest yourself? Nelly – would you mind staying with them both to make sure they are okay, please? I’m sure you won’t miss out on searching the cellar, but I wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of Fred’s wife should anything untoward happen to him!””

“No problem. I have no intention of going down to that cellar again anyway!” she shudders at the thought of your last visit.

“So who wants to come and investigate the cellar with me – George?” says Hal.

George is already checking and loading his gun, “I’m in.”

Hal takes a sturdy poker from the fireplace. Phillip and Jeremiah both load their 38’s and the four men head to the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, you find the workmen have repaired the place though the trapdoor to the cellar is proper open. Peering into the eerie gloom you can hear a mysterious dripping sound echoing from the depths below. Hal shines a light into the darkness and you see that the cellar is completely empty. George takes the lead, followed by Hal with the journalist behind.

The walls are damp with an algae different to that which was here several days ago. It reaches more than halfway up each of the four walls. The algae seems to give of strange emissions that remind you of the sea. In places, the floor bottom is ankle deep in slime and vegetation. Hal kicks through it with his brogues, and shining the light onto it he notices sea urchins and small crustateans, along with exotic weeds that would only populate the open sea.

Phillip begins to set up his camera. Suddenly Hal, who was searching around the centre of the cellar disappears. There was a popping sound, like a cork being released from a champagne bottle, but no sign of him. George warily steps toward the area he last saw Hal, gun trained on the ground. There is another pop, and George vanishes.

Jeremiah and Phillip step closer the area but stop before the centre of the room. Two more pops sound and the cellar is left empty.

Darkness…water…ice cold….can’t breathe….

You find yourselves suddenly submerged in water. Jeremiah and Hal are physically shocked as the icy water hits them.(Jeremiah -2hp, Hal -2hp) Hal, George and Jeremiah all swallow water and vomit violently. Only Phillip is unharmed though he has lost his camera. Each of you is several yards from each other and see land several yards off. You each try to swim toward it. Confusion reigns as the darkness and huge waves crash onto you as you struggle to swim. Hal sees Phillip struggling and helps him, pulling him to shore. The two collapse on the beach and pass out.

Coming round, Hal pulls himself over to Phillip and checks him over. He is breathing and begins to come round. The figures of Jeremiah and George are lying further down the beach. Hal helps Phillip up and goes to help the others. However, they are dead, smashed against the rocks and drowned in the icy waters.

Phillip wails, distraught at the loss of his friend and colleague and Hal comforts him.

“We need to find shelter to get warm, or we’ll die from exposure,” says Hal, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

It is the middle of the night and the moon is barely lighting the area around you. The rocks around you are limestone. You appear to have landed on a promontory emerging from the mainland, white cliffs rise to either side and a rough path runs from where you are up to the cliff tops. On you ground not far from you is a helmet of some kind. Taking a closer look, you see it is bright yellow, identical to the ones worn by the workmen at the Crosswell House.

Fred lies down for a bit but he just can't get comfortable. The awful sights
he has seen have been afronts to his system of logic and have completely
shattered his world view. Nothing makes sense anyway. He starts to twich as
again and again he tries to reconcile the horror with science but it won't
work. Fred grows paler and paler, sweat pours off of him, he leans over the
side of the bed and vomits on the floor before curling up into a foetal
position mumbling under his breath...

“I wonder where we are?” says Phillip, looking around for land marks and clutching the workman’s helmet in shaking fingers.

“Lets check the area for anything useful and drag our fallen comrades to safety. They desevere a proper burial once we are sure we won’t be joining them on the next plane of existence.”

“I agree, but the police should see this first. We need to get help and that will be up the path but we must be wary.”

Hal checks over the bodies of George and Jeremiah. George’s .45 and two dozen bullets along with Jeremiah’s .38 (loaded with 6 shots but no other ammunition) are that you find of use. You then start to look around the beach. In the bright moonlight, wild flowers grow around small gullies and rock pools in the ascending crags. A church and a number of small cottages come into view over the stepped and rocky shoreline. Soon enough you discover the body of a man lying very still in an area rich with pebbles. The familiar floor length coat and rimmed hat bobbing in a nearby pool identify him as Dr Ulrich, AKA Dr Simon Jones.

His bearded features hold a tragic expression which is richly lined in blood. Using what little first aid he has, Hal diagnoses that the Dr is not dead and can be recovered. He seems to have hit his head, probably after collapsing. After a few gentle slaps, he comes round with a start.

“Where am I? What am I doing here? Who are you?”

You spend the next 5 minutes explaining to the doctor who he is and who you are . Soon enough he begins to come to his senses.

“I was in the Crosswell House with Peter’s father. I remember being bludgeoned then the feeling of free falling into water. Deep water…Do you have any idea where we are?”

“That’s the one thing we don’t know, but there’s a village up there. I’m sure we can get help there,” says Phillip.

“Or shelter, at the very least. If we stay here much longer we’ll catch our deaths,” grunts the Dr, as Hal helps him to his feet.

Desolate, windswept grassland surrounds the approach to the sleepy village while the strange but spectacular geological formations on the headlands give the place a historic aura.

Even though the hour is late, a warm welcoming lamplight beckons from the windows of a white washed unnamed inn.

Entering the inn you find it to be warm and inviting. A fire still burns in a stone hearth and a number of men in fisherman’s gear sup on ale. Behind the bar, and grizzled old man with thick sideburns polishes glasses.

“Alright laaads, come in, come in, ‘fore the cold ‘as yer bones,” he shouts. The accent is unusual to your ears. Certainly not from Boston! “Wha’ happened? Yer wet through lads!”

“We were washed up on the shore. We’re not entirely sure what happened or where we are,” says Hal, approaching the bar.

“Americans? On a luxury cruise or what? This is Teignmouth lad!” shouts one of the fishermen.
“Teignmouth? New England?” asks Phillip.
“Hahaha! Try Old England. Yer in Dorset. Welcome!” smiles the barman.

“England!” exclaims Phillip, “We are way off course. I have no idea how we got here.”
“Goodness me, we are indeed some way off course then,” adds Hal, “Do you perchance know of a clergyman named Howard Crosswell? I believe that he lives in St Helen’s Church in this village and owns the Steadman Lighthouse nearby somewhere. Do you know either of these places?”

Phillip looks at Hal with surprise but Hal continues to look at the barkeep expectantly. Dr Ulrich just stands back and keeps quiet.

There is what seems like and age of silence before the landlord breaks into a wide smile.

“Of course we know Father Howard. He is our spiritual guide,” replies the landlord.

BONG, BONG, BONG…a large grandfather clock chimes loudly in the corner of the bar….BONG, BONG,BONG,BONG,BONG,BONG,BONG,BONG,BONG… The clock says Midnight.

“Alright, that’s yer lot lads, drink up,” he shouts to his patrons, “I’m afraid I have to lock now lads,” he addresses you, “Come back in the morning, unless you need a room for the night.”
“Well, we have no British money I’m afraid,” says Hal, “But perhaps I can get something wired in the morning.”
“Ah, no charge. We look after old friends here. Head upstairs, first door on the right. And in answer to your question, the Steadman Lighthouse is up by the Durdle Door. You can see it out your window.”

You head upstairs and find the room, a small bedroom with four small beds and a couple of old but well looked after wooden chairs. Curtains flap in the breeze and Phillip goes over to close the open window.

“The Durdle Door…” he says and Hal and Simon join him and look out at the sea.

Just off the beach is a huge arch of stone from the cliff into the sea. On the headland beside it is the silhouette of a tall lighthouse. The light is shining out to sea, as you would expect of a lighthouse.

“We came up that path, there,” says Hal, pointing to a path that leads directly to the beach, “That rock is about the point where we found ourselves in the sea.”

“Durdle Door…Are you saying it’s a real door?” asks Phillip, “From the Crosswell House to England? How is that possible?”

“Now, now gentlemen! That’s simply not possible. We are in shock, that’s all. Temporary amnesia. Tricks of the mind.” Says Simon.

“Dr Ulrich, there are things in this world that Science cannot explain. We saw something not of this world in that Cellar, when we first entered. I don’t know if it lived there or if was summoned somehow, but the second time we entered, we find ourselves in the English Channel. We lost two of our colleagues coming through that door, and Fred has virtually lost his mind since starting this venture. This whole thing points to Peter’s father Just 5 hours ago we were in Davenham and we are now in Tearnmouth, England. Can you explain that.”

Simon sits and quietly stares into the corner of the room.

“England is five hours ahead,” says Phillip.

“Damnit, of course, the time difference. So our journey was instantaneous! It was dusk when we reached the Crosswell house, here it’s midnight.”

“What did he mean by Old Friends?” says Phillip, no sitting on the end of one of the beds, shaking.

“I have no idea, but they seem very friendly to strangers they just met,” says Hal, “Let’s get dried up. I suggest we go and take a look at the lighthouse.”

“But the landlord is locking up. How do we explain we want to leave?” says Simon.

“Never shimmied down a drainpipe before, Doctor?” smiles Hal.

Cleaning up and washing the sea salt from your hair you find a few clothes in a wardrobe which you change into. Thick breeches and rough woollen jumpers. There are some solid walking boots as well, much more practical than your brogues, and once you are ready, Hal opens the window.

“Are you sure about this Hal?” asks Phil, “I don’t even think I can get through the window.”

“Don’t worry. I heard our host go to bed. We’ll creep out the main door, I’ll bolt it from the inside and come back up here and climb out the window. “

Heading downstairs quietly, carrying just your guns in your belts, and Simon taking a couple of oil lanterns from the room and some matches, you find that front door is not even bolted. The landlord seems to be a very trusting fellow. Abandoning the plan to lock up and use the window, you all head into the night.

“Simon, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why did you conceal your true identity when you asked us to investigate the “haunting” at Peter’s house?” asks Hal as you walk.
“I must apologise if you feel misled by me. I am a highly respected psychoanalyst at Arkham Asylum. Peter was in my care for ten years but when he was discharged, I should cut all ties with my patient. With Peter, however, I wanted to ensure his mental health was retained through the difficult transition of returning home. The Asylum would most likely disapprove, had no knowledge of my action and I intended to keep it that way.”

As you pass through the houses of the village, none of which you noticed on your way in as you rushed to the shelter of the inn, you see at the edge of the village what is evidently a church. Diverting from your path, you head over to it. The stones of the building have a grainy texture and to the side is a graveyard containing many small headstones, also badly eroded. At the summit of the steeple, central to the roof, is the suggestion of a large weather vane, hard to make out in the dim light.

“My God!” utters Hal, staring at the spire, “Simon, shut off your lamp.”

Shutting off the lamp, the three of you stare up at the spire, your eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the gloom. It is then that you see that it is no weather vane at all but the corpse of a man, impaled on the church spire.

Hal immediately starts to climb the wall of the church up to a flat roof than up the bell tower.

Examining the man, who is old and has a look of abject terror etched into his craggy features, he notices a pentagram, deeply but skilfully engraved into the man’s forehead. Hal shudders and crosses himself. The body is cold, but has not noticeably started to decompose. At a guess, Hal reckons the body has been here no more than a day. Dangling from the old man’s pocket is a watch on a chain. Hal unhooks it and begins to carefully climb down.

When we reaches the bottom he examines the pocket watch he sees the initials, J.T.S. According to the watch, the time is 1am.

“Let’s take a look inside the church,” says Hal.

“I take it this is Crosswell’s Church. Damn, I wish I had my camera,” says Phillip.

Glancing one last time up at the corpse on the spire, Hal pockets the man’s watch. Hopefully someone can identify it later. Phillip pushes open the door of the church, which creeks slightly.

Your lamp light fills the dark church. Inside are rows of simple wooden pews, all highly polished. The high stone arches, intricately carved wooden ceilings and the stained glass windows combine to project an unexpected feeling of holy grandeur.

At the back of the most rear pews are prayer books. Phillip picks one up, holding the light to it. “Oxford English press, published 1875,” he reads.

You notice additional pages have been inserted, containing strange supplementary verses.

Walking quietly through the church you see the usual altar and plinths containing holy water. A small door stands at the back of the church and Hal opens it. Beyond is a small windowless room, evidently sleeping and dressing quarters. The covers have been torn from the bed indicating the room has been subject to a frantic search.

In the simple wardrobe are several changes of dress. Searching more thoroughly you find a bloody knife in the pocket of one robe. Scattered around the bottom of the wardrobe are various papers containing jottings. The writing is identical to that on the prayer books. I particular, one of the sheets has a newspaper clipping appended.

“I heard Graham Billington tell me that the people he killed were all worshippers of the dark gods; he said they deserved to die. It is years since I would have eagerly shared his perspective, but since then (like my Father) finding the church has enabled me to see the light shine from the eyes of every woman and man, and I consider it my role to nurture this goodness, so that someday it might burn out all the dark uncertainties. With that said, I think Graham Billington less worthy of my hand than most. With some regret, it will not be necessary for me to make that long train journey to Dartmoor more than the once.

“What is this? Please God, don’t let those long March nights catch up with me. Not my deadly curiosity; thoughts leading me to the pact; I remember the pact, but surely it was only a dream, it was never real. He is my terrible harbinger of doubts, and I will not let him walk through me. But I can feel my inner flame dying low.

“His tendrils are not extended enough to throttle my flock; thank the Lord there are few like myself. Who would quest for the dark answers and swallow his malicious vomit without question. I feel constantly drained of energy and my skin is crawling as fast as my thoughts. Who do I turn to? Not these nested insects. And not friends like Moore, who would turn me out when I needed him most. And not Susan, because she has already paid the ultimate price.

“Last night Nygotha sent me a dream from the edge of the world. I understand now that he never wanted the world for himself; all he wanted was his maturity. I have seen the entombing cradle given to him by the Old Ones. He is forever in their whimsical balance. He showed me his suffocation that would be, if their Emerald Statuette was not destroyed. I have agreed that their first child was an evil one, Nygotha enlightened me, years past. Is it so unreasonable that he should not be able to live out his eternal existence? And to share a reign that is now rightfully his?

“With my new found perspective, I now know that the Crystal of Elder Things was an inconsequential fuel for the creation of their Shoggoths. I understand now, why Abd al-Azrad could merely whisper to why there are so many empty faces. Unconsciously, I practice this awareness in much of my writings, my actions and within every disaster. I see in the shadows and between the lines the acquaintances of the new gods. This evening that fool Steadman caught me in incomprehensible mid-laughter, as I read from the new edition of the Cambridge Encyclopaedia (for the first real time). I stated that in April of 1912, the Old Ones laboriously ferried their ‘wonderful’ crystal across the Atlantic with ridiculous stealth. Nygotha tells me that without him this is a typical example of how they would lead the world into destruction.

“After several visits to Dartmoor, between us, Billington and myself, have completed the final necessary preparations. We will together join forces to destroy the Emerald Statuette for my sweet Nygotha. The places are few where Moore would trust it, and after this night, never again will my Lord be called so cruelly, ‘The Thing that Should Not Be’!

“I feel that I no longer have need for these clumsy words and so ends this dissertation of my activities.

NEWSPAPER CUTTING…

MAN KILLS SIX
Last Monday night, 12 December, 1926, in the town of Blackburn, a man from Kent was arrested in connection with the mass murder of six well respected people of the local community.
The man, one Graham Billington, was apprehended leaving the farm; the scene of the brutal slaying. Upon immediate questioning, the alleged seemed calm and rational. It is believed that he had this to say to the arresting officers, “It was a necessity that I did what I did, such evil has no place in our world.”
The victims, among who were two prominent councillors, hired the barn from farmer Robert Grant to rehearse their parts in the forthcoming church play, Joseph and the Coat of Many Colours.
Mr Billington was brought before the magistrates yesterday. Having heard the damning evidence against him, the accused, for the first time, became noticeably distraught and yelled obscenities at the court, including a repeat of ravings he gave the police, “It was of the utmost necessity for the safety of us all.”
The judge gave him a life sentence at the psychiatric ward of Dartmoor Prison.
Some have reason to believe this to be an incident in connection with the council’s recent decision to grant industrialists increased planning permission for factory buildings inside community areas, near schools and recreation parks. There is no evidence of this at the time this article goes to press.

“Hal, leave the watch here, we don’t want to get framed for murder,” says Philip, “This thing that shall not be doesn’t sound good? Cultists? A lot of these words don’t make any sense.”
“I agree, they sound like the ramblings of a crazed mind,” says Hal, placing the watch on a pew.
“And who could this Moore be?”
“Could be Jonathon Moore! We were only at his house a couple of days ago!”
“Of course, and the statue in the grounds.. could that be the statue they want to destroy? We need to get home. I suggest we take a look at that lighthouse and the Durdle Door then see if we can secure a flight back to the US,” says Phil.
Leaving the church, you head out towards the lighthouse. As you reach its base, you look out across the sea and the arc of rock that is the Durdle Door.
“Look, in the water,” shouts the Doctor, pointing.
You can just make out a man in a small rowing boat, heading out towards the Door, “Crosswell,” curses Hal.
The three of you charge down the path towards the waters edge and jumping in you start swimming towards the rock. The boat is out of site and the waters are as rough as when you arrived. Soon enough, you lose track of where you are and find yourselves submerged.
Moments later you gain your bearings. Although you are underwater, it is still. Looking up towards the surface you see the boat above you. Hal swims up toward it and finds it jammed against something solid. It is the ceiling of the cellar. Seeing a trapdoor, he bangs on it but finds it locked. Banging on it for what seems an eternity, joined by Philip and Dr Jones, eventually the door is opened and you see Nelly there, with Peter behind her. As water spills out across the kitchen floor, the three of you clamber onto the floor of the kitchen, with Nelly helping you, shouting hysterical, trying to understand. Hal moved back to hatch and grabs the edge of the boat, now bobbing below the surface as the water flows into the kitchen. Pulling the boat under the hatch, you see the prone figure of the Peter’s father. With Philip’s help, Hal pulls the priest through the door, dropping him onto the kitchen floor.
Nelly begins to administer first aid, clearing the airway and pumping his chest. She tries this for a few minutes but the old man cannot be revived. Looking across at Peter you see him curled into a fetal position, rocking. Searching Howard’s pockets, Phillip finds a ring of simple gold, set with a cold pink diamond


Sunday, 27th March 1927.
The next morning you all wake up, aching after the drama of the previous night. Dr Jones took Peter back into the care of the Sanitorium, an ambulance took away the body of Howard Crosswell and the police closed the house as a crime scene. After brief interviews, during which you explained Howard had committed suicide, filling his own cellar with water and drowning himself in a rowing boat. You are free to return to your homes, and Hal has you picked up and taken to his mansion where you clean up and tell Nelly what happened, as well as the deaths of George and Jeremiah which shocks and saddens her.
“I hated him, but he was my cousin,” she says of him.
You remember that Jeremiah had been working on a translation of the hieroglyphics you found at Moore’s house. You decide to retrieve the map and get the job finished. Visiting his apartment, Philip has the key and you find the map with the translation so far. Heading to the University, you hire a professer there to continue the work. He accepts Hal’s offer of $200 to get the work done by the next day.
Monday 28th March 1927.
You come down to a breakfast prepared by Hal’s manservant, to find the Boston Globe on the table. The front page announces the death of hero-explorer, Professor Jonathon Moore, who perished in a terrorist explosion at his Boston house.
“Terrorists?” says Hal, incredulously, “Didn’t look like the work of terrorists to me. I suppose the police found his body in the house. Sad day.”
Heading to the University after breakfast, you meet with the professor you hired who hands you the map and full translation. Heading to the reading room, you set about reading it, along with the translation that Jeremiah produced.

I spent yesterday at the table of the Old Ones; I am They of Living-Kind, the Keeper of the first gate and blind to my freedom or duty to the empire(world). So I have the title Lord of Eternity, and truly did never, nor will I ever have name, meaning or existence.
Him who is in his burning in the Celestial Waters is the keeper of the second gate; the Great Old One who creases his own light. His fiery breath is in the faces of those whose hearts would move against us. He is a flame, the burner, the son of a flame, to whome was given his head after it had been cut off. My cavern is opened, the spirits fall within the darkness. Hail to you, Starry One and the sun folk of Fomalhaut.
Fly like the swallow; as for any god or any of the dead, who shall not lick their lips over him this day, shall fall into the depths of the iron barley, in which lies the Keeper of the Third Gate. He is the Field of Rushes whose height is infinite.
The Keeper of the Fourth Gate is the father of serpents, he who lives on snakes. He who is sharp of glance, who cuts them down so only the serpent shall pass. As like the Mound of Spirits whose faces are never downcast, his minions are the Caster of Knives by which men do not pass.
The Keeper of the Fifth Gate is the mighty shifter of face; he who reigns and bathes and drinks of their gore. Offer to Great Cthulhu your precious stones and seventeen casks of wine, ten-and-a-half fields of barley and the Insence of Yuggoth, or cover your head for he is of ruddy hale; one mighty of magic and his eyes have caused him to benefit therefrom. Limitless eternity is given to him, for he is He Who Inherited Eternity, to whom everlasting was given in his tides of a million years.
Traiterous Nygotha is a prisoner of himself, grim of visage who repels the aggressor. The Thing That Should Not Be, he whose face is inverted and many-shaped, who eats the corruption of his hinder-parts.

“Crikey, this is all Greek to me!” says Hal, “Can anyone explain the significance of this to me? I understand that it’s talking about a sacrifice to Great Cthulhu. What is that? And I wonder if the statue we saw at Jonathon’s might be this Nygotha, trapped as the translation said?”
“This is all very confusing,” says Nelly, “What happened to you guys in the cellar?”
Phillip and Hal then relate the events of the previous night, the bizarre trip to Tearnmouth, discovery of the dead Steadman, lighthouse keeper of the village, and the chase of Howard Crosswell, Peter’s father, into the sea and back through the Durdle Door where he drowned, trapped between the rowing boat and trapdoor.
She tried her best to get her head round the events and relates what has happened to her, taking Fred to Arkham Asylum with his wife, a confrontation with an escaped madman, dressed in a pumpkin head mask, by the name of Mister Navet, described as one of the most dangerous and unpredictable human beings known to the Asylum.
“I suspect the Emerald Statue is still missing. As Jonathon talked in one of his letters about trying to find it, my suspicion is that the statue at his house wasn’t it,” says Phil.
“Then it looks like our only lead is Palestine,” says Nelly.
“Excellent! Travel, though I’d prefer to go by conventional means this time! I’ll have my man charter an aeroplane,” says Hal, heading for the reading room phone.
“I need to get to my office and check in, get a new camera. Might be worth getting something to defend ourselves with, this trip might get dangerous. Nelly, are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Try and stop me! And Fred?”
“I think we should leave him in Arkham for now, let him get some rest. However, I think that Dr Jones might be of some use. I stop by the Sanatorium and secure his services for the month” says Phil.
Hal sits back down, “My man is on to it. He’ll call back shortly.”
Moments later, the phone rings and Hal answers. Listening and nodding, “Thank you, Jeeves,” he drops the receiver.
“Turns out there are no charters available for some time, and we’d be there by steamship before a ‘plane becomes available. Jeeves took it upon himself to book us space for a ship departing tomorrow morning.”
“How long is the journey?” asks Nelly.
“About a month,” he smiles.
Phil laughs, “You still sure you’re up this Nelly?”
“Humph, I’d better get packing!”
“Fine, we’ll meet up at 9am at Boston Docks. Our ship is called The Europa, I’ll meet you with the tickets,” says Hal.

Next morning, after taking care of business, you arrive at Boston Docks with three suitcases each (please inform me of the contents in a private message) Jeeves is there with Hal and he helps with your bags out of the cars as the porters load them. Dr Simon Jones arrives in a taxi cab shortly after. The ship is due to set out at 11am to the Egyptian port of Alexandria. Phil sets up his new camera on the tripod and takes a photo of the four of you outside the Europa.
Soon enough the trip gets underway and you settle in for a month on the ocean. Jones soon establishes himself as ship’s Doctor though as the journey gets underway he seems to be continually ill and complains of not getting sufficient sleep. The journey itself is rough and most passengers suffer from sea sickness.
25th April, 1927
It is the night before you arrive at the Port of Alexandria. Dr Jones is now so ill, he has confined himself to quarters for the last week. A tempestuous Mediterranean squall blows in and the boat is blown all over, as the crew struggle to keep her off the rocks but by dawn you pull into the dock safely.
26th April, 1927
Immediately on arrival at the dock you find passage on a ferry to carry you north, one day’s journey along the Palestinian coast to Jaffa, the best point to begin your journey to the most prominent location on your map, the ancient city of Jericho, marked on the map as “two weeks from Jaffa”. In Jaffa you can also rest and purchase essentials for travel.
27th April, 1927
Formerly known as Joppa, the attractive port of Jaffa is built on land which protrudes into the Mediterranean Sea. This city, recently released from the Turkish yoke, is being protected, “in the interests of local people”, by the British Government.
You secure a couple of porters to cart your bags and find you accommodation. Nelly reveals she knows a smattering of Arabic and this comes to use, though you hear a number of languages as you walk through the streets; Hebrew, Greek, Italian, Turkish, German and English.
On the frantically populated and dust filled streets of Jaffa, you see plenty of livestock wandering about. Goats, and the occasional band of chickens.
“Of course, you know that Joppa is where the apostle, Simon Peter fell into a trance and was first commanded by God to slaughter and eat unclean animals,” says Phil.
“Certainly no shortage of those,” smiles Hal, swatting a fly from his face.
Nelly, as ever, is dressed fashionably, despite the heat, a straw hat keeping the sun from her eyes, trying not to look what she is treading in on the street.
You are watched with suspicion as you travel through the marketplace, unsurprisingly as locals that recently banded together to overthrow Islamic Rule after British promises of self-rule are now finding that the British have no intention of granting such.
You are led to a guest house where Nelly secures rooms and you settle in with your baggage. Dr Jones, who is still feeling under the weather after the trip, offers to stay put while you seek out supplies.
Changing clothes and secreting a hand weapon each, the three of you head out to market. You will need camels, food and water, desert clothes and perhaps a guide. Before you have even started looking, the guide presents itself in the guise of a white woman with long, dark curly hair, dressed in khaki with a hard hat typical of westerners in town.
“Americans?” she asks, standing in front of you proudly, hands on hips. Her German accent is very pronounced.
“Hal Green,” smiles Hal, holding out a hand.
“Of course, I should have recognized you. The famous playboy! What brings you to these parts?”
“And you are?” interjects Phil, wary of strangers, European or otherwise.
“Sorry, forgive me. Heidi von Rheinberg. I am a guide, of sorts, and translator for foreign visitors…like yourselves.”
“Well, that is perfect, Ms Rheinberg..” says Hal.
“Miss…or just Heidi will suffice,” she smiles, “I suspect you are in need of a guide?”
“That would be most useful. Money is no object, I’m sure we can come to some agreement. This is Phillip Graves of Boston and Nelly Jones from Michigan.”
“Welcome to Jaffa. So, what brings you here?” she asks.
“You know us millionaires, always looking for something new to see. We are heading to Jericho. From there, well, we’ll see.”
“Long trip. Well you’ll need camels and supplies. Let see what we can do,” she grins and leads the way into the market.
Heidi’s Turkish is excellent and she is obviously well known to the local merchants as she finds you the best deals for camels, food, local maps, jalabieh’s for the dessert and anything else you require (again, let me know if there’s anything else you need). As she barters she relays to you that one merchant has been dealing with another American not long before you came. On asking him to describe this American, the description matches that of Dr Jones. Apparently he has hired four ruthless mercenaries known as the Sharif Brothers. Questioning further about the Sharif brothers, the merchant suggests that they belong to some secret and blasphemous cult and that the traders fear greatly for the American.
“Damnit!” utters Hal, “We should get back to the guest house. What is he playing at?”
With several smelly, flea ridden camels in tow, you head back to your rooms, only to find the Dr gone and all ammunition and weapons you left with him are gone as well.
“Damn fool!” curses Hal again, “We should get moving. If he’s heading there without us, we might still catch him.”
Packing up your bags, Heidi offers to obtain any last minute items, then you set off. The camels are hard to ride, none of you have had the pleasure before, but thankfully the stormy and unusual weather conditions have subsided and you follow a trail that leads into an area that is used for farming. Mixed flocks of sheep and goat graze freely on the rich ground surrounding the city area.
After half a days travel, the land becomes increasingly desolate and the only signs of life are the lizards, scorpions and snakes that scuttle around the rocks to avoid the trampling hooves of your camels. The land itself is not completely lifeless. Although it is invariably bland and worthless to farm, amongst the rocks and from the golden sand, spring dry grasses and bush.
On the first night, a crack of thunder disturbs the camp. Heidi explains that the week you have chosen for your journey happens to be the first time in three years that the deserts have been plagued with such violent sandstorms. Some of the most hardened nomad tribes have sought the sanctity of many of the regional towns.
The thunder remains at a distance until the sun breaks for dawn. The early morning light cuts into the damp and heavy darkness so that you wake on the second day to a light morning dust-filled fog.
1st May, 1927
On the fifth evening of the journey, you encounter a group of colourfully clad merchants in bright robes. They are headed for Jaffa to sell their skilfully made carpets which have been brought from a distant culture, across vast desert wastes and through deep cavernous mountain passes. The carpets are draped over the saddles of several trailing camels. The travellers give your party a wide berth and your guide explains that it is the way of the desert to avoid confrontations with strangers, and that they mean no disrespect by their actions.
The next week of your journey is tedious and uneventful. Food never becomes too much of a problem as the ground offers enough fruits to restock your provisions. While in the high country you sometimes awaken to find frosts and on one brief occasion, a flurry of snow. However, after twelve days in the desert the daytime sun in the open terrain is becoming nearly unbearable.
9th May 1927
This thirteenth day of travel across the deserts has been one continual, but mild, dust storm, throughout. Night is beginning to fall and you expect Jericho to be but one day away.
Your camels tiresomely try to negotiate a particularly high bank and each of you must dismount and lead the animals up a treacherous slope. As you top the rise, you can see a small distant tower cut out of the horizon by the golden evening sky. In the short minutes it takes to approach the tower the wind turns to an icy chill and the blazon skies are dampened by the coming of the night.
The circular building appears to be a mosque which is approximately seventy feet high, and fifty feet wide. The sandstone walls are blasted smooth from the open attack of the wind, dust and sand. An unbarred archway in the structure faces your approach, over which, regular window mouths are situated approximately fifty or sixty feet above ground.
Moving in through the entrance, the interior consists of a very bare yard with a cracked tiled floor. There are steps, built into the design of the walls, which lead up to high balconies. In the centre of the courtyard there us a well, protected by a squat square wall about four feet high. Looking down, the well appears to have a drop of at least twenty feet.
The tiles of the high roof are in poor condition and twilight filters in through little holes, as it does through the doors and windows. Even in a state of disrepair. The mosque radiates tranquillity; and excellent sanctuary from the desert’s cutting night winds.
From above you are stunned to hear a voice, in a thick Arabic accent, “Throw down your weapons, or perhaps you will be dying!”
Glancing up you see protruding from the balcony overhead are the barrels of several rifles.

“Okay friends, let’s all be nice and careful here and we all get to walk away unharmed,” whispers Hal.
“It’s ok,” he calls out, “We mean no harm and only seek shelter from the storm. Who are you and what do you want?”
A shot rings out, hitting the floor at Hal’s feet, throwing up dust, “Drop the weapons!”
Hal throws his .45 to the floor and Phil his Derringer. Nelly is not carrying anything. A figure rises on a balcony. It is Dr Jones.
“I accept your surrender,” he grins.
Four swarthy looking Turks appear through and archway, rifles aimed at each of you, “Hands behind your backs,” yells one. You comply.
“The Sharif Brothers!” spits Heidi.
You are thrown roughly to the ground and your hands are bound to your feet. They search you for weapons, removing Hal’s concealed knives on his belt and boot. Jones appears on the lower floor.
“Why are you doing this, Dr?” asks Nelly.
“Why Miss Jones! I’m surprised they brought you along to such a rough part of the world. Such a shame.”
It is obvious to you that the Dr has changed, particularly in his stance and pose. One of the Turks drags your water bottles into the room and slashes them all in front of you, spilling the precious liquid into the sand. Another hands the map to the Dr, who smiles broadly as he takes it.
Another Turk carries coils of rope and throws them up over the wooden beams of the ceiling. Apparently not wanting to waste any more time; two of the Sharif Brothers proficiently chase up and around the surrounding steps of the balcony then jump and shin upward like spider monkies to the beams of the roof. Phil and Hal cry out as the ropes burn into their wrists and they are winched violently upright by their tied hands so they are hanging over well in mounting pain as their bones crack and threaten to leave their sockets.
Typing the other ends to the roofing, they scurry down to the ground. The other two brothers have led your camels into the entrance and hoist Heidi and Nelly onto the back of the camels and walk out without another word .
Hal and Phillip immediately begin to struggle with their bindings. After ten minutes, Phillip is getting somewhere but Hal drops almost dislocating a shoulder(- 2hp). Another ten minutes and Phillip has loosened the ropes and pulls himself up to the rafters. Slowly he pulls Hal up to safety and unties him.
Getting down is a lot harder than the brothers made it seem but after another 30 minutes, you are both safely on a balcony and find your way down to ground level. By then, your assailants are long gone. You can hear the storm rising as the night closes in and in the doorway stands a man, dressed in black shrouded robes, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a burning torch in the other.
Dropping the hood of his attire you recognise him instantly, medium build and relatively tall and very well preserved for his sixty eight years. It is explorer, Jonathan Moore.
“I would have got here sooner, but you hired the last camel in Jaffa. I’m not sure who had the most problems crossing the desert, me or the horse.”
“You did a good job for a dead man!” laughs Hal, rubbing his shoulder.
“Ah yes, rumours of my demise are greatly exaggerated. I was attacked by a bat-like creature in my home in Boston, which I managed to kill. I suspect it was created by a group of cultists from around the Dead Sea area, looking to get revenge when I inadvertently desecrated their religious ground. In fear of my life I left home and country to take the next boat out to Jaffa. I was expecting my friend and fellow explorer, Stephen Ashworth, to join me. I was sure that he would find my map being first to my house, but when I saw you on the streets of Jaffa, I knew you had found it.”
You tell him of Howard Crosswell and what happened in Tearnmouth and he finds it difficult to believe that he was anything to do with this sorry affair. He seems genuinely sad at the death of his friend and wishes he’d attended the funeral.
“All being said, I can only assume that the body found in my house was that of Stephen.”
You tell him of Dr Jones and the change in him which has led him to kidnapping the ladies.
“They won’t have got far – the storm is too bad to travel. They must have a camp nearby. We’ll sort out that little problem, then I’ll any questions you may have.”
Luckily your guns are still on the ground, the Brother’s obviously not expecting you to escape. The three of you head out in search of the camp.
Soon enough you find it, the crackling fire and remains of a roast jackel on a spit roast. Nelly and Heidi are tied up, lying not far off from the fire, sleeping, exhausted from trying to free themselves. The four brothers lie by the fire, apparently sleeping. There is no sign of the doctor. Creeping into the clearing, weapons drawn you look closer at the brothers. Their faces are pale and drawn of life and blood is scabbing around their cracked mouths. Half empty coffee cups lay on the ground.
Quickly cutting the girls free they tell you they saw Jones wander off towards the camels. All the brothers equipment is still here – rations, rifles and knives alond with plenty of water.

“It looks like the coffee has been poisoned,” says Jonathan, “It seems the good Dr has no qualms about murder.”
“Phil, secure the water and guns. I’ll check if Jones is still nearby, “ says Hal, checking his .45 is loaded and following the trail to where the camels were left. Heidi follows.
Searching the arabs, Phil comes up with food and drink for several days along with four rifles and several rounds of ammunition. In addition there is a length of rope, and eight knives with various lengths of blade.
Hal and Heidi return, stating the camels have gone and the winds have covered the trail.
“I suggest we eat and take rest and head onto Jericho in the morning,” says Jonathan.
“Agreed,” says Hal, taking a swig from his canteen, “Hold on, what’s that?”
You follow his gaze to one of the dead brothers and he reaches down and pulls aside the cloth of his robe, revealing a green dyed tattoo of a human skull. Pulling the cloth in the same place, it is revealed that they all have it.
“Some kind of Cult symbol,” says Jonathan.
You settle down to eat and Jonathan begins to fill you in on the story leading to this point.
“The year was 1890 and a small group of us, young archaeologists, were commissioned and funded by Miskatonic University. The team members were selected with care by Howard Crosswell, the project organiser. Howard, to his own amazement, was one of the most respected and reknowned members of his academic community. And this was surprising because he had not yet reached his 25th year.
“Howard was something of an adventurer, and the expedition he was leading in May of 1890 was but one of many archaeological excesses with which he indulged himself during his relatively short career. It all excited him; the taste of danger, the uncovering of secrets, the exploration of unexplained mysteries. May of 1890 was going to be a feast of unparalleled pleasure.
“Geraldine Oxenbury, a dendrochronologist in her late twenties, was also a sculptor with something of a minor cult following. Her favourite critic and admirer was myself apparently a celebrated historian with a broad knowledge of ancient cultures. My work had already exposed me to many supernatural events, objects and locations, and my knowledge of the occult was extensive. We were both chosen by Howard to complete his party of investigative explorers.
“We were selected partly for our specialist skills, which we possessed in abundance, but mostly for our ability and willingness to collaborate with each other. All three were excited and dismayed by the same kinds of ideas, and genuinely interested in each other's opinions. Most problems could be solved, most difficulties unravelled, because we were all willing to support and question, to challenge and hypothesise.
“The party set sail for New Zealand in May 1890. Some weeks later we docked at Dunedin, on New Zealand's South Island, and made contact with a group of British missionaries who gave us useful preliminary directions. The party travelled for many days through blistering heat in search of a people who seemed to be descended from certain Maori tribes and some curious, more ancient strain, whose origins were, as yet, unknown.
“Artifacts, mainly weapons, had been found in the area and their distinctive decoration had aroused in the three of us an unbearable degree of excitement. The possibility of meeting human beings capable of producing such mysterious designs was too stimulating a challenge for any of us to ignore.
“The expedition finally stumbled upon an area of mountainous terrain on the west coast, which was considered sacred by the indigenous population. Completely unaware of the sanctity of the area, we entered a cave complex containing a vast cavern. What we found resting in the immense darkness had us fleeing and scattered, temporarily devoid of sanity.
“What brought Howard Crosswell back to reality was the pounding waves of the Pacific, threatening to drown him. He lifted himself and walked in a daze along the shoreline, and eventually met up with the two of us, in different villages, as we all slowly made their way back towards Dunedin. We carried with us a tangible aura of fear and none of us was able to make direct reference to what we had witnessed.
“Days passed, filled with anything that would obscure our recent horrific encounter from our minds. Gradually I carefully encouraged the group to evaluate our experiences. Slowly we began the planning and deliberation which would take us towards the formulation of a plan by which we might dispel the black, incommensurable monstrosity from existence. It was clear that informing the authorities would undoubtedly cause unimaginable chaos, and could also lead to public curiosity and danger.
“If our assumption was correct, that this thing was dormant, then we needed a discreet, but effective, solution.
“I expressed an urgent need to consult certain references at my Boston residence. I suggested we split up and use our individual perspectives in our research. Hopefully, we would then formulate an effective strategy together.
“So it was decided that we would travel, separately, back to New England.
“Twelve weeks later we met up again at the Crosswell house. Each presented details of where our studies had taken us. Decisions had to be reached. We decided that we would work together, combining each of our ideas, gradually building up the constituent parts of the final plan of action.

“Dr Oxenbury held a phial of liquid, ultra-marine in colour, which she explained was an extremely potent acid that burned into almost everything that she had tested. In addition, once it was released, it took the form of a highly corrosive gas with a short term effectiveness, that dispersed in approximately five minutes.

“I retrieved, from my vast library, a tome which I believed to contain powers, and which would, if not entirely dispel, then at least restrain the creature from breathing fear into the world. Finally, Howard's initial idea of using high explosives was substituted for a more discreet remedy, in the form of a mortar device. By acquiring some fundamental military training, he would construct a device to propel grenade-like canisters of the acid, bathed in my magic.

“I also brought to the attention of the group a small and rather anonymous article which had appeared in the press at this time. It concerned a party of British missionaries who had failed to report back to their base, after journeying into the Greenstone Country in the South Island of New Zealand. A small event, but when you had the knowledge, and could guess why those missionaries would never be seen again, it held frightening significance.

“We bought passage on the British cargo ship, Antipope, docked in Boston, and headed for New Zealand. This particular journey was not to be funded by the University, and indeed, each of us agreed that the details of our trip should be kept secret throughout. As far as the University was concerned, we were spending time evaluating their latest expedition's findings before presenting us in the form of reports and seminars. These were matters far from our minds at this time, and all the details of the events were kept to ourselves.

“The steamship Antipope took us for three solid weeks through favourable waters of the Atlantic, towards the British Isles. England, was to be their half¬way point before following on to New Zealand. And for several hindering days we waited in silent and frustrated anticipation while the ship was laboriously loaded with cargo. The burdened vessel left the Liverpool dock-lands, and completed the route to New Zealand's South Island, three additional weeks later.
“We chartered the services of local fisherman; his small boat took the three around the coast to the Greenstone Mountains. We set foot on the shore, and moved across the jagged ground carrying only the parts of the liberating device. Quickly and carefully, we started to unpack and assemble the deadly device. We positioned it so that we would not need to venture too near the cave entrance. Each became engrossed in their own particular part of the assembly when suddenly we realised that we were not alone.

“Our situation was critical! Not only were we on the doorstep of some alien terror of almost incomprehensible influence, but now we seemed surrounded, in a unique preserve of time, by what we considered to be an ancient tribe of Maoris!

“The impromptu detonation of their explosive device disrupted us tribal gathering, but also consumed Dr Oxenbury in its vibrant, gaseous burst. Both Crosswell and myself had sustained burns and bruising, but our pain was stifled by a white wall of confusion and the loss of a very dear friend.
“Some years later, Howard, now married to Susan, one of his more intelligent students, was living a moderately reclusive existence. By 1916 their only child, Peter, had reached his eleventh birthday. The family seemed to be reasonably happy and resided at Crosswell House on the outskirts of Davenham, as had many generations of Crosswell before them.

“After what had happened to Geraldine, Howard and myself spent much of our time together. "A matter of such weight, should not rest on the shoulders of one man alone ", Howard had once said. Neither man had ever told anyone about what had happened!

“During the many evenings that I visited my friend, we would talk and have lengthy conversations. I became quite a friend of the family, and would tell of my continued adventures around the world. Unlike Crosswell, I had not married, and despite all that I had been through, I continued to delight the world in my career.

“The only area that caused the slightest ripple of tension between us was, of course, the Greenstone affair. Crosswell became aware that I knew more than I was letting on after my research and, against my better judgment, and knowing that only the most explicit answers would satisfy Crosswell, slowly began to reveal the details of my research. Our discussions inceasingly referred to occultic kindreds, which lurk on, above, within and beneath the Earth. Crosswell gathered as much reference material on the terrible learnings that he could find.

“He indulged in compulsive studies, and gradually he became more reclusive, refusing to see me, and even refusing to see Susan or Peter for lengthy periods.
“On the day of March 15th 1917, the Crosswell house was a place of mourning. During the night Susan Crosswell was found with her throat ripped out. It was later told of how the family dog had, without warning, gone into a mad frenzy when in the dead of night, Mrs Crosswell had apparently startled it, and was presumably mistaken for an intruder. Mr Crosswell, said to be in shock, was placed under temporary observation at the Herald Street Hospital. He was able to recall his wife going down to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he heard growling and screaming, he ran down the stairs and prized the dog off Mrs Crosswell, but he was too late. Another disturbing outcome was to result from this terrible tragedy. Peter had walked out of his room and into the kitchen. At precisely what time is not known, and stumbled onto the loathsome carnage. Since this time, he has not spoken a word. He was in such a state of stupefication that he was expected to spend an unlimited period under observation at Arkham’s sanitarium.
“That was the official story. The day after the catastrophe, I visited the house, and demanded the truth from Crosswell. He had been conducting studies of his own and over the previous few weeks he had stumbled upon a very rare conjuring, a summoning which involved the playing of flute music. Susan was glad to hear such gay notes, especially after the strange noise from beyond the cellar door. Little did she know her husband was summoning a creature known as a Shoggoth, a cosmic rogue of the Old Ones.
“The Old Ones?” interjects Hal.
Jonathan sighs, eyeing you, wondering if you can take the knowledge he is about to impart, “There as are entities in the universe, too vast for our mind to comprehend. Immensely powerful alien beings known as the Great Old Ones and they have a foothold on Earth thanks to entire cults and clans that keep their memories alive. Countless books have been written about them, many lost in time. The creature you saw in the cellar was a Shoggoth but it served an even greater master.
“Howard made contact with The Great Old One – Nyogtha – The Thing That Should Not Be, who informed Howard of a massive crystal generator, which was constructed by the Old Ones, many thousands of years ago. One of the books I spoke about was in Howard’s possession, The Book of Eibon. In that particular copy was a single page appendix, referred to as an ancient script, totally unreadable to humans. The generator apparently held the power to allow it to be read – a crystal from the generator would illuminate the language and its meaning would become unveiled.
“Having learned the location of the generator, Howard summoned a flying beast known as a Byakhee, and sent it to retrieve the crystal. It never returned. However, not long after, Susan found a pair of rings in Howard’s laundry. Confronting him, he could not explain there appearance. She suggested they advertise them in the lost and found columns of a the local newspaper but Howard suggested to avoid bogus claims, they should scan the pages themselves in the hope of finding the owner. Meanwhile, Howard kept on ring in his possession and Susan carried the other on a gold chain around her neck. Soon enough, Howard discovered that the diamonds encrusted in the ring had all the properties of a Crystal of the Elder Gods, an artifact connected to the Old Ones, and he could only make wild suppositions as to how it cam into their care.
“In order to continue his research, Howard needed an assistant so he overcame this difficulty by having Peter play a random barrage of notes from a piccolo while he gesticulated and danced in the pink glow of the ring he wore.
“When the cryptic characters on the page of the Book of Eibon began to animate, in the atmospheric pink haze of the cellar, Howard ordered the child up the stone steps. Securing the door behind him with a bolt and an enchantment known as an Elder Sign, which would seal the room against the unspeakable horror which was about to appear.
“By this time, Howard Crosswell had fallen into the bottomless pit of insanity. He instructed the monstor, “Do not leave this room.” Howard bolted the trapdoor to the cellar, not hearing the perverse cry of amusement from the dark.
“During that night, Howard was wakened by a terrible scream. With an immense and sudden urge of realization, he jumped from his bed, raced across the hallway and saw Peter standing, staring down at the lifeless, mauled body of his mother.
“Through the smoke of darkness, Howard saw with horror, and outstretched pseudopod, wrapping around and worrying at his wife’s head and neck. It slowly retracted to the confining blackness of the cellar, whilst showing a guilt and awareness that Howard had only seen previously in human emotions.
“The dog started barking, so after carrying Peter to his room, Howard let it into the house to avert the possibility of unwanted attention. Bludgeoning the dog to death with a saucepan, he called the police hours later.
“After hearing the horrific story I knew I could not forgive him, but felt at least partially responsible for the sorry mess. I vigourously advised Howard to get out of Davnham, out of the country, and attempt to erase his nightmare experiences. That day, Howard left for England, to a retreat of mine that I rarely used. That is the last I heard of him.
“Since them I have researched to find to solution and came across reference to an Emerald Statuette which could remedy the threat of the Great Old One. I led a party consisting of two other colleagues from Miskatonic, to the heart of Palestine. I withheld the purpose and danger of the expedition. We found the site easily enough but minutes after breaking the Temple’s seal, we experienced difficulties. We returned to the States five weeks later.
“I suspect, as you have managed to get this far, you are up for continuing the expedition where we left off. I’m getting a little old to do this kind of thing on my own. Does anyone have any questions?”

“Jonathan – I’m in,” says Hal, “And I’m sure everyone else will want to get to the end of this adventure with you after everything we’ve been through! Let’s get everything we need for this trip together – my resources are at your disposal, just say what you need and it will be yours.”
You prepare for the journey and Phillip takes various photos of the group. Heidi agrees to come with you on the journey.
On the next and fourteenth day of your desert journey you move into the most ancient city of Jericho; distinguished, in all the world, as having the longest history of continuous human occupation. The fertile ground surrounding its walls is kept green and healthy by the ever faithful, life-giving, Spring of Elisha, situated at the heart of the city. High in the breezy hills, herds of goats graze idly.
“It is said that in biblical times, the spring was made pure by the prophet Elisha, who sprinkled salts into the waters,” says Heidi, of the Spring, “Even to this day, great disasters can be foretold in the waves. The spring water is also said to contain the power of spiritual healing.”
“The Spring holds no interest for us. We should exchange your camels for horses, as the road ahead is more mountainous; ask around the market for information on the Doctor and move on,” says Jonathan.
The people of Jericho are similar to those of Jaffa, though perhaps more suspicious of foreigners. Doing just as Jonathan suggested, you find nothing with regards to the Doctor, but manage to secure a number of horses for the onward journey in addition to more supplies.
After leaving Jericho, you descend for two days, down narrow mountain passes to the banks of the revered River Jordan. For another three days you try to follow the bank, by finding paths around the rocky outcrops and crossing its many tributaries. Occasionally hot sulphurous springs, warmed by subterranean fires, bubble and stream down the sides of the cliff face. Eventually, the narrow channel opens out into the mouth of the Dead Sea.
The west shore of the Dead Sea is also mountainous, and for most of your journey you must travel along narrow ridges with the yellow surface of the water, sometimes hundreds of feet below you on your left, and bleak mountainous wastes above and to your right. On the first day of reaching the sea, the air is so clear that you are able to see the east bank, which is several miles across the water. But for the days that follow, the morning fog seems never to lift from the dark waters below. Most nights are incredibly cold but the rocks are riddled with natural cavities. On most evenings it is possible to find a shallow alcove, and sometimes a small cave, to set up your camp.
One night you are forced to camp in the open, with a small outcrop of rocks providing a little shelter.
Phillip, who nodded off on guard duty is awakened by a yell from inside one of the tents. Going over to check on Hal, he is upright, rubbing his eyes.
“You ok Hal?” asks Phil, “I heard a yell.”
“Sorry, bad dream,” replies Hal, getting up, “Let me take over guard duties. Looks like you could do with some sleep.”
You then hear a man’s cry and emerging from Hal’s tent you see Jonathan’s tent torn in half and flapping in the breeze. Passing the moon, you sight a spindly winged creature, like a huge bird or bat. In its claws is a man. Jonathan.
By the time the men have their rifles slung, the beast is out of sight.

“Come on, we should saddle up and get moving,” yells Nelly.

“OK, but next time we rest, we need to double the guard,” say Phillip.

“I agree,” says Hal, looking shaken and staring at the sky.

Packing up your gear you saddle up. All of Jonathon’s gear is still here so you collect that up too.

“Hang on. Something missing,” say’s Phil, looking around, “Remember he carried that fine leather sack with the Miskatonic emblem on it.”

Searching through the bags there is no sign of it but you do find a tattered thin book, written in what appears to be Chinese on delicate rice paper. None of you can read Chinese, but the title is Tao Te Ching by Lao Tse. Seeing the title, Phillip takes a deep intake of breath.

“Have you not heard of this?” he asks.

The others shrug.

“Lao Tse was an infinitely profound philosopher of 6th century BC. It is considered one of the oldest books in the world!”
Very carefully, he flips through, looking for something he might understand. About halfway through the book is a single sheet of paper, loosely inserted, containing what is probably a translation of the facing page.

“Sometimes, we are persuaded towards thinking of freedom as a possession that can be taken or held, but it is really the absence of things that can be taken or held, but it is really the absence of things that can bring freedom into being. In the universal laws of balance, the acceptance of an excessive force in a particular direction can produce the growth of the opposing force in a particular direction can produce the growth of the opposing extremity. Hence, existence was produced from nonexistence, and the things that should not be can become our reality.
This particular situation is one of real danger, caused partly by and manifested in the affairs of man. The danger is inspired by the overwhelming tendencies within the cosmos, by conflicts in our innermost attitudes and that which is brought about by our immediate environment. It will take skill to overcome the difficulties, but managed properly, this time of challenge can deliver the very creativity of our species.
If possible, convince others of the soundness of their ideas by demonstrating the good effects of their ideas by demonstrating the good effects of their actions through the clarity of your thought. If, as a result of this, they cannot support you then they are not necessary. Keep moving. Do not dally in the danger.
Tao Te Ching
Lao Tse (sixth century BC) “

You pack up the gear and ponder on the message.

“I had a strange dream last night I must tell you of,” says Hal, as you start to trot away from the camp, “I dreamt that I was in a bed with black satin sheets, and awoke to cross to a window in the room in which I slept. I saw a great ark sail across the sky, and then the sky seemed to melt. I don’t know what to make of it, but it truly disturbed me. I have never dreamt such a thing before; perhaps somehow it is linked to the appearance of the strange creature?”

A few hours after you have broken camp. The mountains level gradually so that it becomes possible for your mounts to get closer to the waters below, and a cool refreshing wind gently brushes the trees and shrubs releasing their delicate perfumes.

“Wait,” whispers Nelly, stopping you in your tracks, “Hear that?”

Hal and Heidi nod but Phillip appears to be straining to hear.

“It’s Arabic,” whispers Nelly, “Ceremonious chanting. One man, by the sound of it.”

You proceed with caution, coming upon a small river, thirty feet wide, seeping into the flat, limitless waters of the Dead Sea, to your right.

“This must be ‘The River of Flaming Fire’ “ says Hal.

To your left, it ends abruptly at the face of the mountainside which is marked on your map as ‘The Very High Mountain’ Looking down through trees on the far bank, you notice Dr Jones and three unrecognisable crimson-robed figures at the water’s edge, engaged in a ceremony of some manner. None appear to have seen your approach by the cover of the rocks.

“Do you understand any of it, Nelly?” whispers Hal.

“Just a few words...never true....minds...Hail to you....all-worthy...pure....”

The doctor now is lying on a small flat raft-like boat which is perched just into the water. The first robed figure is quietly chanting while a second man is gracefully placing leaves, strips of bark and wild flowers in and around the boat. The third man, similarly, is decorating the doctor’s hair and clothes. The first figure finishes his quiet chanting and turns to face the mountain. He spreads his arms with religious pomposity.

Although not instantly recognisable, there seems to be a gigantic human face carved into the mountainside, just where the river meets the rocks. The abstract features are crafted in such a way that the bottom lip of the mouth is submerged, just beneath the waterline.

Even as you watch, flames spew out of the mouth, spreading and roaring out and engulfing the surface of the river. Against the flow of the fire, the craft moves, apparently unaided towards the orifice.

“I’m not sure if Dr Ulrich is about to be sacrificed or gain entry to the mountain for some nefarious reason. Either way, we should try and stop him. Perhaps we can try and question the hooded figures if we hold them at gunpoint,” says Hal, watching raft drift toward the gaping maw in the mountain.

“To hell with that,” grunts Phil, cocking his bolt action and aiming directly at Ulrich, “I’m putting a bullet through his head.”

There is a loud crack as the rifle fires, hitting Ulrich in the side. He rolls off the raft and the hooded figures scatter, taking cover. The raft bobs and rocks and continues to move toward the maw. Suddenly, Ulrich bursts through the surface of the fiery water and inhumanly begins to swim toward the entrance. You notice the raft is attached to a coil of rope on the other side on the river that is slowly unravelling as it drifts. Ulrich goes out of sight into the entrance, swimming past the raft.

“Phil, cover me, I’m going to the other bank to pull that boat back,” says Hal, pulling his revolver and checking it. Running toward the cave entrance, he leaps onto it and makes his way over the rocky surface to the other bank, the flame licking at him as he passes. The raft disappears after the Dr into the entrance. As Hal hits the bank on the other side, the three hooded figures break cover and run at him, wielding viscious looking curved daggers. Hal takes aim, shooting one in the chest, dropping him to the ground.

A rifle shot rings out as another one is hit in the left arm by Phil.
With a crazed shriek, the first launches himself at Hal, knife flashing, but Hal dodges the blow. The second comes in from the side, stabbing him in the side (-5hp) Hal collapses unconscious.

Moments later, Heidi is there, laying a punch to the injured cultist, knocking him backwards. Phil has also started running, leaving his rifle and drawing his more effective revolver. With a single shot he hits the remaining cultist in the forehead as he is about to stab Heidi.

Grabbing his rifle, Nelly follows and they reach the other bank in seconds, running to help Hal.

“Heidi, press here. Keep the pressure on,” she yells, grabbing her medical kit. The wound is not serious and she patches it up quickly, bringing Hal round with smelling salts.

Meanwhile Phil grabs the rope and pulls. There is no resistance and the raft emerges from the mouth of the cave and comes towards you.


“Come on, we can follow through the flames on this thing,” yells Phil, dragging the raft the last few feet.

Nelly helps Hal onboard, then she and Heidi get on followed by Phil. Phil hands Nelly one of the knives from the cultists, “Just in case.” Heidi, it seems, has already taken one.

Through the flames that lick all around, you steer the boat into the mouth in the side of The Very High Mountain. The opening is only a little higher than the boat so you have to crouch as you enter the cave. The side of the boat scrapes along the sides and unable to row, you use the ceiling as leverage, pushing the boat on. Dust falls in your faces as the boats scrapes the stone.

A little further in, you notice hieroglyphics deeply etched into the ceiling, illuminated by the burning water. The style is exactly the same as the back of Jonathon’s map.

The tunnel soon opens out into a high, cubic cavernous chamber, approximately thirty feet high and wide. On the opposite side of the room, the fiery water, that richly lights the walls, laps upon a granite shore, lighting a doorway cut into the hard stone wall, with yawning darkness beyond.

Twenty feet away, on the dry cave floor, the doctor is apparently being blessed by a disrobed man. There is also a large coil of rope and four large overturned jars, their lips dripping with a greasy liquid.

As you draw closer to the pair on the shore, you see that the naked guardian is uneasy and that the doctor is scabbed and blackened with multiple and torturous burns from the smelting river. The gunshot wound in his side seems to have been cauterised by the flames. As the Doctor sees you he becomes visibily startled and the two struggle as he attempts to ply himself free from the grip of the cultist.

The man is soon on the ground, weeping, as the doctor lurches through the archway and into the darkness.

You reach the bank and Phillip climbs off, pointing his gun at the cowering naked man. He babbles in Arabic. Phil looks at Nelly but she just shrugs.

“He wants to give you the blessing ceremony,” says Heidi, comprehending the man, “It takes just one hour.”

“We don’t have one hour, let’s go,” says Phil.

Suddenly from the archway comes a wrenching scream.

“I have seen too many strange things over these past weeks to turn down a blessing...I think that perhaps we can spare one hour if it will spare our lives!” says Hal, “Heidi, can you ask the man what the consequences are if we don’t have a blessing? Judging from the not terribly good Doctor’s scream, I suspect that the consequences may be rather dire.”

Heidi speaks quickly to the wide eyed cultist, then translates his reply, “We’ll die,” she says simply.

“And if we do?” asks Phillip.

“We’ll die...” says Heidi, looking fearfully at the cultist drawing a wicked looking long bladed knife.

Phillip’s reactions are lightening fast. Bringing up the rifle, he fires point blank at the cultist, blasting him across the room, the knife clattering across the floor. Reloading he readies to follow the doctor.

“No blessing then, I guess,” says Hal, checking his own gun before heading toward the archway.

Passing through the archway you move into a room stretching about ninety feet ahead of you and about thirty feet wide. Through a thin, greenish, oily film which covers everything, you can see and feel that the black stone floor, ceiling and walls, have an onyx-smooth texture with a silvery ash stipple. It is quite difficult to keep from slipping on the slime coated floor, and the walls look impossible to climb.

About one third of the way into the room, the floor opens in an abrupt fall. To all appearances the pit is bottomless and stretches squarely across the entire width of the room.

Projecting out from the far wall, and reaching into the room, is the gigantic likeness of some nightmare horror, carved from the same dark marbled stone as the rest of the chamber. The statue is fundamentally humanoid, with devilish spines covering its form. The reaching claws, and what might be a spiny tongue, are extended to a point only ten feet from your ledge, over the abyss.

Through the darkness, it is difficult to see further than the monument’s spiny torso, but shining your light into the distance, beyond the pit, another ledge is evident. This opposite ledge is lower than yours and possesses a large number of long spikes which protrude at an angle, presumably to discourage any who might attempt to leap the thirty foot chasm. Beyond this, there is an archway tucked into the wall beneath the reaching stone.

Looking more carefully across the divide, you can see the impaled, hanging body of Dr Jones. His must have been the scream you heard from the previous cavern, and he seems to have leapt headlong into the shadows of death.

Then, appallingly, the lifeless body of the doctor suddenly convulses and he lifts himself out of the cold, bitter spikes of metal, and limps and shambles out through the nearby arch.

Hal, shocked by the sight, instantly vomits into the pit.

“What abominations do we face here,” gasps Hal, visibly shaken, “This is truly the stuff of nightmares, but we must get ourselves across this chasm. I think I would prefer using a different route to the Doctor though.”

Hal starts tying the rope into a lasso, “Unless anyone has a better idea?”
“Try and lasso the statue and pull it down. I think there’s some kind of trap,” mutters Phil, checking his gun, “If we meet the doctor again we'll need heavy artillery.”

It takes two attempts, but he gets it, the knot tightening around the head of the statue. Hal pulls with all his strength and the statue begins the lower, the stone grinding. As it does, the spikes slowly withdraw. Tying the rope to secure it, Hal begins to climb slowly across the pit, reaching the other side safely.

One by one you clamber along the rope, until all four of you reach the point where the Doctor dragged himself of the spikes, blood covering the stone and leaving a gory trail through the arch. You follow.

Beyond the arch, a warm, damp corridor, ten feet wide, leads to steps which are carved, down, into the subterranean rock. A bloody trail leads unevenly along the corridor and down the steps. In the condensing humidity, you descend the slippery steps down until you come to a sheer twelve foot drop onto more downward steps below.

While clambering down, you notice a singular and unusual image worked into the vertical surface of this gigantic step; it is the hieroglyph of a great snake, walking with the legs of a man. Depicted, are many large and deadly spears thrust into the creature from all around.

Below you, another series of numbing screams echo from the depths. The lower sets of steps continue down until there is a small landing and a hasty turn to the right. At this point the facing walls are splashed with dripping gore and a severed human leg lies shivering! Nelly screams. Hal and Phil clutch their stomachs, wretching. Only your guide remains calm.

The thinning trail continues down a third set of twenty or so steps and into and through a new chamber. The walls, floor and ceiling of this thirty by thirty foot chamber are lined with a glass-like mosaic depicting an endless variety of serpents; spitting lizards, coiling adders and striking cobras. Each section of the intricate and majestic pattern is both abstract and direly realistic. The floor’s filthy surface is a coagulation of mud, like rotting bark, with fresh blood streaking its centre.

“Wait here,” Hal says to the others, before lurching back up the steps, three at a time. Moments later he returns, clutching the leg, gore dripping from the wound, appearing almost black in the dim light.

He then launches the leg into the centre of the room where it lands with a thump. Suddenly needle-like splinters shoot in all directions from the scaled slits of the reptilian eyes and mouths which decorate the walls.

Hal carefully studies where they came from. Taking a rock from the ground nearby he rolls it across the floor. It rolls about three feet and as it does more darts fly, first from the side closest to you and as the rock rolls from further into room.

“Notice they’re about three feet up. If we crawl, we won’t get hit,” says Hal.

Getting down onto his belly he begins to inch through the mud and rotting bark, the stench filling his nortrils. The others follow one at a time, darts flying overhead. Phillip however, is not so sure. His large build means he’s likely to be hit.

“I’ll hold back here,” says Phil, “Just to be sure.”

“Be safe. We’ll see you on the way out,” shouts Hal, and he, Nelly and Heidi walk through the arch of the fourth area. It is then that Hal stops in his tracks.

“The translation! The translation the Jeremiah did from the hieroglyphs at Moore’s house. Phil, have you still got it?”

Phil reaching into his pocket, pulling out the paper. Hal scrambles back under the flying darts, takes the paper and returns to the ladies on the other side of the room.

“Him who is in his burning in the Celestial Waters is the keeper of the second gate; the Great Old One who creases his own light. His fiery breath is in the faces of those whose hearts would move against us. He is a flame, the burner, the son of a flame, to whome was given his head after it had been cut off. My cavern is opened, the spirits fall within the darkness. Hail to you, Starry One and the sun folk of Fomalhaut,” reads Hal aloud, “The river of fire, “ he continues.

“Fly like the swallow; as for any god or any of the dead, who shall not lick their lips over him this day, shall fall into the depths of the iron barley, in which lies the Keeper of the Third Gate. He is the Field of Rushes whose height is infinite. The statue and iron spikes?”

“The Keeper of the Fourth Gate is the father of serpents, he who lives on snakes. He who is sharp of glance, who cuts them down so only the serpent shall pass. As like the Mound of Spirits whose faces are never downcast, his minions are the Caster of Knives by which men do not pass. Only serpents pass, crawling on bellies. That means the next lines will tell us what is to come.”

“The Keeper of the Fifth Gate is the mighty shifter of face; he who reigns and bathes and drinks of their gore. Offer to Great Cthulhu your precious stones and seventeen casks of wine, ten-and-a-half fields of barley and the Insence of Yuggoth, or cover your head for he is of ruddy hale; one mighty of magic and his eyes have caused him to benefit therefrom. Limitless eternity is given to him, for he is He Who Inherited Eternity, to whom everlasting was given in his tides of a million years.
Traiterous Nygotha is a prisoner of himself, grim of visage who repels the aggressor. The Thing That Should Not Be, he whose face is inverted and many-shaped, who eats the corruption of his hinder-parts.”

The three walk through the arch into the fourth area, where the pungent, stultifying odours already begin to churn and convulse your stomach. Lighting the room reveals several steps leading down into the chamber. The room is fashioned into two areas, each about thirty feet square.

The first area, which begins at the foot of the steps, is bare, but for the striking presence of a large and gruesome statue. The head of the monsterous form is like an octopus with an unseen mouth and a beard of tentacles. It first seems to be seated upon a throne , but upon closer inspections you can see that these are bat-like wings wrapped, like curtains of lace, behind and above it. Its clawed hands reach forward as though receiving the ultimate sacrifice.

Looking into the far half of the chamber you can see the familiar bloody trail leading into a mire of unbelievably putrid foulness. At this point, the floor is sunken and filled with gore falling from a grated ceiling. Behind the bars, human skulls, limbs and bodies remain dangling, paralysed in varying states of decay.

You can see that beyond the pool, there is an archway in the far wall and you can hear a muffled sound of thunder from even far below. Nelly faints. Heidi screams in terror and runs back through the arch. The sound of darts firing and Phil screaming “No!” makes you realize the worst.

Hal stands alone and stares at the horror before him.