Journal of Maurice Rossini

January 1^st, 1923

 

     The heady air of the old world enchants me still.  At least here in London, I’m not at the head of some moral outrage, and I must say that Soho puts the Bostonian Art Movement to shame with its vigor and energy.  I accepted an invitation from one of the enlightened in Dr. Julian Smith’s considerable orbit to attend the new Maudsley collection at the museum, those tall and dark stones of the Southern Americas, carved deeply with their tribal beliefs.  I wonder, did they carve with the same end goal as I develop my own film?  Of course, I don’t bathe myself in blood as these stained hand savages did, but perhaps there is a common connection.  I brought my faithful Kodak folder with me, the perfect companion for such an outing, and low and behold, I met several interesting characters.  I know them in passing, of course, but today was the first moment I had to spend several hours in their company.  Now, most would call Evelyn the picture of Old World delusion, but then most miss the sparkle he has in his eye and the keen inspiration that vexes him just as it vexes me.  I hear that he’ll be putting on a play, and I simply must attend that if only for the spectacle alone.  I met a fellow Bostonian in Sylvia, who was a bit too quick with the jesting about my flight from Boston.  Am I really the same breed as these utter prudes?  Perhaps she’s just having her pound of flesh, as I suspect she and Evelyn are involved in some clandestine romance… Well, she can laugh all she wants.  I plan to put together a gala opening that will have all of London toasting Maurice Rossini, and we’ll see what she has to say then.  The third member of our little motley was an interesting one, a former serviceman named Avery.  He’s quite salt of the Earth, not someone that I thought I would get along with, but he has a keen insight and a homespun charm that – I admit – has started to get its hooks into me.  At the risk of being gauche, I will say that his appearance shocked me at first, it must be a war injury of some kind or another, but the jagged lines and new edges that the injury have left on his face I found fascinating.  We got to talking, and I suggested that I take his portrait in front of those deep carven stones – they seemed the same as the history and suffering carved into Avery’s face, yet… here they both were, enduring.  I cannot wait for the development.  We parted with goodbyes, and I returned to my rented flat, immediately darkening the room for development.  I cannot wait for the film to finish fixing and drying, but wait I must.  My dinner was eaten from a tin, and I must have fallen asleep from the soothing whir of the electric fan.  I dreamed, but I cannot for the life of me recall what about.

 

 January 2^nd, 1923

 

     Today was spend on Avery’s portrait.  Once the shot was enlarged and projected, my God, the contrast and similarities to those old stones.  His scars may draw gasps and looks of silent horror, but those are the reactions of a knuckle-dragging dullard… They show his humanity, what he’s overcome to stand before us, and he must wear that badge all his days, and in that I find dignity and bravery.  I shall produce two copies of the print. 

     My God, these London flats have thin walls.  My landlord was at my door in an instant, complaining about the smell of the chemicals.  Even with my window open and the fan expelling the vapors.  I managed to convince the old man that I’d move my “contraptions” (Really, he used contraptions.  I would have laughed if I wasn’t worried he’d actually follow through with his threat to give me the bum’s rush!) nearer to the window.  I have no designs to do so, of course.  I’ll have to make certain to run the fan and open the window before development begins.  It’s at times like these that I miss my laboratory at the college, but… well, between you and I, I think that ship has sailed.  I received an invitation to the Challenger Society, where my good friend Dr. Julian Smith will be lecturing.  It’s at the Imperial Institute in Kensington.  My, my, how fancy. 

     I had my second suit laundered and pressed for the occasion, and whiled away the hours looking for inspiration.  My lunch had been a cold ham and egg sandwich left over from breakfast, so I stopped into a chippy – that is battered and fried fish and potatoes – to sup upon what I’m told is the working man’s dinner… fitting as I had filled my morning and afternoon with so much work!  The grease didn’t sit very well with me, I fear, and I retired with a terrible stomach ache.

 

 January 3^rd, 1923

    

     I dreamed of … darkness and beating drums, the heat of a steamy and oppressive night.  I fear it was the grease of whatever fish I consumed working its way through me.  Tonight is the lecture at the Imperial Society, but I’ve artist’s work to do first.  I pinned and mounted Avery’s portrait, and I’ll affix a backing to it before it goes into my folio.  The morning and afternoon seemed to pass so quickly, and before I knew it, I was on a bus bound for the stuffiest of the upper crust.  I respect Dr. Smith, but these upper class fetes are not my idea of fun.

     I won’t mince words, I marveled at the interior of the place.  Beautiful.  Old wooden paneling, rich carpets, plush chairs, and all the antiques one could shake a stick at.  I saw that Evelyn, Sylvia and Avery were there as well, and we were soon in the room to hear Dr. Smith’s lecture.  Now, Dr. Smith and I were acquainted two years ago when I was studying abroad.  The good Doctor is a debunker of spiritual matters, and he had some pointed questions to ask me about the function of the camera in regards of such things, and we spent a good few days in demonstration.  He seemed impressed with my technical ability, and I was impressed with the way he grasped how things could be faked with a crude photographer’s trick.  For a ranking member of the Old Guard, Dr. Smith has an open mind, and that certainly showed itself in the heady subject matter.  He began to link the world of spirituality to the world of the latest in Science’s realm, and I was struck by his genius – I hadn’t even considered these ideas.  I applauded loudly, drawing a few disparaging glances from the old fuddy-duddies. 

     I had the portrait to deliver, and a few words of congratulations to pass on to Smith, but I continually noticed a mustachioed stranger – most certainly some queer Easterner – staring a burning hole in my head.  When I met Evelyn, Avery and Sylvia, they all said the same thing.  Maybe they don’t teach manners out there.  In any event, Avery was breathless when I presented him with the print.  He said he was going to send it to his mother, and I found that very endearing.

     We said our goodbyes, but inspiration had struck me, and I spent the night wandering the Kensington streets before returning to my flat with a grand idea.

 

 January 4-6^th, 1923.

    

     I’ve barely had enough time to keep a journal of my thoughts – I’m organizing a showing.  I have spoken to several groups of veterans, those who bear the marks of the Great War, and I’ve resolved to take some of their portraits as well.  These last few days have been a blur of activity.  Evelyn has invited me to take up residence at his palatial estate, and how could I refuse?  I planned to tell the landlord what I really thought of the cramped shoebox of a flat, but … well, one shouldn’t burn bridges.  I shall sum it up to say that Maurice Rossini is working on ART again, and that is something that should put my world to rights.  I shall write more of this later.

 

 January 7^th, 1923.

 

     Oh, how hasty my words.  How foolish of me to think that the world turned around my desires and not the strangeness of the ages.  Where to begin with all of this?  I suppose I should begin at the top.  It began with a ghastly discovery in the paper, that a man, one Mehmet Makryat, had been slain three times in a single night.  You see, three men bearing that name were killed – stabbed through the heart – in their London hotel, which was rented out by another M. Makryat.  To further complicate things, a London import man, named M. Makryat, seemingly vanished as well.  That was only a grim taster to the real shock - Julian Smith’s manor had burned to the ground.  I felt the world drop away as I read those words.  I immediately sought out Evelyn, Sylvia and Avery, and we decided to look into these things, as they were perhaps connected.  The “famed detectives” of Scotland Yard proved to be little help, and definitely not forthcoming with any information that could be of assistance to us.  However, we did find out that the man who was watching us at the Imperial Society was definitely one of the Mehmet Makryat(s?). 

     Tiring of chasing down leads, we decided to take some direct action.  We learned of M. Makryat’s shop, and decided to do a little snooping ourselves. We talked to some of the other shopkeepers around the area, who swore that Mr. Makryat was an old man, whereas the men murdered in the hotel, AND the one we saw watching us couldn’t have been long past 30.  We resolved to find our own answers, and were confounded by a locked door, and a long climb up to an unlocked window. I must admit, I thought that Sylvia would be of little use to us, but she proved to be as agile as a Boston Commons squirrel.  Now, I’ve had good practice in a light tread myself, especially as a photographer, and I managed to sneak into the shop proper once Sylvia got us inside.  I managed to filch the ledger, but none of us are accountants, and between us we couldn’t make heads or tails of anything past things being sold here and there.  However, we did find that the last item M. Makryat sold was a Wrightson Special Commission Train Set, sold to a Mr. Harry Stanley for a single pound.  Suspicious.  We made our escape before we attracted any attention to ourselves.

     I took several photos of the ledger and the articles that we had accumulated.  Evelyn managed to smooth talk his way into the confidence of some of the hotel staff where the three bodies of the Turks claiming to be M. Makryat were located, and he learned that the poor bastards were SKINNED.  How quickly my thoughts of artistic integrity were turned into a bloody handed dime rag.  Each of them bore a single note – “Meet in London at once, URGENT, -M.”  Truly ghastly, what had the old Turk been involved in?  We didn’t have much time to ponder, however, as we were quickly contacted with a message from Dr. Smith’s faithful manservant, Beddows.  We rushed to a place in… well, I shan’t tell you that, as it’s a secret… and we discovered the badly burned Doctor Smith and Beddows. 

     Doctor Smith revealed to us what he believed the cause of so many of these mysterious events.  He said that he’d been on the trail of something called the Sedefkr Simulacrum, a relic older than humanity, which had been sundered apart and scattered across Europe.  Apparently his efforts were discovered by the mad Turks who guarded the cursed thing, and burned his home down.  He bid us to continue his quest; find the pieces of the statue, bring the pieces to Constantinople and perform the ritual to destroy it, as written in the Sedefkr scrolls.  In order to aid us, the Doctor gave us a thousand pounds, told us to buy a ticket on the Oriental Express, and do this task.  What could we do but accept?

 

January 8^th, 1923. 

 

     I cannot recall if I had dinner or breakfast.  My mind is so disturbed by these ill thoughts, but my compatriots and I resolved to do some research.  Unfortunately, it resulted in nothing.  I fear that perhaps, my mental state was disturbed today, and … and I shall write more, but not today.

 

    

January 9^th, 1923.

 

     Our final day spent in research to attempt to glean some vague hope before our dangerous outing.  While we found as much as the previous day, our party happened upon a sleeping fellow that turned out not to be sleeping at all, he was skinned!  Thankfully I hadn’t been the one to find him, I shudder to think what I would have done.  A note was found pinned to the corpse, written on human skin – “The Skinless One will not be denied!”  … I should buy a pistol, and the sooner the better!

January 10th, 1923.

The first thing that I did was walk myself into a sporting store to buy a gun.  I know virtually nothing about them, I've never had the need for such an ugly and heavy lump of metal until now, when men are turning up skinned and houses are burning down.  Hopefully it'll be enough, but I still loathe the thing, sitting in my pocket like a repulsive gargoyle, waiting for the time I need it.

Evelyn, Sophie, Avery and I decided to check out the lead on one Harry Stanley before we left for France, and we made it to the boarding house.  Harry Stanley was apparently something of a sideshow attraction, his landlady was doubling down on the paper's report that Stanley spontaneously combusted, and was charging for entry. Cagey old broad.  It was the strangest thing on the inside, however.  The room was burned, but nothing else past the door.  Sooty marks blazed a trail through the floor, the same width as a pair of railway rails.  I swear, it seemed like, with the amount of soot and ash in the room, that a train had jumped the tracks, landed in the room, then vanished.  We've learned that Harry Stanley was in a group of trainspotters, under the supervision of Mr. Arthur Butter of Camberwell.  He took it upon himself to set up Harry's train that was ordered from the Turkish gentleman.

What happened when we endeavored to investigate the model train fully, I still can't quite get right in my head.  Something...happened.  We were brought aboard the train, or... the train ... grew to envelope us?  At first I had trouble recalling the details, and things are still foggy.  Harry Stanley was there, and I can recall grasping hands, filmy dead eyes, reaching, grabbing, pulling me with them.  My skin - God, it crawls - seems to remember the grip of those half skeletal hands, gaping mouths opening wide.  Luckily, by some divine hand, we managed to make it through with Harry Stanley in tow.  The thought of a train ride now doesn't quite sit the same way with me, let me tell you that!  Suddenly, I'm much more secure about the gun in my pocket.

January 11th, 1923.

    On our trip back from London, we cracked open the journal that Professor Smith gave us.  I don't think any of us were prepared for what we read inside.  Monstrous fez hats turning people into beasts from some dime rag, another trip speeding to Constantinople by another group of Professor Smith's friends to destroy a collection of hideous artifacts.  How does the man keep getting twined up in these things?  Isn't it enough just to live a life free from... skinned men and cursed hats and murderous Turkish men?  If we're the next bill for the stage, I hope we come out better than the other group.  I wonder if old Llewelyn and August are still kicking around in England...

    Needless to say, our intake of the journal's contents caused us no small amount of worry.  I'm a photographer, not some two fisted action hero!  Still, I gave the Professor my word, and... that still means something to me, even if it carries with it - nevermind.  I'm not going to let myself go down that path.  Arriving in London, we quickly caught a train and ferry to Calais.  It seems we're Paris bound.  I wish I had... more time without all of this hanging over my head!  I don't know how Evelyn does it, but he's in high and manic spirits, already planning shopping trips and sightseeing while I'm still quaking in my boots over what happened in the journal AND in Camberwell.  I'm going to try to get a good night's sleep.  Perhaps that will help me shake off this sense of dread.

January 12th, 1923.

    Paris!  The city of light.  I must admit, when we arrived I felt my shoulders loosen.  Here, and artist could be an artist and earn acclaim for their creation.  On our arrival, we checked into the Hotel du Rhin in Vendome Square, and let me tell you plain, it's the Bee's Knees.  If I had more time, I'd set up a quick development tank, but we may not have the luxury in a place like this.  Evelyn is his usual self, and I intend to let him take the lead.  We've so many things planned while we wait for the Orient Express, and there's so much of Paris to see - but between you and I, I'm taking my pistol every time I leave the room.  We must not let down our guard, even though it may be clear skies and fair weather.

January 13th, 1923.

     During the morning, we stopped at a cafe for some orange juice and champagne, and discussed our course of action.  I must say, enjoying a morning libation with my pistol riding along was oddly comforting.  I used to think it was such an ugly, misshapen thing, but now... Well, while we're here, we're looking for the pieces of the Simulacrum.  Newspapers were talking about the recent death of a neurologist, a tragedy.  We travelled to the National Library, but they had to verify Evelyn's credentials - ridiculous, as it was clear he was one of the upper crust - so while we waited, we decided to do more digging.  Evelyn and I would go to the Louvre, it was decided. 

 

    Now this is a museum!  The place was simply breathtaking, but a strange event occurred.  There was a ghastly sketch in a forgotten corner of the museum, and when I stepped close to behold it, a sinister laugh seemed to emanate from the sketch!  Without thinking, I snapped a picture of it.  Perhaps there will be some sign of what I heard.  After uniting with Avery and Sophie, we strolled down to the Eiffel tower, where I took a wonderful picture of Evelyn, Sophie and Avery.  I was enthused to also visit the Catacombs.  The interplay of light and shadow is exactly what my skills (and my special formulation) are meant to showcase, so I took some beautifully macabre shots.  Avery and Sophie swear they saw some sort of figure digging in the bones, but perhaps they're as nervous as I am.   I engrossed myself in my work.  These are lovely prints, they should be in a magazine!

January 15th, 1923.

     We finally are granted access to the National Library, and perform a draining research session to no avail.  My fingers feel like lizard-skin after so many pages turned.  What a waste of a day!

January 16th, 1923.

     Finally, a breakthrough!  We've come across the accounts of Mademoiselle De Brienne, from June 1789.  It stated that the Comte - Fenalik - was like a sun amongst us, hosting the most lavish and lascivious feasts in the entire city.  Apparently, the nobility soured on him, though, as it says that there "was much evil afoot", and the Queen decided to send in all the King's men, who destroyed the house and arrested Fenalik.  The librarians suggested that, if the military was involved, some records in the Arsenal Library may hold more clues.

January 17th, 1923.

     The Arsenal Library has shed some light on the lead we received at the National Library.  A soldier by the name of Louis Malon, a Captain, made a report to his superiors about what he found in investigating Fenalik's (Pfenalik?) home.  He arrived to find men and women "rutting like rabid dogs", and when they were chased out, the six men he sent to arrest the Count found things that made Malon shudder.  Implements of torture, a ... Nuremburg Virgin, whatever that was... and of course, Fenalik himself.  The Captain gave the order to burn the home and whomever remained below, and Fenalik howled like a wild animal as his home burned.  Surely, something must remain in Poussay, where the Count's estate was located.

    We've also found some information about a book of some kind called The Devil's Simulare, which was written in 1260, and bound in Venice in 1505.  The only known copy resides in Venice, a hell of a grim thing to be sitting in the old Rossini home city.  Venice is one of the stops in the Orient Express' way, so surely we'll come across it.

January 18th, 1923.

     We've decided to journey to Poussay, a short train ride away.  It turns out that the owners of the land that Fenalik's home once stood on are Docteur et Madame Lorien.  We drop by for a visit - a lovely little home, but surely not the home of a former Count.  There seems to be something amiss with their arms... all the left... 

    We are not the only ones who are seeking the Lorien family for the Simulacrum, it seems.  There is a letter from Lausanne, Switzerland addressed to the family from a Mr. Edgar Wellington who is also seeking the Simulacrum.  We ask if we could explore the grounds, and find the entrance to what must be the basement of Fenalik's former home!  We dig deeply, exhuming - a thrill runs through my very being - this is it!  Could it be our first success in the mission that Professor Smith has set before us?

    Inside the earth, we find a mold-rotten basement, soot staining the walls, but inside is the flawless marble arm of a statue.  The left arm of the Simulacrum.  Sophia decides to take the object, immediately complaining about the pins and needles.  There is the lead at the asylum, but it would seem we're out of time.  The Orient Express is waiting for us, and time appears not to be on our side if we're not the only seekers of this grim prize.

January 19th, 1923.

     We have boarded the magnificent Orient express!  I've never felt much connection to the rails, they always seemed so old fashioned to me, but this is truly grandeur on a large scale.  How stately the engine seemed, and the cars with their nearly baroque interiors.  Oh, how I wish I could spend film upon this.  However, truth be told, we're quite all relieved to be away from Paris, and hopefully while mobile, the dangers arrayed against us should cease.  Despite Sophia's complaints about not being able to sleep, I found myself dozing frequently, eating a sparse dinner and settling down in our cabin car for a well deserved slumber.

January 20th, 1923.

    I do not know what to think of the events that I and all of my colleges, save for Sylvia seem to have experienced.  A dream that we could describe, exactly as we each saw it.  I dreamed that I stood on the cobbled streets of an old town, in a golden ethereal glow and golden, scintillating light.  Purring and meowing cats surrounded us, and we stood on a platform with a sign that proclaimed the place "Ulthar".  We were waiting for a train, the Dreamlands Express, and it arrived in grand style - for the train was not a locomotive, but a link of very large and strange beasts, all linked together!  The "cars" were a series of howdahs that swayed on the backs of the animals.  A friendly conductor, Henri, gave us each a complementary ticket to board, and explained that the Dreamlands Express would be travelling to the Gulf of Nodans, at which point the train's riders could cast their greatest fear into the Gulf.  We boarded the train, which contained every luxury that one could dream... Well, we were dreaming after all!... of, and we all were somewhat dazed.  Henri - who we recognized from the 1893 Orient Express ride from the diaries we collected from the Professor - saw us to a grand feast, and the food!  Oh, it was beyond fine.  Ingredients that never existed on Terra Firma, all presented for our perusal.  We met some other passengers, M. Karakov and a Mr. Mackenzie, both from Earth, and we made a quick friendship with one of the cats that boarded, a small black kitten named Blackjack.  He was quite a bold little fellow, and I took an immediate liking to him.   We learned that indeed, Henri was the same one from the diary and while he had long since died on Earth, he lived on here, in this Dream train.

    Our next stop was at Dylath-Leen, where we received a delegation from the city of Sarnath, a lovely girl that Evelyn was immediately stricken with (of course!) named Zsusza, and a man with golden eyed by thename Mironim-Mer.  Once they had boarded, a group of hideous and pathetic wretches known as the Beings of Ib boarded as well, loathsome and flabby.  Evelyn seemed quite taken with these Men of Sarnath, as well as Zsuza, and I found myself wishing for my camera, which had seemed to change from Kodak to... well, paintbrushes and charcoal.  Useless to me, of course.  Just as we were getting on, we awoke from the call of the conductor, 'Lausanne, Switzerland, 30 minutes!'  What a magnificent dream, but I cannot recall one that seemed as vivid.

    We departed and checked into the Grand Hotel, and stopped at a café to discuss our time in the Dreamlands, where it seemed we all remembered the experience.  Sylvia seemed quite fatigued, however, and we all resolved to meet with Mr. Wellington, as a piece of the Simulacrum was said to reside here!  I'm quite looking forward to the 24th, and the Opera in Milan, myself.

    

January 21st, 1923.

    We had a restful night at the Grand Hotel, and planned to give Edgar Wellington a visit and ask about the Simulacrum.  It turns out the man is an occultist, and knows about the Simulacrum in general terms.  He's translating the text of a scrolls that accompany the pieces of the Simulacrum.  He's offered to sell us a copy for 250 pounds, so we make the deal.  While speaking, we were interrupted by the Duc de Essenties, another amateur occultist.  The two men belong to the 7:30 Club, and the Duc has offered to bring us along, after a tour of Lausanne.  How could we refuse?  There were some wonderfully ghastly gargoyles that I took a picture of.  The museum has wonderful roman coins, vases, and a moth collection - and most of it is built on ancient Roman temples.

    We took lunch at a small café called the Black Cat, and visited the pristine Lake Geneva.  From the papers, we learned that M. Karakov is an arms dealer, a secretive man who may have been responsible - in part - for the Great Falling in 1916.  He's got an estate in Monte Carlo, and apparently does quite well for himself.

    At the 7:30 Club, we meet Maximillian Von Worthheim, but the Duc and Edgar are yet to arrive.  I started to become concerned that he mat be after our luggage and secrets, as we're in the same field, so we decide to quickly make our way to the hotel - which is in order, thank God - and then to Wellington's home and taxidermy shop.  The door is open, and we discover Edgar's brother, William, stabbed with his back completely skinned.  Edgar appears dead of an apparent overdose, but we find his journal, a forged scroll, a green bottle that is labelled, "Dream Lausanne", and a receipt for the unknown scroll that appears to improve on its forgery.  It appears that the Dreamlands are our destination.  We return to the hotel, and drink from the bottle... and arrive in Dream Laussane.

    Oh, what a horrible place.  We see a chessboard, where human pieces kill themselves as they are taken.  A statue that sings with an inhumanly beautiful voice even as raw, flapping flesh hangs from barbed hooks.  We make our way quickly through this slice of hell, and find Wellington, who is being menaced by the Duc - the man's features are familiar... from the old diaries!  Could the Duc and The Frenchman be one and the same?  This ghastly court is holding Wellington in contempt of the realm, and with him is an animate statue, the one of Otho from Lausanne, brought to life with skin wrappings.  Avery and Evelyn manage to come to Wellington's defense, fooling the Duc with the false scroll.  We free Edgar, gain the true scrolls, but alas, Edgar had died.  While we escape the Dreamlands, he remains there still...

    We awake in the hotel, and Evelyn and Sylvia immediately read the scrolls, but I stay far away from them.  Apparently the scrolls contain blasphemous rituals, instructions on how to skin humans, and is generally incomprehensible.  We catch the late Orient Express train, and doze upon the line, and find ourselves in the Dreamland once more.  Our next stop is Zar, and we are told not to depart the train, but Sylvia is waiting for us at the platform.  Of course, we had to give her the grand tour, but we discovered spatters of blood on the floor, and it led us back to our cabins.  Inside a chest, poor little Blackjack lay, murdered by some unimaginably cruel monster.  Outside of the window, for we immediately began to investigate, there were large clawmarks that marred the sides of the howdah - belonging to no creature that I could think of.  The Cats of Ulthar were demanding justice - speaking to Henri in their language that sounded the same as the cats I knew of.  I approached M. Karakov, the man I'd spoken to before.  He knew nothing of a monster, but did press upon me the sounds of artillery, though I heard nothing of the sort.  We met back up to exchange our various clues, when we heard clicking and scraping on the roof of the howdahs, leading back to Madam Brujah, an old woman that Sylvia had spoken to about the murder.  We rushed to aid her.

    I was unprepared for the sight of the creature, a mix of man and lobster, confronting the woman.  It ripped her bag away from her - but found it empty and the old woman cackled as if she'd pulled the mother of all gags!  We fought the beast, but it managed to briefly flee, before being stopped by Henri and the beasts that pull us through this dreamland.  Following another blood trail, we find Miornim-Mer.  We question him, perhaps he's the sorcerer from the tale of the Heart that we learned of in Dream Lausanne.  Could Madam Brujah, then, be the maiden?  A ring cuts through the Dream, and we wake.  We shall be in Milan in 15 minutes.  Sylvia decided to shift the blame of her poor time in the Dreamlands on me?  The nerve of the woman!

January 22nd, 1923.

• We have arrived in Milan, and check into the Hotel Marino et Nationale.
• We have learned that Caterina Cavollaro, the opera star, is MISSING!  We've stopped by the Scala theatre to look into things.  Inside, it's a beautiful mess as people are preparing for the opera.  The chorus girls think it's foul play.
• There was a brand new Alfa-Romeo that someone waved from it to Cavollaro, and she boarded the vehicle, and when the porter brought her bags to her apartments, she did not arrive.
• We have spoken to her maid, who seems adamant that she would only get into a car with someone from the Opera, and that Aida (the opera) meant everything to her.
• Investigating the murder of the worker at the Alfa-Romeo factory, we found that he didn't die where the police found the body, but from inside a warehouse that belongs to Flavio Conti.  Also, it turned out the worker had an advanced case of tuberculosis, which is strange for a man laboring in intense conditions.
• We have entered the warehouse with the detective.  It appears that there were TWO bodies, a strange occurrence.  Tiny reptilian footprints seem to be imprinted in the blood.
• Arriving at the home of Flavio Conti, we manage to gain entry and attempt to interview the businessman who seems rattled - and with fresh scratch marks on his chest.  We confront him, and he pulls out a gun and fires at us!  He's hauled away by the Police.
• During the night, we hear Caterina Cavollaro singing the Aria, which seems to ring around us!  Nobody, however, can seem to find where the voice is coming from.
• We wake with... rashes, quite uncomfortable!  We look into some leads, unfortunately, we come up with little.  I look into Il Duomo, the cathedral, and see a strange sight, a man spilling moths and butterflies on the floor, and ... a CHAMELEON!  I couldn't catch the old man OR the Chameleon.
• During the opera, we hear the unmistakable voice of Caterina Cavollaro, but coming from the old man in the church!  And as the spotlight shines down on the armor from the Pharoah scene in Aria, we see the TORSO OF THE SIMULACRUM!
• Backstage, we attempt to bar the old man and his cronies from grabbing the Simulacrum.  We've taken the torso, and secret it inside the hotel, and arrived with Caterina - she explains that the men who abducted her used a magic spell to steal her voice and youth, these men known as the BROTHERHOOD OF THE SKIN.  If only we could have saved her...   
• We depart Milan with the Torso of the Simulacrum bound for Venice.  Already, I can feel... something taking hold of me, like a serpent tightening around my chest.  As we move on, a thought strikes me.  A chameleon sheds its skin, and the statue of the skinned saint in Il Duomo.. damn, but if I only had SEEN what was in front of me - the moths and butterflies... CHANGE.
• In Venice we look forward to a piece of the simulacrum carried by Napoleon into the city, and the Codex - the only copy is located here.

January 24th (W), 1923.

• We have slipped into the Dream-Train once again, this time hearting the call for the station of Affarat.
• Avery and I have found some trinkets for the toss into the abyss of the Gulf of Nodens - I have selected a black stone, I assign it to my hesitation...
• There is a banquet, where we enjoy a feast for the kings - Zusanna dances (what may be her final dance!) to the fluting of an unseen instrument.
• Sophie made an impassioned argument on behalf of the Beings of Ib in their attempt to gain rubies and riches for several lifetimes of humiliation at the hand of the Sarnath.  Unfortunately, the Sarnathians are not impressed.
• A ghastly skeleton-creature attempts to board at Thalarion, a dangerous stop, but Henri disallows him aboard.  He attempts to board the train, but some fluting and piping moves him away and back onto the stop.
• At Xura, a GHOUL - the one that was in Paris' catacombs, waits to board.  He introduces himself as Guillaume.  We question him about the statue, and he knows of the Comte, who does seem to be ready to hunt the bearer from BEYOND THE GRAVE.
• We arrive at Aria, where we all bear witness to the funeral of poor little Blackjack.  A lone pillar of white-gold marble is in the middle of a field, Henri doffs his hat and visits the pillar.  They bear the poor little soul into a field filled with feather-tailed mice.  
• At the next stop, we await King Kuranes, who will sit in judgement over the Beings of IB and the Sarnathians, as well as the killer of Blackjack.
• We arrive at Sona-Nyl, a pastoral, beautiful landscape dazzles us.  We have a ROYAL FEAST, before we witness the case of IB v Sarnath.
• Over the Gulf of Nodens, ghostly cavalry attack the train, as well as firing cannons.  Karakov goes mad with fear as MacKenzie's papers fly from his handcuffed case.  I hurl my stone into the void, and Sylvia tosses Karakov's steamer trunk from the window, and Karakov follows it, banishing the phantoms of his war profiteering.  All is not resolved, however, as The Sorcerer returns with screeching creatures to attack the train, and he looks for Madam Brujah!
• Sylvia and I battle The Sorcerer, Sylvia wields the heart which burns the Sorcerer to cinder, but also Madam Brujah, who flings herself into the gulf shouting, "Hate is stronger than love!"  Sylvia managed to retrieve the heart.  A bump awakes us.  We awake in our train.
• Venice is on the horizon!
• We have arrived in Venice, it is 5:00 PM.
• I thought, for a moment, I saw someone outside the train - but only saw the speeding Venetian countryside.  Perhaps I'm more tired than I thought?
• We've caught up with a woman named Maria, who was being hassled by a group of men.  There was a young man who seemed furious at the situation, but on hearing my name, he stormed off.  Strange.
• Alberto, one of the group who was hassling Maria, is pressuring her to marry him.  It appears Georgio (the young man) is who she prefers, and he shares a surname with me.  Is that why he was so upset?

January 25th (Th), 1923.

• We go to the bibliotheca Marciana to search for leads, what a building!  The reading room literally took my breath away.  While the church we were looking for burned down, it is now a naval mechanic's school.  I found a mention of Naploeon's forces, with one man bearing a porcelain leg.  We should research this further.
• An evening paper has told us that M. Karakov passed away in Monte Carlo, willing his vast fortunes away to charity, thanking his "friends on the train" for his whim.
• Georgio takes us out for a night on the town, he believed I was with Mussolini and his thugs.  He goes on about politics - he appears to be a communist.  Georgio has told us that Maria's father was murdered by Alberto and his Mussolini thugs.
• Returning to our hotel, we start to settle in for the night, when we hear a woman shriek "Morte!  Morte!"  and run off into the fog.  She vanishes into the fog - but rushing down, we can find nothing.

January 26th (F), 1923.

• The woman, according to rumor, witnessed a grotesque murder.
• The water has risen with sludge, and appears worse than yesterday.
• We have found out the San Maria COLLECTION in the bibliotheca could contain our answers.
• We have found that the woman witness the death of her fiancé, impaled upon a spike and savaged as if by some sort of beast.
• We've stolen The Devil's Simulare from the library - we will need the damned thing to destroy the Simulacrum.
• Venice is abuzz with news that the statues in Saint Marc plaza wept blood during the noon mass.  Maria, who has invited us to her father's funeral in the morning, will be waiting for us at the solemn event.

January 27th, (Sat), 1923.

• We have brunch at the Gritti plaza.
• There has been another grisly murder - a gondolier was torn to shreds in his boat!
• The water continues to thicken and reek, some say that Death himself has come to Venice!
• We have arrived for the funeral at the lagoon.  It reeks of rot here.  We are eager to move to Maria's house to shelter from the awful stench.  
• During an encounter with Alberto and the fascists, Avery and I brandish pistols, sending them scattering.  On our way from a disappointing trip to the library, we are arrested for the act, and spend the night in jail.

January 28th, (Sun), 1923.

• Hysteria builds - the water is as black as a raven's breast.  A public outcry has been building about the murders and the conditions of the city.
• We visit the library again, and find that Captain Dubois brought the leg to the Basilica San Marco.  We lever up the paving stone to find... only a yellowing envelope, sealed with wax!
• We bring the seal to the librarians, who tell us that the seal belongs to the Gremanci family, dollmakers, there is a workshop in the city.  We visit it, despite the late hour.  It's an old, old building made of stone.
• We run into Maria's maid, who lets us know that Maria is being held captive by Alberto and his fascist bullyboys.  We resolve to free her.  We still have Evelyn and Sophie's pistols...
• In an ill conceived rescue plan, we split the fascists up - unfortunately in the fracas, Evelyn was pretty badly beaten up, but we did rescue Maria, so there is at least a bit of sunlight in this grave-fog town.  We also learned that perhaps Gremanci has a grave in the lagoon.

January 29th, (Mon), 1923.

• We go to the lagoon, and look for the grave of the Gremanci family.  While we find some Gremanci graves, we do not find any statues.  We move to the Gremanci workshop.  We search it for clues.
• We misinterpreted the note!  It seems that the figures were based in the Pallazo Rezzoniani, there is a clock tower there, with figures - and the soldier!  The soldier's leg is part of the Simulacrum!  
• The statues!  They came to life, I saw their faces crawling, changing.  I must have passed out... I recover aboard the Oriental Express.  Our next stop is Trieste!
• We read through the manuscript about the 4th crusade, where four crusaders manage to stop Sedefkar, a mad Arab, who had his Simulacrum - a suit of armor that allowed the wearer to become anyone else.  There was also mention of Fenelik - we was alive all the way back then?  In the 1200s?!
• We experience the fearsome Bora wind of Trieste, and make our way to the Central hotel.  Sophia and I attempt to buy a gun - but we do not find anyone on the sly.

January 30th, (Tue), 1923.

• We purchase a hunting rifle, and shotgun, then visit the museum.  We learn that Johann Winklemann is not a person, but a dedication at the museum!  It seems that several things have been scattered around Triste.  At the library, a strange man is reading a history book, while a librarian turns the pages FOR him.
• Following up some leads, we investigate some medallions that Winklemann had in his possession, at the museum.  We note that one medallion is missing.
• We also visit the Termona family, who have some of Winklemann's papers and a journal in ancient Greek.  We employ Marcinus Martinelli to translate the journal.  We've noticed that Mr. Termona has a his left arm pinned up, and it ... squirms from time to time.  Even Mr. Marinelli - who has a blanket over his legs and in his wheelchair, and the blanket twitched!  I've also taken some pictures of the Termona's antiquities and odd frescos.
• We have dinner, and note a Turkish man in the hotel, pretending to read a newspaper!  He leaves when confronted.

January 31st, (Wed), 1923.

• We spend the day looking around in the library for the rest of Winklemann's effects, while waiting for the translation.  On our way back from sightseeing, we sight the man with the red and black hair - Turks grab him into the car and speed away!
• Translation, Haunted Hotel, Seance

February 1st, (Thu), 1923.

• We meet the ghost of Winkelmann, who reveals The Amulet to us
• We head to the caves, looking for the simulacrum, which Winkelmann had.
• The CULT that Termona and Martinelli are part of get into a battle with the TURK CULT, and we flee, looking for the Simulacrum.
• We find the right leg of the simulacrum, after offering the amulet to the pool of... The Entities.
• We take dinner on the Orient Express - the ice cream would normally be sweet, but all taste muted.  The wine, however, the wine helps quite a bit.

February 2nd (Fri.), 1923.

• We arrive at Zagreb at 3:10 in the morning... we are not scheduled to stop here - but with our things on the platform, we're forced outside.
• There is conversation, and a man stroking a skull is reciting some sort of soliloquy!  This odd man seems to have knowledge of the simulacrum.  He wishes for us to follow him into the mists of Zagreb.  He's left some sort of scrap of paper behind.
• We track a man who seems to leave us "love letters" and we finally corner him in a tower after finding grim discoveries - he promises us wisdom and he howls madness at us, I recoil and stagger away, but the others gaze at him, enthralled.  If we stay past dawn, however... we will be trapped here with him!  We barely manage to make our way back on the train - only to behold our sleeping forms!
• We arrive TRULY in Zagreb 3:10 am, but refuse to depart.  It seems that we are scheduled for the stop - but there thankfully seems to be a mixup.  We are compensated by a lavish breakfast.  There comes some chatter down to our breakfast car - an explosion along the track!  We will be spending some time in Vinkovci.

 (In the paper today.)

• We get shaken down by the police, who are looking for communists, it seems.  Thankfully, none of us are detained.  We decide to check in at the Hotel Lehrner.
• A woman wraps herself with Evelyn, begging for us to share a taxi, when several men come out from trucks, armed and willing for a fight.  It seems we're involved in another fracas!
• Avery shot down the man with a pistol - I winged one with a quick shot, but the man didn't fall, and another came at me with a knife.  I dodged backward, the bastard cut my jacket.  Evelyn quickly spun, shooting another.  I was stabbed, and in the confusing aftermath, we managed a clumsy escape and check into the hotel.
• There are a number of people from the train here at the hotel.  I speak to Doctor Gaspari, who assists us in our hotel room.  It appears the Doctor is travelling to Belgrade for a lecture.
• The woman is named Jazmina Moric, Dr. Dragomir Moric's daughter!  The men who attacked her were not known to her.  A letter from her father follows here.
• 
  
  
  
• A morning spent at the library does reveal some interesting history. It appears that this Sir Miho is a local figure of renown.  It explains the feelings of the locals over Dr. Moric's work.  The mysterious names on the note we were handed at the front desk appear to be streets!
• Stopping by a bookstore, we pick up Dr Moric's favorite book for Jazmina.  Inside, there is a note!
• 

  
  
  
• We go to the site, a warehouse.  While we have the claim ticket, there is a birdbath across the way - Sylvia finds a key inside, and we gain lot 187.  There is a notebook inside, along with a box that contains a silver coin from Tyre "One of the 30 silver pieces".  There are books, scrolls, an Arabic book called Rasul Al Albarin, Saptienta Magolorum, a Greek book.  There is another, written in Latin.
• Deciding to leave the materials behind - save the notebook - we visit the hospital to inquire after Jazmina's father's friend, the doctor.  He's left for the day, so we arrive at his house.  Unfortunately, Jazmina's father left four days ago, and has not returned.  
• Stopping by the newspaper, we find that the reporter who penned the story about Dr. Moric has been missing for a couple of days.  We've been given her address, to "check up" on the reporter!
• Her house is open, and we find grim signs - blood spatter, missing teeth, and efforts to clean the scene.  We also find a notebook with a note stuck inside.
• 
• This was four days ago - so we head to the Rose Garden, a ... shady hotel.  Apparently, this Lazar fellow stole a rug.  Waiting at a cafe to force entry into the dig site, we find a rolled rug. And inside... a man and woman, their heads skinned.  The CULT IS HERE.  Was... that Vesna?  Was someone else WEARING HER FACE?
• We break into the dig site!  Stairs lead down into the darkness...There are a few side rooms, and a vault.  There is a small stone sarcophagus lined with lead, a strange symbol within.  "Remove Not The Serpent's Claw, Bringer of Pain and Sorrow" is carved within.  I take a photograph of the symbol.
• The army rolls by, announcing a curfew for any being out after dark.  We resolve to visit the doctor's house during the morning tomorrow.  Jazmina assists us in translating the notebook we found.
• 
  
  
  
• We meet with Doctor Goran.  It appears that Moric was growing concerned about the artifacts in the tomb.  A shotgun was missing from his home - perhaps he's gone into the woods on a hunt?  It appears that the Doctor was merely sheltering his friend.  We decide to head to the Lodge to employ a hunter as a guide, looking to enter the forest and track down Moric.
• We've found a body!  The face is ruined by a shotgun blast.  The body is dressed in shiny shoes and a dark suit.  The body has a bullet hole in the back, as well as grey dust covering the legs and shoes.  It appears someone dragged something off the trail TO this location.  It is Moric's body, confirmed by the identification in his effects.  The hydraulic fluid spatters seem to indicate that Moric was attempting to figure out how the machinery worked to destroy the knife.
• Avery and I, staking out the Doctor's resident, have run into a monster with a boar's head, a gorilla's body, and a man's legs.  HAS IT BEEN LOOKING FOR US???  It snorts and charges us!  Avery is nearly killed by the beast.  Thankfully, the army arrived and the creature ran.  However, I was reported to the police.  Thankfully Avery recovered... but we must follow the Doctor.  Perhaps we will follow him when he leaves the hospital.+

Feb. 3rd, Friday, 1923.

• We have decided to trail the Doctor, and on our wait, gunshots echo out from outside the town.  Hopefully we won't be swarmed in an attack...
• The Doctor moves past a gate with a professional guard, about a half mile from town.  I move up to distract the man - but God!  His eye!  It definitely isn't... natural.  I don't know how long my ruse will last...  I've taken a picture of him.
• Evelyn describes a lurid tale of monster flesh melded with man's.  I believe it!
• We have the knife, and we resolve to destroy the cursed thing in the cement factory.  I develop the picture of the guard - his eye... it looks like the eye of a chimpanzee!
• Night falls across the town, with the military returning in triumph after the capture of some terrorists, we slip out to deal with the knife.  We sneak into the cement plant.  We have company - Lazar, or someone who is wearing his FACE!  In the fracas, we crush the knife - but Sylvia and Evelyn are wounded in the battle.  Dr. Gaspari helps us out once again.
• We board the train, with Jazmina waving - before she screams.  A pair of Serbian guards on the train station are beating a Croatian pair... a grim sight in our current times.  However, we are back on the Orient Express.