The Missing Professor— Episode Two
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 could see.
Arkham Sanitarium.
His suggestion still stung.
And she had considered it.
That stung worse.
She tried putting her make-up on three times before giving up. The tears and puffiness made it impossible.
________________________________________________________________________
The main building of Miskatonic University rose like a grey cathedral against the cold sky.
October thirtieth. No snow yet, but winter was knocking. Clean-up crews were still collecting branches and fixing storm-damaged benches.
Leaves skittered across the quad outside like dry bones.
One half of the enormous wooden doors opened without a whisper.
Darla stepped inside and felt the warmth hit her—and how tired she actually was.
The woman behind the entrance desk looked up over dark-rimmed spectacles.
Helen Ramsey-Armitage.
Of course. She’d been a fixture at Miskatonic for as long as Darla could remember.
“Hello, Helen,” Darla said. “I’m not sure you remember me, but—”
“Rayford’s daughter. Darla, right?”
Darla nodded.
Helen smiled gently as she removed her glasses. “I’ve a thing for faces. Good to see you again. I was sorry to hear about your father. He was always kind.” She motioned toward the chairs in front of her desk.
Darla sat on the edge of the nearest chair.
“Thank you, Helen. He always spoke kindly of you. I’m sorry, but I need to speak with Professor Reed. It’s urgent.”
Helen’s smile faded.
“Oh, sweetie… Professor Reed isn’t in.”
Something like an electric shock ran down her spine.
“What do you mean?” She said, more forceful than she intended.
“He’s taken a leave of absence.”
Her nails dug into her black purse. The leather resisted until her fingers throbbed.
No. Darla shook her head. Her heart began pounding.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Darla said. “He told me he was finishing up his work and would come see me. That was twelve days ago.”
“I’m sorry. It was sudden for all of us. Classes had to be reassigned. We received a note.”
“But...”
Helen opened a drawer and produced a plain envelope. No return address.
She unfolded a single sheet and smoothed it across the desk. It was dated October 24th. Today was the 27th. Three days, maybe four if it was delivered post.
Darla read.
_________________________________________________________________________
Dean Rittenhaus,
I must take a leave of absence for personal reasons. I do not know how long. It may be best to consider this a sabbaticol.
My apologies for the short notice.
Malcolm Reed
_________________________________________________________________________
She read it again.
And again.
Something was wrong.
It was just out of reach, like looking in a fogged mirror.
The cold dampness slithered across her. A heavy shiver took hold of her.
“Helen… do you have any other letters from him?”
“Of course.”
Within moments Helen returned with three pieces of correspondence. Darla slid them beneath the desk lamp. The bulb hummed softly, bathing her hands and face in welcome warmth.
She traced each word with her finger. Each ink blot. The angles of the letters were right. But she knew she was missing something. People came and went, opening the large doors and letting the cold draft in. Darla shivered, but she wasn’t sure if it was just from the cold.
Behind her, the tall grandfather clock in the lobby ticked with steady authority. A comforting sound — a reminder that the world moved forward whether anyone approved or not.
Tick.
Tick.
Her eyes locked onto a single word.
Sabbaticol.
Her breath caught. How did she miss that?
Professor Malcolm Reed— scholar of languages, defender of proper form— did not misspell words. Not in private. And most certainly not in an official letter to the dean.
She’d only taken one class with him before she’d dropped out of Miskatonic. She knew his particulars, and spelling was biblical to the professor.
The clock began to chime.
The first bell rang true.
The second wavered, off tune.
By the third, the tone had slipped into something thin and sour, like metal bending under too much strain.
The fourth note lingered.
And lingered.
Time slowed.
The lobby tilted gently, as though she stood in her father’s boat on a lazy summer afternoon.
The room began sliding past her, slowly circling. The door stood open as if someone were holding it for her.
The chime continued long after it should have ended, vibrating somewhere deep inside her skull.
Her vision blurred — then sharpened with unnatural clarity.
The spin halted.
Across the lobby, polished brass plaques naming benefactors and sponsors hung. Her eyes fixed on one of them, the name inconsequential, a symbol was scored into one of them. It was familiar only in the sense that it didn’t belong. Like Cody’s symbols.
Dark.
Angular.
It twisted in on itself like something that had never been meant for human eyes. Desecration was the only word that came to her mind as she fought to tear her gaze from it.
Her pulse thundered.
Her stomach wrenched. A low moan escaped her lips.
Then—
The clock stopped.
The final note died.
The lobby snapped back into place.
Papers rustled as the building door swung shut.
A radiator hissed somewhere. Everywhere.
She stared at the plaques, searching for the symbol.
It was gone.
Like the mill.
Like Eleanor.
Her mouth felt like she hadn’t had a drink all day. And her head pounded.
“Darla?”
Helen’s garbled voice sounded like a bad dream.
The kind you want to wake from, but it doesn’t let you.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
Darla swallowed hard and looked back down at the letter.
“Professor Reed didn’t write this,” she said.
Silence enveloped the lobby like a waiting tomb. Helen stood, mouth slightly ajar.
“Heavens,” Helen whispered. “Why? Why would someone do such a thing?”
“He didn’t leave,” Darla said.
Helen’s face went pale. “Then where is he?”
Darla folded the forged note with trembling hands and looked up at Helen.
“Someone took him.”
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Thanks again for reading, my friends. Until next week...
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