This is the "in character" thread for the "Dark Revelations" campaign.
The sun peeking through the window stabbed at Stevie as he slowly started to move. Sitting up an empty bottle falls from the bed to clatter about the floor. He rubs his face and clears the crust of sleep from his eyes, yawning, stretching, then trying to clear the dry cotton feeling from his mouth.
Looking about he stumbles to the table across the room, drinking the last dregs from a glass, wetting his tongue but doing little to clear his throat or his head. He slumps down into the chair and looks around the room.
Sitting in his undershirt and boxers, black socks barely clinging to his feet, their suspenders undone, Stephan Harkness Barrows tries to remember where he was, why he was here. Brooklyn, Groton, Boston, Philly? The last month or so has been a whirlwind, meeting with a host of potential employers, listening to their pitches, promoting Dr. Singerfeld's latest dig and findings.
The dig, the statue, the tablets. Stevie had been a much smaller part of that affair than was being advertised. You have the face Stehphan, you tell the story. I must examine these tablets further...
Yada, yada, yada, doc. You just don't want to face them either. Gods I need a drink. Is it Sunday? I wonder if I can send a boy out for a bottle.
Standing up and looking around, the overindulgent Stevie tries hard to remember, What town am I in again?
Stumbling over to the window Stephan pulls back the thick curtains of the small hotel room's one window, then wipes a bit of frost from the glaring glass. Boston, that's right. Too cold to make me come here doc. That's what I get for complaining about the Sahara last month.
Stephan fumbles about stretching and waking up from tying one on a bit heavy last night. He then looks through his kit, pulling out suits for the least rumpled among them. He settles on the dark blue Mohair. The doc wants me to drop his refusal letter to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts in person So I guess I gotta look the part.
The part time bodyguard, assistant, and travel guide for Doctor Sigmund Singerfeld has only one last errand to do for the doctor, then the next three months are his own. You could've just mailed this doc, but oh no, you want a strong face to tell them you found a different buyer for the purple hippo statuette. The Met just has deeper pockets guys.
Stephan debates whether or not to wear his pistol, ultimately deciding against it. This isn't Marrakech, no one's going to stab you over breakfast. He tucks the shoulder holster under his other suits, then checks to make sure his shotgun is safely cased under the mattress. All set he, puts his suit case back in the closet. I'll hang my suits when I get back, promise. He feels his mother's disapproval even as he closes the closet door.
He looks around the room one last time, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. Sighing, I'll shave later too, don't worry.
Leaving his room he wanders down the pale yellow hallway with it's bright red carpeting and gold triangle trim. He skips the elevator and takes two flights of stairs down to the main lobby. Sliding over a dime he picks the more expensive Boston Globe from the stand by the front desk then asks the doorman to call him a cab, tipping a quarter for the favor while he waits inside in the warmer air.
Mumbling to himself as he waits for the cab, he pats his breast pocket to feel the letter inside. Deliver this to the museum, give 'em the doc's apologies, then, BREAKFAST. He glances out the window up and down the street, I wonder if the front desk can get me another bottle. Boston's got to have some bathtub rot gut somewhere. Frowning to himself as the cab pulls up, Probably best not to risk it.
The discussion went pretty much as Stephan thought it would. The museum had been particularly interested in the doc's hippo, but simply couldn't meet the particulars New York offered, both for Singerfeld's current project as well as funding his next expedition. Sending me seemed to work out, this time. For a moment it seemed Professor Kline was actually going to threaten me.
Leaving the meeting Stephan bumped, literally, into a colleague he'd worked with previously for the doc, Gene Hansen. The man was in town assisting his own version of the Doc delivering a speech about "higher mathematics." The pair talked briefly, discussing the doc's next dig, one which might need the young man's expertise to confirm a series of astronomical factors to confirm the dig site. {b]If you're free we can get a coffee and discuss it a bit more, work out a time for you to come to New York and the doc can show you his research.[/b] At that point Stevie glanced at a large clock on the school, realizing he had only minutes to reach an appointment Evie had setup for him, one he'd almost forgotten. I'm sorry Gene, I just remembered something I have to do, a meeting with a schoolmate of my squeeze. Some problem she wants a pair of eyes on. If you'd like you can come along, we'll deal with her little problem, then grab a late lunch. Checks on me and we can discuss the doc's needs further.
Hailing a cab Stephan and Gene travel across town to meet Evie's school friend, a writer named Dorothy. I was a little under the bottle, can't remember exactly what Evie wanted me to do, The drinking is probably getting to be an issue between us lately. But what kind of problem could a writer really have that would need a mountain guide, right.
Gene and Stephan arrive at the Omni Parker House a few minutes late, traffic being a bit thick and the driver taking a longer route than anticipated. Stevie tips the man less than average and covers the fare, then follows Gene into the building. She said she'd meet me in the restaurant. Maybe we can eat here too, if you want. She picked it over something about this place being a hot spot for Boston writers or such. Evie told me all about it over a bottle, or was it two?
Meeting the well dressed man at the entrance, Afternoon. My friend and I are here to meet a guest, Ms. Dorothy Crick. She should be expecting me, shrugging his shoulders, We're running a bit late.
Good afternoon sir, the balding and rather stuffy waiter says obsequiously. Ah yes, a young lady by that name did mention she was expecting company. After a brief look around the restaurant his eyes finally alight on Ms. Crick, sitting alone at a corner table. She's just over there sir, in the corner. I'll have two more menus brought over.
Thank you, and I will take a coffee, black, and if you carry them, a pack of Lucky Strikes.
Stephan leads Gene over towards the table. I remember now, something to do with her friend, an author of some sort. He likes ghosts or some such, probably stuff for Amazing Stories or that darker Weird Tales.
Reaching the table Stevie motions to give Gene the box seat while pulling a chair over from a floor table, introducing himself. Good afternoon Ms. Crick, sorry for being late. Not as familiar with Boston as I should be. He smiles and nods to her, waving back to Gene.
My name is Stephan Barrows, but like Evie, you too may call me Stevie. This is my friend Dr. Hansen. May we join you? We understand you need some assistance.
Gene chuckles shyly when introduced. "It's Gene, Ms. Crick. And Stevie gives me too much credit, I'm just a student for now. I'm mostly along for the ride, but I've got a bit of free time just now that Professor Wagner is done with his presentation, so I'd be happy to help if I can before I head back home. Stevie says there's something wrong with a friend of yours? A writer maybe?"
Gene looks around nervously, not quite sure what he's getting himself into. When he'd told Randy he'd be in Boston over his birthday Randy had made some offhanded comment about watching for the writing on the wall. Randy says a lot of things, but there's almost always a reason for them, so Gene was on his toes now that he was apparently dealing with Authors.
Hearing the name Larry Croswell Gene's eyes widen a bit. This had to be what Randy was hinting at. "Larry Croswell? I, ... I've got his book back at Arkham! The Exceptional Case of Harrison Park. He's excellent, he captures detail so efficiently in his prose. Sometimes it's hard to think how he would be able to conjure the things on the page with just his imagination. And you say he's in danger?"
Stephan leans back in his chair, watching for his coffee, his interest perking up as Gene seems to come alive at the mention of the author. Hmm, guess the author must be a somebody.
If he's writing letters in how much trouble could he be involved? He pats his coat pocket, realizing too late he left his flask back in the hotel room, along with his cigarettes. I'm not sure what Evie told you about me, not sure how much help I might provide. What exactly did you have in mind?
A flustered looking waiter in his late teens hurries over to the table carrying a silver platter above his head with one hand. With the other he takes a cup of steaming black coffee from the platter and sets it down beside Stevie. He then takes a packet of Lucky Strikes from the platter and sets that down too before scurrying away.
Stevie offers a cigarette to either Dorothy or Gene, awaiting their answers, offering a match as well, before putting the pack and book away inside his coat. He then takes the sugar bowl from a nearby table and spoons two heaping teaspoons into his coffee, slowly stirring it as he glances again over Dorothy's letters.
If I may, in your time knowing him, has Mr. Croswell ever committed himself like this before? Does he have any family who might assist with having him released, or perhaps transferred to another facility?
Sipping his sweetened coffee, he adds about a half spoon more of sugar, again stirring with the rhythmic clicking of metal on ceramic. Stevie vs Stephan, Larry vs Lawrence. Which way did you address one another, friendly or professionally?
Gene takes the offered cigarette from Stevie and looks up at the ceiling as he takes a drag, eyes open, apparently intent on something. When he lowers his head again he looks at the letters.
"So these do seem like they were written by two different people. I can see why you'd be concerned. I like the question about the name, it's a telling difference. Did Larry every correspond with you via letters before? Do you know if that second one was anything like he'd write on his own, or even dictate to someone else to write?"
Gene starts tapping his finger slowly on the table as he focuses on the first letter, eventually he reaches for it with a "May I?" Once he's got it in front of him he turns it over and peers closely at the torn part on the bottom.
"I also can't tell what was written here on the torn part, but this paper was clearly used for something else as well. Might be numbers maybe? Do you know Larry's writing well enough to be able to tell if that's probably in his hand? Or does that look like it's from a different source altogether? It looks like it was pretty unsteady from the little bit we've got."
Gene pushes the first letter away and looks up at Dorothy, puzzled. "Before we say anything more, is there anything you were thinking about this you'd like to share?"
Dorothy adjusts her glasses a fraction of an inch up her nose. ”Hmmm, I can’t really think of anything else at the moment. I wish I could remember what his latest stories were about and what he was researching. I am very concerned for him and appreciate any help you may provide. As for his family, we rarely wrote about that. Our letters were mostly about the world of literature.”
Taking another sip of his coffee, finding it less bitter than before, Stevie chimes up. Do either of you know how far away is this Danvers place? Maybe Gene and I could take you over and see if they'll let you check on him.
Stretching back a bit in the chair, leaning it on two legs he drains the cup and scratches at his shadow whiskers. He voluntarily committed himself so maybe we'll get lucky. If not it would at least give you a chance to decide for yourself if the place is on the up and up. I don't have much experience with hospitals, of any kind, but I'm more than happy to come along and lend whatever support I can.
That is unless you guys want to take the afternoon to find out a bit more about the place, maybe who's running it these days. We could go tomorrow, give me a chance to clean myself up a bit, again scratching at his stubble.
Stevie signals the waiter for some menus, looking around the place to see what others might be eating. Lunch is on me if you want anything. I skipped breakfast for a meeting, and promised Gene here a bite also, seems like a good enough place.
The waiter Stevie called to quickly gathers up two more menus and brings them over, apologising for the delay. Looking at the other tables most people seem to be eating steak with winter vegetables.
Stevie tells the waiter I'll take a house roll and a good slice of creme pie, and another coffee please. He then sits back, trying to recall anything he might have picked up about Danvers over the years, watching out the frosted windows at passersby.
As Gene picks up the menu his face turns a bit pale looking at the prices, but he recovers as he sees Stevie order without hesitation. Still he mumbles a bit when giving the waiter his order. "I'll have a roll as well with a side of the winter vegetables please. Thanks."
As his attention turns back to the task at hand, he looks thoughtful. "OK, so we're thinking about heading to see Larry in, uh, Danvers Asylum was it? It seems like I've heard of this place somewhere else. In some other context maybe? Let see here ..."
Dorothy reaches for the cigarette with a smile, ”How kind. Thank you,” she says. After the first drag, she blows the smoke from the right side of her mouth.
”We could also search his residence,” Dorothy says. ”When we visit him, there might be some institutional resistance. Maybe it’d be better if we go to inquire about committing a relative. One of you could pose as a brother or cousin.”
Dibs on being the committer, not the committee, Stevie says, smiling and chuckling to Gene. Seeing the concern on the man's face as he reads the menu Stevie takes something from his pocket.
He flips the Half Eagle coin in the air, catching and twirling it between his fingers. Had a bit of luck this morning, found this on the street outside my hotel room. It's like the heavens above are smiling, telling me to share the wealth. Order whatever you'd like folks, Lady Fate is paying the tab...
Dorothy recalls something about Danvers itself. It's a small town approximately 17 miles north of Boston in Essex county reachable by automobile and by train. It has a town hall, public library, and a couple of newspaper offices if the investigators wish to research the hospital in Danvers itself.
Gene's love of horror fiction gives him another nugget of information. Danvers used to be called Salem Village, famous for the 1692 "Salem Witch Trials" which saw hundreds of people accused of witchcraft, about 20 of whom were subsequently found guilty and executed.
Gene snaps his fingers, "That it! Danvers, the town anyhow, was a big deal back when the Salem Witch Trials were happening. In fact, it was Salem, but they've changed the name since! There's a huge history of witch craft, the occult and lots innocent people being accused and probably executed. That's not a place of good omens at all, but I can see why Mr. Croswell would be interested in the area. Not why he'd want to check into an asylum there, but interested in general."
Looking thoughtful again Gene's fingers start tapping on the table again, though he likely doesn't notice them. "I wouldn't mind poking around a bit if we were to head out that way. There are probably records of when the Asylum was built, stories about anything that might have happened after and so forth. I could spend some time in a library here, but if there's a local one that would be even better. A lot of times these smaller towns have news locally that just never makes it to the bigger cities like Boston here."
"As for what to do when we get to the asylum itself, yeah a cover story might be a good idea. I'm not much of an actor, but I think that I can pull off anxious if we need me to." Gene's attention now focused on himself, he now notices his tapping fingers and stops it with a chuckle. "Yeah, I could be looking for a place to get some help, but we'd need to be sure that we had a plan to actually see Mr. Croswell if we were trying that. He's not going to recognize any of us except for you Ms. Crick."
Stevie smiles at Gene's sudden excitement and interest. He's only seen that behavior once before, when he and the doc were lining up some ancient celestial timetable using the man's "higher mathematics."
I don't know what might be available in Danvers, or Salem Village, or whatever it goes by today, but the Boston Public Library is here, along with the Boston Daily Advertiser and Evening Transcript newspapers. He again spoons more sugar into his coffee, stirring it rhythmically. I've delivered some of the docs correspondence to the former, and read stories about his exploits in both of the latter. The next donation is only as good as our last article the doc says. I'm sure you folks could visit any of those if you want before we leave town.
He sips at his coffee, finding it acceptable, then downs it in rapid fashion. I can look into making travel arrangements to Danvers. Do you think we will need to stay overnight?
He motions to a passing waiter for another cup, then turns back smiling to the guests at the table.
Was Mr. Croswell from Boston? Maybe someone should check over his place and see if there is some information on what he was doing before he committed himself. He leans back and looks around for the waiter, glancing at the diners at the nearby tables. Do you share the same editor? Maybe he knows something.
Straightening back up he leans forward a bit. It isn't everyday someone decides to commit themselves. So was he having issues and needed the rest, or was it something more? We don't want to go in and suggest he was merely having nerves if he actually tried to hurt himself or others. That would lead to an awkward conversation and likely end in our own commitment.
”Yes, Danvers is fairly easy to reach by train, bus, or car,” Dorothy says. ”Under twenty miles. Being prepared to stay overnight would be wise. it’s really Salem?” she asks rhetorically, gazing at the walls of the restaurant.
She finishes her cigarette, leaving the lip-stick marked stub in the ash tray. ”Our agents introduced us. I could talk to his editor or agent. Either one might know more.”
”I like your idea. There might be more information at his home. Should we split up? One person go to the library to investigate the hospital and the others go to Mr. Croswell’s place.”
As I'm more adept at finding things lost in the mountains, or navigating a wild river, I should probably go with whomever visit's Mr. Croswell's home. While I don't get lost in a library the quiet and I tend to be at cross purposes. Winking at Dorothy, Pretty girls pouring over books is a personal weakness of mine. I actually met Evie Mae in a library, and only later realized she liked Mac's place.
A slight man, with scars on his face and hands, some of which are partially covered by a patchy beard, is paying undue attention to your conversation. Finally, he stands up from his table and walks over. "Pardon me. I don't mean to intrude. I am Dr. Bellwether, and I have some history with the Asylum you're speaking of, as I've a few patients there. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?" he asks, a smile stretching some of his scarred skin in uncomfortable looking ways.
With a slight smile, Dorothy shakes her head slightly at Stevie’s wink.
”Since I’ve never been to his apartment, I wouldn’t have any particular insight into any changes there. However, I probably would be able to see if his notes and research matches what he told me he was working on.”
She turns her attention to Gene, ”How often do you do research with newspapers? Are you comfortable doing that?”
The stranger wins her attention. As he speaks she looks around the restaurant, interested if anyone else is listening too closely to their conversation.
”You no longer work there?” Dorothy asks. She glances at the others, then narrows her eyes gazing at the stranger. ”Or your patients are still there? It’s an odd an situation, meeting these men here to discuss the hospital and you over hear us. If I was more of a paranoid person...” Dorothy gives a slight shrug. ”Very well, what will you tell us?”
He smiles again. "I can see that, and I am happy to leave you to it, as I did not mean to intrude. I had a patient or two transfer there over the years, but most of them left my care soon after, due to the distance. It simply wasn't practical to continue on with me as their therapist. But if you have specific questions, ask, and I'll tell you anything I know."
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As Dr. Bellwether introduces himself Gene nods a hello, and anyone can see that there's some deference happening here. "It'd be great to have your help getting this sorted out. Especially if you might know a contact or two to help with any cover story we might try to figure out. Even if you don't know the internal operations well, any connection can help!"
Turning to Dorothy, Gene nods again. "I know my way around a reference room, Ms Crick. Newspapers aren't exactly my expertise, so much academic libraries are, but I bet I can figure out how they have things organized, and once I know that I should be able to track things down. Can't be any trickier than guessing what terms old Mathematicians are using for new work they're doing that might be relevant to what I want to know. I'm happy to bus down to the Boston Library and get to work on that and meet you all later."
Gene turns thoughtful again and his fingers begin their tapping. "Where do we want to meet after today anyhow? And if something goes wrong, ... hmmm, maybe if there are four of us it'd be better to work in pairs, just so someone can try to alert the others if things end up going south on us?" Gene looks a little embarrassed. "I only bring it up because in all the stories when an investigator is off on their own, well, that's when things go the worst and I can't help but feeling this seems like one of those stories. Silly of me, right?"
Stevie chuckles a bit at Gene's deprecation while sizing up the lookie loo joining the conversation. He takes a quick measure of the man before speaking, Well doctor, it might be you could be of some assistance to us, if you are not above a bit of play acting, for the overall well-being of a patient of course.
He scoots his chair over a bit, blocking the box by Dorothy but in the process making room for Dr. Bellwether to join them, seated next to Gene if so desired. Evie would never let me hear the end of it, seating a stranger next to her friend.
Following up on Gene's suggestion, he nods to Gene Perhaps it wise if you and Dorothy address the investigative side of the situation, attending to records at the library and newspapers. That will give the doctor here and myself time to look in on Croswell's home, provided we can locate it. The doctor here can look all dignified and fretful, while I chat up anyone about gaining access, for the well-being of the patient and such, winking at Gene and Dorothy, hoping his offer solves the partnership issue.
Turning to the doctor, As you may have surmised it seems my companions here have a colleague of sorts who has found himself in a bit of the doldrums, more or less, and committed himself for a bit of rest and recuperation. They've now received conflicting correspondences about the matter, calling his immediate safety and health into question. If you truly are familiar of such facilities I might pose a question to you. He gestures slightly towards the letters Dorothy is protecting. Is it common practice for such places to allow patients access to typewriters and facility letterhead?
Horton sits down in the offered seat with a smile, and a nod of thanks. Stroking his beard for a moment as he thinks, he says, "In my experience, no, it is not. Usually, if the patient presents no immediate danger to themselves or others, they are allowed to use pencils and paper to write letters by hand. I would consider receiving a typed letter on official letterhead to be very, very unusual. The only possible exception I see is if the person were unable to write... say if they had broken arms or the like. But even then, I'd still expect it to be hand-written, just by someone else."
”Since we have four people now,” Dorothy says, ”Splitting into pairs is a good idea. Very well, I’ll help Mr. Hansen search the library.”
Dorothy suddenly remembers she wrote Croswell's address down in her diary/address-book. Retrieving it from her handbag she turns to the back pages and scans down the Cs section. She soon locates the address. Croswell is not a resident of Boston; his address is 52 Orchard Street, Salem, MA. That's closer to Danvers than Boston.