The heat of late August clung to Arkham like a fever. After the horrors of Cobb’s Corners, the investigators had returned to the familiar halls of Miskatonic University, but the sense of safety was an illusion. Beneath the hum of campus life, something was unraveling—threads of secrecy, obsession, and dread pulling tighter with every passing day.
Whispers in the Stacks
The morning began innocuously enough. Plans were laid over coffee: Peter Goodman would scour county records for traces of Federated Oil and Chemical, while Sofia Picado leaned on her tenuous sponsorship ties to glean what she could about Abelard and the mysterious Pasqualeum—a substance that defied the laws of nature. Professor Lilian Neill buried herself in folklore, chasing the elusive term “Summerlands,” while Teddy Harris prowled the streets, keeping watch on Blaine and Laslow.
But the library told its own story. Lilian’s sharp eye caught what others missed: books mutilated with surgical precision. Pages on Vermont folklore, geology, and occult practices had been excised, not torn in haste but cut cleanly, as if by someone determined to erase knowledge itself. Whoever was behind this wasn’t careless—they were methodical. And they were close.
The Man Who Wasn’t Roderick Block
That night, as the campus settled into uneasy quiet, Lilian worked late in her anthropology office. The knock came at 10:45 PM—a sound too abrupt for comfort. At her door stood Roderick Block, the exuberant football star from Cobb’s Corners, now hollowed out and trembling.
“I’m not Roderick Block,” he said. “My name is Keith Clark.”
The name struck like a thunderclap. Keith Clark—the missing husband from the Vermont murder Sofia had uncovered in the Bennington Banner. His wife and children slaughtered at a campsite nine years ago. The police had searched for him in vain. And now he stood in Arkham, wearing another man’s face.
He spoke in fragments, words heavy with dread: “We were sent here for a reason… There’s going to be blood on our hands if this isn’t stopped.” Before Lilian could press him, he glanced over his shoulder, panic flaring in his eyes. “I’m being followed.” Then he ran.
She gave chase through the dim corridors, her footsteps echoing against the marble. Down the stairs, out into the humid night. For a moment, she glimpsed him under the lamplight—then shadows moved behind him, swift and silent. Two figures? She couldn’t be sure. And then he was gone, swallowed by the dark.
A Gunshot in the Morning
The day began heavy with humidity, the kind that clings to your skin and makes every breath feel weighted. The investigators had gathered over breakfast, their conversation taut with unease. Blaine’s name surfaced again and again—his erratic behavior, his isolation, his drunken stupor reported by the building superintendent. There was talk of confronting him, of prying loose whatever secrets he might still hold. But before plans could solidify, Peter returned from the library with news that sharpened the air like a blade: Laslow had left abruptly, moving with a purpose that brooked no delay. His stride was not casual; it was a beeline, cutting across campus toward the southern blocks. Toward Blaine.
Peter’s words galvanized the group. Chairs scraped back, coffee left cooling in porcelain cups. Teddy and Peter set off at pace, their shoes striking the pavement in quick succession, while Sophia lingered at the cafeteria door, scanning for shadows that might follow. None did. The streets were still, save for the distant hum of traffic and the oppressive weight of summer.
As the two men neared Blaine’s building—a squat, brick structure with narrow windows and a single stairwell—the silence shattered. A gunshot cracked through the morning, sharp and final. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then they were running, pounding up the steps two at a time, the superintendent’s wide-eyed stare meeting them at the threshold. He stammered something about hearing the shot, about Blaine’s apartment upstairs. No, he hadn’t seen anyone enter. No, he didn’t know what had happened. His voice trembled as he reached for the telephone.
The door to Blaine’s apartment stood ajar, a mute invitation. Teddy pushed it open—and froze.
The scene inside was a grotesque tableau of despair. Blaine sat slumped at the table, his head turned away, but the ruin was unmistakable: blood pooled across the papers before him, dripping in slow, viscous trails to the floor. Brain matter flecked the wall in a grisly spray. Beside his limp hand lay a .38 revolver, its dull metal glinting in the dim light. Empty whiskey bottles crowded the tabletop like mourners at a wake, their glass throats catching the morning sun.
For a moment, neither man moved. The stench of cordite mingled with the sour tang of alcohol, a nauseating perfume that clung to the air. Teddy staggered back, his breath hitching, his eyes locked on the ruin before him. He collided with the banister, misjudged his footing, and pitched backward. Peter lunged, too late. Teddy tumbled over the rail, his body twisting in a graceless arc before crashing onto the stairs below. By some miracle—or the cushioning bulk of his satchel—he escaped with little more than bruises, though the shock left him pale and trembling.
Peter scrambled down to help, his shoes skidding on the worn wood. In his haste, he stepped squarely into the blood, smearing crimson across the floorboards and leaving a trail of footprints that led out into the hall. Later, he would curse that oversight, imagining the questions it might raise. But in that moment, there was only the need to steady Teddy, to pull him upright, to make sense of the horror upstairs.
The superintendent appeared at the foot of the stairs, his face ashen. “What happened?” he demanded, voice cracking. Peter’s reply was blunt, stripped of ornament: “He’s dead. Shot. Call the police—now.” The man nodded, fumbling with the receiver, his words tumbling into the mouthpiece as sirens began to wail in the distance.
Sophia arrived moments later, breathless, her eyes darting from Teddy’s shaken form to the bloodied threshold above. Lillian followed, slower, her expression taut with dread. At Peter’s urging, she stepped inside, her academic composure fraying as she crossed into the chamber of death. The sight stole her breath, but curiosity drove her forward. She scanned the room, her gaze snagging on the open window—a detail that prickled the skin at her nape. For an instant, she thought she saw movement beyond the sill, a shadow slipping into daylight. Then, clarity: a figure running across the street. Laslow.
Sophia caught him too, a fleeting glimpse of his form as he bolted past the fraternity house, his head jerking over his shoulder. There was no mistaking the urgency in his stride. He was not wandering. He was fleeing.
The window told its own story. The latch was slid open from within, the frame unmarked save for the faint scuff of a shoe. No rope, no trellis, no easy descent—just a sheer drop to the street below. Had he jumped? The thought lingered, unsettling, as the sirens crescendoed and the first uniforms spilled into the hall.
Questions multiplied like flies on the blood: How had Laslow escaped unseen? Why had Blaine died now, in this way? And what did it mean that the man who fled carried not panic, but purpose in his stride?
Outside, the heat pressed down, thick and merciless. Inside, the air reeked of death and secrets. And somewhere beyond the reach of law and reason, the harvest ripened.
The Vanishing
The police arrived, their sirens slicing through the humid air. Statements were taken. Words like “suicide” floated in the stale corridors of authority, but none of us believed it. Laslow had vanished, his fraternity room stripped bare. Not a scrap of paper, not a forgotten cufflink. Whoever cleared that space did so with care. This wasn’t flight born of fear—it was preparation.
In the hope of tracking down the other students, Lilian returned to her office to start enquiries as to their places of residence.
A slip of paper waited beneath the door, its message stark and chilling:
“11:15 PM. Top of Hangman’s Hill. – Keith”
The game has changed. The hill looms ahead, and with it, the promise of revelation—or ruin.
Until next time,
Owen