Play@YSDC

Friday March 14th, 1930 9.00am.
Fraser Mansion, Arkham, Mass.

”Well, what have you got for me?!” snapped Fraser as they were shown into his study. His face was pouchy, with black rings under his eyes, and a bottle of whiskey already sat open on his desk. Ivy noted that he was unshaven, something she had never known before.

Taken aback, no-one spoke and Fraser slammed his whiskey tumbler on the desk. “You’ve had two days! Why haven’t you got the person responsible?!”

"Mainly because we haven't yet located her," says William, "but we have a good lead on that, and the police may be able to help there. Our primary suspect is Emily Livingstone. Apparently she was angry with you, Mr. Fraser, because you tried to keep her and your son apart. She may have been angry enough to write that letter. Lawrence and I went to her home, but nobody was there, neither her nor her landlady. We spoke to her nasty neighbor, who said that she was recently taken away by some men in white coats, presumably to a mental institution. We checked with Arkham Sanitarium, but she wasn't there. Dr. Hardstrom suggested she may have been taken to a private institution. Today we plan to speak to others on her block to find out more about what happened and where Mrs. Webster, her landlady, went. She hasn't been seen in about a week."

"I also believe she's our prime suspect, Mr. Fraser," Alex says as delicately as he can. "The handwriting indicated our suspect was female and poorly educated, which this Emily seems to be. I don't know how she's been able to obtain this chemical she's using to poison people, but It's critical we find her and learn everything we can. "

Then, only to assuage Fraser's doubts, "We already know she has a way of temping men, sir. Perhaps she has enraptured a pharmacist of some sort into her wily schemes. "

"We've also have some of the finest minds in the region examining the letter to learn what exactly is being used and find a way to protect against it." He then turns his gaze to the party. "However, you gentleman need to come clear on what precisely happens with James. Your answers have been elusive, but we need more details to determine if the plots against father and son are connected. I'd like you to tell me everything that transpired in your hunt for him." He says, his voice stern.

This was a moment Lawrence had been dreading for a long while. He could tell the truth about monsters, cults, and that snake-god, but that would win him time at the madhouse, without a doubt.

But he could tell a sanitised version of what really happened. A clean truth, that wouldn't get him committed.
"When we first went looking for James, our search led us to this place called Squatter's Lake Motel. The owners were these old British men, William and Robert Brophy; hardly the kind of folks you'd take to be kidnappers. To shorten a long story, we stayed the night, only for the brothers to escort us out to the lake at shotgun-point, where they were almost certainly going to kill us; James was with the Brophys, it seemed he'd fallen in with them for reasons I can't get my mind around to this day. We probably would have been killed, but one of the other men staying at the hotel drove in and ran over one of the brothers with his car. After that, there was a brawl and guns were fired, and we were forced to run. I ended up with a spray of pellets in my back, and had to spend some time in the hospital." Lawrence laboriously explains, still unnerved by what he had experienced on that night. He desperately hoped that his account would hold up to scrutiny, as the truth was far harder to explain than any fiction.
"There's more to the story after this, but if you've got any questions, ask them now."

Ivy listens to the tale with great interest. She’s experienced many strange things (not that she’s prepared to admit to them), so to hear someone else’s story is, in a terrible way, almost comforting.

Alex carefully takes notes.

"Did this man who intervened give you his name or contact information? Or for that matter any of the other guests staying at the motel?"

"I only know the man's first name, Jacob," says William. "He came with us to the police to tell them what happened. All of this should be in their files, including his statement. I'm not sure if any of the other guests survived."

Alex nods, waiting for Lawrence to continue.

"After I got patched up at the hospital and finished up my time there, I went back home, as you might expect. I found a postcard in my mail from Louisiana, signed William, Robert, and James. The bastard must have sent it to taunt me." Lawrence bitterly notes, before continuing his recounting of events. "Anyways, a few months later. William, Howard, and Thomas took a trip down to the motel at Squatter's Lake to go see what happened; I wasn't there, had to attend to some business at the farm, but they managed to find a flier for the Brophys' new hotel in Louisiana. We told the police and Mr. Fraser, and arranged to take a trip there; once we finally got to Baton Rouge, we had to go about actually finding this new hotel itself. As it would happen, it was in a little place called Pointe-aux-Chenes; once we got to the hotel, we learned real quick that we weren't the first ones to get there. We found Robert Brophy just about dead on the floor, his throat cut; there wasn't a thing we could do for him, in the state he was in. All we could do was call the local sheriff." Lawrence would have sold his soul to not be in this situation; words never were his strong suit, so his mind was firing on all cylinders to clean the story of its unpleasant idiosyncrasies as he went along.
"That didn't pan out well for us, but as before, I'll let you ask your questions if you have any."

Ivy harrumphs, doubting the wisdom of the question she is about to ask.

“Among these people you encountered: was there a somewhat old gentleman with a balding pate, wearing coveralls and with spectacles on a chain around his neck?”

Alex raises an eyebrow at Ivy's question, but says nothing; the vision had obviously troubled her.

He waits, silently taking notes and allowing Lawrence to continue to tell his story.

"Both of the Brophys could fit that description; why do you ask?" Lawrence replies, put off by Ivy's oddly-specific question. There wasn't any way she could have seen either of them; both of the Brophys were dead, or so Lawrence hoped!

Ivy bristles at the strange, albeit understandable, looks she is getting.

"Another letter addressed to Mr. Fraser was sent to the bank. I accidently touched the ink. Thankfully it didn't make me suicidal, but I did experience an unsettling... waking dream I suppose. The person I describe was in it; he was the only one to acknowledge my presence and sort-of pushed me back into reality."

Her face flushes.

"No doubt it's foolish of me to give credence to such tricks of the mind, but I cannot shake the feeling that his presence was somehow significant."

"At any rate, a photograph of the symbol is being developed and the letter itself being tested in a laboratory."

"Did the man speak with any kind of accent, if he spoke at all?" Lawrence asks inquisitively, very interested in this seemingly minor detail. For the farmer, this question could almost certainly prove if Brophy was involved in this; after all, how many other old British men with ties to strange and unnatural events could have a vendetta against Mr. Fraser?