Chapter 2: A Dark Secret
Posted: Sat Feb 25, 2017 5:04 am
Arkham, Massachusetts. February 15th 1pm.
St. Mary’s Hospital is an austere building located in central Arkham adjacent to Miskatonic University. It serves as a teaching hospital and so is regularly patronized by university staff and their families. On arrival, the information desk in the main lobby directs our heroes to Professor Putnam’s room on the 3rd floor.
Although it is a private room, the six investigators also have to share it with Putnam’s wife and son, so it quickly becomes a little cramped, with no place to sit. Flowers and paintings attempt to cheer the atmosphere, but it is swiftly dispelled by one look at the man laying in bed. Putnam’s illness has caused him to lose a great deal of weight, and his skin is pale and wan. He barely moves, but his eyes remain keen and alert. The sight is a shock to those who know him, and it is painfully obvious that there will be no recovery.
“Thank you all so much for coming” says Putnam in a weak voice. “I truly appreciate it. I’d better make the introductions. I know that some of you already know each other, but it will make things easier.”
He indicates his wife and son. “This is my wife Agnes, my companion for so many wonderful years.” Agnes nods to the investigators silently, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She is obviously overcome with grief.
“And this is my son, Bernard”.
Bernard regards everyone with barely disguised hostility. In his early thirties, he is weasel-like in appearance, and those that are familiar with him know him to be selfish and petty, without many endearing qualities. Alice is more than familiar with him – he has attempted to woo her on several occasions, always unsuccessfully. He hasn’t taken her lack of interest in him particularly well. He is very different from his father, and the two were not close. His business interests are dubious, to say the least.
Putnam continues with the introductions. “My dear Isadora! Everybody, Isadora Carmichael is an accomplished artist with whom I have a long association courtesy of the Theosophical Society. You all might be familiar with Henry Glynn; he recently published a successful work of fiction. He is the son of an old colleague and friend of mine, and I am very happy to see him again. Rupert Marlow is a recent graduate of Oxford, possessed of a first-class mind, despite his youth. Ah, my faithful Alice! Alice Stanton, my secretary and one of my finest students. And then we have two outstanding academics: Henri Balzac of the University of Montreal, a specialist in folk botany. And Arthur Vivar, who is rapidly becoming an expert on local pre-history”.
The investigators glance around at each other curiously, eagerly awaiting to hear what purpose has brought them together.
Putnam turns his head to his wife and son. “Agnes, Bernard, I must ask you to leave us now. It’s very important that I talk to these people about a matter which must remain between us”. Agnes tearfully assents but Bernard is more stubborn.
“Father, if it concerns your estate then I must insist on being present” he whines. It is easy to see what his prime motivation in life is.
“No!” cries the Professor, his voice much stronger. “Please leave now!” Bernard decides against any more argument, and with an evil glare exits the room.
Now that they are alone, Putnam begins his story. “The reason I have asked you all here is simple. I need you all to finish something that I and my friends began a long time ago”.
He looks around at the group. “Everything I will tell you is true. I know it sounds fantastic, but you know me to be a rational man, not given to fantasy”.
“As several of you are aware, I have long had an interest in spiritual and occult matters. As an undergraduate at Miskatonic reading anthropology, some of my friends and I began to explore the occult – innocently of course. We were interested in local Indian rites at first – it was our research. But we met an older student named Marion Allen who became something of a figurehead to us, and his interests were a bit more, well, esoteric, shall I say? I’ll explain more.”
He pauses, lost in reverie. “Don’t misunderstand – Marion wasn’t a bad person by any means. He was just, well, out of his depth.”
“Marion, myself and my four other friends clubbed together and bought an old farmhouse a few miles west of Arkham, nearby the hamlet of Ross’s Corners. Very cheap land back then you know.”
He stops again, the effort of all this talking is taking its toll, but he is determined to finish.
“We used it as a base to conduct our research and experiments. It was very quiet, and a good place to conduct séances and the like. But our last experiment…”
His face contorts. “We brought something into this world, something evil.” He winces in pain, his hand involuntarily reaches for his throat. His voice is getting coarser now. He looks as if he might weep.
“We should have expelled it. We could have! But…” he gasps for breath.
“Marion led us in casting a spell which bound the thing to the farmhouse so that it could not leave. But this spell only works as long as the casters live. And now, I am the last. I fear that with my death, the thing will be free”.
Putnam gestures weakly to an innocuous metal box on the nightstand beside the bed.
“Take the box,” he croaks. “All the aid I can offer you lies within. You must find a way to send that thing back to where it came from. You must see that this is done. Do this for me. Please.”
His breath comes in ragged gasps now. “Take the box!”
- St marys.jpg (5.09 KiB) Viewed 2737 times
Although it is a private room, the six investigators also have to share it with Putnam’s wife and son, so it quickly becomes a little cramped, with no place to sit. Flowers and paintings attempt to cheer the atmosphere, but it is swiftly dispelled by one look at the man laying in bed. Putnam’s illness has caused him to lose a great deal of weight, and his skin is pale and wan. He barely moves, but his eyes remain keen and alert. The sight is a shock to those who know him, and it is painfully obvious that there will be no recovery.
“Thank you all so much for coming” says Putnam in a weak voice. “I truly appreciate it. I’d better make the introductions. I know that some of you already know each other, but it will make things easier.”
He indicates his wife and son. “This is my wife Agnes, my companion for so many wonderful years.” Agnes nods to the investigators silently, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She is obviously overcome with grief.
“And this is my son, Bernard”.
Putnam continues with the introductions. “My dear Isadora! Everybody, Isadora Carmichael is an accomplished artist with whom I have a long association courtesy of the Theosophical Society. You all might be familiar with Henry Glynn; he recently published a successful work of fiction. He is the son of an old colleague and friend of mine, and I am very happy to see him again. Rupert Marlow is a recent graduate of Oxford, possessed of a first-class mind, despite his youth. Ah, my faithful Alice! Alice Stanton, my secretary and one of my finest students. And then we have two outstanding academics: Henri Balzac of the University of Montreal, a specialist in folk botany. And Arthur Vivar, who is rapidly becoming an expert on local pre-history”.
The investigators glance around at each other curiously, eagerly awaiting to hear what purpose has brought them together.
Putnam turns his head to his wife and son. “Agnes, Bernard, I must ask you to leave us now. It’s very important that I talk to these people about a matter which must remain between us”. Agnes tearfully assents but Bernard is more stubborn.
“Father, if it concerns your estate then I must insist on being present” he whines. It is easy to see what his prime motivation in life is.
“No!” cries the Professor, his voice much stronger. “Please leave now!” Bernard decides against any more argument, and with an evil glare exits the room.
Now that they are alone, Putnam begins his story. “The reason I have asked you all here is simple. I need you all to finish something that I and my friends began a long time ago”.
He looks around at the group. “Everything I will tell you is true. I know it sounds fantastic, but you know me to be a rational man, not given to fantasy”.
“As several of you are aware, I have long had an interest in spiritual and occult matters. As an undergraduate at Miskatonic reading anthropology, some of my friends and I began to explore the occult – innocently of course. We were interested in local Indian rites at first – it was our research. But we met an older student named Marion Allen who became something of a figurehead to us, and his interests were a bit more, well, esoteric, shall I say? I’ll explain more.”
He pauses, lost in reverie. “Don’t misunderstand – Marion wasn’t a bad person by any means. He was just, well, out of his depth.”
“Marion, myself and my four other friends clubbed together and bought an old farmhouse a few miles west of Arkham, nearby the hamlet of Ross’s Corners. Very cheap land back then you know.”
He stops again, the effort of all this talking is taking its toll, but he is determined to finish.
“We used it as a base to conduct our research and experiments. It was very quiet, and a good place to conduct séances and the like. But our last experiment…”
His face contorts. “We brought something into this world, something evil.” He winces in pain, his hand involuntarily reaches for his throat. His voice is getting coarser now. He looks as if he might weep.
“We should have expelled it. We could have! But…” he gasps for breath.
“Marion led us in casting a spell which bound the thing to the farmhouse so that it could not leave. But this spell only works as long as the casters live. And now, I am the last. I fear that with my death, the thing will be free”.
Putnam gestures weakly to an innocuous metal box on the nightstand beside the bed.
- The box.jpg (5.41 KiB) Viewed 2737 times
His breath comes in ragged gasps now. “Take the box!”
