In the hushed, academic halls of Miskatonic University, a chill that had nothing to do with the lingering April snows of 1930 had begun to creep. It was in the Charles Tyner Science Annex, a new, somewhat incongruous structure amidst the older campus, that the initial threads of a disquieting venture were spun. Within a staff meeting room, redolent with the faint scent of laboratory chemicals and the hissing, ticking of radiators, we, a disparate collection of scholars and students, found ourselves summoned.

There was Teddy Harris, an undergraduate of English, whose presence in such a scientific bastion felt, to him, a curious misstep. He was accustomed to the musty comfort of books, not the sterile precision of labs, though even here, he recognized a familiar, boisterous spirit in Harry Higgins, a geology student whose rapid-fire Irish brogue was a known quantity about the campus. Another, a “snivelly” name-unknown history student, whom Teddy’s friend Peter found disagreeable, also lurked. Then there was Sophia Picado, a late-stage Ph.D. in Chemistry, whose sharp intellect was already tethered to the industrial might of Federated Oil and Chemical. She, at least, understood the dual purpose of our ill-omened expedition: the collection of folklore and “oogie boogity things”, as Professor Learmonth would say, for the anthropologists, and the search for a mineral called “pasqualium” in the earth for the scientists.

Presiding over this initial gathering was Professor Roger Harrold, a once-esteemed anthropologist now seemingly burdened by an unshakeable sorrow. His gaze, evasive and troubled, betrayed a profound grief, undoubtedly tied to the disappearance of Daphne Devine, a “rising star” student lost during a previous, ill-fated research trip to Vermont in 1929. Accompanying him was Professor Learmont, a portly, balding man who seemed to merely echo Harrold’s grim resolve. Robert Blaine, a young man who had been slated for that doomed journey but was spared by a broken arm, also sat amongst the professors, a palpable pallor crossing his face at the mere mention of Daphne’s name. Others filled the room: Clarissa Thurber, Roderick “little Rod” Block, Lewis Gibbons, William Noakes (an Arkham native, a “big, strapping lad” who seemed an anomaly amidst the academic types), and Terence Lazlow. The fateful destination was named: Cobb’s Corners, Vermont, some 160 miles distant…

Our arrival in Cobb’s Corners on August 15th, 1930, was met with a bleak reality. The designated base, the Maclearan Farmhouse, loomed before us: a large, two-story structure, abandoned to the encroaching tall grass and sugar maples. Though lacking electricity, a university telephone line served as our tenuous link to civilization. Curiously, the flowerbeds near the house, as observed by Professor Neill, seemed to have been “clearly cared for,” a detail Robert Blaine curtly dismissed as mere “plants”. His peculiar attentiveness to Clarissa Thurber, as was exampled in him helping her from the car while neglecting others, added a subtle discord to the group’s dynamic.

Our first taste of local interaction came at Jim’s Grill, where a nosey reporter named Richard Wendell, from the Cobb’s Corners Gazette, immediately accosted us. His questions, laced with morbid curiosity, revolved around the “ill-fated trip last year” and students who “wound up dead or missing in the mountains”. This unsettling introduction was followed by the stern, puritanical pronouncements of Sheriff Dan Spencer, who castigated us as potential “inebriated hooligans” and threatened dire consequences should we “stir up trouble,” a warning that noticeably angered Robert Blaine. His deputy, John Cutter, a friendly, baby-faced youth, offered an apologetic wink and joined us while we ate.

Deputy Cutter, our unexpected guide, led some of us on a walking tour of the dismal town, pointing out the public library (where Mabel Carruthers held sway), the Karner’s Goods store, his own office, and the Civil War Memorial with its cannon. He spun a local tale, learned from his “paw,” of an Indian graveyard where “fancy gold” was unearthed, leading to a lingering “blood debt” paid by the town’s youth through “stupid accidents” – superstitious hokum, he claimed, though the notion clung to the air like the damp Vermont mist.

Later that evening, the group gathered around a campfire, which Lewis Gibbons and Harry Higgins had rustled up outside the Maclearan Farmhouse. Deputy Cutter, ever the convivial sort, produced a small bottle of whiskey, offering it around with a conspiratorial “As long as no one tells the sheriff, of course”. As the firelight flickered, he regaled the assembly with a local ghost story of Sarah Maclearan, known far and wide as “Sarah’s Shade”. Her spectral presence was blamed for a litany of misfortunes: animal disappearances, bouts of sickness, and even the deaths of children over the years. To see her, the Deputy warned with a wry smile, meant “death will soon be at hand”. Teddy Harris, ever the diligent student, felt compelled to scribble down the chilling tale in his notebook by the fire’s dim glow.

No sooner had the Deputy departed, Harry Higgins, seemingly unbothered by tales of the spectral, reappeared from the farmhouse with a bottle of Irish whiskey, proclaiming his dislike for ghost stories. Professor Lilian Neill, however, was clearly unsettled, remarking with a noticeable volume that she “would assume that our students would want to have a clear head in the morning”. Harry, somewhat apologetically, tucked the bottle out of sight. It was then, as the last of the day’s light faded behind the oppressive sugar maples, that a palpable tension descended. Harry and Teddy both distinctly heard “crunching of twigs” and “somebody moving incautiously away” from the woods behind the farmhouse. It was undeniably “something big enough to snap twigs”. Sophia, initially dismissing it as merely the wind, observed the sounds peter out, leaving a lingering unease. As the group considered the unsettling incident, Sophia, feeling a burgeoning unease despite her scientific mind, sought solace by retrieving Harry’s whiskey bottle, taking a “little nip for courage” as one who “believed in ghosts and ancestors,” before returning it to plain view.

Later that night, as preparations for sleep began, Sophia and Teddy realised it had been a long while since they’d visited a lavatory. A trip to the outhouse was needed. Sophia, bringing her flashlight, stood by as Teddy made his hurried visit, barely closing the door behind him. While Teddy was occupied, Sophia, with a keen sense of observation, swept the flashlight towards the dark trees where the earlier noises had emanated. For a fleeting moment, she saw “several pairs of little eyes looking at her,” reflected in the beam, before they abruptly vanished. The swiftness of her relief was prompted, in part, by the eerie encounter and a sudden, primal fear of being left alone in the darkness. Back inside, as the camp settled, Professor Lilian Neill, still unnerved by the earlier events, suggested they wedge a chair under their bedroom door, a small comfort against the encroaching unknown. Despite the exhaustion of the day, sleep for some remained elusive. As Lilian and Sophia drifted off, they noticed a peculiar absence: there were “no sounds of crickets. No cicadas, no noise, no insect sounds”. Sophia, seeking a sense of familiarity, instinctively reached for the rock hammer Gabriel had given her and test tubes in her valise, finding solace in their familiar forms as a “safety blanket”.

Lilian, for her part, simply “did not have a good night’s sleep”. The unearthly silence and the recent unsettling events left an indelible mark, hinting at deeper, more insidious secrets within the seemingly tranquil Vermont hills. It was as if the valley held its breath, waiting.

Until next time,

Owen