writing: Found On A Tombstone, Not For Distribution

The intent of these writing samples is to amaze my friends and confound my enemies!

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Found On a Tombstone
Arkham Police Department
Missing Persons Report: Addendum / 20th June, 1920

The following message was found on a crumbling tombstone in the disused burying ground outside town.
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Dear Johnny,

I know what your first question will be: Why am I sitting in the middle of an abandoned cemetery writing in the dark? Well, I’m sitting here waiting for you, you jerk! And I’m writing by the light of the candle I brought –it was supposed to be for our special night– because you’re late. Again! Did you know what I saw on the way here? A fox, a big one, and it was dead. In fact, it was torn to shreds. Do you think I want to look at things like that on the way to meet my boyfriend?

And what am I writing, pray tell? I’m writing to say that I can’t stand it anymore! We are through, mister! Whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing together, it is over with a capital O. You know what I
~
I heard something moving around, like an elephant sneaking in the briers and it sounded like breathing too. I thought it might be you. It would be just like you to forget your electric torch on a night like this! In fact, I bet that’s exactly what you’ve gone and done, you idiot!

Yes, I think you’re an idiot. You know what else I think? I think you’re dull. D-U-L-L DULL! Do you think sneaking out to be groped in the dark is a respectable girl’s idea of a good time? I got news for you: it ain’t.

You know what a snoop my little sister is? Last time I snuck in the bedroom window, she was already roaming the house looking for me. I slipped off my shoes and pulled my night gown on over my clothes, and convinced her she had missed me in the dark, that I had been in bed the whole time. Another five minutes and the whole house would have been up looking for me. What if my father found out about us? What then?!!! Wh
~
That was me out looking around the tombstones again with my candle. What on earth is that snarling noise? It’s like an angry dog, low and mean but also—watery or something. Every time I lift the light up high, it stops, then when I put the candle down it starts up again. If I find out it’s you sneaking around trying to scare me, I swear I will tear a strip out of your hide. See if I don’t!

But I don’t even think it IS you. I think you forgot about our special night altogether! That’s just what a creep like you would do too. Now my candle’s burning out and I have to walk home alone in the dark.

You are a creep and I hope you ROT!

Creep!

~~Love~~ not any more, Buster!
Beverly

P.S. I hope you get hit by a truck!

P.P.S. Creep!
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Notes:
First of all, the author of the letter is presumed to be Miss Beverly Wimble of Arkham, reported missing these past three days. The “Johnny” to whom it’s addressed is undoubtedly Jonathon Turcotte, also of Arkham, also reported missing for three days. The two were known acquaintances and attended the same class at Arkham Secondary School.

Second, the inscription on the grave in question is illegible, worn smooth with time, as many of them are since that bit of ground hasn’t been used in almost 200 years. You’ll soon see why I don’t think the grave itself has any bearing on our evidence.

The tall grass immediately in front of the grave marker was pressed flat, for about the area which two struggling people would cover. As well, there were two items dropped in the immediate vicinity: a candle stub burned low, as mentioned in the letter, and a woman’s rouge, coral pink. Just the colour you’d expect a young woman to wear.

You can probably see where I’m going with this: the boyfriend showed up, they made up their differences in good time –you know how kids are these days!– they had a little tousle in the grass, and they decided to elope. We’ll probably hear from Mr. Turcotte and Miss Wimble –or Mr. and Mrs. Turcotte as the case may be– in a couple of weeks. If Miss Wimble wasn’t on good terms with her parents –and it sounds like she wasn’t– maybe longer.

Final recommendation: close file. Let’s not waste any more time on this.

--Sgt Travers

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NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION
2 February, 1923
UNITED STATES BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
D-C Case File #33701-1921 / NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION

The following account was recovered from the drop point for Agent William Dreyfus, a location known to myself and no one else. The agent himself was mangled beyond recognition. Dreyfus was one of our new Deep Cover units, meaning he didn’t carry any department identification. And yes, we verified his identity via dental records once we brought him in. I know better than anyone how crafty our enemy is.

At least we know Dreyfus’s final resting place. I wish I could say the same for Bueller and Manning. As for the other thing that was found beside him –his assailant, we think– there isn’t much of anything to tell. My first analysis is that it was canine in nature, in shape at least.

It wasn’t any dog or wolf, don’t misunderstand me. Dreyfus’s wounds– that’s a subject for a whole other report. Suffice it to say they weren’t made by teeth or claws. Standing, it was probably less than the height of a grown man’s shoulder, but not by much. That, unfortunately, is the only analysis anyone is going to make. Even when I first saw it, its shape was softening –decomposing is the word, I guess. It dissolved in less than an hour to an unidentifiable blue-black grit. The agent’s weapon had been fired. In fact, he emptied all six chambers. Did Dreyfus kill it after it had mortally wounded him? Or were there two, in which case the second one is still at large? Impossible to say.

Report follows.
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Agent Dreyfuss, D-C Unit Reporting
22 November, 1922
Read the police coroner’s report –again– regarding the stiffs from the firefight. He insists the bodies had been dead for varying amounts of time, but none for less than 48 hours. He also states that the blood was all pooled in their legs, as if they’d been hung up on meat hooks after they died. Those cadavers were never anything but horizontal from the time they fell to the time they arrived at the lab less than four hours later. It’s true they didn’t seem to bleed, but each to his own, right?

I know the gunfight was described in Benson’s report, but I have to reiterate that all of Holm’s crew enjoy some unearthly vitality. It’s not fanaticism and it’s not military training. These freaks just come at you and do not quit. One of them bit Regan on the thigh and literally wouldn’t let go. We had to shoot him through the neck and pluck two of the teeth out with pliers! Every single one fought to the death, even the young female. She had been beaten down to the ground and handcuffed by Benson. He thought he would finally get some answers, but she broke the cuffs and came after him. They finally had to kill her too.

I’ve seen a few dead folks in my time and this sort of get-up-and-go attitude is not typical.

I ended up looking into the coroner’s background, worried that maybe our enemy had gotten to him. Heinrich has twenty years with the department. His brother was a beat cop, went missing last year on a call to a country place south of Arkham and was never found. We haven’t told Heinrich that Holm is the one we think responsible, but I don’t think we have to. I can’t believe he’d turn and I can’t believe he’s incompetent. In summary, I don’t know what to believe.

I’ve got to stop wasting time going over old ground. The coroner’s report is sealed for now, and hopefully for all time.

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26 November, 1922
That girl got who got put down, she got to me, I admit it. She had probably been pretty before the change took her. But whatever treatment Holm lays on them, they get that staring, yellow-eyed look, and their skin goes gray, the surface rough, pebbly even. I only ever spied one of them from afar, before he spotted us. Even when they’re not hell bent on tearing out your throat, it’s plain they’re not at peace. This one was moving bricks by hand. He was strong, but moved in quick jerks and had impaired coordination, like a nervous disorder. It must be some kind of drug Holm gives them, one with nasty side effects.

Holm’s people are all kinds: housewives, firemen, bricklayers, students, you name it. These people disappear, with no warning, and some time later, weeks or months, they show up on his roster. How does he recruit them? And what does he do to them to make them so strong, almost bullet-proof? The only thing they seem to have in common is their crazed devotion to their master.

‘Cult’ is a word that I hear getting bandied about a lot by my superiors. The behaviour I’ve seen goes a little beyond cultish. I don’t think a rabid chimpanzee has any less inhibition that Holm’s acolytes. Re-reading my own stuff I see it comes off a little outlandish, but the body count on both sides bears it up. I just hope HQ sees it the same way.

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10 December, 1922
What happened to Bueller? Just gone. Called in at 20:05 last night. Come midnight he was gone. We’re getting sold out by someone on the inside. It’s the only answer, but I can’t make it fit. Everyone in D-C knows what we’re dealing with, knows that any one of us could be next. I don’t have any illusions about human nature, but I still can’t get it straight in my mind.

I can’t watch my own back, watch my partner’s back, and watch my partner all at once. I work solo from now on.

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26 December, 1922
Got to see my sister and her family yesterday. Nobody killed in two whole weeks. Merry Christmas.

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18 January, 1923
Working alone is taking its toll. Sleeping, eating, thinking, nothing is coming easy.

For a long time I thought I was getting twitchy. I was hearing footsteps, padding footsteps, always about a block back. I’d ease out my .45, never changing my pace, never moving my head or giving it away, and BAM! Nothing there.

But there is something there. Caught a glimpse of my shadow today.

Thing is, I didn’t surprise it. I think it stayed a fraction of a second longer so I could catch a glimpse. Just a glimpse, mind. Not enough to clear up my doubts, not enough to assuage the gnawing fear in my guts. I had my .45 of course, clutched in one shaking fist, which at that range would punch a hole in a dog big enough to set your hat in. If it was a dog.

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22 January, 1923
New leads, none of which I’m going to put in writing. It’s not protocol and I’m telling you fuck protocol. Too much at stake now.

As I get nearer to Holm, my strange pursuer closes with me. It is dog shaped, like a hound of some kind, but huge. Could it be a mastiff, like the Hound of the Baskervilles? I don’t suffer from any family curses, unless you count the Bureau as a family, in which case you could say I’m cursed with a short lifespan, exciting but unhappy. I read up a little on my British folklore at the Miskatonic Library. The whole situation is reminiscent of the Black Dog of British folklore, a ghost animal foretelling the victim’s imminent demise. ~~A ghost I could deal with, but I~~

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31 January, 1923
Closing in on Holm, I can feel it, just like I feel that thing breathing down my goddamned neck. I took a pot shot at it last night. If you got a report of a shot fired out on Beckinham Road around 2:00am that was me. Might as well have tried to kill a puff of smoke.

I’m worried now, really worried for the first time. Does this thing belong to our man? I better commit a few details to paper after all. And my last will and testament while I’m at it.

Here’s the lowdown on Holm: Word is, his base of operations is in the vicinity of the Arkham railyard. Never would’ve dreamed he had the guts to hide right under our noses, clever bastard. One problem remains: how am I going to question him when by all accounts he’s unconscionably strong and immune to pain and physical punishment of all kinds? If he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to kill him and we’ll never know how he did it, how he turned all those good, clean, law abiding folks into deranged killers. What a time to be without backup.

There’s one more errand to take care of before Holm: I got a line on a guy named Stokes, supposed to be an ex-confederate of the man himself. He’s hiding out by the abandoned docks. If Stokes is willing to talk, he’ll be the first. This could be the break which means my living and somebody else dying.

There’s still a chance to turn this around. Have to believe that or I’ll lose my nerve, and at this point that means //scribbled out and illegible//

In ten minutes I’m dropping this report at the place prescribed by FS Smedley. If you don’t hear from me by dawn— you know.

End Report
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Appended

Six months of legwork and four of our own dead, and what have we got on Holm? Description of suspect: none. Motive: none. Associates: unknown. M.O.: unknown. Probable location: doubtful. A big fat pile of nada. I’m damned tired of losing trained agents on this case. We simply can’t keep hemorrhaging people at this rate or the Deep Cover unit is going to go bust.

Can’t we find some patsy to take the fall for once? For the type of information we’re getting, I want a stand-in, some nobody to bite it for a change! All he’s got to do is put a few bullets between himself and Holm’s goons. Or even act as a decoy and make some noise dying while someone competent gets to our target. I realize that patriots are scarce since the War, but if we can’t find a fool, I’ll take a mercenary.

This is my recommendation and I’m taking it all the way to the top.

– Field Supervisor Jackson Smedley