Masks of Nyarlathotep: Chapter 1 (New York City)

[Ashy]

Charles nearly jumped when the phone rang - the sound had a jarring quality that was quite unsettling. '...not getting enough sleep, I would guess...', Charles thought to himself as he reached for the receiver.

He picked it up just as it rang the third time and placed it to his ear.

"Oh, hello, Miriam - very good of you to call, and quite timely as well; I was about to lock up for the night."

"You don't say..." Charles' eyes widened a bit as a squeaky voice squawked on the phone near his ear.

"Surely, you don't mean...", he remarked.

"My lord...my sweet lord."

Charles did not speak for a long time - he merely stood there, mouth agape and eyes wide. He had the distinct feeling that he had been thrust into the middle of some macabre impressionist painting; he felt all twisted, blurry and indistinct all at the same time. Finally, the squawk on the receiver seemed to pause, squawk again and then pause once more. Charles realized that Miriam was asking him a question.

"What was that again? Sorry, just...yes, yes, Miriam, I will most certainly be there. Thank you, Miriam, yes, see you soon. Be careful, Miriam, for God's sake, please be careful!" Charles was not sure if Miriam had even heard his last comments before hanging up and he looked at the dead receiver like it was some alien device that he had never held before in his life. He stood for a moment, as if thinking; hung up the phone lightly and then burst into movement.

Rushing back to his meager office, Charles grabbed several of his older and more valuable books, a few of his odds and ends he had collected in his few travels and tossed them all into an antique Civil War medical officer's bag. Leaving the shop, he quickly made his way home, grabbed his passport, the money from his lockbox (hidden deep in the icebox) and a few other personal effects, stuffed them into his bag as well. He left his home and headed straight for St. Francis'.

 

[Maerdwyn]

After bidding the others a good night and confirming the time and place of his meeting with Father O'Malley the next morning, Jibril returns to his small flat near Washington Square Park. His prayers that night have a somewhat more urgent quality than they normally do, and even afterwards, he finds he need to paint for almost three hours before he is able to calm himself enough to sleep.

In the morning, he gathers his things, including his handgun, and heads off to meet the priest.

 

[Gomez]

January 16th, 1925
New York City, New York

Jack Chance

Jack Chance looks over a plate of over cooked bacon and runny eggs. "Well at least the coffee is hot." He thinks. Looking through the window of the run down cafe. He watches the busy morning traffic. Absentmindly he turned the page of the newpaper on the table. That's when it caught his eye. Quickly he folded the paper to get a better look at the story in the upper left corner.

...................................................................................................

Noted Author found Murdered

An author several books concerning "death" cults met a grisly end last night at the hands of three knife wielding assailants. Jackson Elias was found dead in his hotel room by several people who he was supposed to meet that night. The assailants, 2 Negroes and a white man, fled the scene still carrying their bloody knives. Lt. Poole of the New York Police department stated that it was most likely just a random robbery gone bad. Though this reporter found out through sources in the coroner’s department that the body had been ritually mutilated including a strange symbol that was carved in the victim’s forehead.

....................................................................................................

Chance's head began to spin. Visions of Emily's body on that morgue slab stabbed into his brain. That hideous symbol carved into her head. It pulling his gaze to her once beautiful face. Not again.......not again........
That's when his life went into that slow tailspin. He had tried to find her killers. He had hit the streets with a vengeance. Calling in every debt and favor. And then....to awaken in a drunken stupor to that horrid dream of Emily standing over him, her guts hanging to the ground, that rotting symbol weeping pus on her forehead. But nothing was as terrible as her blue lips smiling at him and her whispered voice asking him for a kiss. He keep telling himself that it was a booze induced dream but deep inside he knew that it was real. Was it happening again? Jack read the rest of the story. Humm contact Prospero House Publishing for information on the funeral.

 

[Gomez]

Ulysses Livermore

Ulysses Livermore, late of the Royal Navy, had breakfast in his room at the Astoria. He was almost completely recovered from that bad bisness with those pirates. The bullet had shattered the bone in is lower leg. Luckly he had not lost the leg but would have to use a cane for the rest of his life. His father had insisted he be treated in America and that only the best doctors see to his care. His family had left for england a few days earler. Father had been away from the business far too long. But after the doctors gave Ulysses their final clearance, he was free to join his family. As he ate he read the newspaper. Wait. What is this. Jackson Elias. Wasn't that the chap he and his men had rescued from those savages down in South America. That trip up the Amazon to pick up those british missionaries had turned into a harrowing excape. Jackson had got some damn tribe of headhunters stirred up. Luckly, he was in the area to lend a hand. They had become friends on the trip back. A stout level headed yank and a great poker player. Bloody hell! For him to die like that. Prospero House? Wasn't that the outfit that published all of Jackson's books.

 

[Gomez]

Father O'Malley, Charles, and Jibril

The taxi stopped in front of the three storied brick building. Several trunks were backed up to a loading dock and a group of men where in the process of loading or unloading them. A sign reading Emersion Imports hung over a door on the side of the building. Father O’Malley, Charles, and Jibril stepped out of the taxi into the brisk morning air.

 

[Gomez]

William and Miriam

Prospero House was located on Lexington Avenue near 35th street. As William and Miriam walked into the office, a young lady with a black bob haircut looked up from her desk. "Welcome to Prospero House. Can I help you?" she says. You notice that her eyes are red as if she has been crying.

 

[Vendetta]

Somewhere between Lou's Diner and 5th street, Jack had managed to find a place open and willing to sell him a bottle of vodka. He didn't remember paying for the breakfast, hell, he didn't even remember eating it. He didn't know if it was the runny eggs and greasy, charred bacon or the finger of vodka he'd already managed to down that made his stomach rumble like a steam engine locomotive over a poorly made stretch of track.

People filled the streets as they went on their way to work, but as crowded as the sidewalk was, everyone gave Jack a wide berth. After all, a man staggering down the street, talking to himself and carrying a bottle of spirits in the middle of Prohibition was definately someone to be avoided at all costs!

Jack turned into an alley and forcibly discharged the contents of his stomach. A second heave and he was finished. Flopping to the dirty ground, Jack swilled a mouthfull of the booze around and spat it out, helping to remove the foul flavor therein. His head hurt and somehow, sitting forward helped it feel slightly better. His face was wet, he could feel that now. It was cool as the breeze came down the alley and rolled over his face. He had been crying. He didn't even realize it.

He leaned back against the wall again as he lifted the bottle up to his lips... but stopped just before taking a drink. He looked at the bottle for a long, hard moment before throwing it against the brick wall opposite him. Glass splashed over the alley and the aroma of liquor spread through the area.

Disgusted by the smell, Jack got to his feet and ran out of the alley. He’d denied what had happened just over a year ago, denied it and buried it under a small pond of beer and wine… but some things couldn’t be buried or hidden. What had happened was real, as real as anything he’d ever know or believed before. And now it was happening again. Someone else was dead. Could he have prevented it? Would it have been him had he tried? He wished that it was. But suddenly Jack knew that he couldn’t live with himself any more if he didn’t figure out just what the hell was going on in this town! And if it killed him… all the better.

A minute later, Jack Chance was making a bee line to Prospero House Publishing. The trail was a year cold, but it was not gone… and he would find it again.

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

"Welcome to Prospero House. Can I help you?" she says. You notice that her eyes are red as if she has been crying.

"What seems to be the matter, my dear?" William asks. Perhaps I should have let Miriam speak to the girl first, he thinks to himself. One woman to another...

 

[Gomez]

"What seems to be the matter, my dear?" William asks. Perhaps I should have let Miriam speak to the girl first, he thinks to himself. One woman to another...

"Oh, I am fine. Really." she says with a slight smile. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

"We're friends of Mr. Elias. Dreadful affair, that." He stares off into space for a moment, lost in the unpleasant memories. He shakes himself. "At any rate. We found a telegram among his things which was addressed from this company. Do you know a Miriam Atwright, perchance?"