2nd November 1934,
After long and tiring interviews
with both Douglas Henslowe and Edgar Job, I could see both Mr Sloane and I were
not feeling our best. This information
provided by the two men seemed like fantasy to the untrained ear, something I
knew better off in my heart.
As Dr Keaton and the orderlies
led our interviewees away, a sudden commotion behind us led to a disturbing
sight.
A large patient had broken his
current docile state and launched an offensive on the closest orderly,
physically over powering him with ease and stomping repeatedly on the man’s
face and throat. He turned towards us,
fire in his eyes and began to charge in a wild manner. It was Mr Sloane who reacted first, putting
himself between the oncoming rage and all others, tripping the assailant, sending
him crashing to the floor.
In an instant Mr Sloane was on
top of him, desperately trying to pin him to the ground, I joined at this
point, throwing my body weight onto the crazed individual’s torso in an attempt
to subdue him.
A sudden scream filled the air as
Mr Sloane had become entangled with the man, causing the crazed attacker to
bite down hard on Mr Sloane’s forearm.
In a desperate attempt to aid Mr Sloane, I slammed by bible into the
man’s face, enough to stall him into releasing his bite for a moment, enabling
Mr Sloane to break free. It was in that
instant that the nursing staff took over, subduing the attacker and hauling him
away.
Shocked by this turn of events,
we adjourned to Dr Keaton’s office upon request for a drink and debrief.
After a brief stay in the office,
enough time for Mr Sloane to down two drink and have his wound dressed, we left
abruptly, clearly unimpressed.
I drove Mr Sloane to the nearest
hospital, I wanted his wound to be seen to by a physician of practical medicine
rather than psychiatric care. During our
visit to the doctor, I enquired as to the drugs being issued to Mr Henslowe, Mr
Sloane having gained access to Dr Keaton’s office and secured his medical
charts. The results of this proving that
the medications prescribed are to sedate and aid in the memory loss of a
traumatic past.
Something Dr Keaton has wilfully
denied as his treatment of Mr Henslowe is based purely on confrontation rather
than sedation.
We returned to our hotel in order
for Mr Sloane to rest and for both of us to calm our nerves, we decided that
once rested we would visit Mr’s Henslowe, Douglas’ mother in order to ascertain
a wider perspective on Douglas himself.
Convinced he was fit, Mr Sloane
drove us to the homestead, a desolate place past the outskirts of the
city. As we drove, the dank cold of the
air gave us both a sense of foreboding, as we drew closer, the surrounding
landscape quickly closed off to reveal a dark swamp slowly encroaching upon the
roads and farms that were at one stage, clearly a thriving property for this
once rich cotton industry.
The homestead was enormous, large
iron gates barred entry, a solitary bell at the front gate the only visible
means of announcing our arrival.
Mr Sloane rang the bell
vigorously, in the distance a sole figure of an elderly gentleman approached.
We produced the scribbled note
Douglas Henslowe had slipped to us during our interview with him, expressing
his permission for Mr Sloane and I to inspect the property.
The elderly Gentleman, a Mr
Curuthers read the note and permitted us access. He gave us a tour of the grounds, this once
lavish house and grounds slowly dying and being reclaimed by the swamps, Mr
Curuthers, although a competent grounds keeper, had become physically unable to
maintain all of the estate, his age preventing him.
Inspecting the exterior of the
grounds, a large cemetery revealed itself through the weeds, as well as several
slave quarters left over from the civil war, although they had been submerged
within the swamp for looked to be several years. I also noticed several tracks around the
property, although Mr Curuthers kept many dogs, I couldn’t help but see the
familiar tracks of alligators that seemed free to roam wherever they chose, the
sight of which made me nervous and Mr Sloane even more so.
We eventually made our way to the
house, heading upstairs under the advice of Mr Curuthers to find Mrs
Henslowe. It was not long until we came
upon her, an elderly woman, sitting alone, facing the window reading a book
while a cat rested upon her lap.
After discussing with her the
current situation with Douglas, it was clear that she was not in her right
mind, old age had made her forgetful and rarely able to carry a conversation
before starting all over again. Yet from
her information a clear picture of Douglas began to emerge. He was spending large amounts of time
photographing and writing in his journal about the exploits of his exhibition,
a journal we were sent to find.
We took our leave of Mrs
Henslowe, making our way to Douglas’ room, a large living quarters, the roof of
which was partially caved in, something that disturbed me after my last
encounter with damaged ceilings in the sanatorium. A study revealed itself in the corner, filled
with many books and strange equipment, painting supplies, twine, a shovel and
writing materials. Mr Sloane was
convinced that Douglas had buried his journal somewhere on the grounds, without
hesitation, he grasped the shovel and made his way down to Mr Curuthers in
order to scout the grounds for potential hiding places Douglas may have used.
I remained in the study, scouring
his library for any interesting books unknown to me that may contain further
information of this “1000 mouths” monster he claims to have been witness to.
I spent hours trolling through
the numerous notebooks and cult literature, it was only once day had shifted to
evening that the first promising sign revealed itself.
A strange book by author Francis Hickering, a book solely dedicated to the
death rituals of the Victorian era. After flicking through its pages a picture
fell to the floor, a picture of the rear of this very house. Written on the back of the picture, a series
of names, names I can only attribute to family members of Douglas’ family.
I heard Mr Sloane’s voice calling
as he entered the house once more, I showed him the book and photograph, he had
seen this view before, a view from the cemetery he had been traversing with Mr
Curuthers, at pace, we made our way there.
We began to inspect the graves
for potential disturbed earth, yet nothing could be found. What was bizarre was that there were a series
of headstones with ink set on them, the same colour as the ink I had witnessed
in Douglas’ study. The twine, also in Douglas’ study, it also showed signs of
the ink.
That was it. That was what he
wanted us to find. We retrieved the twine
and began to lay it out amongst the graves, it was a map, a map of where he had
buried his journal.
Mr Curuthers was less than
impressed, stating that if we dug up anything that resembled a coffin, his dogs
would be set on us, something Mr Sloane feared after his recent bite to the
forearm.
The Rain had started, quickly and
violently became a downpour, drenched to the bone, we dug at the earth until
something small yet sold stopped us.
A small box, too small to bear a
body, we took it from the cemetery to the house to get out of the rain. Opening it, Mr Sloane revealed a stone, small
yet detailed, its markings bearing similarities to the protective warding I had
seen on the walls of the sanatorium.
Under the stone, wrapped in oil cloth was the journal we had been
looking for.
Numerous other items were also
stored in the box, a key, Douglas had made mention of a safety Deposit box in
Los Angeles, after reading through his journal, LA seemed to be the key
according to Douglas, central to everything.
His Journal was full of horrors,
sketches of what he had experienced, scribbles of names and faces from his
expedition, notes on their search and the evils they had found.
Once we had dried off the best we
could, we returned for the evening to our hotel, driving slowly as the rain
continued to fill the sky. Once at our
destination, we were completely spent.
We both ran hot baths to lift our body temperature before stumbling to
our beds and calling it a night, such a day.
We woke late on the 3rd
of November, our first port of call was to Ms Winston-Rodgers, I phoned her
with an update, she was most helpful after explaining to her the current
situation of Mr Henslowe and the strange workings of the Sanatorium.
She explained that Douglas would
be moved to private care, and that if we needed to, we were to promise money to
Dr Keaton for all information relating to the case.
We made our way back to the
Sanatorium, uncomfortable with the events of the previous day, without Mr
Sloane knowing I decided to wear my old surplus coat from my duffle bag,
concealing with my Webley in my shoulder holster. Mr Sloane, still in pain decided that he
wanted to address Dr Keaton as the ‘bad cop’ before I issued the promises of
money.
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| Marcus' Webley Mk1 455calibre. |
We drove to the Sanatorium with
haste, Mr Sloane ready to deliver his blunt accusations, upon entering, we
stormed into Dr Keaton’s office, the shock of our entry rendering his stunned.
Carter began his tirade, catching
the doctor off guard and on the defensive.
Several minutes into their heated discussion I decided to
interject. As Mr Sloane’s line of
questioning was causing Dr Keaton to limit his responses, the promise of staff,
funding and personal money relaxed his demeanor. The information gathered was little more than
we had already gathered, the only conclusion we could make was that Dr Keaton
was an egotistical man, searching to install his name in the history books of
medicine on the backs of Douglas and Edgar.
We left the Sanatorium as we had
entered, frustrated, in our frustration we discovered we had both not eater for
some time and lunch was our biggest priority.
Sick of the poorly packed
sandwiches and scarce meals, we decided upon the most lavish diner we could
find. We sat down to a luxurious meal,
the place was full of families and fellow businessmen, dressed as though this
was still a booming city. What caught my
eye however was a strange sight, a lone businessman surrounded by Oriental
gentlemen, something that puzzled me, I thought nothing of it though as I was
trying to make sense of the stone we found in Douglas’ hidden box. After closer examination, this was some sort
of protective rune, something to hide the bearer from the unseen eyes that
watch, I remember reading about this sort of thing many years ago when studying
the occult workings of the middle east.
The business man approached out
table, handing a note to Mr Sloane, again I paid it no mind as I was focussed
on the stone in front of me. Moments
later, Mr Sloane abruptly decided it was time to leave. I downed the remainder of my coffee and rose
to leave with him, he was unable to remove his eyes from the gentleman who had
passed him the note.
Once we entered the car, he
looked physical shaken, I enquired as to the cause. The Oriental gentlemen inside had threatened
a child of a family also having lunch, something I was shocked to hear. The Businessman was somehow orchestrating the
whole thing, before we could finish our conversation, they appeared in front of
our car, between us and the diner. The note he had passed to Carter was simple,
“drop the case, go home”.
Pulling his revolver from the
glove box, Carter noted that the businessman had three men with him, we could
only see two before of us. He tucked his revolver in his pants and made his way
to them, instructing me to wait in the car.
Their conversation was one sided,
they seemed not willing to talk, as the two gentlemen began to widen their
stance to flank Carter, I couldn’t help myself, I joined Carter who again
recoiled slightly as the business spake to him.
Carter was desperate to return to
the car, I however was unmoved, I locked eyes with the businessman, I demanded
to know who he was, what he was doing here, who sent him. Something about him was off. As a man puts a suit on in the morning, it
was as if something was wearing this man, like a marionette. He opened his mouth the reveal a noise unlike
anything produced by human vocal chords.
I now know what had rattled Carter, he motioned for one of his men to
return to the diner, a communication that took place without words.
At that I retreated with Carter
to the car, unwilling to place anyone in danger, my hands were sweaty, ready to
act if these men chose violence.
Once in the car, Carter was at a
loss, he didn’t know what to do. I was
convinced these men were here to stop us.
I wanted to run them over, Carter dismissed the idea as foolish and
reckless, but for some reason it was all I could think of doing that may take
us any closer to discovering the identity of these men.
Turning, we drove in the opposite
direction. The airport was our next
stop, we decided to make as if we were leaving, instead our motives were to
discover the identity of the new arrivals.
At the airport, we inquired as to
the men we had encountered, unknown to us, they had been present in Georgia for
three years, this took us by surprise as well as having to part with a
substantial amount of money to acquire the information. An address was also given to us, the hotel of
these gentlemen, entertaining the notion of investigation, we decided to delve
deeper into these strangers.
We arrived at their hotel
mid-afternoon, a dark and dirty place, more like a derelict building of
business than a hotel. Carter manned the
door while I entered, keeping an eye for the strangers who could be lurking
anywhere.
Parting with more money, I
acquired a key to the rooms of these men, we had seen four total, according to
the man at the desk, there were six. I
called Mr Sloane and we began our search as quickly as possible.
Mr Smith, the businessman, his
room was clean, barely lived in, some clothes and a few books littered the
residence. Inside one of the books I
could see a strange bookmark, a telegram.
It explained that these men were to watch the Sanatorium, keeping an eye
on all who visited Mr Henslowe and to warm them away. We opened the two rooms the Oriental
gentlemen had been occupying, the stench was offensive, the room littered with
piles of clothing, torn linen and faeces everywhere we looked, unwilling to
enter the threshold, we closed the doors and departed, we had what we needed.
We returned to the airport with
some haste, Carter had organised Frank Kearns to meet us, our trip to LA was
about to begin.
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