The Story So FarEdit

The office is thick with cigarette smoke. Filling cabinets line the walls, and a pile of magazines sticks out from under the leg of a cheap wooden desk. Behind the desk sits a pudgy, bald man full of nervous energy.

--"It's about time you got here," he says while tapping his fingers on the desk. --"Time is money, and we're losing it by the truckload."

--"I need your help finding our missing business partner."

He tosses you a dirty manila folder. --"Our missing man is named Walter Lynch. He's always been the brain of this operation, and without him, this business venture is a bust. He hasn't been answering letters, and all our other investigations have been..." he pauses, choosing his next word carefully, --"unsuccessful."

He glances at the folder. --"You have everything we know. Bring him back to us. More than you know is at stake."

Later, in your car, you carefully open the soiled folder. You find a crude map with directions to a mansion just outside Arkham, Massachusetts. The drawing is primitive, as if sketched by a child. Behind the map lies a torn journal entry:

"June 8, 1918: It has been nearly a year since the illness came for my son. The doctors were mystified as it slowly consumed his flesh. I am a man of action and could not sit around and wait for my heir to deteriorate."
"Nine months I spent, traveling the globe searching for a cure. From the depths of the jungles to the wisdom of the orient, I found nothing. I kept searching, deeper and deeper into the lost places of the world and beyond."
"I witnessed many mysteries and horrors, but the cure still eluded me."
"Little did I know that it was already too late. Back home, my son passed from this world with no father there to comfort him."
"I returned home to my wife Edith, intending to stay for good. We grieved. Life slowly returned to normal and I returned to work. I started up new business ventures and grew my fortune while my soul languished."
"The healing process was not easy, but I found that helping mend Edith's heart helped me ignore my own pain."
A briefer entry lies on the back:
"January 21, 1919: How could this happen? Why could this happen?"
"You try to protect yourself. You try to protect your family, but it doesn't matter."
"Oh, Edith, you're all I have. How could it happen to you?"
"I MUST dig deeper. I will turn over stones that I dared not touch. I WILL find answers!"