But I was wrong.
A small wooden box arrived on my doorstep one windy, cold and dark night.
What was this ancient, dusty wooden box? In a particularly odd frenzy, I fetched a crowbar and pried it open. I could not stand more mysteries. I had to know what was going on.
I gave the papers a quick glance, my eyes scanning the headlines and faces quickly. But every fibre of my being was drawn toward whatever laid hidden beneath the packing hay.
My mouth went dry. What horrors were hidden beneath that wrapping paper? Would this mystery finally come to an end when I revealed its contents?
So heavy for its size. The figure was cloaked from head to toe in tattered robes. A crown that resembled a three pronged flame stood out above its head. I felt exhilaration and dread.
But it didn’t make any sense! I needed answers! Why did this blasted thing come to me?
I decided to scrutinize the papers and photographs. There was a lot to unpack. Two were newspaper clippings by the same individual as before, a Mr. Pevort. He was concerned with a play: how the exclusive audience members were driven to madness as they left the theatre. Also his exploration of the building itself… and his gruesome discoveries…
Also included were some photographs: one of the ribbon-cutting of a government-approved “Death Chamber”, the other of an Asylum. The very institution where the author of the news articles, Mr. Prevort, was committed.
Lastly, a letter written by one F. Tennyson Neely (of the same company that sent me this box) to Mr. Prevort. It was threatening and unpleasant.
All of this made me feel ill, but worst of all was the revelation of that blasted symbol. The one featured on the medallion (as described in my previous article).
It stood out from the paper as a mockingly cruel and evil sigil:
What is happening to me? Why was I chosen to safeguard these items? The statuette, in particular, haunts my dreams. I set it up in my bedroom and I swear that it infected my dreams like a feverish parasite.
I think that I am truly damned…