Innsmouth, Massachusetts

Nathaniel Pickman Ward.

That’s what the tiny, ornate letters spelled out on the faded yellow scrap of card that she swiped from the wall of the Innsmouth Diner. Not really swiped, because it was pinned to the deteriorating corkboard near the front doors along with myriad other business cards, notices, and advertisements. There were the usual janitorial and maid services listed, along with an enterprising dog-walker, and a do-it-all handyman, and offers of all-occasion party catering, a shady-sounding ju-jitsu (what was jiu-jitsu, anyway?) academy, and-

A business card offering the services of one Nathaniel Pickman Ward.

She liked the sound of that name. It sounded, what, legitimate? Real. Yes, it was a real name, like someone of character, someone that you could trust. Of course, she couldn’t trust anybody, at least not just yet. But that’s what she had been searching for, someone to trust, someone that could help her with her...problem.

Nathaniel Pickman Ward. She turned the card over and over again. A sudden chill went through her. She looked around anxiously. No one had seen her furtively snatch the card from the wall, although she was sure the sound that the pushpin had made when it hit the floor sounded like the chiming of a church bell in a cemetery. And did the business card have a...smell? She raised it to her delicate nose, just brushing her sullen lips, and smelled...licorice? Sort of, but mixed with a spicy, minty almost smell, but then again almost decayed woodsy sort of smell. It was unsettling, She decided that the card must have absorbed the scent from hanging for who knows how long in this dark, smoky diner. 
She looked around again. Why had she even come in here? She had been desperate, looking for help, from anyone, anywhere...and then the rain had started, and she darted through the doors of the Innsmouth Diner. She had never even noticed this place before, and she’d been down this street numerous times; was it new? It couldn’t be, because the place looked like it had been here FOREVER...
The music from the jukebox (they still have jukeboxes?) rose and fell, but she couldn’t make out what was playing. As she took in her surroundings more fully, she noticed that many of the patrons were, like her, dressed all in black. Several were definitely Goths, but not everyone. She wasn’t a Goth, not that there was anything wrong with that, it’s just that she had more...eclectic tastes. The waitresses and busboys were nondescript in their attire; the usual diner-chic shabbiness that pervaded establishments such as this was on full display at the Innsmouth Diner. She looked again at the business card.

Nathaniel Pickman Ward. 

Below the name, it said "Investigator of the Unusual". Just below that, "Help for the Helpless". And then, "Hope for the Hopeless". And at the very bottom, "Liquidator of Antiquities." Hmm. "Liquidator of antiquities?" She re-read this. Her left eyebrow shot up. What was that supposed to mean? "Liquidator of Antiquities?" Was he an arranger of yard sales? A master of flea markets?  Someone that helped solve mysteries whilst helping you dispose of your great-aunt’s thimble collection? It didn’t make sense. But then again, nothing was making sense, as of late.

Examining the card, she saw that There was a scrolling kind of border around the edges of it that reminded her almost of...tentacles? No, more like...yes, tentacles. Or maybe jellyfish appendage-thingies. She shuddered. Why were the hairs on the back of her neck starting to rise?

She looked out the window; rather, she tried to look out the window. Through the lopsided shutters she could barely make out the street, so fogged the glass was. Still raining. She looked around again, and then down at the card. She shrugged. Pulling out her phone, she flipped it open and punched in the numbers listed in the top right corner. After several rings, an answer.

"You have reached the offices of...Nathaniel Pickman Ward. Unfortunately, Mr. Ward is... unavailable...at this moment; he apologizes for the...inconvenience, and asks that you leave him a brief message, outlining your-" there was a long pause,-"problem, and how you would like to be... contacted. Mr. Ward will respond as soon as he is...able." The recording was sort-of stilted sounding and halting in its speech pattern. The male voice had an accent, sort- of English sounding, but sort-of unrecognizable.

She glanced around. The diner was still only partially full, and it was dim enough that she could barely make out the faces of the other customers. That man in the far back booth was still facing her direction, but she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her. He appeared to be asleep. She turned away. "Hello, Mr. Ward? This is..." She felt more nervous; gulping, she continued. "This is Lavinia-La-this is Lauren Armita-Arm-Armstrong...Lauren Armstrong. Yes, this is Lauren Armstrong. I found your card here in the Innsmouth Diner, and I was wondering if you could help me? You see, I have a...problem, I guess you would call it. Yes, a problem. There are some...some people, some...men...that are causing problems for me." She almost hung up. What was she doing? What was she thinking? How could she ask anyone to help her, even a complete stranger? Especially a complete stranger? She continued. "If you could please respond at your earliest convenience, my number is-"

Her voice trailed off as she realized that the man in the back booth was now gone. She turned to look the other way, towards the front of the diner, just as a gloved hand pressed her hand that was holding her phone down onto the grimy tabletop. Looking up, she saw that it was Him. He was holding his finger to his lip, signaling her to hush. She hushed. He smirked. Before she could think of bolting or screaming, or anything, he slid down into the seat across from her in the booth.

She almost couldn’t bear to look, but she did anyway. And she saw-

"Nathaniel Pickman Ward."

He repeated himself.  "I am Nathaniel Pickman Ward."  She pressed herself back tightly against the plush cushions of the diners’ booth. She felt herself sink into the squishy faux-leather as it enveloped her petite body.  It made a distasteful squeak; she looked up sharply. "

He slowly looked back up until his eyes met hers. She gulped; his eyes were a deep gray, almost black color. His face, though covered partially in shadow, was not unattractive. As his eyes met hers he smirked again, and she couldn’t help herself as she returned his semi-smile. Their eyes locked, and her heart suddenly started beating faster. 

"I said that I am Nathaniel Pickman Ward..."

"Of course you are," she replied. She couldn’t help herself from smiling.

Ward looked into her dark eyes (purple?), framed with frilly long dark lashes, petite eyebrows arched over them. She appreciated his lingering stare. She had a small perky nose slightly upturned at the tip, just the kind he liked. And her lips, though small, were full and round. She had a slight yet firm chin that showed resoluteness. The alabaster skin of her face was framed by shining dark hair, black, yet with a tinge of almost blue. Her slight shoulders stirred as she sat up resolutely. A slight blush came into her cheeks as she realized he was looking at her longer than she was comfortable with. Yet she felt almost flattered-and also comforted.

She took stock of his strong features; at least those features that she could see-those that were not shadowed by the brim of his large dark hat.

"May I be of service?" he asked. She didn’t know why, but the more he spoke, the more calm and relieved she felt. For some unknown reason, she felt comfortable with Mr. Ward. Ward, sensing her starting to warm up, relaxed as well.

"Wait, how-I was just trying to call you, and you’re here. How did you-"

"I...frequent this...establishment, and both of us being here at exactly the same time is a very fortunate...coincidence." He slowly looked around. "The proprietors of the Innsmouth Diner are somewhat accommodating of their clientele’s particular...tastes, and this, in turn, is most helpful to my particular...situation."

She shook her head slightly, feeling almost as if she were in some kind of trance. "I’m sorry, your... ’situation’?"

"I keep hours that are not the norm, and having somewhere convenient to collect one’s thoughts, as well as get a decent cup of coffee, are, shall we say, hard to come by?"

"There are plenty of twenty-four-hour diners and cafes around here-"

"But none with the...distinct spirit...of the Innsmouth Diner. It is somewhat conducive to my particular field of interest, to have such a place that can provide shelter and sustenance along with the necessary privacy which makes encounters such as this more...fortuitous?"

"I...see." She looked around the diner again, this time trying to see it in a new light. It really wasn’t as dingy as she had originally thought; it was more...atmospheric. It did seem to have a sort-of retro-vintage vibe going, but it was still hard to give it the relevance that Mr. Ward seemed to associate with it. She looked back at him. "So, how did you-"

He reached into the front breast pocket of his dark trenchcoat, pulled out his cell phone, and set it down on the tabletop. His gloved finger pressed a button and her message began playing. "This is Lavinia-La-this is Lauren Armita-Arm-Armstrong...Lauren Armstrong. Yes, this is Lauren Armstrong. I found your card here in the Innsmouth Diner, and I was wondering if you could help me? You see, I have a...problem, I guess you would call it. Yes, a problem. There are some...some people, some...men...that are causing problems for me."

"’Lavinia-La Lauren Armita Arm-Armstrong.’ Interesting name..."

She smiled again, sucking in her breath. "Well," she stammered "That’s not exactly correct. My name is Lauren, Lauren Armstrong."

He smiled again. "Of course it is."  A dramatic pause. "What can I do for you this evening, Lavinia La-Lauren Armita Arm-Armstrong?"

Now he was just being difficult.  "No-just Lauren, Lauren Armstrong."

He was still smiling. "Very well, Lauren, Lauren Armstrong." 

She sat upright, indignantly.  "Harumph!" she snorted.

"And you can call me Nathaniel. You said you had a problem? Or rather...some men were the problem...or...they were causing you problems?"

Now it seemed to her that he was mocking her. She held up his business card and set it down on the tabletop. She looked around the diner; it was almost empty now. The rain had slowed down. She looked back into his eyes. "You know,"  she said "Perhaps this was a mistake. Yes, a mistake."

She started to get up. He reached across the table and grasped her wrist. Firmly, yet not menacingly. She froze. "Sit down," he said. His grip was strong yet unthreatening. Reluctantly, she slid back into her seat. Not knowing what to say, Lauren thought a moment, then asked a question. "What kind of business card is this?"

She held it up to her perky nose. "It smells funny." He leaned back in the seat and smiled at her.

"Absinthe," he said.

"’Absent?’ What do you mean, ’absent?’"

"Absinthe," he repeated slowly, almost relishing the pronouncement of the word.

"Absinthe?"

"Absinthe-it’s a drink, an alcoholic drink..."

Their eyes met again. "Never heard of it," she said.

He reached inside his trenchcoat and set a small flask on the table. She looked at it. It was a small, flat, thick crystal bottle, beautiful almost, unlike anything a man of his type should be carrying. It was two-thirds full of a thick, dark green fluid. Ward picked up the flask, swirled it around, set it down on the table, and then pushed it across the table towards her. She looked at him quizzically. His eyes met hers.

"Go ahead," he said nonchalantly. She slowly reached her hand out. Her long, almost elegant-looking fingers, capped with dark-red nails (perfectly manicured) slowly reached out for the flask. She held it in her fingertips and pulled it back towards her; it was uncomfortably warm. She looked back at him. He smiled. She lifted the flask; the lid was sculpted to resemble an elegant looking, though somewhat stretched out, skull, complete with top hat and monocle. 
"Mister Peanut?" She glanced at Ward, and saw his smile flatten slightly; she grasped the lid, and slowly unscrewed it. Before the lid was off a strong odor assailed her nostrils. Again the strong scent of licorice with a hint of mint and some other unknown spice. Just like the business card.

Her eyebrows shot up. "NyQuil?"

His eyes held her firm in their grasp- "Go ahead," he said. "Have a taste."

She put the lid back, screwed it tight, and set it down, pushing it towards him. "No thank you. I don’t drink with...strangers..."

"So I’m strange now, am I?" He looked serious.

"Well, that’s not-" she stammered, "what I meant was, I don’t accept drinks from a gentleman that I am not more acquainted with. It’s not proper."

Another smile.  "And you, Miss Lavinia Armitrage, are absolutely...proper."  He winked.

"That’s not-how did you-"

He picked his phone up and turned the screen towards her.  She blushed, seeing her name emblazoned in neon green, along with her phone number.  "I’m a detective, remember?"

"That doesn’t answer my question.  Why does your business card smell of...absinthe?"

"Well, it was either that or anise."

"Mmmm, I like-"

"Too licorice-y."

"But-"

"It’s kind of like a...trademark.  Something to attract attention, make you stand out from the crowd, that sort of thing.  Wasn’t really my idea, it was my..."

"Yes?"

"My assistant, my secretary-it was her idea.  Thought it would drum up more business."

"Has it?"

"After a couple of days, you couldn’t really smell it, so, no."

"I could smell it.  It seemed pretty strong to me."

"Absinthe is like that. Affects everyone differently...uniquely."

"So, what’s with the...absinthe.  Why do -"

"We’re not here to discuss my business card.  You said that you needed help?"

"Well, yes.  You see, there are these...these..."

"Men?"

"Yes, these men...they are...well..."

"Causing problems?"

"Yes, causing problems...well, more like...making problems.  Making threats."

"What kind of threats?"

"They believe that I have something that they want, and they are threatening to...harm me if I don’t give it to them."

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have something that they want?"

"No, but I wouldn’t give it to them."

"Give what to them?"

"Well, nothing-" She hesitated. He looked at her. She looked again at the surroundings. The diner was almost empty; any people that were there were not within earshot. She slowly reached into her front jacket pocket and set an object down on the table.

Nathaniel reached for it, but Lavinia quickly slapped her hand down on it.

"It’s a key, looks like to a safe deposit box..." he said, looking at her quizzically. Her eyes darted from side to side.

"Sshhh..." she replied, eyes widening as she placed a finger to her lips. "I thought you were a detective!"

"It doesn’t take a detective to recognize a kind of key, but in my line of work, I’ve seen plenty of those kinds of keys...but that’s a pretty old one. May I?"

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly lifted her hand from the tabletop. Ward reached out and pulled the glove from his left hand with his right. He lifted the tiny key, looking at it like a jeweler might look at a gemstone. "This hasn’t opened anything in quite a long time." He continued to examine it. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

Lavinia looked around again. "Is this the proper place to-"

"This is practically my office, my home away from home. No one will bother us, I guarantee you."

She settled back in her seat, licked her lips, and cleared her throat.

"This key belonged to my grandfather. I inherited it upon his...passing."

"I’m...sorry?" Nathaniel looked into her eyes but saw nothing.

"Oh, actually, he’s been gone for quite a while. It wasn’t until recently that I got this key, and that’s when the trouble started." He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I’d better start back at the beginning," she said.

"That’s usually the best place to start," Nathaniel said, as he fished around in his trenchcoat pockets. He pulled out a small, leatherbound book, untied a cord from around it, and slid a small pencil out of the folds of the tome. He looked back up at Lavinia. "Ready."

"For what?"

"To start at the beginning." He felt around in his pockets some more, patted down his chest, and pulled a pair of spectacles from a front pocket. He opened them, held them up to his mouth, breathed on the lenses, and proceeded to rub them with a silken handkerchief. Finishing, he placed them on the tip of his nose. The glasses had ornate gold frames, clunky in a steampunk sort of way, and round lenses that had a greenish cast to them. He immediately looked more respectable, more bona fide. Sort-of owlish, but in a good way. She smiled slightly. He licked the tip of the pencil and shot her a look. "Well?"

"So, my grandfather passed away, around six months ago. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. Several weeks later, this came in the mail." She pointed to the key. "Along with a note."

"Do you still have the note?"

"Of course." Their eyes locked.

Moments passed.

"With you?" he seemed almost exasperated.

"Oh. Sorry."

She slid back and began fishing around in her handbag. He waited patiently while she dug, taking advantage of the opportunity to more fully appreciate her accouterments.

"Here it is," she said, breaking the spell and interrupting his reverie. She extended a folded piece of paper.

He took it, and slowly unfolded it. It was a thick, yellowed parchment sheet, folded crisply. It had been sealed with red wax pressed into a round, ornate symbol. It had the smell of old age on it; once it was completely unfolded, he turned it right side up and began to study it. The page was almost completely covered with varied writings, drawings, and other markings, most in the same amber-colored ink, but some in red and a few in black ink. Only a minor amount was in English, the rest being a mixture of what appeared to be other languages. What looked like mathematical equations were scattered sporadically through it all, and these were interspersed with drawings and diagrams.

He looked at Lavinia; she was staring intently at him. "So, there was only this note, and the key?"

"The key was inside the note. There wasn’t any kind of explanation or anything. It’s my grandfather’s; I do know that much."

"How do you know that?"

"It’s the key; for as long as I’ve known him he’s worn it around his neck.  He would constantly fumble with it, rolling it around in his fingers.  I used to think it was just a good luck charm, a talisman, or something."

"And you’re one-hundred percent certain that your grandfather sent this to you?"

"Well, there wasn’t a return address, but it’s postmarked from his hometown, so I’m assuming it’s from him, or from someone close to him." She dug around again and handed him a tattered envelope. He turned it over and looked at the corner of it.

"Collinsport, Maine?"

"That’s where Gran’pa Army lives...lived."

"Grandpa Army?"

"Yes, Grandfather Armitrage. We couldn’t say his, er, our last name when we were little, so we called him Gran’pa Army."

"We?"

"My little sister and I."

"Your sister-"

"Felicia. She lives in France, Paris, last I heard..." He had been writing the whole time that Lavinia was talking. "Hey, what are you writing down?"

"Just taking notes." He pushed his glasses slightly up. "Please continue. You were telling me about the key. Did you ever ask him about it?"

"I did, several times, but he was evasive about it, and eventually I stopped asking. He did say that when the time was right he would let me know what it was for, what it unlocked, you know. After a while, I stopped asking. It was just one of his eccentricities.."

" So your grandfather is eccentric?"

"Eccentric doesn’t even begin to explain my grandfather. When I was younger I thought he was just, oh, don’t know, different. Crikey!  In a queer kind of way but harmless, even fun. As I grew older,  his quirkiness became more mysterious, but still in a good way. My contact with him grew less and less frequent the older I got until most of my correspondence with him was long distance. When I did see him or talk to him, he seemed, oh I don’t know, more melancholy, much quieter, less lively, and rigorous than he had been one I was younger. He seemed distracted, sort of. He was always away on trips and no one in the family ever seemed to want to talk about where he was or what he was doing or how long he would be gone for."

"What did the rest of your family think of him?"

"Oh, of course, we all loved him, and it was just a given that he was different. I mean, he was Gran’pa."

"So nothing he did seemed out of the ordinary, strange, disconcerting?"

She didn’t answer. "Can you tell me more about him? What he did for a living, was he married, did he have any children?"

"Well, obviously, I mean he’s my grandfather-he obviously had children..."

"I guess what I’m looking for are just more details that flush out the kind of person he was; is there anything that can give me any kind of insight into the writing on this paper?"

"He spent most of his life teaching at university.   He did go on sabbatical quite frequently- research trips, you know, things like that-conducting studies, writing, just the whole scholarly sort of thing."

"Which university? What did he teach?"

"Miskatonic University, ancient studies, history, anthropology, you know, that sort of thing."

Ward sat bolt upright, his senses tingling.  "Miskatonic University?"

"Yes, is that important?"

"No, it just makes things more...interesting. Were there any special areas of research that he specialized in?"

"A lot of it was focused on ancient religions, cults, that sort of thing.   It always seemed a little bit-oh, I don’t know dry, dull, to me; I never really asked too many questions."

"Now that doesn’t sound like you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You seem like the inquisitive type-you know, that would be interested in all things mysterious."

"What gives you that idea?"

"Just a feeling I get from you."

"Are there any other feelings you get from me?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Getting back to your grandfather..." He looked around the room.

A slight smile turned up the corners of her lips; she was enjoying this. His gaze returned to her. "You said ancient studies..."

"Cultures, religions..."

"Is there any particular reason that he chose to specialize in these areas?"

"No one in the family really talked about it-I mean, he came from Eastern Europe, that’s his cultural background and all... he just always talked about the old country and we just assumed that that was his area of interest and expertise and that’s why he taught it."

"Makes sense."  He paused a moment, looked down at his notes. "So you said that he taught at Miskatonic University.  His entire career, or..."

"Yes, it’s my understanding that he was a student there, and once he graduated he was immediately hired as a part of the faculty. He absolutely loved university. Gran’pa just lit up whenever he talked about old MU. They even named a wing of the library after him."

"So why do you think he wanted you to have this key?"

"I don’t know, he always said that I reminded him of himself when he was my age and that I seemed to be a kindred spirit to him. He seemed to think that  I had a lot in common with him, although as I got older I spent less and less time with him, and I didn’t really follow his studies or his research."

She paused a moment and seemed deep in thought. "My mom always said I was a lot like him."

"So are you?"

"Maybe in some ways but he’s much more intense, more focused than I am."

Ward couldn’t help smiling at this. He looked back down at the paper, then setting it back on the tabletop and gently smoothing it out, his eyes roamed over the words and symbols scattered haphazardly all over its surface.

She looked back down at the paper. "Does any of this make any sense?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing-have you studied it?" he asked.

"Of course; I’ve looked at it many times, but none of it makes any sense to me."

"Yet he still sent it to you, so he must’ve thought you would know what to do with it, or what he intended for to be done with it. Are there any other members of your family that were close to him, maybe lived with him, or would have been in contact with him that could shed some light on this?"

"No, most of the family cut off contact with him in the last, oh,  I don’t know, 15 or 20 years..."

"Why is that?"

"Gran’pa just became more withdrawn, more...strange?"

"In what way?"

"He grew more distant from the family, began to avoid all of us. Whenever anybody did get in touch with him, he was agitated and acted like he was too busy to even have any interaction with them. His studies, his research, it just seemed to completely, oh, I don’t know, consume him, in the end."

"So was he living in Collinsport at the time of his death?"

"Yes, he had a small home, a cottage, in Collinsport, near the coast..."

"Well, all of Collinsport is near the coast," he said, smiling.

"It was a small cottage that has been in the family, for, I don’t know, generations."

"So, have you been to his cottage since he passed?"

"No."

"How about the rest of your family? Has any of them been there?"

"No, I don’t believe so; as I said, a lot of the family cut off contact with him years ago."

"Well, maybe we should go up there, take a look around and see if there’s anything that could give us a clue as to the significance of this key, and maybe help us figure out this handwriting."

She stared at him. There was a moment of awkward silence. He cleared his throat."Or, maybe you could tell me about these calls?"

"Yes, so anyway, I got this in the mail several weeks after his death, and shortly after that,I started getting these calls."

"What kind of calls?"

"Calls claiming that I had been given something that didn’t belong to my grandfather and that I needed to return it."

"From whom?"

"They didn’t give much in the way of details."

"Do you have-"

"Recordings? Of course. I’ve saved every message that they sent me..."

"May I-"

"Are you taking my case?" She hesitated. "Actually, I’m not even sure that I’m really in need of a private investigator, but the police said that the calls weren’t technically threats, but they sound threatening, so-"

"Do you want me to take your case?"

"Well, we haven’t discussed payment, or if you’re even interested, or-"

"Oh, I’m interested..." His eyes briefly flickered up and down her again. "Very interested."

She felt flustered. "How much does something like this cost?"

"Let me hear the rest of your story; I have standard daily rates, but these are determined by what type of case I’m working on..."

"Type of case?"

"There are all kinds of variables and what-not, inherent elements of danger, and so forth, risk of loss of life and limb..."

"Everyday run-of-the-mill detective stuff?"

"My every day is not quite the same as some."

"Oh?"

"I tend to gravitate towards more...esoteric...types of situations, to which I am more keenly suited..." His eyes gleamed.

"I see. Seemingly helpless, desperate women?"

"You are definitely not helpless. Or desperate."

"But you don’t know if I can afford you."

"I’m certain that we can work something out..."

"Perhaps, but the payment that you are insinuating is not the payment that I am offering."

"Now hold on-I’ve not been insinuating anything, and if I’ve given you that impression, I offer my sincerest apologies."

She stared at him. "Oh."

"Tell me the rest of what’s going on, and we can discuss payment afterward."

"Very well."

She sat up and took a deep breath. "So, I get this key in the mail a couple of weeks after Gran’pa Army died, and right off I start getting calls. People asking if I know anything about his bank accounts, his holdings, etc., and if I have access to his safe deposit boxes."

"How did they know he had safe deposit boxes?"

"Exactly. Maybe a detective could figure that one out?" She winked at him.

"Did these callers identify themselves?"

"Said they were financial representatives of clients that Gran’pa had business dealings with, and that he owed them or were in partnerships with them and they were still owed money, or whatever..."

"Sounds plausible."

"Only I talked to his lawyers and his accounting firm, and they said that all of his dealings had been legally and completely taken care of, assets liquidated, and there wasn’t anything owed to anyone."

"So-"

"So then the callers began claiming that they had deals with Gran’pa that weren’t on the books, that were handshake or ’gentlemen’s’ agreements and so forth that he hadn’t made good on before his death."

"And they are of the belief that he passed on whatever these nameless valuables are, I’m assuming, to you?"

"Yes."

"They want access to whatever is in his safe deposit box..."

"Right."

"And I’m assuming that you haven’t opened the box yet?"

"I don’t even know how this whole thing works! I mean, I’ve seen safe deposit boxes in the movies and on TV shows, but I’ve never had one, or dealt with one!" He seemed to be contemplating this; she continued. "I mean, I thought that maybe there had to be two people and that the two people had to insert their keys at the same time, and turn them simultaneously for it to open the-"

"No, no, no, that’s to launch the nuclear missiles-what you need to do is-"

"Huh? What nuclear missiles? What on earth are you talking about?"

"You’re thinking-what we have to do is, we just go to the bank where the safe deposit box is, the bank manager lets us in, and we open the box...presto?"

"Presto."

"So, where is the safe deposit box located?"

"I don’t know, but I’m assuming Collinsport; that’s where Gran’pa spent the last years of his life..."

"Right. So, we go to Collinsport, find the right bank, and find out what’s in the box."

"Assuming no one tries to stop us or steal the key."

"Yes...tell me more about the calls."

"After the first several, that were more like inquiries, like they were trying to just get information out of me, they started getting more insistent, more threatening..."

"In what way?"

"In the way of ’If you don’t hand over the key something bad will happen to you’ sort of way."

"Right. That’s a threat, all right. Now we’re getting somewhere..."

"They warned me against going to the police, or telling anyone else..."

"Which you immediately did."

"Yes."

"And then-"

"The last call I got said that they will get the key and that I had made a big mistake."

"When was the most recent call?"

"Right before I came in here..."

"Really?"

"Really."

She set her phone on the table and slid it across to him. He took it, looked at the screen, and pressed it. Seconds later, he found the recorded messages and began to play them.

Lavinia shrunk back into her seat. There was a slight hiss, and Ward turned up the volume.

"Miss Armitrage? I am calling to inform you that following the recent passing of your grandfather, there are certain business arrangements that need to be completed. These are in addition to those already arbitrated by his estate. There are outstanding financial obligations that you may or may not be aware of. Please contact us at the following number as soon as possible in order to rectify this matter; there will be legal consequences if this matter is not taken care of in a timely fashion. Thank you. We can be reached at the offices of Dunwich Enterprises, Red Hook, New Jersey; the telephone number is 208-867-5309. Please contact us as soon as possible. " Click!

There was a long, drawn-out silence.  Minutes passed, and their eyes met.  She raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

Ward didn’t answer.  He seemed lost in thought.  Finally, he seemed to reach a conclusion. "That wasn’t entirely threatening..."

"But-"

"Red Hook?"

"Hmmm?"

"Red Hook..."

"That’s what he said; that city in New Jersey-does it mean something?"

"Definitely something-something probably not good..."

"Something bad?"

"Have you ever been to Red Hook?"

"Well, no, but I’ve heard all about it."

"What have you heard?"

"Just, well, you know, the stories."

"Which stories?"

"You know, the stories."

"Well, there are stories, and then there are stories."

"And?"

"Red Hook has a particularly...unsavory reputation."

"Unsavory?"

"As far as unsavory cities in New Jersey go, yes."

"I mean, I know about the murders-"

"Horrific ritual sacrifices."

"And the missing people-"

"Unexplained disappearances going back decades-"

"And the paranormal activities-"

"That rival New Orleans and Savannah in their antiquity and depravity-"

"Sounds like you are quite familiar with the place?"

"Let’s just say that I’ve had my share of...experiences in Red Hook, and it’s not one of my favorite places..."

"Maybe it’s just a coincidence, you know? I mean, maybe-"

Ward reached down, put his finger on the wrinkled parchment, and turned it to face Lavinia. "Is this a coincidence?"

She looked down. He lifted his finger. Next to some unintelligible scrawls (written in red ink) was crude, but definitely recognizable, drawing of a hook, something like a cross between a trident and a meat hook. Then the word "NO!!!" in all caps and followed by three exclamation points.

She pulled the paper closer and studied it for several moments. She slowly looked up.

"What’s...this?"

He looked down at where she was pointing. There was a drawing of what looked like some kind of creature.

He swallowed hard and wished that she hadn’t seen it.

A minute passed. Then another. She put her hand down on the picture. "Mr. Ward?"

"Nathaniel."

"Nathaniel. What...is...this?"

"It looks like a Shoggoth."

"A...Sho...what?"

"A Shoggoth."

"Okay-what’s a...show-goth?"

"Gigantic slug-like creature, the size of a subway train, covered in eyeballs and teeth and straight from the nether regions of you-don’t-wanna-know-where..."

Just then, Lavinia’s cell phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. There was a moment of silence, and then she looked up at Ward, fear in her eyes.

"They’re coming-"

He stood up and grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Let’s get out of here..."

They got out.