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𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 The DeSoto growled and coughed itself dead in the parking lot of the Arkham Gazette. The building wasn’t fancy. One story. Brick. Few windows. Jackson gripped the door and hauled his battered body out. Darla was already out and walking toward Lucy. There was no trace of the fragile and weeping Darla that he’d spent the night with. She was good at burying things. Jackson knew all about that. By the time Jackson got to the ladie

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 Jackson tightened his grip on Clifton’s bony shoulder and walked him forward. The corridor ended in more cells. Whatever the sound was, it came from the cell. They crept forward; Jackson kept the Colt beside the man’s ear. “Hello,” said a hoarse voice from the darkness. “I can hear you.” The voice was clearer now. Female. Familiar. He lowered his gun and shoved Clifton into an open cell across from the one holding Darla. “Stay

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 Jackson kept the revolver pressed just behind Clifton’s ear. His left hand gripped the fellow’s shoulder hard enough to feel bone. “Slow,” he whispered. They moved down the narrow stone steps together. The air changed first. Damp. A dirt cellar. Not the cultivated chill of marble upstairs; this was earth cold. The kind that seeps into your marrow. At the bottom waited a low cellar room. The walls were unfinished stone, but cle

Arkham, Massachusetts 1938 Darla became aware of the cold first. It crept up through her bare feet and settled somewhere behind her ribs. The marble floor beneath the chair was polished so perfectly she could see the blurred reflection of her own legs trembling. A fire burned in a vast stone hearth across the room. Not for warmth. For atmosphere. The flames moved slow, deliberate, almost hypnotizing. The study did not match the exterior of Ebonwood Lodge. Outside it had loome

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 Rain hammered the windshield hard enough to make conversation pointless. Darla leaned forward over the wheel, squinting through the wavering blur of the downpour and wet branches. Pickman Road twisted ahead like it didn’t want them there. Beside her, Cody used the fog from his breath to cloud the window. His gloved finger moved with precision. Familiar symbols bloomed in the condensation. Darla glanced at the window and saw th

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 Lucy didn’t like universities. Too quiet. Too polite. Too many people pretending the world outside their stone walls didn’t exist. Miskatonic sat grey and self-important under a low October sky. Students hurried across the quad clutching books like shields. Faculty moved slower, as if time worked differently for them. Lucy Grant moved through it all like a rumor. She didn’t flash a badge. Didn’t need one. A confident stride an

Arkham, Massachussets 1938 “Ain’t nobody else I trust to patch me up ’cept you, Doc.” “Majors, some nights I wish there was.” Doc’s examining room was just big enough for one man and his bad decisions, the table barely broad enough for a German shepherd. Jackson knew the table too well. Doc Unger had patched him up more than once over the years. This wasn’t the worst shape he’d ever arrived in, but it felt like it. Age had a way of making every beating stick around longer tha

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀. 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴 Today he was Cody again. Or close enough. He sat at the kitchen table pushing the last of his cold eggs around his plate. It was the only thing she had been able to get him to eat since they returned from Danvers Pointe. When she had come home, he’d been standing at the white enamel stove holding an egg and staring at the frying pan. “Oh good, you’re home,” he had said calmly. “The pan has wings, and his eyes are gone.” She d

The Missing Professor Episode Two Arkham, Massachusetts. 1938 Twelve days. Twelve days since Darla’s last telephone call with Professor Malcolm Reed. She didn’t want to be that needy woman men complained about. But this wasn’t about her. This was about Cody. Jackson stopped by almost every day. He tried. She knew he did. But there was only so much a hard-boiled investigator could do for a man who spoke in riddles and burned his own fingertips tracing symbols no one else

Somewhere outside Arkham, Massachusetts. — 1938 “I remember when you died.” Charred flesh. Sand. Gloves. His skull throbbed. “You thought about Arkham Sanitarium?” Jackson. But not quite. “He’s my brother,” she said. “He’s all I have left.” Slaughterhouse? Old shit and blood. Sticky, thick in his nostrils. Fists landing. Sharp pain. Lashing out. Curling under heavy boots. Darkness. It was coming at him like the tide. Each creamed swell getting closer. He could smell the sour

Last week: The mill burned to the ground. The tear vanished. Cody survived the encounter with the void, but not unscathed. The void left its mark. Danvers Pointe Outside the burning mill, Darla knelt in front of Cody. His eyes were open, but they stared past her. His fingers began moving slowly in the air. Tracing shapes. He whispered. The words were sharp, guttural, wrong. Jackson stared at him. “What the hell did it do to him?” asked Jackson. EPILOGUE Arkham, Massachusetts—

Last week: The mill erupted in fire and chaos. Darla, pinned to the ground by a burning beam, watched helplessly as her brother stood inches from doom. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 He was inches from the thing. Darla’s stomach sank. She knew this was the last time she would see him; she was going to be alone. “No!” Darla choked. Dark tendrils unfurled from the tear. They reached for him like curious fingers. They touched his chest. His throat. His face. He went rigid.

Last week: Jackson loosed more kerosene on the mill and more tire iron on the cultists. Cody participated in the ritual. Darla confronted Eleanor. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 Eleanor flickered, a loud electrical pop echoed off the walls— And she ceased to exist. The hummingbird inside Darla’s chest stopped. Her mouth hung open as she stared at the emptiness where Eleanor had stood seconds ago. The room exhaled. Robed figures blinked as if waking from hypnosis. One ma

Last week: Cody ran back into the mill, followed closely by Darla. Jackson chose to take matters into his own hands and began dumping the barrels of kerosene and bashing cultists. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 “You’ll doom us all!” the man shouted in his ear. Jackson drove the tire iron backward into the man’s shin, then slammed the back of his head into the man’s face. Cartilage crunched. Bright flashes arced across Jackson’s vision. The back of his head was already

Last week: Darla learned that Eleanor Vance and her father had a history together. Jackson and Darla were bound and set aside while Eleanor began a ritual. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 Jackson brought Cody over to the DeSoto. His pupils were blown wide, and it looked like he was going to vomit. “You shouldn’t have—” Cody started. He bent forward; hands braced against the metal. His whole body trembled. “You’re out, kid. Sister’s gonna have your hide though.” Jackson s

Last week: Darla saw her father; younger, alive, terrified. Jackson saw his own hollow-eyed double, aged and drunk. Brought face-to-face with the reality altering void, Jackson realized what it was, a doorway. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 It had to be a doorway. A woman he recognized from the picture at the Historical Society stepped toward him. Eleanor Vance. Lantern light caught the silver in her hair and turned it into a halo. That was where any similarity to an an

Last week: Darla freed herself from... Jackson. The pair disguised themselves and infiltrated the mill. Somehow the cult had managed to capture the tear, or void entity. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts—1938 He had to have been ten years younger than when she’d last seen him. In the coffin. Her father. He was right in front of her. Alive. The tear would allow them to be together. It was a certainty. She felt it in her marrow. Her body warmed as she stared at him. God, she missed

Last week: Darla found him—Cody. Hood down, staring into the center of a chalk circle. She started to call out his name, when suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth. Cody vanished from sight. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 And then Cody was gone. Her ankle screamed from the impact. The barrel thudded faintly behind her as she was dragged deeper into shadow. The hand over her mouth crushed her lips against her teeth. Wool scratched her cheek. Oil and sweat filled her nos

Last week: After showing Jackson the satchel and the mysterious journal, Darla bolted into the mill. Straight into the belly of the cult. Inside, her brother stood in a circle of robed figures. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 He was staring into the center of the circle, focused, as if listening to something no one else could hear. Tears burned behind her eyes. “Cody,” she breathed. Her voice vanished into the hum. His head shifted. Slowly. They’d always shared a connect

Last week: Jackson slipped into the mill. Darla refused to wait by the car. She found a hidden satchel—initials C.D. stamped on it. Her breath caught as she felt the sticky substance on the back. Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938 She reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. Her fingers touched the leather and brushed something sticky on the back. She felt her stomach drop. “Oh, God, no.” She breathed. What if they came all this way and he was... No, she couldn’t think