[As with the previous instalment, this one concerns the end of the campaign. Spoiler warnings abound. Also note that the primary intent for this piece is to show the results of the PCs actions in-game, which does impact the narrative somewhat.]
Sir Aubrey Penhew has not been having a good day. Or year, come to that. If he thinks about it, well... He casts a guilty glance at the shelf where his beautiful Ming vase used to sit.
He can't really fathom where it all fell down. Things had started so well. His only consolation is that soon, he will rule over Ancient Egypt. He will become an undying Pharaoh. Such is the power of his Master, and the promise.
Assuming the last year's issues do not ruin everything.
Assuming everything did go to plan, he and Huston would be richly rewarded.
This isn't a safe assumption anymore.
He is to commence the ritual here at the sacred site on Gray Dragon Island. Huston is to commence it at the exact same moment from the ancient city under the sands in the hinterlands of Northwestern Australia. The Black Pharaoh's spawn was to do the same from the Mountain of the Black Winds.
Was.
From the reports he received, a band of mercenaries disrupted the birth of the spawn, and killed the mother before the birth. The stories included great African spirits coming into direct conflict with the Black Pharaoh himself. Penhew is tempted to think of the stories as outlandish...except for his own circumstances.
Now, that section of the ritual is being conducted by another mere mortal. He hopes this will be sufficient.
The descriptions of these mercenaries are disconcerting - they seem to be the same people who have interfered with other parts of the plan.
Huston was meant to be guided by the resurrected Nitocris. The resurrection was disrupted by a group who interrupted the proceedings and killed the psychic before the spell could begin. Penhew has had to spend months stepping Huston through the incantation rituals, to ensure that, without support, he would be able to complete his portion. Even with Huston's arduously acquired skills, there was still the question of whether Nitocris' aid was also a part of the spell. That, they can't know until it's too late.
These mercenaries appear to be the same people who attempted to interfere with the London operations and the Penhew Foundation. Fortunately, on that front at least, he could rely on his staff. Edward Gavigan is a formidable sorceror, and appears to have had no problems in disrupting the interlopers and preserving the all important shipping channels. It had taken Penhew five years to assemble the plans and have the various components crafted and shipped to the island. A single disruption could have ruined everything.
But there'd been no disruption, and now, his triumph nears completion. In the shadow of the gigantic monolith to technology, he once again considers the frustrations now present. Chinese police officers had been captured lurking on the island, and at least one escaped and launched a signal flare.
He wants to start now, but this part of the operation is timed to the second, and he must be synchronized with Kenya and Australia, or the ritual will fail. He can only hope that any response from the mainland will take too long. If they come by plane, it will be too close to call.
Regardless, he must proceed with the plan.
He climbs the winding, exposed staircase, lashed by sea-winds. He reaches the control room at the top sodden, cold and impatient. He waves gruffly at the technicians idling around. They promptly leap to their feet and resume their stations.
He counts them in and the room becomes abuzz with activity as they prepare the rocket for launch. So consumed is he with this work, that the time to the ritual flies by.
So it is that he is out of breath after running all the way from the operations room to the ritual platform atop the volcano, arriving with mere minutes to spare. He is a little panicked - what if he doesn't get his breath back in time for the ritual? This makes him more breathless. He forces himself to calm. Shuts his eyes, takes big slow breaths and relaxes.
He pulls on his ceremonial robes, takes up his staff and clambers atop the platform. Immediately before him is the very top of the gigantic rocket, prepped and ready to launch. Across the gap, gathered as closely round as they dare are his minions. Hundreds, if not thousands, all ready and eager to bring forth their dark father.
Taking his position and standing tall, he raises one arm to his audience and with the other, strikes the staff down against the platform. Its rich resonating tone is lost amid the explosion of cheers and applause from the waiting supplicants. Penhew cannot help but smile; he does not recall when he was last this excited. Kenya, maybe?
Penhew leads the incantation.
...as does Huston in the Pilbara...
...as does M'Weru atop the Mountain of the Black Wind...
Their chanting continues for several minutes and the skies darken. A maelstrom forms, a great whirling as if the sky itself seeks to consume the lands. As the chanting reaches a crescendo, Penhew strikes the platform three times.
In the base of the volcano, his crew take their cue, and run out to the rocket's support struts. With welding torches, they sever its ties to the ground and it strains and bucks for a moment, before launching. Its exhaust flames consume the technical staff in their own private inferno.
The rocket flies directly into the maelstrom, even as the chanters continue their ritual. In the eye of the storm it explodes, in a lurid purple, as if it were a bruise across the night's sky. The bruise crackles with alien energies, the sky alight with coruscations of green, blue and red, searing energies that tear at the very fabric of the universe.
Until the fabric of the universe gives way.
Standing in the breach, like gravity does not apply, a gigantic three legged, three armed figure appears. In place of its head is a gigantic tentacle, split up its centre with a cruel maw.
Nyarlathotep has come. The world belongs to him.
In a flash, Penhew disappears from Gray Dragon Island, finding himself blinking in the brilliant sunlight, with an awkward weight upon his head. There is fire and people screaming all about him. He smiles again, as he realises his cruel master's reward. He is Pharaoh!
As he relishes this discovery, he does not notice the squad of the legionnaires clambering towards him and smashing their gladii deep into his soft flesh.
As he lies bleeding, he looks out over his kingdom in flames.
Huston is granted dominion over Europe, but it is not what he expected. He is not a king or a president or a chancellor; he is a secret lord operating in the shadows, assisted by an aide of his great master.
For a decade he reigns. For a decade his grasp on reality slips more and more until he is but a drooling vegetable, forgotten in his villa.
In 1936 he is deposed, as a new favoured son rises to power. By 1939, that new son has brought the world to war in undying tribute to the Black Pharaoh.
While that war does eventually end, it ushers in a new, colder war, all the more fitting to the Black Pharaoh's quiet machinations. And the world never rests easy again.
Showing posts with label Masks of Nyarlathotep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Masks of Nyarlathotep. Show all posts
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Monday, May 2, 2016
January 14, 1926, The Policeman's Story.
[To any readers who have not played Masks of Nyarlathotep, and hope to at some stage, please note that the below is a postscript about the final events of that campaign. As such, it is FULL OF SPOILERS. Proceed at your own risk.]
Police Report provided by Captain Li Wei, from his hospital bed, on January 19, 1926
Gray Dragon Island is a small island amid an archipelago in the East China Sea, a few hundred miles East-South-East of Shanghai. It is comprised of a small, dormant volcano, and, to the North of that, a small forest. While it is uninhabited, it is not uninhabitable; something in the air just makes it uninviting. It does not welcome people.
Jack Brady, an American ex-pat residing in Shanghai, brought the activities at this island to our attention.
Brady is a severe man, ex-military. Prior to his arrival in Shanghai, he had been working as a bodyguard for a young American millionaire, Robert Carlysle. This same Robert Carlysle ran an ill-fated expedition that (according to various sources) was massacred by tribesmen in the hinterlands of Kenya. Brady tells a different story.
In summary, he states that while there was a massacre, it was a cover story so that the leaders of the group could disappear from media attention to enact some sinister plan. His employer was, by this time, no longer in control of his own mind; rather, the leadership of the group had fallen to Professor Aubrey Penhew.
Out of fear of what was coming, Brady made plans to flee. Out of honour, duty, and perhaps even love, he committed to bringing Carlysle with him. He spirited his employer away from the group and caught a trawler up the African coast, slipping away into the night.
He was not done with Penhew, however. He knew something of the man's plans (the stories are too fanciful to relay here), and was determined to do all he could to thwart them. As such, Brady determined that they would end their journeys in Shanghai; he knew Penhew would come there; he knew people there; and, it was a good base to try and organise broader resistance to Penhew's machinations.
He spent the subsequent two years tracking Penhew, and learning of vast networks of people all around the world working to Penhew's scheme. As well as tracking these people as best he could, and learning as much of their plans as possible, he also reached out to a journalist and author, Jackson Elias, to help with the investigation and with bringing these people from the shadows to the light. Though nothing came of contacting Elias, Brady was able to get detailed enough information that when he presented it to me, it was compelling. I was required to bring it to the attention of my superiors.
At dusk on January 14 1926, our expeditionary force had Gray Dragon Island in sight. Instead of a quiet, abandoned landmass, there was light everywhere - throughout the forest, on much of the beach, dotted all the way up the volcano - and even from a mile at sea, the queues of people in their thousands were obvious. Something was happening, and it was much larger than we anticipated.
We made landfall under a rocky outcropping, well hidden from the beach, and scrabbled up into the woods.
The sheer number of people meant that even the woods and undergrowth was not enough cover. We were spotted in moments by a rag-tag group in robes, with blank, large-eyed expressions. They started plucking our number from the undergrowth and dragging them away. I was the only one to make it back to the boat. From there, I rowed out as fast as I could and fired off the emergency flare. In its light, it was obvious the sea was not stopping my pursuit. I rowed as hard as I could, and these people pursued with a dolphin-like grace. I did not think I was going to escape, but just as suddenly as they discovered us, they turned back when I was about a hundred metres away from the coast.
I kept rowing as fast as I could, until I saw the aeroplanes flying overhead towards the island. I relaxed then, and blacked out. When I awoke I was being collected by a fishing boat.
End Report
Police Report provided by Captain Li Wei, from his hospital bed, on January 19, 1926
Gray Dragon Island is a small island amid an archipelago in the East China Sea, a few hundred miles East-South-East of Shanghai. It is comprised of a small, dormant volcano, and, to the North of that, a small forest. While it is uninhabited, it is not uninhabitable; something in the air just makes it uninviting. It does not welcome people.
Jack Brady, an American ex-pat residing in Shanghai, brought the activities at this island to our attention.
Brady is a severe man, ex-military. Prior to his arrival in Shanghai, he had been working as a bodyguard for a young American millionaire, Robert Carlysle. This same Robert Carlysle ran an ill-fated expedition that (according to various sources) was massacred by tribesmen in the hinterlands of Kenya. Brady tells a different story.
In summary, he states that while there was a massacre, it was a cover story so that the leaders of the group could disappear from media attention to enact some sinister plan. His employer was, by this time, no longer in control of his own mind; rather, the leadership of the group had fallen to Professor Aubrey Penhew.
Out of fear of what was coming, Brady made plans to flee. Out of honour, duty, and perhaps even love, he committed to bringing Carlysle with him. He spirited his employer away from the group and caught a trawler up the African coast, slipping away into the night.
He was not done with Penhew, however. He knew something of the man's plans (the stories are too fanciful to relay here), and was determined to do all he could to thwart them. As such, Brady determined that they would end their journeys in Shanghai; he knew Penhew would come there; he knew people there; and, it was a good base to try and organise broader resistance to Penhew's machinations.
He spent the subsequent two years tracking Penhew, and learning of vast networks of people all around the world working to Penhew's scheme. As well as tracking these people as best he could, and learning as much of their plans as possible, he also reached out to a journalist and author, Jackson Elias, to help with the investigation and with bringing these people from the shadows to the light. Though nothing came of contacting Elias, Brady was able to get detailed enough information that when he presented it to me, it was compelling. I was required to bring it to the attention of my superiors.
At dusk on January 14 1926, our expeditionary force had Gray Dragon Island in sight. Instead of a quiet, abandoned landmass, there was light everywhere - throughout the forest, on much of the beach, dotted all the way up the volcano - and even from a mile at sea, the queues of people in their thousands were obvious. Something was happening, and it was much larger than we anticipated.
We made landfall under a rocky outcropping, well hidden from the beach, and scrabbled up into the woods.
The sheer number of people meant that even the woods and undergrowth was not enough cover. We were spotted in moments by a rag-tag group in robes, with blank, large-eyed expressions. They started plucking our number from the undergrowth and dragging them away. I was the only one to make it back to the boat. From there, I rowed out as fast as I could and fired off the emergency flare. In its light, it was obvious the sea was not stopping my pursuit. I rowed as hard as I could, and these people pursued with a dolphin-like grace. I did not think I was going to escape, but just as suddenly as they discovered us, they turned back when I was about a hundred metres away from the coast.
I kept rowing as fast as I could, until I saw the aeroplanes flying overhead towards the island. I relaxed then, and blacked out. When I awoke I was being collected by a fishing boat.
End Report
Thursday, April 14, 2016
The Great Australian Hike - Part 4: the Pilbara (21 November 2015)
Guys, I have a confession to make. This is where my travel blog takes a distinct left turn. When I was hiking the Pilbara, my plan was simple - arrive in Port Hedland, head down to Cuncudgerie, then follow an old prospecting track East and South to Lake Disappointment, then heading up the old Canning Stock Route. Pretty remote stuff. I mean Google Maps won't even plot you a route between Port Hedland and Lake Disappointment! Seriously, try it; I'll wait!
Thing is, I got to Cuncudgerie, and was tracking Northeast; getting up towards the trail I was going to be hiking for the next few days, and I had a brief stop planned. It was going to be a photo opportunity - some rich local colour, at a place called Dingo Falls. No idea where it got its name; no dingos, no falls.It's just a basin, with a small freshwater pool in the middle.
Plan was to check it out, grab some happy snaps for you lovely folk (and my snapchat if I could get any signal) then carry on to my intended campsite, some fifteen km on. But I fucked up.
Along one side of the basin, the rock formed an overhang, and underneath it was some Indigenous art, and some caves. Anyway, there was enough light to capture some photos of the art, but I decided to explore the caves, see if there was any more art in there; you know, maybe something that hasn't been witnessed in hundreds of years, that type of deal. Turns out though, these caves weren't very large...and had precipitous drops just past where the light fell. So I fell on my arse. And my ankle - not broken or anything, but bad enough that 15 more kilometres were not happening that day.
As I patted myself down, making sure there were no more injuries and no breakages, I realised I was lying, pretty uncomfortably, on what felt like a heap of sticks, and something else - a canvas bag. The bag seemed largely intact, so I threw its strap over my shoulder, grateful for the diversion it would hopefully represent. I turned on my phone's flashlight app; it was way too bright, always.
And was face to face with a row of skulls. Their condition varied, but they were all clearly human. Staring at me, like a jury weighing its judgement on me. A small one though - there were only five skulls. Even as my brain registered that the sticks were bones, I was scrambling out of the cave as fast as I could.
With my ankle fucked, I knew I was gonna have to camp at the basin. As far from that cave as I could manage. I set my tent up, and made a quick dinner of beans and tea, then set about investigating my find. The first thing I realised was that there were two matching holes through the front and back of the bag, one of which was darkly and ominously stained.
Inside the bag was a pair of notebooks, though one seemed to have been punctured at the same time as the bag and had the same staining. There was also a tin - that I assumed was full of tobacco, a matchbook for a bar, a scrap of paper with a red logo on it, like a crude eye, and an old green bottle, corked and still half full.
I popped the tin open first, and it was not what I expected. Instead of tobacco and papers, there were a couple of slim rocks and some short lengths of cord. (Much later, back in civilisation, I learned this was a flint&tinder box - an old school fire starter kit.)
The green bottle's cork was firmly wedged, so rather than forcing it, I gently cajoled it while checking out the notebooks. What follows is partly from the notebooks, and partly from what I've learnt subsequently from my own research.
Basically, I'd stumbled across the final resting place of the missing members of what is referred to as either the Elias Expedition or the L'Amour Affair, depending on where you're getting your information. I'm going to use the former, as by the time they reached Australia, Lily L'Amour (apparently a famous silent movie actress) was no longer part of the group.
As a quick side note - that's some seriously cool history - a silent movie actress from New York goes out Young Guns style in a shootout with the Police...in AFRICA! Crazy stuff...
Anyway, broader history lesson time: about a hundred years ago, Jackson Elias was an author who specialised in investigating cults. In January 1925, he was investigating a collection of cults around the world that he believed were connected, and that a bunch of people who'd gone missing in Kenya several years prior, were secretly controlling these cults.
He requested his friend, Miss Alice Spriggs - an investigative journalist of some repute, and the owner of the bag I found - meet him, together with some trusted friends. By the time this group reached the meeting, Elias had been brutally murdered and his killers were ransacking the place. The group both interrupted the murderers, and killed them, just as brutally. This kicked off the Elias Expedition.
Anyway, the Expedition went on a whirlwind World Tour, through England, Egypt, Kenya, and finally, Australia. By the time they arrived in Port Hedland, Spriggs was the only original member still with the group. She was accompanied by an English gentleman-adventurer named Rutland Smythe (seriously!), Peter Thornbury, a missionary who'd served in the Crimea, and a Kiwi Lawyer based out of Nairobi - though he joined the group last and there's little known about him.
As far as I can tell, they were in Australia because of a lecturer they spoke to in New York; something to do with the Great Sand Bat. I thought it sounded made up - fake indigenous history - but apparently in that area of the Pilbara it was totally a thing.
So Spriggs and co were investigating...something. Either a cult centred around the Great Sand Bat or some cave that contained ancient ruins. To be honest, reading Spriggs' scribbles, I don't think she knew. I don't think she was well - not sick, but disturbed. And the contents of her notebooks make madness seem pretty inevitable.
They had some well supplied trucks (that must've been stolen; there's no sign of them now) and a guide to navigate them to the Canning Stock Route, and from there onto a secret site. The notebook held the co-ordinates, but it wasn't clear if it was the ruins or something to do with a cult. Or both,
She didn't leave any notes about Dingo Falls though. I have no clue why they were here, other than the watering hole.
Feeling a little more ballsy, I went back to the cave, with my maglight this time, to get a better look. Grisly stuff - when I was planning my hike, at no point did I think I'd be checking out 90 year old skeletons. They were in really good condition; I'd guess it was down to the darkness and how cool and dry it was.
I wasn't going to go all CSI or anything, and while I wouldn't say I was superstitious, I wasn't going to disturb the bodies any more than I had to.
It turns out I didn't need any forensic wizardry though. Two of the five skulls had telltale holes in the back of them, gangland style. Another had its forehead caved in - whoever killed them wasn't messing around.
I wasn't going to get any more out of Dingo Falls, but I could check in on their destination. Their threats were 90 years ago; what could possibly be a threat there now?
Now, I am not quite as foolhardy as that may have sounded. On my way out of the Falls the following morning, I called in about my diversion, giving my bro the co-ordinates, in case of emergency. I am only alive to tell this story because I did.
It took two and a half days to reach the general area. There was a massive sandstone ridge dividing the land in two. My side, the West side, was the bottom. A tiny creek hid in the shade, giving rise to sparse shrubs and grasses. With no other options, I followed its course. After a few minutes, it disappeared into the ridge.
The entryway was maybe fifty centimetres tall, twice that across. Uncomfortable, but I'd spelunked smaller. I dropped down onto my belly and shimmied in. And fell.
Just inside, the waterway turned down at about a thirty degree angle. While the water wasn't any kind of torrent, it had left the rock slick, slippery and without purchase. Even as I frantically tried to find a handhold, I was sliding faster and faster, and then the ground was gone. I was tumbling blind in the darkness. On my way down, I cracked my forehead against the rocks and blacked out.
I came to, sprawled in a puddle, water drizzling on my broken head like a drum. Cautiously I stood, I was shaky, and bitterly cold and clammy. I probed my head wound with my finger and reeled from the explosion of pain.
I tried not to panic. It wasn't the first tight spot I've ever been in - though lost and injured in the bowels of the Earth was definitely up there. Deep breaths. Gingerly I raised my maglight and flicked it on. Its normally forceful illumination was dimmed and wavery. The plastic was cracked and it trembled as if water had got inside.
That was when I noticed the noise. At first, I'd assumed it was the running water, but there was definitely something else. Like breathy whispers in the darkness, bouncing off the caves.
Like I was not alone.
The chamber I was in had a little water run-off into an even smaller chute, but also a much larger, and mercifully drier tunnel. Given that I was not going to be climbing out the way I entered, I explored this new avenue.
The tunnel was low and twisting, and the whispers continued to echo around me, beckoning me onwards. I started to worry that I had hit my head worse than I thought - I kept getting glimpses of lights ahead of me. But they kept happening, even as I much torch flickered more wanly with each moment.
I decided to take the gamble, and turned my light off.
The tunnel was not well-lit, but there was a degree of light that was usable. It wasn't clear where it was coming from, but at this point, I was injured, shaking with cold, lost and staving off my own terror, so I did not really care. It was slightly more disconcerting when the area ahead got brighter, for moments at a time, as if there were another, better torch, teasing me onwards.
I don't know how long I walked the tunnel, staggering, leaning heavily on the walls. The only mercy was that the walking warmed me enough that I stopped shaking.
At some point, though, the illumination stopped. I did not walk past the lighted area; the lights simply winked out. I turned my torch back on, but its feeble glow was scant comfort now. There was a breeze coming from ahead, however. The thought of finding a way out quickened my pace and lifted my flagging spirits.
The tunnel turned sharply to the left, and as I rounded the corner, the right wall disappeared, fell away. I stood on some high path, open to a vast expanse. My torchlight barely made it ten metres across the void, lighting what I first took to be stalactites.
But they weren't.
Stalactites are not squared off, nor are they covered in some sort of runes or hieroglyphics. My dim light would not allow me to properly make them out, but they were definitely there, and regular. From my vantage, I couldn't see the top or the bottom of these pillars; they were lost to the darkness.
I'd be lying if I tried to pretend I was still calm at this point. I was freaking out, terrified that I was going to be lost underground in these chambers forever.
And that's when I realised the whispers were getting louder. Less whisper, more chant or dirge. A dread-filled litany building in intensity with each step. But I had nowhere to go. The breeze was ahead; hope was ahead.
I ran. Barely able to see by my feeble maglight, only really glancing around to make sure I wasn't about to step off the ledge, I ran. And as I did, the chanting became deafening, and the presence, like I was surrounded.
And I ran.
Eventually, the ledge formed a tunnel again. I stopped just inside the shelter, raggedly trying to catch my breath. I glanced back out and saw a much closer pillar, only this one was much less regular. It looked like it was covered in barnacles and blisters. Its entire exterior was bubbled and coarse and tapering. And then it moved, both upwards, and closer!
Without any further thought, I turned back to the tunnel and sprinted.
I don't really remember much else though.
I was found, delirious and bleeding, by the ridge, and will be forever grateful that I called in where I was going.
Thing is, I got to Cuncudgerie, and was tracking Northeast; getting up towards the trail I was going to be hiking for the next few days, and I had a brief stop planned. It was going to be a photo opportunity - some rich local colour, at a place called Dingo Falls. No idea where it got its name; no dingos, no falls.It's just a basin, with a small freshwater pool in the middle.
Plan was to check it out, grab some happy snaps for you lovely folk (and my snapchat if I could get any signal) then carry on to my intended campsite, some fifteen km on. But I fucked up.
Along one side of the basin, the rock formed an overhang, and underneath it was some Indigenous art, and some caves. Anyway, there was enough light to capture some photos of the art, but I decided to explore the caves, see if there was any more art in there; you know, maybe something that hasn't been witnessed in hundreds of years, that type of deal. Turns out though, these caves weren't very large...and had precipitous drops just past where the light fell. So I fell on my arse. And my ankle - not broken or anything, but bad enough that 15 more kilometres were not happening that day.
As I patted myself down, making sure there were no more injuries and no breakages, I realised I was lying, pretty uncomfortably, on what felt like a heap of sticks, and something else - a canvas bag. The bag seemed largely intact, so I threw its strap over my shoulder, grateful for the diversion it would hopefully represent. I turned on my phone's flashlight app; it was way too bright, always.
And was face to face with a row of skulls. Their condition varied, but they were all clearly human. Staring at me, like a jury weighing its judgement on me. A small one though - there were only five skulls. Even as my brain registered that the sticks were bones, I was scrambling out of the cave as fast as I could.
With my ankle fucked, I knew I was gonna have to camp at the basin. As far from that cave as I could manage. I set my tent up, and made a quick dinner of beans and tea, then set about investigating my find. The first thing I realised was that there were two matching holes through the front and back of the bag, one of which was darkly and ominously stained.
Inside the bag was a pair of notebooks, though one seemed to have been punctured at the same time as the bag and had the same staining. There was also a tin - that I assumed was full of tobacco, a matchbook for a bar, a scrap of paper with a red logo on it, like a crude eye, and an old green bottle, corked and still half full.
I popped the tin open first, and it was not what I expected. Instead of tobacco and papers, there were a couple of slim rocks and some short lengths of cord. (Much later, back in civilisation, I learned this was a flint&tinder box - an old school fire starter kit.)
The green bottle's cork was firmly wedged, so rather than forcing it, I gently cajoled it while checking out the notebooks. What follows is partly from the notebooks, and partly from what I've learnt subsequently from my own research.
Basically, I'd stumbled across the final resting place of the missing members of what is referred to as either the Elias Expedition or the L'Amour Affair, depending on where you're getting your information. I'm going to use the former, as by the time they reached Australia, Lily L'Amour (apparently a famous silent movie actress) was no longer part of the group.
As a quick side note - that's some seriously cool history - a silent movie actress from New York goes out Young Guns style in a shootout with the Police...in AFRICA! Crazy stuff...
Anyway, broader history lesson time: about a hundred years ago, Jackson Elias was an author who specialised in investigating cults. In January 1925, he was investigating a collection of cults around the world that he believed were connected, and that a bunch of people who'd gone missing in Kenya several years prior, were secretly controlling these cults.
He requested his friend, Miss Alice Spriggs - an investigative journalist of some repute, and the owner of the bag I found - meet him, together with some trusted friends. By the time this group reached the meeting, Elias had been brutally murdered and his killers were ransacking the place. The group both interrupted the murderers, and killed them, just as brutally. This kicked off the Elias Expedition.
Anyway, the Expedition went on a whirlwind World Tour, through England, Egypt, Kenya, and finally, Australia. By the time they arrived in Port Hedland, Spriggs was the only original member still with the group. She was accompanied by an English gentleman-adventurer named Rutland Smythe (seriously!), Peter Thornbury, a missionary who'd served in the Crimea, and a Kiwi Lawyer based out of Nairobi - though he joined the group last and there's little known about him.
As far as I can tell, they were in Australia because of a lecturer they spoke to in New York; something to do with the Great Sand Bat. I thought it sounded made up - fake indigenous history - but apparently in that area of the Pilbara it was totally a thing.
So Spriggs and co were investigating...something. Either a cult centred around the Great Sand Bat or some cave that contained ancient ruins. To be honest, reading Spriggs' scribbles, I don't think she knew. I don't think she was well - not sick, but disturbed. And the contents of her notebooks make madness seem pretty inevitable.
They had some well supplied trucks (that must've been stolen; there's no sign of them now) and a guide to navigate them to the Canning Stock Route, and from there onto a secret site. The notebook held the co-ordinates, but it wasn't clear if it was the ruins or something to do with a cult. Or both,
She didn't leave any notes about Dingo Falls though. I have no clue why they were here, other than the watering hole.
Feeling a little more ballsy, I went back to the cave, with my maglight this time, to get a better look. Grisly stuff - when I was planning my hike, at no point did I think I'd be checking out 90 year old skeletons. They were in really good condition; I'd guess it was down to the darkness and how cool and dry it was.
I wasn't going to go all CSI or anything, and while I wouldn't say I was superstitious, I wasn't going to disturb the bodies any more than I had to.
It turns out I didn't need any forensic wizardry though. Two of the five skulls had telltale holes in the back of them, gangland style. Another had its forehead caved in - whoever killed them wasn't messing around.
I wasn't going to get any more out of Dingo Falls, but I could check in on their destination. Their threats were 90 years ago; what could possibly be a threat there now?
Now, I am not quite as foolhardy as that may have sounded. On my way out of the Falls the following morning, I called in about my diversion, giving my bro the co-ordinates, in case of emergency. I am only alive to tell this story because I did.
It took two and a half days to reach the general area. There was a massive sandstone ridge dividing the land in two. My side, the West side, was the bottom. A tiny creek hid in the shade, giving rise to sparse shrubs and grasses. With no other options, I followed its course. After a few minutes, it disappeared into the ridge.
The entryway was maybe fifty centimetres tall, twice that across. Uncomfortable, but I'd spelunked smaller. I dropped down onto my belly and shimmied in. And fell.
Just inside, the waterway turned down at about a thirty degree angle. While the water wasn't any kind of torrent, it had left the rock slick, slippery and without purchase. Even as I frantically tried to find a handhold, I was sliding faster and faster, and then the ground was gone. I was tumbling blind in the darkness. On my way down, I cracked my forehead against the rocks and blacked out.
I came to, sprawled in a puddle, water drizzling on my broken head like a drum. Cautiously I stood, I was shaky, and bitterly cold and clammy. I probed my head wound with my finger and reeled from the explosion of pain.
I tried not to panic. It wasn't the first tight spot I've ever been in - though lost and injured in the bowels of the Earth was definitely up there. Deep breaths. Gingerly I raised my maglight and flicked it on. Its normally forceful illumination was dimmed and wavery. The plastic was cracked and it trembled as if water had got inside.
That was when I noticed the noise. At first, I'd assumed it was the running water, but there was definitely something else. Like breathy whispers in the darkness, bouncing off the caves.
Like I was not alone.
The chamber I was in had a little water run-off into an even smaller chute, but also a much larger, and mercifully drier tunnel. Given that I was not going to be climbing out the way I entered, I explored this new avenue.
The tunnel was low and twisting, and the whispers continued to echo around me, beckoning me onwards. I started to worry that I had hit my head worse than I thought - I kept getting glimpses of lights ahead of me. But they kept happening, even as I much torch flickered more wanly with each moment.
I decided to take the gamble, and turned my light off.
The tunnel was not well-lit, but there was a degree of light that was usable. It wasn't clear where it was coming from, but at this point, I was injured, shaking with cold, lost and staving off my own terror, so I did not really care. It was slightly more disconcerting when the area ahead got brighter, for moments at a time, as if there were another, better torch, teasing me onwards.
I don't know how long I walked the tunnel, staggering, leaning heavily on the walls. The only mercy was that the walking warmed me enough that I stopped shaking.
At some point, though, the illumination stopped. I did not walk past the lighted area; the lights simply winked out. I turned my torch back on, but its feeble glow was scant comfort now. There was a breeze coming from ahead, however. The thought of finding a way out quickened my pace and lifted my flagging spirits.
The tunnel turned sharply to the left, and as I rounded the corner, the right wall disappeared, fell away. I stood on some high path, open to a vast expanse. My torchlight barely made it ten metres across the void, lighting what I first took to be stalactites.
But they weren't.
Stalactites are not squared off, nor are they covered in some sort of runes or hieroglyphics. My dim light would not allow me to properly make them out, but they were definitely there, and regular. From my vantage, I couldn't see the top or the bottom of these pillars; they were lost to the darkness.
I'd be lying if I tried to pretend I was still calm at this point. I was freaking out, terrified that I was going to be lost underground in these chambers forever.
And that's when I realised the whispers were getting louder. Less whisper, more chant or dirge. A dread-filled litany building in intensity with each step. But I had nowhere to go. The breeze was ahead; hope was ahead.
I ran. Barely able to see by my feeble maglight, only really glancing around to make sure I wasn't about to step off the ledge, I ran. And as I did, the chanting became deafening, and the presence, like I was surrounded.
And I ran.
Eventually, the ledge formed a tunnel again. I stopped just inside the shelter, raggedly trying to catch my breath. I glanced back out and saw a much closer pillar, only this one was much less regular. It looked like it was covered in barnacles and blisters. Its entire exterior was bubbled and coarse and tapering. And then it moved, both upwards, and closer!
Without any further thought, I turned back to the tunnel and sprinted.
I don't really remember much else though.
I was found, delirious and bleeding, by the ridge, and will be forever grateful that I called in where I was going.
Monday, March 21, 2016
The Final Days of Lily L'Amour
-Excerpt from the Kensington Papers, approx. November 1926
[At the time that Jonah Kensington (Editor, Prospero Books) penned this missive, he had returned from a four month investigation into the L'Amour Affair. He documented his efforts at length, including the extensive steps to ensure that he was investigating the L'Amour Affair, not the Carlysle Expedition or any of the nefarious interests stirred up by the events of 1925.]
...While the court case itself was well documented, both in Africa and at home, my labors were focused on the aftermath. That said, the resolution of the trial was pivotal in setting the stage for the actress' final dramatic turn.
Much as the newspapers downplay it, one must remember that Miss L'Amour was not alone in the dock in the decrepit Nairobi courthouse. Though some of her compatriots escaped, fleeing to Australia and their own misadventure there, in court, she was one of three defendents, together with Declan Ryan, an Irish musician (and notorious alcoholic) and the drifter Corey Schwartz.
The drifter, having spent the least time associated with the group, and also evidently not possessed of sound mind, was subject to the most cursory of proceedings. He was summarily exiled from Kenya, on the expectation he would return to New York City and institutionalization. Had he access to wealth, this might have happened. Instead, he spent six months throwing himself on the mercies of many a sea captain, only to learn that that particular profession has very short shrift for mercy.
By the time he reached Tangiers, he was crippled by opium, insensate, and totally insane. He died there. While there was no formal death certificate or autopsy, it would appear that he succumbed to the ravages of syphilis. No doubt this was masked by his already tenuous grasp on reality.
I admit that I shed a tear for the man, and feel no shame for the admission, even if I am alone in so doing. I knew the man for well over a decade, back when he was an aspiring and curious folklorist. Though there was no way to know the ultimate results of so disastrous an encounter, it was I who introduced him to Jackson Elias. The pairing was fortuitous and profitable...for a while. Elias and I covered for Schwartz's collapsing psyche as long as we could. I think it fair to say that it was our intervention that ensured that his mental condition did not result in physical harm to himself or others, for all the good it did either man in the end.
Both L'Amour and the Irishman bore the full brunt of all the charges, spanning three continents. While I concede I was not there in person, the court transcripts suggest it was very much a drumhead trial, their guilty verdicts assured.
Mercy of a sort was apparent in the sentencing - maybe being the subject of international scrutiny chastened his honor from delivering the hangings he so eagerly sought. Instead, he provided both with life sentences including hard labor.
In accordance with Government Notice 184, this meant that Mr Ryan would be detained at First Class Prison Nairobi (its name, not a reflection on its quality), whereas Lily L'Amour would be resettled at First Class Prison Mombasa. While the Kenyan Government would firmly deny the accusation, this was tantamount to selling the actress into slavery, a nuance not missed by the defendants themselves.
From this point on, facts run light on the ground. There are many stories, however, and I beg the reader's indulgence in my choosing, perhaps, the most dramatic, and indeed, romantic, recounting.
After sentencing, the pair were left in a holding cell, pending transportation. It is important to remember at this juncture that the Irishman had been no friend to the Temperance Movement. Rather, his Bacchanalian efforts had been so vast that the enforced sobriety imposed on him by the court proceedings had utterly broken him. He sniveled and mewled, sweated incessantly, his skin broke out into rash-like red blotches, he was crippled by the shakes, and so forth. He was quite literally ruined by the drink, or at least, its absence.
In spite of this handicap, or possibly because of it, he hatched a desperate plan. In the small hours of the night, when guards returned to transport the convicts to their new homes. As soon as the lock's tumblers clicked open, the Irishman flung himself bodily at the door, weaponizing it. The guard on the other side was knocked clean out as the door smashed into his head. The pair of desperadoes made quick work of overpowering his surprised compatriot. They gathered up the guards' sidearms and fled the court, absconding in the same carriage intended to take them to their prisons.
Instead, they fled Nairobi into the surrounding scrublands and disappeared into the hinterlands, for a time. Only a time however; their international status was an assurance that Kenyan law enforcement would never give up on them.
Thus it was that a militia force encroached on a small shack in a quiet glade. They were not as quiet and subtle as they thought though. As they closed on the shack, the pair of criminals came charging out of the building, firearms blazing.
By all accounts, it was akin to the last stand of Butch Cassidy, or some other great outlaw of the West. The pair knew that escape was not an option, and sought only glory and a quick merciful death.
Again, to reiterate, this is only an unconfirmed tale told by the locals, one of many. The only thing we will ever know for sure was that neither Mr Ryan nor Miss L'Amour ever reached their intended prisons.
[At the time that Jonah Kensington (Editor, Prospero Books) penned this missive, he had returned from a four month investigation into the L'Amour Affair. He documented his efforts at length, including the extensive steps to ensure that he was investigating the L'Amour Affair, not the Carlysle Expedition or any of the nefarious interests stirred up by the events of 1925.]
...While the court case itself was well documented, both in Africa and at home, my labors were focused on the aftermath. That said, the resolution of the trial was pivotal in setting the stage for the actress' final dramatic turn.
Much as the newspapers downplay it, one must remember that Miss L'Amour was not alone in the dock in the decrepit Nairobi courthouse. Though some of her compatriots escaped, fleeing to Australia and their own misadventure there, in court, she was one of three defendents, together with Declan Ryan, an Irish musician (and notorious alcoholic) and the drifter Corey Schwartz.
The drifter, having spent the least time associated with the group, and also evidently not possessed of sound mind, was subject to the most cursory of proceedings. He was summarily exiled from Kenya, on the expectation he would return to New York City and institutionalization. Had he access to wealth, this might have happened. Instead, he spent six months throwing himself on the mercies of many a sea captain, only to learn that that particular profession has very short shrift for mercy.
By the time he reached Tangiers, he was crippled by opium, insensate, and totally insane. He died there. While there was no formal death certificate or autopsy, it would appear that he succumbed to the ravages of syphilis. No doubt this was masked by his already tenuous grasp on reality.
I admit that I shed a tear for the man, and feel no shame for the admission, even if I am alone in so doing. I knew the man for well over a decade, back when he was an aspiring and curious folklorist. Though there was no way to know the ultimate results of so disastrous an encounter, it was I who introduced him to Jackson Elias. The pairing was fortuitous and profitable...for a while. Elias and I covered for Schwartz's collapsing psyche as long as we could. I think it fair to say that it was our intervention that ensured that his mental condition did not result in physical harm to himself or others, for all the good it did either man in the end.
Both L'Amour and the Irishman bore the full brunt of all the charges, spanning three continents. While I concede I was not there in person, the court transcripts suggest it was very much a drumhead trial, their guilty verdicts assured.
Mercy of a sort was apparent in the sentencing - maybe being the subject of international scrutiny chastened his honor from delivering the hangings he so eagerly sought. Instead, he provided both with life sentences including hard labor.
In accordance with Government Notice 184, this meant that Mr Ryan would be detained at First Class Prison Nairobi (its name, not a reflection on its quality), whereas Lily L'Amour would be resettled at First Class Prison Mombasa. While the Kenyan Government would firmly deny the accusation, this was tantamount to selling the actress into slavery, a nuance not missed by the defendants themselves.
From this point on, facts run light on the ground. There are many stories, however, and I beg the reader's indulgence in my choosing, perhaps, the most dramatic, and indeed, romantic, recounting.
After sentencing, the pair were left in a holding cell, pending transportation. It is important to remember at this juncture that the Irishman had been no friend to the Temperance Movement. Rather, his Bacchanalian efforts had been so vast that the enforced sobriety imposed on him by the court proceedings had utterly broken him. He sniveled and mewled, sweated incessantly, his skin broke out into rash-like red blotches, he was crippled by the shakes, and so forth. He was quite literally ruined by the drink, or at least, its absence.
In spite of this handicap, or possibly because of it, he hatched a desperate plan. In the small hours of the night, when guards returned to transport the convicts to their new homes. As soon as the lock's tumblers clicked open, the Irishman flung himself bodily at the door, weaponizing it. The guard on the other side was knocked clean out as the door smashed into his head. The pair of desperadoes made quick work of overpowering his surprised compatriot. They gathered up the guards' sidearms and fled the court, absconding in the same carriage intended to take them to their prisons.
Instead, they fled Nairobi into the surrounding scrublands and disappeared into the hinterlands, for a time. Only a time however; their international status was an assurance that Kenyan law enforcement would never give up on them.
Thus it was that a militia force encroached on a small shack in a quiet glade. They were not as quiet and subtle as they thought though. As they closed on the shack, the pair of criminals came charging out of the building, firearms blazing.
By all accounts, it was akin to the last stand of Butch Cassidy, or some other great outlaw of the West. The pair knew that escape was not an option, and sought only glory and a quick merciful death.
Again, to reiterate, this is only an unconfirmed tale told by the locals, one of many. The only thing we will ever know for sure was that neither Mr Ryan nor Miss L'Amour ever reached their intended prisons.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Brock's History of the Prohibition: Chapter 3 - Other New York Notables (3rd Ed, pages 69ff)
One of the more flamboyant entries into the New York City scene was the Carolinian, Jonny Di Castillo. His involvement in bootlegging was comparatively shortlived, but the mystery and intrigue surrounding him is unmatched.
While he affected an Italian name and went to great pains to imply that he was a Made Man, the truth was revealed to all and sundry in the dawn of 1925 when his young cousin, Freddie McIntyre, came to town. Rather than being embarrassed by the Irish reveal, however, Di Castillo took it in his stride. None dated challenge him on it, though he never again alluded to the Mob.
From the outset, his motivations in bootlegging were clear - while he had access to some of the finest product available (and on that basis, was highly sought after as a supplier) he never pursued the career fulltime. He spent at least as much time carousing in the finest establishments and socializing with the City's elite as he did providing hooch. For the most part, these connections served him well: he spent several months cavorting with the daughter of a newspaper magnate; twice he was busted by the Police (on both occasions, his connections saw to it that the charges disappeared); he was invited to all the best parties, as a guest; and so on.
However, it was the same social aspect that led to his troubles and his eventual disappearance. Early on in his time in the City, he befriended an investigative journalist, Alice Spriggs. Indeed, rumor held that he was her lead for her expose of Mayor John Hylan While none of the allegations ever reached the stage of prosecution, none doubted that it contributed to his failure to obtain renomination in 1925.
In this same period, his connections with the party crowd tied him to the silent movie actress Lily L'Amour, who subsequently achieved significant notoriety in what became known as the L'Amour Affair. While Di Castillo was indisputably involved, his disappearance predates that venture's demise in Nairobi, Kenya.
It is unclear whether it was L'Amour or Spriggs who embroiled Di Castillo in the L'Amour Affair. As with so many other details of that escapade, the specifics are lost to history.
In piecing together what is known about the L'Amour Affair, from the collated court documents presented in Nairobi, from the medical transcripts of Freddy McIntyre, and from the personal papers of Jonah Kensington, the editor of Prospero Books and apparent backer of the L'Amour Affair's expedition, we can draw some conclusions about Di Castillo's movements in 1925.
Of the three sources available, the Kensington Papers are the most revealing, though they are also the most incriminating. They are relied on most heavily of the three, as they do include telegrams from Spriggs documenting the group's travels, and also the results of Kensington's own much later investigations.
On the formation of the core members of the Affair, a crime spree was embarked upon across New York City. This included the bloody and brutal murders of several African Americans in a Brooklyn hotel, burglary from a Harlem curios shop, the interrogation of a Professor of the Antiquities, and significant periods of public drunkenness.
Thereafter, the story becomes more grandiose. The expedition relocated to London, and under the pretext of investigating the Carlysle Expedition of 1920, or an Egyptological cult (the records show the group's motives vacillating between these two causes), the group is, at least, connected to: the Savoy fire, a major train derailment, two arsons in a country town, a car crash in Lesser Edale, a break-and-enter at the Penhew Foundation, and what appears to be a racially motivated incursion into an Egyptian Gentlemens Club of good standing.
These deeds behind them, the group moved on to Cairo. Their time in Egypt does not seem to be quite so criminal, though this may simply be a failure of adequate record keeping. Nonetheless, there were two significant events documented:
Firstly, the party visited the Bent Pyramid. The Kensington Papers make reference to an entirely undiscovered antechamber in the pyramid, housing some sort of Pharaonic automaton. By the time the group left the pyramid, some traumatic experience broke Freddy McIntyre's young mind and led to Di Castillo organizing the transit of his newly-catatonic cousin back to New York, to be admitted to the city's psychiatric institution.
The second event is more relevant for this narrative. It is only documented in the Kensington Papers, however, so it is not considered verified by any means.
According to those documents, the group found a network of secret tunnels under the Great Sphinx. In these tunnels, the group allegedly thwarted some dark cult ritual (by means of the cold blooded murder of an elderly woman). In so doing, they needed to cross a chasm, and having assured the safe passage of his colleagues, Di Castillo apparently fell to his death.
All we can ever know for sure is that Di Castillo disappeared in Egypt. Given the quality of the company he kept, the capacity for foul play by his associates can never really be ruled out.
Suffice to say, few others involved in bootlegging have a tale that can even hold a candle to that of Jonny Di Castillo.
While he affected an Italian name and went to great pains to imply that he was a Made Man, the truth was revealed to all and sundry in the dawn of 1925 when his young cousin, Freddie McIntyre, came to town. Rather than being embarrassed by the Irish reveal, however, Di Castillo took it in his stride. None dated challenge him on it, though he never again alluded to the Mob.
From the outset, his motivations in bootlegging were clear - while he had access to some of the finest product available (and on that basis, was highly sought after as a supplier) he never pursued the career fulltime. He spent at least as much time carousing in the finest establishments and socializing with the City's elite as he did providing hooch. For the most part, these connections served him well: he spent several months cavorting with the daughter of a newspaper magnate; twice he was busted by the Police (on both occasions, his connections saw to it that the charges disappeared); he was invited to all the best parties, as a guest; and so on.
However, it was the same social aspect that led to his troubles and his eventual disappearance. Early on in his time in the City, he befriended an investigative journalist, Alice Spriggs. Indeed, rumor held that he was her lead for her expose of Mayor John Hylan While none of the allegations ever reached the stage of prosecution, none doubted that it contributed to his failure to obtain renomination in 1925.
In this same period, his connections with the party crowd tied him to the silent movie actress Lily L'Amour, who subsequently achieved significant notoriety in what became known as the L'Amour Affair. While Di Castillo was indisputably involved, his disappearance predates that venture's demise in Nairobi, Kenya.
It is unclear whether it was L'Amour or Spriggs who embroiled Di Castillo in the L'Amour Affair. As with so many other details of that escapade, the specifics are lost to history.
In piecing together what is known about the L'Amour Affair, from the collated court documents presented in Nairobi, from the medical transcripts of Freddy McIntyre, and from the personal papers of Jonah Kensington, the editor of Prospero Books and apparent backer of the L'Amour Affair's expedition, we can draw some conclusions about Di Castillo's movements in 1925.
Of the three sources available, the Kensington Papers are the most revealing, though they are also the most incriminating. They are relied on most heavily of the three, as they do include telegrams from Spriggs documenting the group's travels, and also the results of Kensington's own much later investigations.
On the formation of the core members of the Affair, a crime spree was embarked upon across New York City. This included the bloody and brutal murders of several African Americans in a Brooklyn hotel, burglary from a Harlem curios shop, the interrogation of a Professor of the Antiquities, and significant periods of public drunkenness.
Thereafter, the story becomes more grandiose. The expedition relocated to London, and under the pretext of investigating the Carlysle Expedition of 1920, or an Egyptological cult (the records show the group's motives vacillating between these two causes), the group is, at least, connected to: the Savoy fire, a major train derailment, two arsons in a country town, a car crash in Lesser Edale, a break-and-enter at the Penhew Foundation, and what appears to be a racially motivated incursion into an Egyptian Gentlemens Club of good standing.
These deeds behind them, the group moved on to Cairo. Their time in Egypt does not seem to be quite so criminal, though this may simply be a failure of adequate record keeping. Nonetheless, there were two significant events documented:
Firstly, the party visited the Bent Pyramid. The Kensington Papers make reference to an entirely undiscovered antechamber in the pyramid, housing some sort of Pharaonic automaton. By the time the group left the pyramid, some traumatic experience broke Freddy McIntyre's young mind and led to Di Castillo organizing the transit of his newly-catatonic cousin back to New York, to be admitted to the city's psychiatric institution.
The second event is more relevant for this narrative. It is only documented in the Kensington Papers, however, so it is not considered verified by any means.
According to those documents, the group found a network of secret tunnels under the Great Sphinx. In these tunnels, the group allegedly thwarted some dark cult ritual (by means of the cold blooded murder of an elderly woman). In so doing, they needed to cross a chasm, and having assured the safe passage of his colleagues, Di Castillo apparently fell to his death.
All we can ever know for sure is that Di Castillo disappeared in Egypt. Given the quality of the company he kept, the capacity for foul play by his associates can never really be ruled out.
Suffice to say, few others involved in bootlegging have a tale that can even hold a candle to that of Jonny Di Castillo.
Medical Case History - Patient Frederick McIntyre
Caucasian; Male; 24 years old; Baptist
Attending - Doctor Christopher C Moresby
The subject was admitted directly to the New York State Psychiatric Institute on February 27, 1925. He was delivered from the docks in a mobile, but otherwise catatonic state. Prior to his overseas travels, his medical and academic records present no causal symptoms for his condition. Rather, it is indicated that he was exposed to one or several traumatic events during his travels.
My researches into his foreign travels, while not conclusive, do indicate that he was associating with known dangerous criminal elements, including but not limited to known bootlegger Jonny Di Castillo and members of the L'Amour gang (prior to their subsequent incarceration in Nairobi, Kenya).
Unfortunately, as none of his companions managed to return to civilized climes, the full detail of the subject's experiences will never be known. To date, the only commentary ever obtained was a tearful testimony from Ms L'Amour about how the subject deserved so much more. She and one of her incarcerated colleagues, an alcoholic Irishman, have made oblique references to a pyramid, a statue and some sort of illusion.
For the first six months of the subject's sojourn at the institute, his condition remained largely unchanged. Therapy was entirely ineffective. Attempts were made to apply electro-shock therapy. Initially these treatments appeared successful in alleviating the subject's catatonia. While it did not restore him to wellness, he was ambulatory and capable of speech, and, in the most limited capacity, conversation.
By October 1925, these treatments were ceased in the hope that he might now see results from traditional therapy. Said therapy was far more successful than previous efforts and by Christmas that year, it appeared that the subject might be discharged at some point in the new year.
On 12 January 1926, as part of general therapy for the subject and a dozen other patients that the Institute hoped to soon discharge, an outing was organised to the Museum of the City of New York. A substantial Egyptological exhibit was on loan from the British Museum.
For most of the patients, this excursion was a positive experience. For the subject however, it appeared to do significant harm. All reports indicate that a short way into the tour, he espied a statue of a Pharaoh. Unlike the other statuary present, this particular carving was pitch-black. There was no identification of the Pharaoh, but it captured the subject, such that he remained transfixed there and had to be manhandled away when the group departed.
By the time they returned to the Institute, the subject was once again near catatonic, but muttering to himself. No-one managed to identify what he was saying in full, but it intended in "-ho-tep" so it was clearly influenced by the events of the day.
During the night, the subject erupted into a psychotic fit, in which he fatally assaulted another patient in a most brutal fashion, as well as maiming an orderly so severely the man will limp for the rest of his life.
The subject was placed in a restraining jacket, in a protective cell. Each night, he became possessed of the same psychotic rage. It quickly became evident that the only appropriate clinical measure available to ensure his ongoing docility was a lobotomy.
On 12 February 1926, I carried out the procedure. The procedure itself was uneventful and the subject was safe and calm. So much so, in fact, that after the procedure, his subsequent monitoring was marked with a lack of vigilance. On 19 February 1926, after lights out, the subject snuck out into the Institute's gardens.
For those unfamiliar with the significance of this date, know that a fierce snowstorm hit the city that night.
The subject, Freddy McIntyre, was found the following morning, frozen stiff. Dead from exposure. His bearing, however, was one of sublime peace and happiness. Indeed, his face held a beatific smile, unlike any seen in his time with the Institute, as if finally, in death, all of his worries were resolved and gone.
Attending - Doctor Christopher C Moresby
The subject was admitted directly to the New York State Psychiatric Institute on February 27, 1925. He was delivered from the docks in a mobile, but otherwise catatonic state. Prior to his overseas travels, his medical and academic records present no causal symptoms for his condition. Rather, it is indicated that he was exposed to one or several traumatic events during his travels.
My researches into his foreign travels, while not conclusive, do indicate that he was associating with known dangerous criminal elements, including but not limited to known bootlegger Jonny Di Castillo and members of the L'Amour gang (prior to their subsequent incarceration in Nairobi, Kenya).
Unfortunately, as none of his companions managed to return to civilized climes, the full detail of the subject's experiences will never be known. To date, the only commentary ever obtained was a tearful testimony from Ms L'Amour about how the subject deserved so much more. She and one of her incarcerated colleagues, an alcoholic Irishman, have made oblique references to a pyramid, a statue and some sort of illusion.
For the first six months of the subject's sojourn at the institute, his condition remained largely unchanged. Therapy was entirely ineffective. Attempts were made to apply electro-shock therapy. Initially these treatments appeared successful in alleviating the subject's catatonia. While it did not restore him to wellness, he was ambulatory and capable of speech, and, in the most limited capacity, conversation.
By October 1925, these treatments were ceased in the hope that he might now see results from traditional therapy. Said therapy was far more successful than previous efforts and by Christmas that year, it appeared that the subject might be discharged at some point in the new year.
On 12 January 1926, as part of general therapy for the subject and a dozen other patients that the Institute hoped to soon discharge, an outing was organised to the Museum of the City of New York. A substantial Egyptological exhibit was on loan from the British Museum.
For most of the patients, this excursion was a positive experience. For the subject however, it appeared to do significant harm. All reports indicate that a short way into the tour, he espied a statue of a Pharaoh. Unlike the other statuary present, this particular carving was pitch-black. There was no identification of the Pharaoh, but it captured the subject, such that he remained transfixed there and had to be manhandled away when the group departed.
By the time they returned to the Institute, the subject was once again near catatonic, but muttering to himself. No-one managed to identify what he was saying in full, but it intended in "-ho-tep" so it was clearly influenced by the events of the day.
During the night, the subject erupted into a psychotic fit, in which he fatally assaulted another patient in a most brutal fashion, as well as maiming an orderly so severely the man will limp for the rest of his life.
The subject was placed in a restraining jacket, in a protective cell. Each night, he became possessed of the same psychotic rage. It quickly became evident that the only appropriate clinical measure available to ensure his ongoing docility was a lobotomy.
On 12 February 1926, I carried out the procedure. The procedure itself was uneventful and the subject was safe and calm. So much so, in fact, that after the procedure, his subsequent monitoring was marked with a lack of vigilance. On 19 February 1926, after lights out, the subject snuck out into the Institute's gardens.
For those unfamiliar with the significance of this date, know that a fierce snowstorm hit the city that night.
The subject, Freddy McIntyre, was found the following morning, frozen stiff. Dead from exposure. His bearing, however, was one of sublime peace and happiness. Indeed, his face held a beatific smile, unlike any seen in his time with the Institute, as if finally, in death, all of his worries were resolved and gone.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
The Masks of Nyalathotep Postscripts
The next few posts are postscripts about the characters from our recent Masks of Nyarlathotep campaign that ended in failure.
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