Frank Green, a hospital cleaner, discovers dark and mysterious happenings at a local hospital. Now, he is nowhere to be found. Join Inspect Ruth Oakwood of London's Metropolitan Police as she examines his letters to find out what happened in this ho...
Forgive the brevity of this letter, and please do not divulge its contents to anybody.
This evening, I was informed that Dr. Perez had not actually left for a series of conference engagements but had accepted a job elsewhere. Therefore, his locker needed cleaning out so his personal effects could be returned to him. A clipboard with notes from his last ward round was among a couple of dog-eared novels, research papers, and a half-empty carton of cigarettes. I was alarmed to see that these were dated just one day after I sent my previous letter.Naturally, these can't be thrown out, so I searched for someone to hand them to. However, the wing was deserted, other than the now-handful of patients, all of whom were unconscious. So, I thought, perhaps naively, I could return the notes directly to your uncle. After hearing so much
about him in your letters, I couldn't pass up this opportunity.
His office is next to the research wing, and the thought of going near filled me with an intense dread. However, this evaporated when I saw the guard not at his post. Pausing with my hand on his door, I stopped and listened. I couldn't hear a thing. No telephones ringing, no murmurings from meetings, no clattering of typewriters or scratching of pens on paper. None of the other offices even had their lights on.
There was no response when I knocked hesitantly on his door; the noise amplified as it echoed off the tiles. I knocked again. Nothing. I paused for another moment in the gloom, the evening's lazy rays filtering through a couple of dusty skylights above me. Then, bowing my head and opening the door gently, I began to apologize "for disturbing you at this hour, as I'm sure you're a very busy man -." The breath was knocked out of my lungs by the scene I beheld.
An enormous frayed Persian rug had been pulled to one side of the room to reveal hundreds of chalk lines crisscrossing the floor. Well-used (but unlit) candles sat where large numbers of these lines converged. In the center sat an alabaster idol, no larger than a teacup. Aside from the color, it appeared identical to the grotesque octopoid god in the National Geographic article you shared last year. I didn't dare meet its gaze at first, and I practically felt it grasp at my overalls as I slowly walked over. My mind raced between what I had read in those archaic books from Watkins and the news story of that cult in the Moravian forest.
Picking up the figure, I noted that the craftsmanship was even more impressive up close. The texture of the tentacles, the veins running across its pulpy head, the intricate creases of skin on its knuckles. Were it not so hideous, I could have just as easily been staring at a Bernini or Puget masterpiece.
Finding the courage to stare into its glinting emerald eyes, a faint whisper spoke to me from inside my head in a tongue I had never heard before, the same language I had heard the patients scream aloud occasionally. The voice grew louder and louder until it crescendoed as a deep, furious, deafening roar.
I heard a sizzling and smelt burning. In my trance, I had failed to notice the idol heat up in my hands. Shocked, I dropped it with a heavy clang. The sudden screeching of chairs being pulled out and startled voices barking at each other made it clear that I was not alone after all. Flooded with raw, primal terror, I ran, my footsteps echoing off the walls.
Since then, until writing this letter, I've been unable to stop looking over my shoulder. My unforgiving mind constantly expects to see the silent, beshadowed guard watching me or for him to be waiting for me when I open my wardrobe or go into my bathroom. Occasionally, if I concentrate, I can hear the idol's voice as clearly as if it were a faint scream coming from down the street. I must pull myself together for Claude's sake, as my erratic behavior has put him on edge.
I must confess that yours is actually the third letter I have written upon returning home. I have already prepared two letters: one for the Secretary of State for the Home Office and the other for the Minister of Health, both of which will be hand-delivered tonight. Although they will not be spared any grisly details (I need them to act decisively), forgive me for not sharing everything with you. Some of the information may be used to link your uncle to crimes, and I do not wish to place you in an impossible position.
A note is attached to the envelope, asking Ms Miller whether she could send your letter first class so that you are notified as soon as possible.
Looking forward to writing to you with happier news soon,
Frank
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