I’ve come to the conclusion that there must be a ‘paper fairy’ - someone who is delivering me a paper other than my regular delivery boy.  I made this deduction when I returned home this evening to find another newspaper on the doorstep, in addition to the one that arrived before 2 when I went out and discovered it.  So who is the kind soul who is doing this?  Where are they getting the extra paper?  Is the newspaper office making a mistake and they have me down for double delivery?  Are they charging me for two?  Did my delivery kid go off the deep end?  I have been extra vocal in my complaints about the delivery kid lately - maybe someone just wanted to shut me up.  The last straw was when the kid delivered my paper in a plastic bag on a rainy day last week, and the paper still got soaked somehow.  I hate to call the office and complain since he’s just a kid, but that day I thought about it.

So anyway, I thought if the paper fairy is reading my blog, at least I’d thank him or her - I do appreciate your efforts.  It’s been nice to participate in conversations about the paper since for the past two days, I’ve had time to glance at the headlines before I go out for the evening.  And if the double delivery continues, chances are between my two daily papers, on rainy days at least one will be dry!

 
> > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >

The Cowardly Lion, fictional movie character, 1939

Drew Peterson, suspected wife murderer, 2008

I got an email a few months ago comparing a bunch of people’s faces to other pictures.  It was funny to see the resemblance between people you wouldn’t have otherwise thought about - like the two pictured above.

For those of you who don’t know, Drew Peterson is a former police officer who lives in the suburbs of Chicago.  He is somewhat of a celebrity these days because his young 4th wife Stacy went missing over a year ago.  During the search for her, his 3rd wife’s body was exhumed and another autopsy was performed.  Following this autopsy, they changed the 3rd wife’s cause of death from accidental drowning to homicide.  This and other aspects of this case always point to Drew being responsible for some sort of foul play on Stacy.  The man is very smug, and some of the things he’s said to the media are shockingly rude and callous toward Stacy.  He is an infamous jerk, and I think he actually likes the public and media attention.  I’ve take an interest in the case because I’m originally from the area where they lived, and during the national coverage of this case, I follow along, knowing the towns and areas they’re talking about.  Drew was on the Dr. Phil show the other day, and he was smug as ever…  He is in court currently on a weapons charge, and I got the idea to compare his picture to the cowardly lion when someone posted a comment on the story on dailyherald.com - good observation!  If I can dig out that original email comparing the pictures, I should post it on my blog and add these two to the email!

Changeling is a “period thriller”; the period being 1928-1935.  The movie is based on the true story of Christine Collins, a single working mom whose 9-year-old son goes missing.  What follows is the tale of one woman’s plight as she seeks justice in an unjust world where women don’t even really have a voice.  I’m going to have to stop giving the plot synopsis there, however, because it was so great for me to watch the film only knowing about it what I’ve shared with you - I recommend you don’t research the story until after you see the movie.  I didn’t know the course the events would take, even though it’s really easy to find out since it’s based on a true story - it probably stays closer to the actual events than do most movies based upon true stories.  After you watch the movie, you can look up the real story and see how close they were, and if you’re like me, you’ll wonder why they changed and left out the things they did in the movie.

The acting is great, the cinematography is breathtaking, and the direction (Clint Eastwood) is incredible.  The movie really gives you a vision of what everyday life might have been like in 1928.  Angelina Jolie is a really good actress - I can’t stand all of the publicity stunts she pulls over in her personal life, but as an actress, she’s proven herself with this film alone.  Amy Ryan (you might recognize her as Holly from The Office - need her back in the Office though!) is also amazing in this movie, and I’ll say the same for John Malkovich and Jeffrey Donovan, who played the villian you loved to hate.  The movie is lengthy at 2 hours and 20 minutes, but the time flies by as the plot unravels.  I was never bored, never lost, and thoroughly entertained the entire time.  Changeling has a story to tell, and its story is riveting, as is the movie.  I highly recommend this movie!!!

The Haunter in the Hills 1
by: Max_Writer
Posted on: 10-08-2008 @ 04:44 pm
 

A quick note needs to be added before this journal entry.

The Haunter in the Hills (my title) appeared in the appendix of the 3rd Edition Call of C’thulhu boxed set as a scenario vignette for a beginning scenario for a campaign. In preparing to run a group of people who had never before played Call of C’thulhu, I stumbled across it and was intrigued by it. Unfortunately, though the introduction was very solid, there were no details past the sheriff’s fate. I thought this a great way to get characters together, so I took it upon myself to get a scenario together.

Moretown and Dr. Haylett are both real, as is the article by the Honorable D. P. THOMPSON of Montpelier. The Mad River Valley exists and the roads that the investigators are on are also real and, I assume, were there in 1925.

This is my first scenario for Call of C’thulhu (up to now, I’ve used published scenarios) and I hope you enjoy the story that came from it. This is merely part one as the investigators have not yet solved it. I’m hoping to run again in a month or so for this group.

Enjoy …
Monday, October 6, 2008

(After playing the original Call of C’thulhu scenario “Haunter in the Hills” from noon to 5 p.m. Saturday with Kim, Chris, Lisa, Crystal, and John).

In September of 1925, an unsettling event occurred which would forever change the lives of five people. This is their story.

It was a cool Autumn Saturday on that fateful September 19, 1925. A tour bus wound along a narrow hillside road in Vermont. Though the fall foliage was beautiful, the cast of the day had dulled and the once jovial passengers were silent.

They were all from Boston though none of them knew each other.

Professor Katie Brooks was a tall, slim middle-aged woman, and, if not exactly attractive, was not unattractive either. She had shoulder-length hair that was a respectable, if not a striking, brown. She wore glasses and a gray men’s hat and a tan wool sweater. She wore trousers as well and carried a good-sized purse. She was a Professor of Science at Radcliffe.

Charles Puccano was skinny and of average height. He had dark hair and eyes and wore a nice suit though his shoes were old and well-used. He wore a baseball cap and appeared to be in his 20s. Though he was not handsome, his hair was perfectly cut and he read a newspaper. He was glad to be taking a day off from his barbershop. A brand new Kodak camera sat on the seat next to him. He’d purchased it especially for the trip.

Grace O’Conner was very tall and slim as well. She had frizzy red hair and lots of freckles. She wore a dress with a floral pattern and nothing about her said she worked at the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston.

Claire McAdams was a tall, curvy woman. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and though she was not particularly pretty, she carried herself with a grace that bespoke the stage. The talent agent was wearing a pink dress suit and appeared to be very young.

Finally, Jason Carthage was a short slim man in a fine suit and a bowler. He was also blonde and had green eyes that looked over the other passengers. He carried a fine walking stick and wore a dark suit. He was also middle-aged.

The tour bus was primitively arranged. There were narrow seats for about 20 passengers arranged on each side of the central isle. The windows had velvet curtains, a little touch of luxury drawn back by straps to let in the daylight. All of the passenger wore coats as the bus wasn’t heated and all of them had long been aware that there was no luxury in the suspension of the bus. Every rut was like a land mine and some of them had headaches.

The day trip up to Montpelier, Vermont, included a night’s stay at a local hotel and that evening and Sunday morning to tour the city and look at the changing leaves of Vermont. Charles Puccano had saved up all year for the trip, his barbershop not having done great business in 1925.

The driver, old Hiram Sikes, was the one source of comfort in the pioneering ritual of educational travel. Sikes’ quick wit and thorough knowledge of the country had made the bumps and sways of the pitiful roads into something at least memorable if not comfortable. Everyone was looking forward to getting to Montpelier but everyone was glad they made the trip with Hiram.

In a town called Northfield Falls, they came to a detour sign. Hiram said that because of the detour, the trip would be a a half hour or so longer. He turned the bus down the detour, a narrow road that ran between the Vermont hills.

As the afternoon darkened and got more chilly, Hiram turned more and more to jokes about his arthritis.

Ten minutes later, in a saddle between two hills, the bus stopped without warning or symptom. Advising the tourists that they may as well get out and stretch their legs, Hiram pulled out a leather-wrapped package from beneath his seat and left the bus.

Puccano followed him and saw that the package was actually a tool kit filled with automotive tools. Hiram laid it out on the fender and opened the hood. He got to work on the engine while Puccano watched for a few moments before he went back to his seat on the bus and opened up his newspaper again.

O’Conner got off the bus and lit a cigarette, looking at the surrounding wooded mountains. Claire McAdams joined her and chatted with her, then went back onto the bus herself.

To the north was a beautiful prospect of fall trees and a little town a few miles away. To the south was an unusual grove of flaming red birches.

Carthage left the bus with his binoculars and headed up one of the nearby hills. He found a clear spot and looked at the nearby town. It appeared to be a very small village with little more than a single road running through it. He could see a narrow river running behind the village.

Professor Brooks left the bus with her own camera and headed towards the flaming red birches. She had never seen their like before. She knew that the color wouldn’t show up on film but still thought it might be worth a picture.

She was several hundred yards from the others when she entered the birches and looked around, amazed at the color of the leaves. She finally looked down and saw the thing on the ground ahead.

It was at least as large as a man, possibly larger, and squirmed on the ground though it appeared to have large wings of some kind of membrane pulled tight between protuberances of thin bone. The pink, blasphemous thing seemed to be composed of pyramided, fleshing rings and was covered with antenna or projectiles of some kind where the head should be. It didn’t have an kind of discernible face but did have many sets of paired appendages.

Professor Brooks gasped and turned and ran away as fast as she could.

* * *

The others were still just loitering around or on the bus when the tall woman dressed as a man came running back like something terrible was chasing her. She called out for them to leave, to get out of there. Puccano left the bus as she ran up.

“Settle down!” Puccano told the woman. “Tell us what you saw.”

Professor Brooks was out of breath and muttering, barely coherent.

“It was this … it was this … it was this …” she gibbered.

Carthage, down the road, was walking back, having heard the commotion. Sikes had stopped his work on the engine of the bus.

“Lots of feet,” Brooks said. “And a face with … no face. It’s big. It’s big.”

“Did you ever think of going into acting?” McAdams asked, peeking out of one of the open windows on the bus.

Puccano gave her a look.

“It’s big!” Brooks said again.

“Where was it?” Puccano asked.

“I don’t know,” Brooks said. “It’s big. It’s big.”

As Carthage approached, the others looked at each other.

“Was it a tree?” McAdams quipped from the window.

Brooks just glared at her.

“No, it wasn’t a tree!” she yelled. “A tree doesn’t have this big pink thing on it and no face! It was unnatural.”

“Right,” McAdams said doubtfully.

“Go look!” Brooks shouted at her.

“No wonder I couldn’t find anything—” Hiram said. He stopped speaking suddenly and then looked at his passengers.

“I’ll go look,” Puccano said.

“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Hiram said. “Look, I’m going to have to ask all you folks to get back on the bus.”

“Fine by me!” Brooks said, heading onto the vehicle.

“There’s a thing out there!” Puccano said.

“I know, I just need you stay on the bus,” Hiram said. “I’m going to need to investigate. All you people are my responsibility and I need you to get back on the bus.”

“I want to go with you!” Puccano said.

Hiram was gathering up his tools. He rolled up the tool kit and closed the hood of the bus.

“I can’t take you sir,” Hiram said. “I’ve … everyone here’s my responsibility and that’s my fault. I’m asking you just please, please get back on the bus.”

“I’d like to go with you,” Puccano said.

“I understand that sir but—” Hiram said.

Carthage was climbing back on the bus as well.

“If you can just wait here, I won’t be long,” Hiram said. “I promise.”

“Hurry,” Professor Brooks said.

“I’m giving you two minutes and them I’m coming,” Puccano said.

“Just please stay on the bus,” Hiram said, herding them all back onto the bus.

He put the tools back on his seat. He reached under the seat and took something out, tucking it into his shirt. Only a few of them noticed that it was a revolver.

Carthage saw it.

“Do you need some help sir?” he asked.

He turned the handle on his cane and lifted it to reveal a sword blade within.

“Uh … thank you sir,” Hiram said. “But please just stay on the bus.”

As they got back on the bus, they all noticed that Professor Brooks seemed very anxious and kept looking around with wild eyes.

“Was it some kind of animal?” McAdams asked the nervous woman.

“Was it chasing you?” Puccano asked her. “Was it coming after you?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It was squirming on the ground and it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“How big was it?” Carthage asked.

“Big,” Professor Brooks replied.

Puccano had gone down onto the running board of the bus and was looking out the open door towards the woods where Sikes had disappeared. The shadows continued to lengthen in the gloomy afternoon.

“It was big,” Professor Brooks said again.

“And pink,” McAdams said with a frown.

“Pink,” Brooks nodded. She stared blankly at the woman a moment. “I don’t like pink either but it was pink.”

“I like pink,” McAdams said, gesturing at her pink dress.

Professor Brooks ignored the comment and looked out of the window.

“Where is the driver?” she said. “Can we go?”

She kept glancing nervously back at the grove of flaming red birch trees. She continually asked if they could go and where the bus driver was.

Jason Carthage got out of the bus, taking the crank with him, and tried to get the engine started. It wouldn’t turn over.

“We’ll give him some time,” he said to the others when he got back on the bus.

He drew out his binoculars and looked towards the unusual-looking grove of flaming red birches.

Birches turn yellow in the fall, don’t they? he thought.

Puccano looked at the woods where Sikes had disappeared and then at his watch.

“It’s been two minutes,” he said. “I’m going to go look for him.”

He drew out a .38 revolver from his jacket pocket and showed it to the others.

“Well, he took a gun with him too,” McAdams said.

“He did?” Puccano asked.

He hadn’t seen that.

“Yeah,” McAdams replied.

Carthage nodded.

“He’s probably fine,” McAdams said. “I haven’t heard any gunshots.”

“Well, I’ll back him up,” Puccano said.

“What if shoots you?” McAdams asked.

The man just frowned at her.

“You don’t want to go down there,” Professor Brooks said to Puccano.

“How big is this thing?” Puccano asked her.

“Big!”

“Bigger than a person?”

“Bigger than me, yes!”

“How fast was it moving?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it moving?”

“It was moving across the … it was—”

“How many feet would you say it had?”

“Lots.”

“Hundreds?”

“Lots. I don’t know, I didn’t really take the time to count them all, okay? It was lots.”

“Pink?”

“Pink. Pink. Do you see him yet? Can we go? Let’s just go.”

Puccano stepped off the bus.

“No no!” Professor Brooks said. “I meant all of us.”

Puccano disappeared into the forest where he’d seen Sikes go. Carthage got off the bus with the hand crank and tried to crank the engine again without luck.

* * *

Puccano saw no sign of the older man and after looking for a short time, he returned to the bus. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him. He found the other man who had been a passenger on the bus outside when he returned.

“Mr. … uh …” Carthage said.

“Puccano,” Puccano said. “Charles Puccano.”

“Charles, I’m Jason Carthage,” Cartage said, shaking his hand. “I tried to start the bus and it wouldn’t turn over.”

Puccano asked what Carthage did for a living and learned he was a museum curator with the Boston Museum of Art. He told Puccano that as they got back on the bus. The woman who’d seen the thing turned to him as he said it.

“Katie Brooks,” she said, holding out a hand. “Science Department at Radcliffe.”

Puccano introduced himself to her as well, telling her to call him Charlie.

“Claire McAdams!” Claire said. “Hi.”

“My name is Grace,” Grace said. “Grace O’Conner.”

Carthage told them there was a town a couple of miles down the road he thought. Brooks was all for going there. Puccano asked if they should take a look at the engine. He grabbed the leather bound tools off the seat and headed out to look examine it with Carthage. They could find nothing wrong with it.

When he and Carthage came back into the bus, they discussed leaving the vehicle and heading for the small town Carthage had seen in the distance. Professor Brooks seemed very nervous about leaving the bus.

“Are you leaving the bus too?” she asked Carthage.

“I don’t know yet,” the man replied, thinking.

He noted that whatever happened, they should probably all stay together.

“Katie,” Puccano said. “Is it Katie?”

“Yes,” Professor Brooks replied.

“I say we get out of the bus,” Puccano went on. “We stick together. I have a revolver.” He turned to Carthage. “You have a sword. Do we have any other weapons?”

“What about the driver?” Professor Brooks said quietly.

The others looked at each other.

“We can’t leave him down here,” Brooks said.

“He left us here,” McAdams said.

They talked about it for a few minutes and decided to leave a note. O’Conner said she’d write it and Puccano told Brooks there was nothing they could do there. Carthage pointed out there was no food on the bus or rest rooms.

“How far away is that town?” Puccano said. “Two miles away?”

“As the crow flies,” Carthage pointed out. “It could be farther. I don’t know how these mountain roads go.”

As O’Conner was finishing the note and they were preparing to leave the bus, they suddenly saw Hiram up the road, just standing in the middle of the road and looking down at the bus. Puccano went down to the running board.

“Hiram!” he called.

The old man waved at them.

“Are you okay?” Puccano yelled.

“Start the bus and follow me!” the man yelled back.

His voice sounded strange, almost like his teeth were chattering.

“We can’t get it started!” Puccano yelled back.

Hiram just waved for them to head that way.

“Well, that’s kind of strange,” McAdams said.

Carthage picked up the crank and went out in front of the bus. He cranked it and the engine roared to life. Hiram headed further up the road where it curved to the right and was quickly lost to sight.

“Jason, you know how to drive?” Puccano said.

Carthage had boarded the bus and looked over the various levers and pedals.

“Why don’t you drive us?” Puccano said.

The man shrugged his shoulders and put the bus into gear. He started to drive them down the road and as they went around the curve, they all saw the old man sprawled in the road in front of the bus. Carthage brought the bus to a stop.

“Jason, you want to come with me?” Puccano said, opening the bus door.

“Uh … we just saw him … there—” Carthage said.

“He’s lying in the road,” Puccano said.

He climbed off the bus as Carthage engaged the parking brake and took the bus out of gear.

“We just saw him,” Carthage said, going after Puccano. “This is strange.”

O’Conner also got off the bus, telling Carthage she had some first aid skills.

Puccano rolled the old man over and O’Conner checked for a pulse at his wrist and his throat.

Sikes was dead.

“Ye gods,” Carthage said.

Puccano searched the man for the revolver the others had said they’d seen him take with him. He didn’t appear to be armed.

McAdams stuck her head out of the bus door.

“What’s going on?” she called.

“He’s dead!” Carthage called back.

“Why don’t you ladies come out here!” Puccano called.

“No!” Carthage called. “Stay on the bus!”

Puccano gave him a look as the woman pulled her head back into the window. Carthage and Puccano more closely examined the body and found that it was unusually cold and stiff.

“It feels like he’s been dead for a while,” Puccano said.

McAdams called to them to come back to the bus.

“Maybe we could go to that little town and get some help,” she said from the window.

There was some discussion of leaving the body. The women didn’t want to put the body on the bus but the men thought they should bring it with them. In the end, Puccano and Carthage carried Sikes’ body back to the bus and put it in the back. They found a blanket to put over it.

Carthage put the bus in gear and headed down the road. They came to another detour sign and he followed it back to the main road. It was less than a half our later when they spotted another automobile coming from the other direction. The Model T appeared to be a police vehicle and Carthage pulled the bus off the side of the road and then leapt out and waved the police officer down.

The auto pulled over and they could see that the side was marked “Washington County Sheriff’s Office.” The man who got out was solidly build and wore a brown uniform and a star. He was armed with a revolver on his hip.

“We’ve been looking for you folks,” he said. “Noticed you were late. Where’s Hiram?”

“He’s … I think dead,” Carthage told the sheriff.

They showed the man Hiram’s dead body and he examined it. When he asked what happened, Carthage tried to explain.

“She saw something,” he said, pointing to Professor Brooks. “Hiram went out to investigate. He said to start the bus and waved us ahead. We pulled around the curve. He was there in the middle of the road.”

“Felt like he’d been dead for hours,” Puccano put in.

“What was he investigating?” the sheriff asked.

“Whatever she said she saw,” Carthage said.

Professor Brooks was somewhat hesitant to explain but told him she’d seen a big pink “thing” moving around a copse of big, red birch trees. The sheriff seemed to take her claims very seriously.

“So, she sees this thing,” Puccano said. “Hiram goes to investigate.”

“He takes a gun with him,” McAdams put in.

“We try to start the bus, it won’t start,” Puccano went on. “He calls us over, says ‘Start the bus.’ It starts up, we go over to him, he’s dead. Feels like he’s been dead for hours.”

The sheriff scratched his head. Then he told them he needed them to stay on the bus. He found out who was driving and asked Carthage to follow him back to Montpelier. He got off the bus, turned his automobile around, then led them back to Montpelier, leading them to what appeared to be a jail.

The sheriff asked them to wait on the bus as he had to make a telephone call. He left but within a half hour, a Cadillac pulled up and a man in a fine black suit carrying a medical bag arrived at the sheriff’s office. He and the sheriff examined the body. The two men looked at each other and talked quietly.

Only Puccano wasn’t listening to them. He had moved to the front of the bus and was certain that they were all going to get blamed for Sikes’ death. The others heard the two men conferring. The sheriff told the other man that it had to be handled like the rest. The other man nodded and wrote “heart attack” on the death certificate.

When the coroner left, Sheriff Becket asked them to stay on the bus.

“If you folks will just wait here on the bus, we’re going to get you home safe, all right?” he said.

“Are we going to get a whole new bus?” McAdams asked.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied.

He asked them to wait on the bus and he’d be back in just a half hour.

“We were on the bus for two and a half hours!” Puccano said.

The sheriff looked them over.

“Look,” he said. “This is for your own good.”

He advised them not to come back to Montpelier and told them they would be refunded their money for the trip.

“Yeah, but I bought a new camera for this, are you going to refund me for that?” Puccano asked.

The man looked at him.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m trying to do something to help you—”

“I don’t see how your helping us,” Puccano said. “You’re not telling us what’s going on or what kind of danger we’re in.”

“The less time you’re know, the less danger you’re in,” Sheriff Becket said.

“Danger from what?” Puccano blurted out.

“What kind of danger?” McAdams also asked.

The sheriff looked at them again.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “You folks please stay on the bus.”

“No no no!” Professor Brooks said.

Sheriff Becket left the bus.

Within the hour, there was another bus and bus driver, a young man. They were taken onto the new bus and each of them was refunded the cost of the trip, money that had been wired for hotel reservations in Montpelier, and Puccano was refunded the $5 he had paid for his cheap Kodak camera.

They were driven back to Boston that afternoon.

* * *

The next week was a strange one for all of them.

Claire McAdams was fired from her job as a talent agent. She had always gotten along with her boss in Boston but on Tuesday, he fired her without explanation. He seemed nervous that day when he told her to clear out her desk and not return to work.

She spent the rest of the week looking for another job.

On Wednesday morning, Charles Puccano found that his barbershop had been broken into and ransacked. Things had been moved around and the few addresses and files he had were disturbed. He found a back window broken and was somewhat miffed as he paid a local mobster to keep just this sort of thing from happening. He also knew the few members of street gangs in the area and got along well enough with all of them. Plus he serviced several policemen and they were often in the shop.

He didn’t find anything missing.

Professor Katie Brooks returned home from teaching on Wednesday and found her home had been broken into that day. There was nothing missing but someone had been through her address book.

All that week, Jason Carthage had thought he’d seen shadowy figures near his own house. He called the police on several occasions but in each case, they found nothing, not even footprints in the grass where he was sure someone had been standing before he’d made the phone call that night. He was also seeing figures in the shadows at the museum, but when he went to talk to them, they couldn’t be found.

It was all rather unnerving.

Perhaps Grace O’Conner had the worse of it. She found that the animals were sometimes shying away from her at the oddest times. It was often when she worked after dark and the wolves behaved the strangest. They would flee to the small doghouses in the wide cages where they were kept when she approached and refuse to come out. She had always had a good, almost friendly relationship with the wolves, who had always seemed to trust her before that.

All five of them received telephone calls that week from Sheriff Carl Becket. He convinced them all to meet at Professor Brooks’ home on Saturday evening.
* * *

On Saturday, Sept. 26, 1925, the five of them met with Sheriff Becket at Katie Brooks’ house. Professor Brooks lived in a large home with a detached automobile garage behind and and to the side of it. The others arrived on foot, most of them having taken a bus to the residential neighborhood. Sheriff Becket arrived in a taxicab after they had all met. He arrived well after dinnertime and they all went into the sitting room towards the front of the house.

The man warned them that because of what they’d seen, their lives might have been in danger. He stated emphatically that they must band together for self-protection and that he was willing to try to help them, but that his own family was held hostage to powers greater than anyone in the room could imagine.

“There are unknown forces at work here,” he said. “Intelligences not of this world.”

He made sure they all had each others’ addresses and telephone numbers and mentioned briefly that the Old Adams Place outside of Moretown might hold something of value to them.

“Take care, however,” he told them.

The phone rang and Professor Brooks looked at the clock on the wall. It was after 9 p.m. and she wondered who would call at that hour.

She picked up the phone. The connection was not very good and the voice on the other end of the line buzzed terribly.

“Sheriff Becket please,” the voice said.

“Who may I say is calling,” Professor Brooks asked nervously.

There was a moment of silence before the voice answered.

“Mr. Smith,” it simple said.

She turned towards the rest where Becket was just telling them that Hiram Sikes’ death should be avenged.

“The telephone is for you,” she said to the sheriff. “He says his name is Mr. Smith.”

Sheriff Becket went white.

“Thank you,” he said, carefully taking the telephone receiver from her.

He listened for a few seconds before he hung up the telephone.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can.”

“Who was that?” McAdams quickly asked. “On the telephone?”

He just stared at her.

“I’ve got to go,” he simply said.

“Wait!” Puccano said.

“How did he know you were here?” McAdams asked.

“What do you mean band together?” Puccano asked. “What’s that mean?”

Sheriff Becket pulled on his coat.

“You’ve got to find a way to protect yourselves,” he said. “I just …”

He looked out the window again.

“What’s out there?” Puccano asked.

Sheriff Becket opened the door.

“Good luck,” he said. “I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

He closed the door behind him.

They all looked at each other and Professor Brooks was the first to speak, offering them the use of her house if they were going to “band together.” McBride said she would stay as she’d lost her job and didn’t have anywhere to go anyway. Brooks said she didn’t want to be there alone and everyone was welcome to stay.

“I have plenty of room,” she said.

“I want to know what the heck’s going on here,” Puccano said.

McAdams went to the window and peered out into the dark night. She saw only the street light across the street. Otherwise there was no one out there she could see nothing unusual about the street.

Puccano was still unsure of what Becket meant and O’Conner noted that if they all stayed together, it felt like they were a bigger target.

“A target for what!?!” Puccano said.

He was getting frustrated.

Carthage asked Professor Brooks if she had any shotguns in the house.

“I’m getting scared,” he confessed.

She said she didn’t.

“I’m packing,” Puccano admitted, patting the pocket of his jacket.

McBride said she didn’t see anything outside. None of them had driven as none of them owned automobiles. Carthage went to the front window and peered out into the gloom. He didn’t see anything either.

“I don’t know why, but his visit made me nervous,” Carthage said. “That could just be me.”

“I want to know how his friend knew he was here and how he got this telephone number,” McAdams said.

They began to discuss what had happened to them in the week before.

Jason Carthage mentioned that he had seen shadows around his house. Men seemed to be skulking around the place. He told them of calling the police on several occasions but the officers had found nothing. Not even footprints.

“Someone broke into my barbershop,” Puccano admitted. “They didn’t steal anything.”

“So, how do you know they broke in?” O’Conner asked.

“Because my stuff was all ransacked,” Puccano said. “The window was broken.”

“Someone got into my house too,” Professor Brooks said. “They went through my address books.”

They discussed what they should do and Puccano noted that he knew several Boston police officers. He suggested contacting them and seeing if they knew anything about the Washington County Sheriff. He figured he would wait until the next morning.

Professor Brooks showed them all a small liquor cabinet with various bottles of illegal alcohol.

“This is really not protocol right now,” she said. “I don’t know about you but I’m going to have a drink. Would anyone care to join me?”

“Yeah,” McAdams said.

“All right, I’ll stay,” Carthage suddenly said, picking up a bottle of gin.

She made drinks for everyone and they talked over their cocktails.

* * *

Professor Brooks was the first one up the next morning. She started the coffee and then got the Boston Globe from her front porch. She sat down in the breakfast nook to read the paper and almost dropped it when she stumbled across a small article buried on the back page.

It read:
Vermont Sheriff dies on train

MONTPELIER, VERMONT - A sheriff from Vermont died on the night train bound for Montpelier Saturday night.

Sheriff Carl Becket was found dead in his seat by the conductor on arrival in Montpelier.

Cause of death was a heart attack.
She just stared at the newspaper article as the others got up. Then she finally got herself a cup of coffee before sitting back down in the nook. The others were making themselves at home and getting their own breakfast when she broke the news to them.

“Sheriff Becket is … uh … is dead,” Professor Brooks said to them.

“What?” Puccano said.

“It’s … it’s right here,” she said, holding out the newspaper. “He died on the train on the way back to Vermont.”

“Let me see that!” Puccano said, taking the paper.

“What did they say was the cause?” McAdams asked.

“It said heart attack,” Professor Brooks said.

“Heart attack,” Carthage said.

“Isn’t that what they said the bus driver died of?” McAdams asked.

“Yeah,” Professor Brooks replied.

“‘Cause of death was a heart attack,’” Puccano read.

“Something’s not right,” Professor Brooks said.

Carthage pulled out the little address book he always carried with him and looked through it for anyone he might know in the Vermont or new Hampshire area. Puccano used the telephone to call one of his police friends. He had no luck finding out anything about Washington County Sheriff Carl Becket. By the time he was off the phone, Carthage had searched through his address book but found no contacts in Vermont or New Hampshire. Claire McAdams went to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a stiff drink.

“This early in the morning?” Mr. Carthage said to her.

“Yeah,” was her only reply before she took a long swig.

Puccano looked again at the news story but there was no byline. It was just a short blurb buried inside the paper. Brooks realized she wouldn’t even have noticed it or paid it any mind if she hadn’t known Becket. They talked about telephoning the newspaper but realized there would probably not be anyone there on Sunday morning. Puccano asked Professor Brooks if she had an automobile.

“Yeah, I do,” she replied.

“I say we head for Vermont,” he replied.

Her eyes went wide. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to take her Cadillac to Vermont or if she even wanted to go herself. They all discussed it and finally agreed that they should find out what was going on, at least for their own safety.

They all headed for their respective homes to pack their bags for a trip back to Vermont. It was roughly an hour later before they returned to Professor Brooks’ home. When Grace O’Conner got back, she had a large rifle bag over her shoulder.

“What is that?” Puccano asked her.

“Elephant gun,” she said with a smile, opening the bag and showing them a very large double-barreled rifle. “In case any of the elephants go mad.”

Puccano asked Professor Brooks how big the thing she had seen had been and she wasn’t sure.

“Was it bigger than an elephant?” he asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Then we’re in business,” he said.

He noted that he had a .38 revolver and Professor Brooks confessed she had a .45 automatic handgun. The professor got an atlas off the shelf and found that it had a decent map of the state of Vermont within. She tucked it into her purse and told the others she had it with her.

They loaded up her Cadillac.

“It was Harold’s car,” she said as she put it into gear and pulled out of the garage.

* * *

They drove to western Massachusetts and then Vermont. It was about a three hour drive up the road that led through Northfield to Montpelier. They passed the spot where the detour sign had been before, in Northfield Falls, and saw that the sign was gone.

“Isn’t this where the detour sign was?” Professor Brooks asked they drove by.

“It was,” Puccano said. “Of course, so was Hiram.”

Less than a mile up the road, they passed over a bridge with new asphalt on it. It was less than a half hour before they entered the city of Montpelier, capitol of Vermont. It took them a little while to find the Sheriff’s Office. They headed in to ask about the Sheriff’s death and talked to a deputy on duty who was wearing a black armband. Puccano explained to him some of what happened to them the weekend before.

“He told us we should turn around, head home, put us on the bus back home,” Puccano went on. “Now my barbershop gets broken into, he’s seeing shadows, her house was broken into, the zoo animals were acting funny—”

“Are you folks from around here?” the deputy asked.

“No, we’re from Boston,” Puccano said.

The man gave them a look.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“So Carl Becket comes to her house and says ‘You all are in danger,’” Puccano went on. “Gets a call from a Mr. Smith, and he’s gone. Mr. Smith.”

“Mr. Smith, yes, that’s what the man said,” Professor Brooks said.

“He heard it was Mr. Smith, turned white as a ghost,” Puccano went on. “And now he’s dead.”

“Yes sir, I know he’s dead,” the deputy said. “I don’t know why you think there’s a connection between some breaking and enterings in Boston and Montpelier, Vermont, but—”

“Well, I’ll tell you why,” Puccano said. “We all came down here for vacation, go back, suddenly all this stuff happens, and your man, Mr. Becket, comes over and he tells us we’re all in great danger. We kind of connected the dots.”

“I don’t know anything about that sir,” the deputy said.

“What’s with the black armbands?” Puccano suddenly said.

“In memory of the sheriff,” the deputy said. “He died last night on the train.”

“What’d he die of?” Puccano asked.

“I think it said heart attack in the newspaper,” the deputy said.

“Was anyone sitting next to him when he died?” O’Conner asked.

“I don’t know ma’am,” the deputy said. “He was on the night train, coming back up here from the south.”

Puccano sighed.

“You have a lot of people die of heart attacks?” he asked.

“Our share I suppose,” the deputy said.

He said he didn’t know where the sheriff went the day before and Professor Brooks told him he’d been down in Boston. She noted that he’d called all of them on Friday to meet in Boston on Saturday. She said they had gathered at her house and the sheriff had told them to band together because they were in danger.

“And that there were … how did he put that?” she said. “There were things—”

“Otherworldly things that we should be worried about,” Puccano finished.

The deputy looked at them like they were quite mad.

McAdams asked if the deputy knew where his family lived but he wouldn’t give the address or phone number. He told them they were welcome at the funeral but he wouldn’t give that information.

“You’re right officer,” Carthage said. “You’re right.”

When McAdams asked where the funeral was, the deputy showed her the obituary page of the Montpelier Argus and the listing there. It told when the funeral was the next day and where. Puccano asked about strange happenings in the area but the deputy said he didn’t know of any.

“Sounds like you know plenty for everybody,” the deputy said to him.

Professor Brooks asked what time the sheriff had died and the man said he only knew what had been in the paper.

Carthage thanked the officer and ushered the others quickly out. They got back to Professor Brooks’ Cadillac and talked about finding out where Becket lived. Carthage wasn’t sure his family would be the ones to talk to but wanted to talk to the coroner instead. He suggested that man knew what was going one. They realized that none of them had gotten the coroner’s name the week before.

“Why do you say he knows what was going on?” McAdams asked.

“We have to find him because those were the only two people we know here that knew something was going on,” Carthage repeated.

Puccano suggested Carthage to back in to find out the name of the coroner.

“Becket said his family was in danger too,” McAdams said.

“That’s another reason I don’t want to include his family on this,” Carthage said.

Professor Brooks wanted to investigate the newspaper office. She wanted to know where and when Becket had died. Puccano said he thought it curious that Deputy O’Connelly had not said how Becket had died but had noted that the newspaper said it was a heart attack. Professor Brooks wanted to know how the Boston Globe had gotten the information so quickly.

They found a telephone booth and McAdams called the operator and got Sheriff Becket’s address and phone number. They drove by the house and saw black hangings on the front door as well as a few automobiles out front. They didn’t stop but drove down the street and parked there to discuss what they should do next.

Professor Brooks got out the atlas and someone remembered Sheriff Becket mentioning the Old Adams Place near Moretown. She found that town on the map of Vermont in the atlas and though it didn’t show a road connect it to anything, they guessed that the road to Moretown was west of Montpelier.

They headed out of town on the main road to the west and found a side road that looked promising. It was another wide road that led them to Moretown.

* * *

Moretown lay on the edge of what the signposts called the Mad River. It was a small town that was strung along the main road and seemed to consist of little more than a main street. The river ran west of the town, following the highway.

They drove through the town and saw that it consisted of lumber mill and related buildings to the south, two churches, a small cemetery, a small building that appeared to be a library, a small general store marked Ward Lumber Company General Store, an old tin shop, an old blacksmith shop, a small home with a sign out front that read “Dr. James Haylett, M.D.”, a horse barn, a hotel called the Central House, a second general store named Wilcox General Store, numerous homes and houses, a grandstand, and a couple of one-room schoolhouses.

Professor Brooks turned the automobile around after they passed through Moretown and they discussed what to do as they entered the town again. They stopped at the Central House and decided to ask about the Old Adams Place there and maybe get rooms.

The hotel proprietor was a rotund man who seemed extremely friendly. He was a sweaty man with a smell to him and often blotted his high forehead with a handkerchief. When they arrived, he seemed anxious to rent them rooms.

“What brings you folks to this area?” he asked amicably.

“Just sightseeing,” Professor Brooks replied. “Driving around and looking around.”

“Very nice, very nice,” the man replied.

“I have a question about the area,” Professor Brooks said.

“Okay, any way I can help a customer,” he said with a smile.

“Have you ever heard of the Old Adams’ Place,” Professor Brooks said.

The man looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said carefully.

“Could you point us in that direction?” she asked.

“Why … uh … why do you want to go to the Old Adams’ Place?” he asked.

She noted it had been brought to their attention a few days before and sounded like an interesting place to visit on their weekend holiday.

“Well … uh … you know Dr. Adams is kind of strange,” he said. “He’s not from around here originally and kind of went off two or three years ago.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know, he attacked somebody in Montpelier,” the man said. “That’s what I heard.”

“Does he still live there now?” Puccano asked.

“Far as I know,” the man replied. “We don’t see him around town. He’s kind of a recluse.”

“Hm,” Brooks said.

“His house is up on Old Moretown Road,” the man said.

“Old Moretown Road?” Professor Brooks said.

The man described how to get to the road, noting that it angled off to the right if one headed north on Main Street. He said that it went all the way down to Northfield Falls.

“But you’re not going to be able to find rooms there,” he concluded. “Now, we’ve got rooms here.”

“Well, I …” Professor Brooks said.

“We’ve even got telephone,” the man, blotting his forehead again. “Got long distance and everything.”

“Do you?” Professor Brooks said, surprised.

“Yes ma’am,” the man replied with a grin. “Long distance calls cost 20 cents though.”

“That sounds good.”

“So, how many rooms do you need?”

Carthage coughed loudly.

“We’ll make our drive and be sure to get a room from you when we get back,” he quickly said.

“Be sure you do,” the man said.

Professor Brooks asked about any special spots of interests in the town and the man said the entire was very quaint. He mentioned Moretown Memorial Library and Ward Lumber Mill as both being in the town. They learned that rooms were $1 a night and the man told them that each floor had its own bathroom.

“When you say Mr. Adams went crazy, was there something that caused that?” McAdams asked.

“I don’t know ma’am,” the man said. “He moved to the area—”

“You said he attacked some people?” Puccano asked.

“He attacked somebody in Montpelier,” the man replied. “That’s what I heard. Maybe I heard wrong, but that’s what I heard.”

“This was years ago?” Puccano asked.

“A few years ago,” the man replied. “Couple of years ago? Made the papers.”

“Interesting local color,” Carthage mused.

They talked briefly and decided to get rooms for the evening. Carthage, O’Conner, and Brooks realized they would have to make telephone calls if they were not going to be back to Boston for work by the next day. They ended up getting three rooms: one for McBride and O’Conner, one for Brooks, and one for Carthage and Puccano. The man had them all sign the guest register. Then he handed over keys.

Professor Brooks asked the man’s name and he told them he was Andrew Sawyer, the proprietor of the Central House.

They found that the rooms were simple, each with two single beds, a radiator, and dresser. There were hooks on the walls for hanging clothing. They used the telephone to call their employers to let them know they would not be at work on Monday or Tuesday. Professor Brooks also arranged for one of her graduate students to teach her classes. O’Conner was a bit unnerved that the zoo seemed happy she was going to be away but with the way the animals had been acting lately, she could understand that if not appreciate it.

“The animals have calmed down a lot since you weren’t here,” she was told.

They drove out of town down Moretown Mountain Road after that. It was plainly marked and they soon recognized the road they had driven down the weekend before. After they reached the spot where the bus had broken down and even after they passed the red-leafed birch copse, Mr. Carthage spotted a rusty, unused mailbox on the side of the road with the name “Adams” on it. He pointed it out to the rest but they’d already passed the dirt road beside the mailbox. Professor Brooks turned the Cadillac around and took them back.

The dirt road from Moretown Mountain Road led them a few hundred yards to the foot of a mountain to the north. The cleared area in front and to the side of the house included a large house and what appeared to be an old and abandoned carriage house. The dirt road continued around the side of the main house and disappeared from sight.

The house itself faced to the south and had peeling paint and loose shutters. Some of the shingles had apparently fallen to the ground below. It looked a little worse for wear and though numerous chimneys jutted from the structure, only the one on the east side of the house had smoke coming from it. A porch stood on one side of the house. Telephone and electrical lines followed the drive up to the impressive-looking house that had a large tower jutting from the gabled roof.

To the west of the house was what appears to be a large kennel and dog run though that building looked like it was in little better shape than the house itself. There was no signs of any dogs.

Puccano and Carthage got out of the automobile and walked up to the house. Puccano knocked on the door. After he knocked a second time, the front door was finally wrenched open by an ugly individual whose nose looked like it had been broken numerous times. One of his eyes was off center and seemed to look over Puccano’s left shoulder. His black hair was greasy and he needed a shave. His clothes were disheveled.

“Hi!” Puccano said. “Are you Doc Adams?”

“No,” the man said.

“Do you know where we can find him?” Puccano asked.

“Uncle’s napping,” the man said. “His health is not good. Who are you?”

“Well, my name’s Charles and this is Jason,” Puccano said. “We’re here trying to figure out some things. Why don’t you wake him up and let us talk to him?”

Jason put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

“He’s napping,” the man slowly repeated.

“Excuse me,” Carthage said.

He explained they were there because of the death of the Montpelier sheriff and the man looked confused.

“Okay,” the man said.

“He came to visit us and told us about this place,” Carthage said.

“Uh-huh,” the man said. “What’d he tell ya?”

“Not a heck of a lot,” Carthage admitted. “The name.”

“Uh-huh,” the man said.

McAdams was trying to listen from the automobile but it didn’t sound like the two men were making much progress. She got out and walked up to the front porch.

“Hi! Who are you?” she asked the greasy man.

The man glared at her.

“Who are you?” he muttered.

“I’m a … I used to be a talent agent,” she said with a smile. “I’m Claire. Claire McAdams. Similar last names.”

He just looked at her.

Puccano noted that strange things had been happening and people had died. He said that at the hotel, they said Mr. Adams had lost his marbles recently. The man wasn’t eager for them to see Doctor Adams but agreed that if they came back the following night at 6 p.m., he might have time for them. They left the porch and returned to the automobile.

They told Professor Brooks and O’Conner, who had never gotten out of the Cadillac, what had happened. McAdams suggested they head back into town to talk to locals. Puccano suggested lunch and Brooks wanted to find a place that might serve flapjacks.

They drove back to Moretown.

As it was Sunday, there were no stores open. However, they talked to Andrew Sawyer at the hotel and he was willing to fix them a meal in his small cafe. They sat down and ordered lunch and he cooked it up. He had a pretty young girl named Amy as a waitress and she took their orders. When they asked her about the Old Adams’ Place, she said she didn’t know too much but remembered that Dr. Adams had moved to the area when she was very little.

A dark-haired man who needed a shave came into the small dining hall and sat down at a table. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt. Amy took his order and he leered at the girl.

The five Bostonians discussed what to do next. They were upset about what had happened to them.

“It also made the sheriff upset,” Carthage said. “He and the bus driver are now both dead.”

“Did you see that man who just walked in?” Claire asked Professor Brooks. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“All right,” Professor Brooks said hesitantly.

“Maybe he knows the Adams,” Claire went on.

“I don’t know if the Adams know anything,” Carthage said.

Professor Brooks wondered if the man who had just come in would be in a hotel if he were from Moretown and Claire suggested he might just be there eating as it was Sunday and the rest of the town was closed. Professor Brooks told the woman to go talk to him herself. Then she asked Amy for maple syrup and dug into the pancakes she had ordered.

“I don’t know what you think Jason, but that waitress is a doll,” Puccano said, nudging the other man in the ribs.

“A little young,” Carthage replied, rolling his eyes.

They had a pleasant lunch.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a little something stronger than water,” Claire said.

“I wouldn’t mention that too loudly around here,” Carthage said.

“Why don’t you ask the gentleman sitting at that table?” Puccano said, gesturing towards the other man in the place. “He might have something for you.”

Claire glared at him.

“You’re a funny guy,” she said. She raised her voice a little. “Funny guy over here.”

She stood up and walked over to the man. A jacket was over the back of his chair and he appeared to be eating a club sandwich.

“He there!” Claire said to him.

He grunted at her.

“You from around here?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“You work at the lumber yard?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

She noticed there was a $5 bill on the table and she saw that all he had was the sandwich, some potato chips, and a soda. It seemed a lot of money for just lunch.

“We’re just here in town,” Claire said. “We’re just traveling through. Does anything go on around here? Anything to do? Any sights to see?”

“Sights?” he asked. “Not really. Why are you here?”

“We’re just here to see the Adams,” she said. “Doc Adams. Do you know him?”

He took a large bite of the sandwich and then chewed it with his mouth open.

“Not personally,” he said. “Why you seein’ him for? I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, we’ve just heard of him too,” Claire said.

A half-chewed crumb of bread fell out of his mouth.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Okay, so, do you know anything about him? We’ve never met him before.”

“He went crazy, didn’t he?” the man muttered.

“Well, that’s what we hear but we don’t know much about that,” Claire said.

“That’s what I heard,” the man said.

He looked her in the eye.

“You folks should be careful,” he said. “You know, strangers get lost up here all the time.”

“All the time,” she said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged.

“Sometimes people just get lost,” he said.

“Okay, right,” she said. “Thanks a lot. I’m just going to go back … to my table. Okay, thanks.”

She walked back to the table.

“What’d he say?” Puccano asked her as she sat down.

She related that he said strangers sometimes get lost up there.

“What does that mean?” Professor Brooks said.

“I don’t know,” Claire said.

“Go ask him,” Professor Brooks said.

“Thanks Erik,” the waitress said as she took the $5 bill from the table. She didn’t sound happy. Puccano guessed the man was a local.

Carthage stood up and went over to the man’s table.

“Excuse me sir,” he said. “She was telling us that you said people get lost around here. Do you happen to know of a good guide?”

The man just stared at him.

“Wouldn’t want to get lost,” Carthage went on.

“I wouldn’t go off into the mountains,” the man said. “I’d stay to the roads.”

“Stay on the roads,” Carthage replied. “Okay.”

“What kind of sandwich you eating?” Puccano called to him.

“I don’t know,” the man replied.

“Looks good,” Puccano said.

Carthage just shook his head.

“Thank you sir,” he said to the man.

“Some kind of meat sandwich?” Puccano called.

“They say it’s a club,” the man muttered. “I think there’s turkey in it.”

“Did you notice that he gave her $5 for that sandwich?” Puccano said quietly to the others as Carthage joined them again.

Claire noted that he had said he worked at the lumberyard and Professor Brooks wondered if he owned the lumberyard. That still didn’t answer Puccano’s question of why he paid so much for such a small meal. Claire suggested that the man might like the waitress.

The man finished his sandwich and left.

When their waitress, Amy, came by to see if they wanted anything else, Professor Brooks asked about the man.

“That’s Erik Bartlett,” the girl said. “He’s a pig. You see him eating?”

“I noticed,” Claire said.

“He comes in here and gives me all this money and asks me out,” Amy went on. “I’m only 15!”

Puccano mentally marked the girl off the list of women he might ask out.

“Where does he get his money?” Professor Brooks asked.

“I don’t know,” Amy said. “He never seems to do any work in town but he always has money he’s throwing around.”

“He doesn’t work?” Claire asked.

“I don’t think so,” Amy replied. “He’s always hanging out at the general store.”

“He said he worked at the lumber yard,” Claire said.

“Where does he live?” Professor Brooks asked the girl but she didn’t know nor did she care. She guessed he lived in a boarding house in the area somewhere.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” Professor Brooks said, leaving the room.

“Great,” Carthage said. “I guess I’m picking up the bill for lunch.”

Claire was thinking about how rude the man had been.

“He said stay away from the mountains,” she said.

* * *

Professor Brooks followed Bartlett down the street. He soon turned between two houses and when she followed him, she almost passed him leaning up against one of the buildings. He had a .45 revolver in one hand and was spinning it on one finger and occasionally pointing it at her.

He asked her what she was doing and when she told him she was just taking a walk, he suggested she do it elsewhere. She agreed and left, going back to the hotel.

* * *

It took some time for them to get out of Professor Brooks that she had followed Erik Bartlett and he threatened her with a revolver. She was vague about his threatening her but noted that the revolver had been pointed in her general direction.

She looked towards the lobby of the hotel to make sure that Bartlett wasn’t coming back.

“Were you always this paranoid?” Claire asked her.

“No no no,” Professor Brooks said. “I’m okay.”

She called to Mr. Sawyer but he was already gone. She asked Amy if there were locks on the hotel room doors. The girl said she thought there were and that seemed to relieve Professor Brooks. She told the rest she was going to go take a nap.

After she left, Puccano remarked that every time she went out on her own, she would come back with some terrifyingly crazy story. He said he wanted to find out the location of the county coroner’s office.

* * *

Puccano used the telephone and learned from the operator that there was no listing for the county coroner but suggested he call the sheriff’s office. She also told him she assumed the county coroner was one of the local doctors. He learned there was a hospital in Montpelier and got the address for that.

* * *

Carthage took a walk to the Ward General Store across the street and learned that though they were open, they were not selling anything on Sunday. The boy working there pointed out the post office boxes off to one side and told him that they were open though the store was not. He said he could sell things to him if it was an emergency.

Carthage looked around the general store and saw it carried mostly produce and such as well as a few rifles and shotguns.

When he returned to the hotel, he found Puccano and McAdams had been looking for him. They rounded up O’Conner and said they wanted to have a look at the strange birch copse near Moretown Mountain Road. The two were all for just borrowing Professor Brooks’ Cadillac but Carthage thought they should tell the woman.

They found her room and knocked. It took some coaxing to get her to open the door and when they told her they wanted to borrow her automobile to go for a ride, she said she would drive them.

They headed out of town on Moretown Mountain Road and had not reached the Adams’ place yet when Puccano suddenly told Professor Brooks to stop. She braked and when the car came to a halt, McAdams got out.

“What are you doing!?!” Professor Brooks asked.

She had seen the copse of red birch trees and was not happy to be back in the area.

“We want to look around here,” Puccano told her. “Coming?”

“No!” Professor Brooks said like he was crazy. “You’ve got five minutes.”

“Okey dokey,” Claire said.

Carthage went with them and they wandered around in the copse of strange-looking trees but found nothing, not even tracks. They returned to the automobile and Claire said something about rock climbing. They eventually pulled the car off the road near where a mountain loomed to the south and all of them got out.

They headed into the woods. It was around 2 p.m.

For the next three hours, they wandered in the woods, always looking for high ground. The shadows were lengthening before they got back to the automobile. They had seen nothing strange but had observed the mountain to the north and saw a great boulder on the side of it that didn’t look quite right. They also spotted the tower of the Adams’ place jutting from the tree line from the hill they were on.

They returned to Moretown and cleaned themselves up before having dinner at the cafe in the hotel again.

Brooks and O’Conner heard the church bells and so decided to go to one of the two churches in town. They headed out with Carthage not far behind them. He was of the same mind.

* * *

One of the churches proved to be St. Patrick Catholic Church and Brooks and O’Conner went in for the Sunday evening mass. The priest was a young, good-looking man in his mid-20s and they talked to him afterwards and learned he was from the area and had been the priest at the church for a couple of years.

They asked him about the Old Adams’ Place and he told them that Dr. Adams stopped coming to town while he was at seminary some three years before.

“Nobody is even sure if he’s still alive up there,” Father Thomas told them. “Some say that something happened to the man in Montpelier.”

That was all he knew.

* * *

It was a cold but sunny day on Monday, Sept. 28, 1925. The five met for breakfast in the cafe and discussed where they should go next to try to solve the mystery of the deaths and the thing Professor Brooks had seen in the birch copse.

They talked about going to the library, either in Moretown or Montpelier, going to the hospital to try to find the coroner, and going to the funeral that afternoon at 3 p.m.

Carthage walked down the street to examine the Moretown Memorial Library and found a card on the door with its hours. It would be open from 3 p.m. to 8 p.m. that day. When he told the others, they decided to try the library in Montpelier.

Professor Brooks drove them back to Montpelier and it only took them a little while to find the library. They spread out in the place though Claire McAdams went to talk to one of the librarians.

Claire found the man quite helpful and asked about anything unusual that might have happened in the area. The librarian said there was an article from 1830 of a strange event. He found it for her and she read it:
The following account of a most extraordinary thunder-storm was written by the late Hon. D. P. THOMPSON, of Montpelier:

The most remarkable instance of a sudden and great fall of water, which was ever known in this region, occurred about thirty years ago, round the sources of Jones’s brook, a small mill stream that rises in Moretown Mountains and empties into Winooski river three miles below Montpelier. The mountains round the source of this stream rise to the height of about 2,000 feet, with unusual abruptness, and, at the same time, so curve around as to leave the intermediate space in the form of a deep half basin, down the precipitous sides of which a sudden shower descends almost as rapidly as water rushing down the steepest roof of a house, and, collecting, at the bottom, pours in a raging river down the valley to the outlet of the stream. It was over this mountain-rimmed basin that burst the extraordinary thunder-storm which I have undertaken to describe, and which passed among the inhabitants under the mame of the bursting of a cloud.

The inhabitants of the basin, when the storm burst upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly, were struck with astonishment and alarm at the unwonted quantity of water that descended upon them, from the seemingly flooded heavens. A settler who lived nearest the foot of the mountain described the rain as ‘coming down in bucketsful I was in a field a short distance from my house when it struck, and was so astonished at first I knew not what to do. But the rain, if it could be called rain, coming thicker and faster, I ran with all my might for the house, but was almost drowned before I got there, and then it was only to find the water gushing into the house on all sides till it was nearly knee deep on the floor.’ And so with all the inhabitants of the basin. No place afforded them any protection; rivers were within all their houses, and rivers, rising into seas, were all around them without; and they looked on with mute consternation at that tremendous outpouring of the clouds. But they were the first to be relieved. The rain, after a brief duration of less than half an hour, ceased as suddenly as it came, and the inhabitants ran out of their drenched houses just in time to behold the numerous uniting streams, that had come pouring down the encircling mountain, gathering into a mighty river that swept away shanties, fences, old trees, logs, lumber, and everything in its path, and bearing them in wild confusion on its surface, went foaming, trembling, and roaring like a cataract, with amazing force, down the valley towards the outlet three or four miles below.

But the principal scene arising from the destructive and fatal progress occurred at the saw-mill of Oren CLARK, and situated about a mile from the mouth of the stream. Mr. CLARK and his hired man were at work in a field near the mill, and being warned by the appearance of the clouds that a flood would soon be down upon them, ran to the mill to make some necessary protection for its safety. While thus engaged, they were aroused by a deafening roar, that burst suddenly upon their ears from the stream but a short distance above the mill; when looking up they beheld, to their astonishment and alarm, a wild, tumultuous sea of commingling flood-wood and turbid waters, with a wall-like front, ten feet high, tumbling and rolling down upon them with furious uproar, and with the speed of the wind. They attempted to secure a retreat over the log-way which extended from the mill to the high ground five or six rods distant. Over this they made their way with all possible speed. But such was the velocity of the on rushing torrent, that they had not proceeded half way before the mill came down, with a crash, behind them, the log-way was swept from beneath their feet, and they were struggling for their lives in a flood a dozen feet deep, foaming, boiling, and so filled with trees, timber, and all sorts of ruins, that it did not seem possible for a human being to be borne along in the frightfully whirling mass and live a single minute.

Mr. CLARK said, ‘I saw EASTMAN once more when I rose to the surface after the first plunge. He was struggling desperately to get his head above the flood-wood. But I saw him no more. The next moment a raft of logs swept over me, and I was whirled onward, sometimes with my head above and sometimes below the water, until I neared the wooded bank down and on the opposite side of the stream, when I came within reach of a small tree which I grasped, which about as soon came up by the roots, and I was again plunged into the flood. I struggled on and soon was so fortunate as to grasp another sapling, and drew myself ashore, and fell down half dead from bruises and half drowned.’

The remains of poor Eastman were found next day near the mouth of the stream.
She took notes to share with the others later.

* * *

Jason Carthage looked up the more recent newspaper archive for any information on deaths in the last month or so. Unfortunately, he didn’t find any kind of unusual numbers of deaths from any one cause. Even heart attack.

* * *

Professor Brooks, Mr. Puccano, and Ms. O’Conner all looked through old copies of the Montpelier Argus for anything out of the ordinary. Professor Brooks found a story and shared it with the others. It was from the Montpelier Argus dated Thursday, Sept. 7, 1922.

It read:
Nervous breakdown causes historian to attack second man
Second man disappears from site of the attack
Doctor Adams claims ‘things’ after him

A local landowner and one-time Doctor of History had a nervous breakdown in downtown Montpelier Tuesday afternoon.

Dr. Richard Adams of Moretown was arrested for assault after attacking a man on Main Street. Dr. Adams was reported to have had an altercation with the man both of them talking with raised voices, before he grabbed the man by the collar and threw him to the sidewalk. The man yelled for help, claiming that Dr. Adams was trying to murder him.

Several passers-by came to the man’s rescue, subduing Dr. Adams until police could arrive. Dr. Adams proved to be armed with a revolver though he was not able to make use of it.

The man Doctor Adams attacked slipped away in the confusion.

Police questioned Dr. Adams Tuesday night but could learn nothing that made sense to them. According to one policeman who wished to remain anonymous, Dr. Adams ranted about things from the hills that chased him and tried to tear at him. Adams claimed that he had been under siege at his home near Moretown and only recently escaped to Montpelier. He further claimed that the man he had attacked had been in league with the things.

Dr. Adams’ Fort Model T was found parked on Main Street and impounded by police.

Dr. Adams’ nephew took custody of the doctor from police this morning. He told this reporter that Dr. Adams had been under a great deal of strain lately and needed a good long rest. This publication wishes Dr. Adams well and hopes that he gets the rest he needs.

Dr. Adams is an 1879 graduate of the University of Vermont in Burlington. He taught history at that college as well as Norwich University in nearby Northfield, and McIntosh College in Dover, New Hampshire. He retired to the Moretown area in 1910.
After he read it, Puccano tore it out of the newspaper, secreted it away in his jacket, and returned that paper to the rack.

* * *

They all discussed what they’d learned in the automobile that afternoon. The 1922 newspaper article was the center of the conversation.

“The second man, the one he assaulted, he claimed was in … cahoots would be a good word,” Professor Brooks said.

“Yeah,” Puccano said.

“With these things that are in the hills,” she finished.

“And the second man happened to slip away,” Puccano said. “They didn’t catch him. They weren’t able to interview him.”

Puccano pulled out the article he’d torn from the paper in the library.

“Here,” he said. “Look.”

Carthage rolled his eyes at the theft and took the article, reading it.

Claire told them that she had found an article the librarian had given her about something strange that had occurred.

“It was like a flood, like a thunderstorm,” she said. “But it wasn’t like any storm I’ve ever heard of. The water came down so fast that they said it was like a wall of water coming down. There was a man who owned a sawmill, Oren Clark, him and his hired man were outside when they saw the rain coming and they ran to get out but they didn’t make it and everything was turned into a big river. And his hired man died because of it but he lived.

“The article was written by a Hon D.P. Thompson. It only rained for about 30 minutes but they said the water was a dozen feet deep in that 30 minutes and then just stopped.”

“Where did this happen? Montpelier?” Puccano asked.

“In Moretown,” she said.

She told them it had been dated 1830. Carthage noted that the man couldn’t still be alive but she wondered if he had family still alive who would know of the incident.

* * *

The funeral was at a local Methodist Church in Montpelier at 3 p.m. and they all attended it, following the procession to the cemetery for interment after. After the interment, some of the mourners left but others stayed and talked. Carthage spotted the old man he’d seen in the church the night before. He also saw the coroner, whom he’d learned was Dr. William Thompson. He approached Dr. Thompson and introduced himself.

“We were on the bus last weekend,” Carthage reminded the man.

“Oh … yes?” he said. He suddenly looked nervous.

“Sometime when you have a chance, not today, because this is not a good time—” Carthage said.

“I probably won’t have a chance,” the man interrupted him quietly, looking around. “What are you doing here?”

“The sheriff came to visit us the night he died,” Carthage said.

The man looked scared.

“I can’t talk to you,” he said. “Look for Dr. Haylett. He lives in Moretown. Talk to him.”

He turned abruptly and walked away.

Carthage remembered the sign on the house in Moretown that listed it as Dr. Haylett’s office. He quickly told the rest what he’d learned. Puccano asked him if he recognized any of the other mourners and Carthage pointed out the older gentlemen who was leaving the cemetery even as they talked of it.

“He said talk to Dr. Haylett in Moretown,” Carthage said.

“The coroner?” Puccano asked.

Carthage nodded.

“He seemed scared,” he said.

Carthage made sure they stayed at the cemetery a respectable time before they left, taking Professor Brooks’ Cadillac back to Moretown. On the drive there, they talked about whether or not they had time to look in the Moretown Memorial Library before their appointment with Dr. Adams. Mr. Carthage noted that they could keep the appointment with Adams and he could go look in the library.

“So you don’t want to meet with Adams then?” O’Conner asked him.

Carthage looked at the woman.

“Not now,” he said. “I’m more interested in the doctor in Moretown and the library.”

Everyone but Carthage was interested in going to see Dr. Adams but then Professor Brooks changed her mind and decided to go with Mr. Carthage to see Dr. Haylett, if the doctor was in.

It was about 5 p.m. when they got back to Moretown. Puccano, O’Conner, and McAdams went to the hotel for some dinner. Before they left the other two, they asked Professor Brooks if they could borrow her car to go to the Old Adams’ Place that evening.

* * *

Carthage and Professor Brooks walked down the street to the Dr. Haylett’s house and office. There were no hours listed on the door but they guessed he was an on-demand doctor. Carthage knocked and after a few moments, there was an answer. The door was opened by an elderly gentleman and they could smell cooked food coming from within.

Dr. Haylett was probably in his 80s but looked fairly healthy. His white hair was thick for the most part and he had probably once been tall. Carthage recognized him as the same man who had been at the cemetery and the church. He looked them over.

“Can I help you two?” he asked.

“Dr. Haylett?” Carthage said.

“Yes?” the man replied.

“My name is Jason Carthage,” he said. “Last weekend, we had a trip scheduled to see the fall colors in Vermont. We come from Boston. Something strange happened on the road here and our bus driver died mysteriously.”

“Hiram Sikes?” the doctor asked.

“That’s the man,” Carthage said as Professor Brooks nodded.

“Why don’t you folks come in here,” Dr. Haylett said.

He let them into the small office and examination room, looking up and down the street and then closing and locking the door behind them. He hobbled over to a chair and sat down.

“Go on,” he said.

Carthage explained how the sheriff had come down to warn them and then died on the way back, his death listed as the same cause as Sikes had been: heart attack.

“Strange things have been happening to us,” Mr. Carthage went on. “I’ve been seeing shadows when there’s nothing there.”

“I saw a thing in the woods,” Professor Brooks said.

“Others saw other things or had things happen to them,” Carthage said.

“Hmm,” Dr. Haylett said. “I’ll tell you folks, there are some things up here that aren’t natural.”

“That’s what the sheriff was telling us,” Carthage said.

“If they’ve latched onto you, then you are in a great deal of danger,” Dr. Haylett said.

Professor Brooks sighed nervously.

“That’s what we were afraid of,” Carthage said.

“We’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Professor Brooks said. “Anything we can do to …”

“Unlatch them?” Carthage said.

The doctor thought about it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know about that. There’s a book at the Memorial Library down the street called Legends of New England. You tell Lester Howes that I advised you to take a look at that. Otherwise, he won’t let you borrow it.”

“All right,” Professor Brooks said.

“You take a look through that and … you come back here and talk to me,” Dr. Haylett said. “Don’t let anyone see you come here though. All right?”

“Okay,” Professor Brooks said.

Dr. Haylett stood up and went to the window, peeking out. Then he led them to the back door and let them out that way. As they left the building, they heard the locks clicking behind them.

They went to the Moretown Memorial Library which was in what appeared to be a large house of the Greek-revival period. It had a porch, sidelights, and curved lintels over the windows. A tall, thin man within was stamping books but no one else was in the library. Lying on the desk nearby were three different newspapers: the Montpelier Argus, the Barre Daily Times, and the Northfield News and Transcript.

“Excuse me but are you Lester … Howes?” Professor Brooks said.

“Yes ma’am,” the man replied in a soft voice.

She told him Dr. Haylett had told them to see Legends of New England.

“Dr. Haylett?” Howes said.

“Yes,” Professor Brooks replied.

“All right then,” Howes said. “I guess there’s no harm then. Not if Dr. Haylett sent you.”

He went back to a small office and got a book that he handed over to her. She and Mr. Carthage found a table they could read at and began skimming the book.

Legends of New England was written by Eli Davenport and was dated 1839. They spent the next hour skimming it and found that it collected many of the legends and folklore of the Indian tribes in New England. A strange, ancient city of white man, long since destroyed, was described; the place seemed to lie somewhere in the wilds of northern Massachusetts. Of particular interest was a series of recurring tales about mysterious spirits from the constellation of the Great Bear who lived under the hills of Vermont and Maine, whose presence on earth pre-dated that of humanity.

As they finished skimming the dreadful book, they heard a car start up and head out of town. They guessed it was Professor Brooks’ Cadillac heading to the Old Adams’ Place.

***
Monday, November 17, 2008

(After playing the original Call of C’thulhu scenario “Haunter in the Hills” from noon to 6 p.m. Saturday with John, Kim, Chris, Lisa, and Shelley.)

Jason Carthage and Dr. Katie Brooks, still at Moretown Memorial Library, decided to read the book they’d found in more detail and what they found was very disturbing.

Legends of New England by Eli Davenport was a strange book and the legends it related were written almost as if they were all facts.

The book was a discourse on material orally obtained prior to 1839 amongst the oldest people in Vermont. Part of it hinted at a hidden race of monstrous beings which lurked somewhere among the remoter hills - in the deep woods of the highest peaks, and the dark valleys where streams trickled from unknown sources. The beings were seldom glimpsed, but evidences of their presence were reported by those who had ventured farther than usual up the slopes of certain mountains or into certain deep, steep-sided gorges that even the wolves shunned.

There were queer footprints or claw-prints in the mud of brook-margins and barren patches, and curious circles of stones, with the grass around them worn away, which did not seem to have been placed or entirely shaped by Nature. There were, too, certain caves of problematical depth in the sides of the hills; with mouths closed by boulders in a manner scarcely accidental, and with more than an average quota of the queer prints leading both toward and away from them - if indeed the direction of these prints could be justly estimated. And worst of all, there were the things which adventurous people had seen very rarely in the twilight of the remotest valleys and the dense perpendicular woods above the limits of normal hill-climbing.

It would have been less uncomfortable if the stray accounts of these things had not agreed so well. As it was, nearly all the rumors had several points in common, averring that the creatures were a sort of huge, light-red crab with many pairs of legs and with two great bat-like wings in the middle of the back. They sometimes walked on all their legs, and sometimes on the hindmost pair only, using the others to convey large objects of indeterminate nature. It was written that on one occasion they were spied in considerable numbers, a detachment of them wading along a shallow woodland watercourse three abreast in evidently disciplined formation. Once a specimen was seen flying - launching itself from the top of a bald, lonely hill at night and vanishing in the sky after its great flapping wings had been silhouetted an instant against the full moon.

The things seemed content, on the whole, to let mankind alone; though they were at times held responsible for the disappearance of venturesome individuals - especially persons who built houses too close to certain valleys or too high up on certain mountains. Many localities came to be known as inadvisable to settle in, the feeling persisting long after the cause was forgotten. People would look up at some of the neighboring mountain-precipices with a shudder, even when not recalling how many settlers had been lost, and how many farmhouses burnt to ashes, on the lower slopes of those grim, green sentinels.

But while according to the earliest legends the creatures would appear to have harmed only those trespassing on their privacy, there were later accounts of their curiosity respecting men, and of their attempts to establish secret outposts in the human world. There were tales of the queer claw-prints seen around farmhouse windows in the morning, and of occasional disappearances in regions outside the obviously haunted areas. Tales, besides, of buzzing voices in imitation of human speech which made surprising offers to lone travelers on roads and cart-paths in the deep woods, and of children frightened out of their wits by things seen or heard where the primal forest pressed close upon their door-yards. In the final layer of legends - the layer just preceding the decline of superstition and the abandonment of close contact with the dreaded places - there were shocked references to hermits and remote farmers who at some period of life appeared to have undergone a repellent mental change, and who were shunned and whispered about as mortals who had sold themselves to the strange beings. In one of the northeastern counties it seemed to be a fashion about 1800 to accuse eccentric and unpopular recluses of being allies or representatives of the abhorred things.

As to what the things were - explanations naturally varied. The common name applied to them was “those ones,” or “the old ones,” though other terms had a local and transient use. Perhaps the bulk of the Puritan settlers set them down bluntly as familiars of the devil, and made them a basis of awed theological speculation. Those with Celtic legendry in their heritage - mainly the Scotch-Irish element of New Hampshire, and their kindred who had settled in Vermont on Governor Wentworth’s colonial grants - linked them vaguely with the malign fairies and “little people” of the bogs and raths, and protected themselves with scraps of incantation handed down through many generations. But the Indians had the most fantastic theories of all. While different tribal legends varied, there was a marked consensus of belief in certain vital particulars; it being unanimously agreed that the creatures were not native to the earth.

The Pennacook myths, which were the most consistent and picturesque, taught that the Winged Ones came from the Great Bear in the sky, and had mines in the hills whence they took a kind of stone they could not get on any other world. They did not live here, said the myths, but merely maintained outposts and flew back with vast cargoes of stone to their own stars in the north. They harmed only those Earth-people who got too near them or spied upon them. Animals shunned them through instinctive hatred, not because of being hunted. They could not eat the things and animals of earth, but brought their own food from the stars. It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never came back. It was not good, either, to listen to what they whispered at night in the forest with voices like a bee’s that tried to be like the voices of men. They knew the speech of all kinds of men - Pennacooks, Hurons, men of the Five Nations - but did not seem to have or need any speech of their own. They talked with their heads, which changed color in different ways to mean different things.

That was all that the book said of the things.

Dr. Brooks was unnerved by what she read. The description had been far to close to what she had seen for her comfort. She hoped the others were all right.

* * *

Charles Puccano was driving Dr. Brooks’ Cadillac. Claire McAdams sat in the back while Grace O’Conner rode in the passenger seat in the front. They were some ways down the Old Moretown Road when they spotted a figure on the side of the track. The woman was very tall and solid with a backpack on her back. She held out her thumb and Puccano pulled over and slowed the automobile.

“Would you like a ride?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

“We’re going to a house up the road but can give you a lift at least that far,” he said.

The woman had short, dark hair and was well over six feet tall. She wore men’s trousers and appeared to be very muscular. She climbed into the back seat with Claire and gave the woman a nod. Then she looked down and noticed that there was a long, leather gun case on the floor in the back.

They all introduced themselves and learned the woman’s name was Dorothy Morgan.

“We’re going to the Adams place,” Puccano said as he put the automobile back into gear. “Ever hear of it?”

Ms. Morgan told them that she had indeed heard of the Adams place. She said she had heard Dr. Adams was very ill and couldn’t stand the sunlight. She also related that she was from St. Louis, Missouri, and was in the area visiting her sister, who was having a baby.

Puccano pulled into the driveway by the decrepit mailbox and up the long, dirt road that led to the clearing in the woods where the house stood. It looked even worse at night. The old, apparently abandoned carriage house off to one side was dark and looked down on the clearing with empty windows. The loose shutters on the main house banged in the rising wind and dark spots on the roof where shingles had fallen off almost looked like great holes. No light shined from anywhere in the house and as they exited the auto, Claire lit a cigarette.

“I’ll stay with the car,” she said.

Puccano questioned her about that but she told him she just felt nervous about the place and thought someone should stay with Katie’s automobile. Puccano shrugged his shoulders and asked Ms. Morgan if she’d like to come with himself and Ms. O‘Conner. The woman just nodded and they went to the front door and knocked.

The door was opened by a handsome man in a fine suit who thanked them for coming in a cultured Bostonian accent. He introduced himself as Mr. John Noyes and told them he was Dr. Adams’ solicitor. He told them Dr. Adams was quite ill as he waved them into the house.

It was very dark in the house and they found themselves in a foyer. Mr. Noyes led them into a high-ceilinged inner foyer lit only by a single lamp with a dark shade. An archway to the left led into a darkened room and steps crept up into the darkness above. Another archway leading towards the front of the house was dark as well.

It seemed to be even darker towards the back of the house.

“Dr. Adams’ illness has given him a great sensitivity to light,” Mr. Noyes said as he led them slowly towards the back of the house. “It’s further caused his asthma to become quite pronounced. He cannot speak above a whisper. He recently had a very debilitating fever, leaving him very, very weak. His feet and ankles are swollen - don’t mention that - they had to be bandaged. He’s in fairly bad shape but willing to talk to you.”

By then they had reached two more archways. To the left was what appeared to be a darkened kitchen while to the right was a dim room lit only by the fire in a fireplace and a very dim, covered lamp on a desk. The large room appeared to be a greatroom that had been converted into a large library. Bookshelves filled with books lined the walls on either side and a large desk stood on the far side of the room. A great bay window, the curtains pulled shut across it, was behind the desk while a few chairs sat in front of the desk.

Puccano noticed that on top of the bookshelves to the right were several shiny silver cylinders. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen before and shiny even in the terribly dim light.

Noyes ushered them into the dim room and a half-imagined rhythm or vibration seemed to be in the air. A strange smell like sour milk was also evident in the room. Even though it was a large room, they all felt somewhat claustrophobic.

Sitting in a high-backed, heavily cushioned chair behind the desk was Dr. Adams. He had thick, bushy gray hair, a thick beard and mustache, and he wore glasses that barely seemed to fit his face. He had a mole under his right eye and his face was that of a sick man with a strained, rigid, immobile expression and an unwinking glass stare. He wore a thick bathrobe and his hands lay immobile on the arms of his chair.

As they approached the desk with Mr. Noyes, Dr. Adam stirred.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispered. “I apologize for my condition. I’ve been in ill health since a breakdown in Montpelier some years ago. Thank you for coming and visiting me. What is it I can help you with?”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us Dr. Adams,” Puccano said as he sat down. “I’m Charles Puccano.”

“I’m Grace O’Conner,” Grace said.

“Dorothy Morgan,” Dorothy said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dr. Adams whispered.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Puccano said.

He then explained that some strange things had happened to them since they took a bus trip into Montpelier. He noted that everyone else connected with the situation had died, including the bus driver on that first trip.

“From things we’ve heard, we’re led to believe that you might know something about what’s going on,” Puccano finished.

“You’ll have to tell me more,” Dr. Adams whispered.

They were all seated by that point and could see that his face was obviously partially paralyzed. His lips barely moved when he spoke.

Puccano and O’Conner related the story of their bus trip to Montpelier and how the bus had broken down on the road they had taken. They told him of their driver dying in a most mysterious manner and how they had met with the sheriff. Ms. Morgan just listened to the whole thing.

“Dr. Katie Brooks claimed to have seen something out there,” Puccano went on. “She couldn’t really describe it very well, a monster or creature.”

Noyes quietly left the room.

“When we went to the Sheriff’s office, they sent us home,” Puccano said. He related how their normal lives had then been disrupted, that his own shop had been broken into. O’Conner told him that the animals at the zoo where she worked had started to act strangely when she was around them.

“So a series of strange things have been happening,” Puccano said, telling Adams that they had decided to return to the area to investigate what might be causing it. He said that the sheriff of Washington County had come to Boston to talk to them and O’Conner noted that the evening he spoke to them, he had died on the train ride back to Vermont of an apparent heart attack.

“What was this creature that you saw?” Dr. Adams asked quietly.

“I didn’t see it,” O’Conner said. “It was our companion.”

“We didn’t see it,” Puccano put it. “It was a doctor and … we thought she was crazy.”

“She’s a professor,” O’Conner said. “She said it was pink and large and in the woods.”

“She didn’t have much detail on it,” Puccano said.

“Yes,” Dr. Adams whispered. “I believe you are mistaken about the thing that she saw. The Old Ones, as they are sometimes called, the Outer Beings mean mankind no harm, and they offer much to humanity. They do have enemies who might be trying to harm you, however. The secret cult of evil men linked with Hastur and the yellow sign are devoted to hunting down and destroying the outer ones on behalf of monstrous powers from other dimensions.”

He seemed to take a breath.

“My home is safe from anything that might threaten you,” he continued to whisper. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish to continue your investigations. If you find Mr. Noyes, he can get you some dinner and tea or coffee. I think that is all I can tell you at this point. It is all that I know.”

“Doctor, can I ask you, I noticed some shiny cylinders up on the shelf there,” Puccano asked. “Can you tell me what those are?”

“Merely an experiment,” Dr. Adams whispered. “It has to do with preserving human life. It is too early in its conception for me to say any more. I continue to experiment when I feel well enough.”

He hesitated again.

“There is little more that I know save to say that the thing you saw was not responsible for what is happening to you,” he continued.