beholdthewatcher

[beholdthewatcher]

Brought to you by the fact that I have to drive in to work for the rest of the month due to subway line closures and elevator & escalator repairs at my station(s).

[beholdthewatcher]

NEED!

Twitter OP is the one making them, by the way.

[beholdthewatcher]

“it’s weird for queer minors to be friends with queer adults” oh my god. ohhh my god.

[beholdthewatcher]

it's kinda fucked up we don't have real enchanted jewelry like i wanna go to micheals and buy a ring that makes my pens use 10% less ink when i wear it or something

[beholdthewatcher]

Statement #01202003b

Continuing from Statement #01202003a, itself a continuation of the Cullenfield Incident. Recorded by subject 20/03/2020.

Marcus looked through the nearest window we could find, first. The bar was a wreck, not to put too fine a point on it, as though a bar brawl had happened with absolutely no patrons to cause such a ruckus. All the barstools were knocked over and seemed to have been rendered that way on purpose, and loose change positively littered the floor. There was no sign of our quarry--until there was, by way of a very large paw that I saw throw another barstool.

We ran for the front door after that, as Dewey was very obviously under attack by the coin that had been, up until some moments prior, inert in his cash register. Having something of a routine down, I quickly switched on my flashlight, revealing the full form of what was now our decidedly less-than-wolf-shaped wolf, which then shrunk in size under the light, going from some gargantuan abomination to the slightly more manageable size of a wolf. It had somewhere between four and twenty limbs; I would give a more accurate estimate if I could, yet the whole of this Shadow Creature shifted and reformed itself on a whim, a trait which became more immediately clear after I became its most pressing nuisance; Though it had Dewey pinned down on the floor by his shoulder, it shifted its form along some unseen axis to pin its focus on me.

Rather predictably, it lashed out with one of its appendages and hit me in the stomach--while it hurt and left a positively nasty bruise that later made breathing difficult, it wasn’t life-threatening. Marcus then shot it, which prompted little by way of reaction save for reverberations that rippled through the wolf’s entire body. While a retaliatory strike was likely, I didn’t see it from my position on the ground.

I called out that we needed to get more light on the wolf, intending the directive for Marcus, as he knew precisely why the light was important. As luck would have it, however, it was Mr. Dewey who, lacking the wolf’s focus on him, escaped and rather gleefully announced that he could help. He threw on his establishment’s lights, causing the wolf to shrink both further and more rapidly. Marcus shot it again for good measure, which prompted our small, shadow-abomination friend to crawl under a lip of the counter to hide.

Peering underneath, we were thankfully greeted with only the sight of a coin, which Marcus promptly took into the back alley to dispose of while I dealt with Dewey. It was easy to convince him not to spread word of these Shadow Creatures, as his wrecked bar and the trauma of brushing up against Death in a waltz of shadow and fang was...plenty to keep his mind occupied. 

I helped him tidy as best I could, mopping, sweeping, and righting a few barstools as he washed out the taste of fearful vomit from his mouth with one of the plethora of drinks in his bar.

I had just set the broom back in whatever cleaning closet I’d gotten it from when I received a call from Mr. Stubin. He sounded worse for the wear as he relayed the fact he was currently holed up in Mr. Cobb’s carpentry store. The details weren’t entirely clear, but it seemed as though Mr. Cobb himself had one of the coins under a great deal of light in some back room, with another one of the Shadow Creatures lurking in the store itself. Being that this accounted for the two coins Marcus and I had yet to track down, I rushed out the back door and dragged Marcus by his arm, charting a course to Mr. Cobb’s store.

Arriving there and looking through the glass storefront at a distance, there was no sign of activity within like there had been at the Crossroads. Trying the front door was more of a formality than anything, though even as we realized it was rather predictably locked, I noticed the glint of pieces of metal, brass in color, scattered across the ground. It was hard to make out, though I theorized they were bullet casings based off of the coloring.

We then made our way into the store by way of a brutalized back door. Moving through the store, I was given the opportunity to realize the brass glint were whole bullets, not just the casings. Sadly, they weren’t of use to Marcus, but we did notice light spilling from a crack under a door, making the location of Mr. Stubin and Mr. Cobb clear. After all, if I were under siege by an unknown number of these Shadow Creatures, I would say a room full of bright light would be the perfect place to bunker down.

Our intent had been for Marcus to open the door to the light room, with myself minding the store as a pair of eyes at the back. Clearly I haven’t learned from the many books I’ve read where heroes, hunters, and protagonists alike get ambushed from something hiding on the ceiling, because that’s precisely what happened: one moment I was raising my flashlight to sweep the shop, the next I’m being shoved backward by Marcus and watching as he falls to the floor. His leg, which was already in rough shape from our previous fights that evening, made...a decidedly unpleasant sound as he connected with the floor. 

I’m only mostly ashamed to admit that I rushed in rather thoughtlessly after that, some foolish part of me thinking I could defend Marcus with naught but a particularly heavy flashlight. It didn’t seem to do much damage save for more of that rippling, and I promptly put some distance between myself and it once it became clear that Marcus was going to try and get up to fight again. In short order, I heard the door to the back room open, the sounds of a struggle, a worrying crunch, and the report of a firearm. Spurred into action by the latter, and trying to prevent any further harm, I located the nearest lightswitch and raced towards it. As my hand flicked the switch, a tendril of darkness speared through it. Not as bad as it could have been, perhaps, and I was more concerned with the increase in reverb--two waves, which met and caused some...resistance. Mr. Stubin shot that spot, and the creature folded under that tension. It slipped quickly under the counter with the clatter of a coin.

The next several moments were a blur of motion and weariness. Marcus and I realized when we went to burn the coin that I’d jostled his lighter loose in dragging him from the Crossroads; fortunately, Mr. Cobb had a box of matches, and we disposed of it accordingly. Mr. Cobb likewise called an ambulance for Mr. Stubin, whereas Marcus and I limped our way back to the safehouse, but only after I promised to return to help Mr. Cobb keep vigil over his still-lurching coin, which he refused to part with.

I helped Marcus reset his leg. He needs rest, more than anything, but he should be fine. I believe his condition affords him a measure of healing, but I’m not entirely certain; another question to ask him...whenever it becomes an appropriate time to interrogate my brother about that.

Levi had sent me an email two hours prior with urgency--we were to return to the Eyrie as quickly as we could, pending the completion of our assignment. Once I’d sent him a reply assuring him we’d do just that, I left Marcus to rest, then returned to Mr. Cobb’s furniture store. He was kind enough to offer me a beer, despite the fact it was only 5:20 in the morning local time. The time passed with little more than our two pairs of eyes sitting in silence, nursing wounds and beers alike as the coin and the orb of shadow around it shuddered and lurched, trying in vain to free itself.

At 6:30 local time, the orb shuddered once more, then fell back into itself, becoming a coin. We tapped a copper nail into it; with each hit the coin shuddered and seemed to grow...lighter. Brighter, even.

And then it was done. Almost anticlimactic, were it not for all that came before.  

Convincing Mr. Stubin to come with us to the Eyrie was less of an ordeal than getting past hospital security. From there it was a matter of several uneventful- if awkward- days of travel before we were within Westboro and the eyes of my family crest again.

Our family crest; Marcus is to be considered now. I hope.

[End of Part 2.]

-Arden ⊙ Multa pars, una veritas.

[beholdthewatcher]

I am very behind on my logs...and lost one of them due to a regrettable incident with Marcus’ lighter. Fortunately, it was mostly an account of some loose ends from the Cullenfield Incident, none of which I recall as being terribly important.

(Marcus, if you’re reading this, your lighter is fine. My notebook, on the other hand, wasn’t. Good thing it was a cheap little thing from Dollar Tree, eh?)

Also, as a note to myself: I gave up on backdating the logs due to how finicky the process is. Dates will be included at the beginning of any given log.

[beholdthewatcher]

Have you considered negotiating for a raise after recent near-death experiences? Or perhaps some decent medical insurance?

I am now in possession of what one might call ‘a snazzy waistcoat’ that has the benefit of being armor against the threats I face, if that works? It’s insurance against dying--for now, at least.

That said, I get nearly all of my living expenses covered. I’m quite comfortably off, in truth, though I thank you for your concern, stranger.

[beholdthewatcher]

Why don't you have an iPhone?

... Who sent this? More importantly, why?

Aside from the.. obvious shudder-inducing pun, they break almost ridiculously easily. Sure, their cameras might be good, but given I tend to get thrown into walls or onto floors or into something at almost dizzying speeds, I’d rather have something that won’t shatter if I sneeze on it.

I hope that answer is to your satisfaction, stranger.

[beholdthewatcher]

Statement #01202003a

A continuation of The Cullenfield Incident, regarding the events of 20 March, 2020. Statement recorded by subject, 21 March, 2020.

Archivist’s note: This report has been split into parts for the sake of readability and due the sheer volume of information gathered in the span of the two consecutive days they concern. See Statement #01202003b for further information.

The second day of my…well, I suppose I should say our investigation began with my being woken up due to the sound of Marcus’ footsteps as he got ready for the day barely a few hours after falling asleep--our investigation the day before had taken us well into the following morning. Being that I am already a somewhat early riser, assuming I sleep at all, it was something of an interesting change.

After taking the time to render ourselves passably awake, we went to the local coffee shop, Coffee, to acquire breakfast. The streets were somber, and even for this early in the morning, there was a strange near-lack of traffic of any sort on the streets; I counted only three cars en-route to our destination, and only eight people in the shop itself once we’d arrived. Even yesterday at a similar time, there were quite a few more people than that. The overall air seemed disquieted as well, and it was with a rather slow-growing but certain dread in my stomach that I spilled my sleep-weary self into a booth and asked Marcus to order food from the bleary-eyed barista at the counter.

I only learned Erica’s name once she was dead. It’s…silly, I suppose, but I will admit a small amount of regret for not asking for it the day before, when she was telling me of the town; I very well might have been one of the last people to have a conversation with her.

I intend to remember her as best I can, at any rate. While I know the probability of Marcus and I finding all five coins in the span of a day was likely on the verge of microscopic, I still feel as though I might’ve saved her, somehow. Living in memory is better than total death, I suppose.

At any rate, it became clear that two deaths in as many days had taken the town from talking of strange occurrences to fearing for the safety of their families and friends. Sharing my findings and thoughts with Marcus, we agreed to split up to cover more ground on our search: I was to head to the nearest branch of the Apex Timber Company [hereafter referred to as ATC] to see if I could locate where the rest of the wood from this tree went, while Marcus was to head to the latest crime scene to see if he could discern anything regarding where her coin might have ended up. Given Marcus’ reticence towards motor vehicles and my own feelings regarding Erica, this split made plenty of sense.

After finishing breakfast, wishing Marcus luck, and quickly looking up the directions to the closest branch of the ATC, I picked up my motorcycle from the safehouse and drove out that way. 

It was a rather large, industrial complex in the middle of a decent stand of woods, with dirt parking spaces marked by bits of logs. Parking my motorcycle, I went inside and was promptly stared at by the four people at the front desk. Judging by their surprise, they weren’t expecting too many folks to be showing up at the crack of business hours. Regardless, I spoke with the first of these receptionists (once again forgetting to ask for a name, I really must get better about that).

Some polite introductions on behalf of the Wesley family led to this man checking my driver’s license as a form of ID. This, in turn, led to a rather humorous (to me, at least) exchange wherein he eyed my license with suspicion at the newly-present gray streaks in my hair, to which I responded with the simple truth: “I have a very stressful job.”

Paperwork in order, he then told me what I already knew regarding the circumstances of the tree’s removal, even going as far to comment on the quick turnaround between the missed payment and it being cut down. From there, he told me that a portion of the wood (naturally) went to Cullenfield, but that he wasn’t allowed to say. After gently persuading him by saying it was a matter of great importance and that I would more than willingly keep tales of his involvement to a minimum, this kindly receptionist scrolled down the list of information.

And scrolled.

And scrolled some more.

He then left me alone for quite some time--so long, in fact, that when I heard the blare of police sirens, I (admittedly rather hastily) assumed he had called them to the site. Feigning only my nonchalance, I went to the door and tracked their progress…away from both town and the building itself. After offering my apologies to the receptionist (as he’d returned while I was investigating), he gave me easily thirty pages of information regarding what I could only assume was the distribution of the wood.

Giving him my earnest thanks, I began the drive back to the safehouse. While en route, I received a text, which I read only once I’d arrived safely--everything forbid I give Levi a reason to criticize my motorcycle anymore.

‘Coins look they can move--Burton’s coin went back to the Crossroads. Someone’s inside. Meet @ Safehouse.’

With that cheerful note, I began to wonder if Erica’s coin was still in the hospital morgue with her body, or if it had already set to looking for its next victim. Musing aside, it was obviously Marcus, and being that I had already arrived, I set to trying to decipher the ledger I’d been given. The emphasis there lies on trying, as I quickly realized the entire document was written in shorthand I barely understood. Quite some time passed, all of it fruitless until I tossed the whole of the document onto the nearest flat surface in my frustration. Because my luck has a sense of irony and humor, it was that action that allowed me to find the document’s ledger key, wherein I could see that my helpful receptionist had circled one of the many two-and-three letter keys representing specific shipments: CCT, or ‘Cullenfield Center Tree’.

This in mind, it soon became clear that within the first half of the document alone there were easily ten locations that the wood from this accursed tree had been sent. Perturbed, I sent an email to Levi, with Marcus arriving shortly thereafter.

As the hour had grown quite late, we set about Cullenfield doing some reconnaissance, ending with dinner at the Ham Hock, a local diner. Our intent was to end the night with going to the Crossroads and trying to obtain the missing coin in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. Partway through our meal, it occurred to me that, in the miasma of reconnection with my brother and the single-minded focus I get on a hunt, I had become rather blissfully unaware of the sensation of being watched.

So realizing, I became vengefully aware of just how foolish that was: the feeling returned to me with all the intensity of an audience during the opening night of an opera, and fear took the nape of my mind in its teeth and shook it like some prey animal to be stunned.

I threw down what I hope was enough money to pay and fled, madly dashing anywhere, everywhere to flee from those eyes, those hateful, accursed eyes that will not stop following me, will not stop watching me.

Bitter fate once again had a laugh at my expense: I wound up, a concerned Marcus in tow, in front of an optometrist, its stylized eye sign watching me struggle against my fear with what my frantic, gulping breaths could only recognize as amused and active malice.

I made us late to our six o’clock appointment, naturally. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, given he’s a local, Mr. Stubin was there as well. If his conversation with Dewey, apparently the name of the bartender, was any indication, not only had Mr. Stubin came into contact with another coin, but Dewey had given the coin belonging to the late Keith Burton (the first victim) to the man in question, only for it to show up after his death on the counter where he was sitting. Dewey then further explained he’d felt responsible for Burton’s demise, as he’d given the coin to him because Dewey had felt like he’d earned it for being nice.

In an attempt to try and earn the coin in a similar matter, both myself and Marcus offered to help Dewey behind the bar, as he seemed particularly dazed. I even went as far as commiserating with my similar experience regarding Erica...but, well, I suppose I wasn’t entirely surprised to leave empty-handed after a night of playing pool and waiting for something to happen. Marcus and left the bar shortly before close, sitting on a nearby bench to stake out the bar, as Dewey had likewise said the coin was still in his cash register after the incident with Mr. Burton.

We passed our watch with my pestering Marcus for details regarding his life in the four years I’d assumed him dead. He’d moved out to Washington, working as a handyman in between letters and postcards telling him to go on a job. Prior to that, on the night of our separation, he’d had to suffer the consequences of the attack that claimed our adoptive parents’ lives--after driving off the werewolf that bit him, a Wesley hunting team nearly killed him, only to be dissuaded for...various reasons. They instead brought him to the Branching Eyre and set him up with a job. In this way, our two stories aren’t too terribly different: a strange first encounter, followed by an induction into the world.

The family experiments on him. I didn’t ask him if he’d consented to that. I’m almost certain the answer is a firm ‘no’, just as he’d not asked to be turned. They aim to test the limits of his more monstrous form, and do experiments once a year. Last year it was testing a “pellet of silver”, which caused him to almost kill a man out of a sense of self-preservation. Complete blood transfusions and starvation likewise don’t work. There wasn’t an experiment this year.

As with all things regarding Marcus, our new partnership, and the way our family operates, I find myself...pensive, and not entirely in the way an impartial researcher should be. Certainly, there is an aspect to Marcus that is monstrous, but I find it hard to believe that, short of self-defense and instincts overruling his mind, he might ever kill someone. He is little different from your average man or animal this way--most prefer to be left to their own devices, and will not actively hunt down their fellow man or beast, except as survival dictates. 

That much should make my thoughts on the family’s treatment of him clear, particularly in combination with the many other things I have learned of his circumstance in previous conversations.

I asked him if he wanted to be cured, and wasn’t at all surprised when he said he didn’t know. We’re both clinging to that which is strange about us; how could we not, when strangeness is all we’ve known? His curse is the same as my search, definitely unhealthy, yet so compelling that despite only having it for a mere fraction of our lives...it consumes us. It is us.

We fell asleep in shifts, after that, quiet discontent and a gladness for companionship our only blankets. Rather foolishly, admittedly foolishly, I had forgotten about the coins in my pocket, only to remember them once they suddenly grew warm to the point of burning through my clothing. Not literally, mind, merely in the sense of temperature. Taking them out of my pocket revealed orbs of shadow rapidly growing in size. Giving Marcus one, we made a tactical retreat into the nearest alleyway.

I pinned the flashlight’s glow on the one in my hands while Marcus shifted and began to claw at it. He cut his orb nearly in half, only to be stopped about three inches from the center. It grew faster out of rage or spite, which wasn’t entirely surprising, but was terribly irritating and inconvenient--it grew to the size of a cantaloupe, and wherever Marcus cut it, thin appendages (for lack of a better word, I’ll call them tentacles, though no words exist for just how...indescribable these ‘Shadow Creatures’ are capable of being) sprouted, some of which made retaliatory strikes against Marcus.

It was during one such attack that I remembered, very belatedly, but better late than never, that we were to be disposing of these coins with fire, copper nails, or another method, should we stumble across one. After shining the light on the orb in Marcus’ hand in a successful attempt to drive back the tentacles assailing him, I quickly relayed this to him. Fortunately for us both, he had a lighter in that ever-present backpack of his, and it soon made short work of both coins.

Strangely enough, both times while burning them, Marcus and I noticed little white flecks disappear into the coins. I am uncertain as to what this could mean, but it doesn’t presently seem to have caused any lasting issue that I discern, even days after the fact. I suppose I’ll have to keep an ear or...eye out.

Regardless, it was then, as we caught our breath and came down from the high of adrenaline, that Marcus and I heard the clatter and clang of coins falling to the floor within the Crossroads.

[End of Part 1.]

-Arden ⊙ Multa pars, una veritas.

[beholdthewatcher]

Statement #01201903

Regarding the events in Cullenfield, Maryland on 19 March, 2020. Statement recorded by subject, 19 March, 2020.

My trip from Westboro to Cullenfield, Maryland was thankfully an uneventful one, if punctuated by a somewhat strenuous lack of sleep as I rushed to get there as quickly as I was safely able. My dreams, as always, were filled with far too many eyes, but I’ll admit I’m getting somewhat used to feeling constantly on the verge of losing my mind. As much as one can, at least.

The exit from the highway gradually turned into the main street of the town, taking me to the town’s center, and, across from it, a strip mall shopping center of sorts. Being that I was to receive a dossier from Levi and wanting to gather what information I could from rumors and the like, I found a lovely cafe by the simple name of ‘Coffee’ and decided to stay there a time. Despite the name, they did sell more than just coffee, so I sat with my espresso and a cinnamon scone as I listened and skimmed the files Levi had sent to my computer.

There was, of course, the background information regarding Omar’s role in the whole affair, but additionally there was the story behind the tree’s origin and supposed curse. It had been used as a hanging tree for the town’s small part of the historic witch trials in America. A particular witch cursed the town in a particularly long and uninspired speech, promising a hundred and some odd number of years of darkness in revenge. The night the curse is supposed to happen is the 8th of February; in an attempt to prevent the curse from happening, the Wesley family has been placing copper nails in the tree to contain whatever menace might ooze from the wood. The concern with the tree having been cut down some six days before my arrival is that whatever residual energy remaining might be unleashed upon the world. My task was (and still is) to find and dispose of the wood, be it by fire (which could release more energy, but would permanently solve the problem), by continuing to bind the energy with copper nails, or by finding some other means of disposing of both the wood and whatever curse it might bring.

Aside from hearing a truly dreadful movie script idea (involving an alien couple coming to earth for a vacation, disguising themselves as humans, and losing each other by accident), I learned from a very hush-hush pair that a man by the name of Keith Burton had been found dead in the alleyway earlier that morning. The cause of death wasn’t discussed, but I knew from their tone of voice that this wasn’t a particularly normal sort of occurrence; while there was little chance to follow up on that particular lead due to events that will soon become clear, it is on the list to be investigated tomorrow.

As I was getting ready to pack up and leave, I heard an odd conversation at the register; as a woman was getting rung up for some ridiculous sounding drink or other, she asked the cashier if they had “any of those coins in your register”. She was flustered, but not overly so, when the cashier answered in the negative. Struck by a minor fit of boldness, I turned my nervousness to acting the part of a tourist passing by, curious to learn of the town and its customs--particularly these coins that she mentioned. She surprised me by asking to sit down, and we ended up having a productive, even lovely chat about the recent events in this town.

She informed me that the town had, six days ago, held a festival in celebration of the 100th year since its founding. The mayor had the old witching tree in the town center cut down, and, though the woman I was speaking with didn’t link the two things together, had five commemorative coins made by Cobb’s Woodwork and Repair, each bearing the town’s animal (a wolf), plant (wisteria), and motto.

Beyond that, she told me of the few tourist-type attractions the town has to offer: Cobb’s is a wonderful little shop for antiques and handcrafted goods, the old tree was a notable landmark until it was removed, there’s bowling and some thrift shops, but she said that the best thing was a diner by the name of Ham’s Hock, even going as far as to say it was the best diner in the state.

Thanking her for her time, I left the cafe feeling rather confident with my start, and was planning to head to Cobb’s to ask the staff some questions. I was waylaid by a text from an unknown number (typical of the family) giving me an address: 1108 Granaby Ave. Knowing a nudge when I see one, I instead took off in the direction of the location in question with help from my trusty GPS.

The GPS took me to a pleasant enough house in a rather middle-class part of town. Trying the door only to find it locked, I was relieved to see that there was a key under the welcome mat. After letting myself in and locking the door behind me, I explored the thoroughly strange house: it was immaculate to the point of having plastic fruit in the fruit bowl. Save for a thin layer of dust over everything, the house was more concerned with loudly pretending to be normal than anything approaching actually lived in. Thankfully, the windows were small enough that anyone larger than me trying to get in by that way would have issues, and the door I’d come in through appeared to be the only other way in or out.

Regardless, the house was perfect and pristine and absolutely Wrong in every sense of the word but the literal one. The only thing to mar this perfection was a single book laying on its spine on the bedroom’s bookcase. Following a hunch (and because I was deeply annoyed by the imperfection, despite its opposite unnerving me thoroughly), I took the book, an overview of the Romantic poets, and righted it back in its place. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this opened a hidden door leading to a panel, behind which was a staircase leading down. Swallowing against habitual unease, I shut the bookshelf portion of the door behind me, just in case, then descended the stairs cautiously. In doing so, I thoroughly startled myself, as the first truly loud sound I’d heard since entering this strange house was the ‘CREAK’ of the stairs protesting my descent. Rather flippantly, I snapped some witty retort or another at them, and then was immediately grateful Levi couldn’t see how ridiculous I was being.

Twenty-five steps later, I found myself in a basement that more matched my expectations of a Wesley safehouse, confirming my suspicions. There was a workbench, a research desk that could accommodate four people, a map of the area, and a bookshelf on the wall with ten titleless, leather-bound tomes. After struggling with the pull-chain for the only visible light source aside from my flashlight, I began to skim the books in the order they were shelved, curious and hoping they’d have information pertinent to the case. 

The first was a book on tree cultivation and all the variables related to that. While interesting, it wasn’t particularly what I was looking for. The second book was a bit more what I had in mind, as it discussed the witch trials, the various towns they occurred in, and the different forms, causes, and effects of the Trials in various places. This was a book written by skeptics or more mundane historians, which gave the causes as psychedelics, mass hysteria, or simple human cruelty. The third was a record of suspected or confirmed incidents of actual magic. It was far from a complete record, but it did cover this part of the continental United States--including Maryland, whose section I then pursued, as it and several other pages were bookmarked. These pages talked of instances of human transfiguration, vanishing individuals due to either invisibility or actual vanishment, and several other bookmarks which spoke of large groups (covens?) casting rituals to drive nearby folk mad. 

I was pacing back and forth as I read, the motion something comforting as it helps a little to ease my constant feeling of being watched, and it is because of this that I caught a glimpse of something strange under the research desk: a cubby. There was one under each of the four spaces, and in searching, I found a book more modern than the tome I had been reading. 

I finished reading what I had first, as I am loath to leave a job half-finished, and in doing so learned of summoning rituals in the past that had actually summoned something. Entities called ‘Shadow Creatures’ are the most commonly summoned things; they are small beings which are used to see through the world by way of the shadows cast in it. There were other instances of physical creatures being pulled from one place to another--most notably, someone appeared to have summoned a dear from one location and brought it to the site where the summoning took place. There were accounts of people being summoned from thin air as well, but these were likely only bookmarked to serve as a contrast to the more credible accounts of summoning, as it is generally believed that summoning can only move things from one location to another, rather than creating something from nothing.

The more modern looking book turned out to be a log kept by Omar--likely to keep sane, as the vast majority of its entries were terribly boring and dry, even by my standards. The more interesting parts are where he noted the research he was conducting on specific days. Through these entries, I learned that the witch responsible for laying the supposed curse on the town was called Alden, though Omar had doubts about whether or not the man was actually capable of magic due to a lack of supporting evidence. Similarly, Omar did further research into curses and magic and the like, coming to the conclusion that the worst that could happen to the town would be the sky going dark. His boredom was such that he wondered if the assignment was a test or punishment, something that I believe makes my presence rather ironic, considering.

The last entry was two weeks prior to my arrival, and spoke of how Omar had brought a date home, which lessened his disdain of the town. I have my suspicions that this date is what ultimately led to his misplacing or otherwise neglecting the paperwork that would pay the tithe for the tree, as the timing is all rather suspicious and consistent with someone who spent a few days trying to fix his mistake, then quickly returned to the Eyre to let Levi know.

It was as I grew increasingly displeased with Omar’s lack of professionalism that I heard creaking floorboards upstairs. Needless to say, as I had thought I had the only key to the house, I grew concerned and quickly turned off the light as I sought to conceal my existence--hidden door or no, I didn’t want light spilling upstairs, as it had been growing dark when I arrived, and I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on upstairs. In my haste to get to a somewhat defensible position, I tripped over the desk and made an ungodly racket that whoever was upstairs could likely hear; I then rushed to one of the walls beside the stairway so that I could attempt to blind whoever was upstairs on the off chance they found the door, opened it, and came in the basement.

There was a muffled question in front of the bookshelves, followed by the slow creaking of someone descending the staircase in a very similar fashion to me; a male voice called out and asked if I was all right, and despite the overall friendliness of the tone and the fact he’d found the door, I wasn’t inclined to trust a stranger. In hindsight, I should have remembered that I was with a partner on my first mission, and it was common practice to send Hunters in pairs, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I wear glasses for a reason.

Needless to say my heart rate, which isn’t terribly low to begin with, skyrocketed. I attempted to count the creaking of the stairs as my unknown companion grew closer, but in trying to brace myself to leap into action, I failed to account for the fact that he’d already been descending the stairs by the time I’d thought to start counting. It was by sheer luck that I managed to react to his sudden appearance as well as I did, blinding him and demanding to know who he was.

He figured it out before I did of course. Long time no see, indeed. I’m sure I looked like I’d seen a ghost as I turned on the overhead light, and in fairness, I all but had:

My brother Marcus, back from the not-so-dead. Sent to be my partner, no less, which meant that not only was he working for the Wesleys, but they’d known he was alive and still asked me if I’d come into contact with him. I hadn’t particularly trusted the family before this, mind--the whole thing is very bureaucratic, and their approach towards monsters is… pointed, to say the least, indicating a certain willingness for the ends to justify the means, but still; I’ll admit it stung a bit, knowing I’d written Marcus off for dead and had sworn off thinking of him so thoroughly that, even with him staring me in the face, I didn’t recognize him until after he’d recognized me.

It also turns out he’s a werewolf. I swore quite a lot as he transformed to show me--not because I was upset he was now, as he put it, a monster, but solely because the whole situation was so very bizarre that I wanted to let out one of those mad, desperate sorts of cackles. He’s a werewolf, and I’m potentially followed by some sort of omnipotent entity. “Behold the Watcher, watching all that is strange,” indeed. What a pair we make.

Rather than speculating on why no one had told me my brother was alive (particularly due to Marcus explaining that he’d known I was alive for many years, but had stayed his distance so as not to ruin my chances with the Wesleys, should I be socializing with one of the very monsters we hunt), I instead hid the positive maelstrom of emotions strangling me in a myriad of questions, musing, and plan-making for the next day. In a way, it was almost like we hadn’t spent four years apart--Marcus still watched me with that faint amusement he always had when I was off on one of my rants no one else would listen to growing up, and I was still that odd mix of grateful he was listening and a titch annoyed he was so amused that I had always had in response.

As the hour was growing late, we retired for the evening--myself on the top bunk of the bunk bed, Marcus in the single bed. What little rest I’d started to get was soon interrupted by gunshots, which Marcus assured me wasn’t at all typical for the area, prompting us to go and investigate. 

With him navigating (and being far more aware than I was, fresh out of slumber), we got to a two-story house in the more affluent area of town just in time to see some sort of creature on four legs rush inside, the door all but blown off its hinges. After some hesitation in trying to figure out a plan of attack, we rushed inside and were promptly met by a shotgun blast at the floor directly in front of Marcus.

A very harried man stood on the small balcony at the second floor of the staircase directly in front of us, reloading his shotgun quickly. He seemed as startled as we were, and in the tentative peace that followed, we asked him a few questions and generally tried to get him out. The man mentioned he thought he’d hit whatever had assaulted him, but there was no sign of such a beast.

It was around this time that I put together a theory based off the mentions of darkness in Alden’s melodramaticism, the wolves depicted on the coins, the likelihood they were made from the witch-wood, and the mentions of shadow-creatures that I began to wonder if those who’d received a coin with the wolf’s likeness imprinted on them were summarily attacked by these beasts who could so easily disappear into the aether. Ironic indeed, given the wisteria on the back--I recall reading somewhere that, among other things, the flower symbolizes good luck and new beginnings.

Likely by my decidedly poor luck involving social situations where guns are factors, we ended up being asked to leave after Marcus inquired as to whether he had a coin or not, followed by asking if we could look around. Knowing that whatever had attacked the man would likely return, we didn’t walk away too terribly quickly. It’s good that we didn’t, given that Marcus heard someone trip on the stoop shortly after we'd left. Marcus snuck after him, and I continued to walk slowly away. Marcus overheard snippets of the two men’s conversation (through which we learned the clumsy sneak’s name: Jeffery Stubin, who, by all accounts, seemed as though he was a minor celebrity given our unnamed almost-victim’s reaction), including the key facts that they both were in possession of one of these commemorative coins, and that Mr. Stubin had left his van due to the presence of an approximately wolf-shaped entity in the back of his van.

Midway through this conversation, a ‘wolf’ attacked the man with the shotgun. Mr. Stubin managed to yell out a warning in time for the other man to avoid the brunt of the damage, but the civilian still ended up pinned from the shoulders down even as Mr. Stubin rushed in to provide aid. As I did likewise, I was afforded my first definitive look at the creature:

It was black in the most literal sense of the word, a true absence of all light or color, which warped and almost undulated, either because it was affecting the light, or because the light was affecting it. It had no distinct eyes that I could see, but was, as I had suspected, approximately wolf-shaped in the broadest sense of the word.

Based on what I’d read and how the creature shifted in the light the chandelier provided, I flipped my flashlight on, and in doing so, drew both the attention and ire of the beast. While it was my intention to do so in order to protect the civilian, I hadn’t quite anticipated finding myself in the line of fire, metaphorically speaking--its heavy weight and claws found their way to my shoulders and neck, knocking me prone. In leaping off the civilian, the wolf heavily wounded him, which likewise wasn’t my intention, and caused all of us no small amount of distress Marcus quickly came to my rescue, ever the protective older brother of our youth, and I got to watch once more in fascination as muscle grew from exposed skin over clothes and shaped his visage into that of the werewolf.

He promptly picked up and threw the wolf by its ribs, sending it crashing into the couch in the living room off to my right. As I staggered to my feet, I saw the civilian give Mr. Stubin his gun and shotgun shells, pressing his hands to his wounds as he sluggishly shuffled away to, though I didn’t know so at the time, bandage his wounds. Mr Stubin promptly made use of the damage Marcus did to the wolf by throwing it, pulling the trigger of the gun with a vengeance and setting off both barrels of the shotgun near-simultaneously. In doing so, he dislocated his shoulder, but he also thoroughly turned the wolf into mist, metaphorically speaking. As Marcus shifted back, I heard a faint wobbling sort of sound; On the floor near the partially-destroyed couch lay one of the wooden coins, just coming to rest. I picked it up and, after showing it to Marcus away from prying eyes, pocketed it. It was heavier than I expected, so at least I will have the courtesy of knowing if someone lifts it from my person.

Rather than calling for a medic, I poked around the house for some sort of first aid while Marcus talked to Mr. Stubin and reset his shoulder. The resulting scream drew the civilian back into the house, who promptly pointed a handgun into Marcus’ face and, subsequently confused, then dropped it.

By a combination of luck, a rare moment of charisma on my part, and Mr. Stubin promising a new couch on discount for the poor man left with the cleanup, we were able to leave with the promise that the man wouldn’t mention any of our involvement. I then asked Mr. Stubin to take us to his van, which was rocking violently from side to side by the time we got there. I quickly got the two men to follow a plan: Mr. Stubin would open the door on a countdown, at the end of which I’d throw on my flashlight and shine it at the wolf, and Marcus, who had a gun of his own, would fire at it.

The plan went off without a hitch, save for the fact the wolf was very much not a wolf, and in fact could only be said to resemble an animal in the loosest of terms. It also oozed out of the back of the van much faster than I had anticipated, and while my light on it caused it to shrink back into a more manageable size, that was only after it had hit us with some strange sort of appendage. Marcus got a shot in, which caused it to unleash this ghastly, hollow sort of groan, and as it retreated back into the van, Mr. Stubin got it with his multitool, which made it gurgle somewhat ominously. It managed to shut the doors behind it, which prompted me to try and get another angle on it with my flashlight, first through the front windshield, then through one of the passenger doors. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered; Tucked away on the floor of the van was another coin. 

I pocketed that one too, once I’d given it to Marcus for him to smell in an attempt to track others down. He said he couldn’t smell anything particularly unusual about the coin, but given he hadn’t been able to smell the shadow creature before it attacked the civilian, I don’t put much stock in that. After devising a plan and exchanging contact information with Mr. Stubin in case he heard anything that might be relevant to the investigation, we each limped or drove to our respective homes.

Thankfully, the only other abnormal thing to the upper part of the house we’re staying in is the extensive medical kit--we were able to treat our wounds and plan for tomorrow’s leg of the investigation. Highest on our list is investigating the Apex Pine Timber Company, Cobb’s, and following up on the details of Keith Burton’s murder/his body. One thing is for certain, though: we need to find the other three coins before anyone else gets hurt.

I can only hope that the woman from the cafe doesn’t find the coin as she’d wanted. She was kind.

Arden ⊙ Multa pars, una veritas.

[beholdthewatcher]

Statement #00201303

Regarding my third yearly interrogation interview on 13 March, 2020. Statement recorded by subject on 14 March, 2020.

After a rather uneventful drive across Montana’s meandering mountains, I once more returned to Westboro for my yearly interview at the Branching Eyre. Arriving at the gate, I noticed security cameras on several of the towers, as well as at the gate itself, none of which had been there at my previous interview. Needless to say, this didn’t particularly inspire me to feel comforted, as I similarly don’t particularly relish an intensified feeling of eyes on me at all times. Regardless, I went in. 

The gate, as always, seemed the part of an eager mouth fit to consume me, and after parking my motorcycle, I headed to the front door and knocked. Tall, stoic Morris answered the door, as he’d done so the last few times I’d been there, and bid me inside. I was shown to the interview chamber by a woman named Clovis, who I knew only tangentially--typically speaking, Levi has always both led me to and conducted my interviews, so naturally I assumed something was off.

That ‘something’ became readily apparent, as Levi was in a wheelchair where he hadn’t otherwise been. Fool that I am, I greeted him with the rather astute observation of the chair being new.

Surprising no one, he wasn’t impressed, though explained the circumstance of his injuries to me. I rather got the feeling he was wondering how I, with my ‘deathtrap’ of a motorcycle as he likes to call it and general nervous demeanor, hadn’t gotten seriously injured before him, being that has seniority and experience far surpassing my measly three years and one Hunt for the family.

Other than that, the interview went ahead as normal, with the same questions as the last two times. 

First, he asked if I remembered anything about my (biologic) family. This time, I had an answer beyond the haze of half-formed memory and silence; I remembered their names and causes of death: Benjamin Kyle Gawain and Joan Jane Gawain, primary cause of death was a rather brutal impalement. My late biological father’s autopsy proved interesting to the coroner, as, despite having never touched a cigarette in his life, dear Benjamin appeared to have lung damage consistent with many years of heavy smoking.

Second came the question of my having encountered any monsters in the field, to which I responded by recounting my first field mission: hunting a vampire with one Stella Wesley [#00190806]. It was, by Wesley standards, not a particularly harrowing mission due to the relative ease by which vampires can be identified, hunted, slain, and disposed of, but it was… eye-opening. Until that moment, I’d only had my own experiences with Behold the Watcher and the man in the long leather coat to suggest to me that the world was anything beyond what I had believed it to be as a child: cruel, capricious, and fascinating. Mind, all these things remain true, but now… here be monsters.

He then asked me how I was feeling. A rather irrelevant question, as I was, of course, feeling anxious from being interviewed and likewise determined not to let it show too badly. Thankfully, he took my answer of ‘fine’ and left it at that.

Rather good of Levi, too, considering he then asked me about Marcus. I feel no guilt for not staying around to watch him get shot; my foster parents were furious with me, he’d gotten full-body pulled out of the window by some gang member or something. I don’t regret leaving, as staying likely would have only ensured my own death, and I felt no love for my foster parents at that point. I mourned Marcus- what kind of sibling would I be if not?- but there was little point in wallowing in misery when I quickly found myself homeless and trying to finish my degree.

Most of that I didn’t say aloud, simply sticking to the facts: I hadn’t seen Marcus or my foster parents since the former had been pulled out our bedroom window and the latter since I’d left home.

Levi then asked me if I wanted to retire, and I’ll admit that I panicked somewhat. My personal ambitions aside, this work is… far more fulfilling than what I was doing at the library. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job at the library, but it’s hardly saving a corner of the world as best I can… not to mention the books I read for this job (with one notable exception) are far more strange and fascinating than the ones available to me then. Levi mentioned that many people didn’t take to their first missions afield well, and I suppose at some level I do understand--yet, in truth, I told him that I didn’t feel very much of anything. A concerning statement in hindsight, but I’ve never much been one for feeling anything other than a perpetual, low-grade anxiety that got worse as the feeling of being watched has only grown since my encounter with that book. Everything else is… minimal, by comparison. I’ve rather suspected that my emotional intelligence is far lower than my book intelligence for quite some time now, so I’m not particularly surprised to feel little--that said, it wouldn’t do to have Levi and the other Wesleys fearing me, so I clarified that I am pleased with my role as long as I am useful, and I am far more useful to the general public here than I would be elsewhere.

Finally, Levi asked me if I had anything else to report, to which I gave a relatively cheerful ‘nope!’, glad to be done with it. I then spent the remainder of the evening getting lost in the library, only for Morris to find me as I contemplated retiring for the evening and say that Levi wished to speak with me again.

Remembering the anxiety I had so cheerfully left at the library’s doors, I begrudgingly followed Morries back into the foyer, where Levi and a man frustrated to the point of tears were having a conversation. There was also a woman, but she did very little beyond obviously wanting to console the other man. Levi was unmoved, as always. I have written a rough transcription of the conversation, rather than trying to reiterate all the important points.

Begin transcript:

Unknown Man: [Between heavy breaths] "That's all I know."

Levi: "Alright. Well, Arden."

Arden: [Waves]

Levi: "We have a..... situation. Omar?"

[Omar looks offended, less that he has to repeat himself, more that he’s offended at who he's having to repeat himself to. As I am significantly below him in ranking, this didn’t surprise me.]

Omar: The Wesley family owns a lot of property, some of it’s for show, for utility, beds. Some of them have very important cultural significance [Read: connections to the supernatural; the Wesleys do not use relating terms in every room, hence the talking in circles]. One such property was a very lovely tree, a very old tree in Maryland. It seems that someone forgot to, um. Clear paperwork to pay the tithe required not to have it chopped for lumber." 

Levi: I think that about covers it. Typically, this would not be asked of someone so new to the family, but you have an aptitude for figuring things out. I need you to go to Cullenfield, Maryland, and I need you to figure out exactly where that lumber is going--but I need you to go now. I will email details. Arrive as quickly as you can, but don't kill yourself."

End transcript.

And, well. What else was I supposed to do but go, even if it was… very late at night or very early in the morning? I did make sure to rev my engine especially loud outside the gates, just for Levi, but otherwise, I left as quickly as I could, and write this now in a roadside motel, barely able to keep my eyes open. I’ve still several days of travel ahead of me, but doing so without sleep is… foolish. Unless there is anything of significance to report, my next report will likely be the first day of my investigation

Arden ⊙ Multa pars, una veritas.

[beholdthewatcher]

Statement #00190806

Regarding the hunt of a vampire with one Stella Wesley, which occurred on 8 June, 2019. Statement recorded by subject 12 June, 2019.

It was only during my second year as a member of the truer side of the Wesley family that I first encountered a monster. I was sent on a field mission to [insert town here when you remember it] with one Stella Wesley, likely as a test of my usefulness in the field or of my character. We were following reports of an attempted break-in at the hospital, the first of our investigative stops. The scene of the crime was clearly marked, and with no sign of local law enforcement, we gave a quick look around. The glass panes near the door handle were shattered and marked off as hazardous, likely due to the black, ichor-like substance near the glass. It appeared that the vampire (for there was no doubt in my mind that this was the work of our quarry) had attempted to break in with one arm, only to be thwarted and made to retreat--likely by witnesses. A blood trail led from the door towards the warehouse district, a more urban area of the city.

Looking for further details, I took us to a coffee shop to listen to the locals chatter and rumormonger. A rather loud gentleman was speaking to a friend on the phone of a date he’d had a few days prior at a restaurant called The Butcher’s Son, near the warehouse district. There had been a lot of loud noise coming from one of the warehouses, but being that he remembered what it was like to be a rowdy teenager, he decided against calling the police. Unfortunate for whoever that particular victim was, but it did give us a lead to work with.

We then went to the home of a farmer that had lost some of his cattle to a wild animal, though this was only after I completely botched an attempt at lying to the farmer’s face regarding why Stella and I were there. She eventually convinced him and his shotgun that we were only there to take photos for a poetry magazine (and not, like I had said, members of the farmer’s association or what-have-you), and, after an… extensive lecture about maintaining honesty and being a decent person (something I have never claimed to be), we were allowed to investigate. 

The cattle had been dragged from their original location and were being readied for burial, so I wasn’t able to glean much in that regard. What I could tell, however, was that the cattle suffered bites not unlike those of a leech or lamprey fish. There were two bits on one of the cattle: an attempt, followed by a success as the vampire was able to drain the poor creature of whatever sustains it. I also found a piece of black cloth on the barbed wire nearby, which I wagered would make our culprit easier to spot if the hunt took us well into the night or next day, rather than lasting only as long as the sun was out, when we might catch it in its nest, resting.

With the sun setting fast, we headed to The Butcher’s Son in an attempt to triangulate where, precisely, the vampire was sleeping. Neither of us particularly wanted to find it out in the open, where the risk of it fleeing or taking another victim was very likely, even if it would make locating it easier. 

There were four warehouses near enough to the restaurant that the loud gentleman from the coffee shop might’ve heard his noise from: one with a half-missing roof, one very rusty and made of tin, a halfway decent storage unit, and a boat bay. 

I immediately dismissed the dilapidated one; despite the fact that all Wesley literature on the subject indicates vampires are bestial beings with very little intelligence, you do not need intelligence to know that if the sun causes pain and discomfort, you do not make a home of a place that is exposed to light during all of your sleeping hours. The boat bay was similarly discarded, as it was too open (and too prone to traffic) for anything trying to remain hidden during the daylight hours.

As daylight dwindled, I followed my gut instinct and pointed out the storage unit to Stella. Opening it proved difficult, as it was a metal door on a concrete floor; It also started a countdown of sorts, as we both knew that between this and whatever struggle might follow, the police would inevitably be called to investigate. As discretion is one of the more… emphasized tenants of the Wesley family, we needed to move quickly. Stella insisted that I remain close to the door--ostensibly, to block the vampire’s escape, but also to ensure that I, with my complete inability to be of help in physical altercations due to resembling nothing so much as several bundles of twigs tied together with twine, might escape if everything went awry.

As she crept into the depths of the many shelving units lining the room, I noticed a strange, skittering motion towards the back and right. Whispering this to Stella set her on the vampire’s trail, and soon enough, there were sounds of struggle. At one point I heard some sound of pain from Stella, and, not knowing who had the upper hand, made the admittedly rash decision to knock over several of the shelving units. In doing so, I later learned from Stella, I did knock over the vampire, giving her a chance to kill it, but I also had to rather frantically help her out from under those same shelves and then quickly load the vampire into one of our specialized transport bags so that we could take it back to the Eyre for disposal.

We managed to leave just in time for the police to investigate, though they will find very little except for the obvious: tipped-over shelves, maybe some scuff marks as signs of the struggle. No victims, no perpetrators, and likely little in the way of DNA evidence.

I spent the return journey doing an informal examination of the vampire to satisfy my curiosity. Little of the writings we have on hand actually document the vampires in any detail--certainly, I had no idea of how their teeth functioned. For the sake of brevity, I have compiled an entry on them in my bestiary, and will say little on the subject here except to say that this particular specimen was wearing the black clothes our cloth scrap had come from, and one of its arms had been ripped off in a rather brutal fashion.

I will admit being somewhat disappointed that I wasn’t afforded the chance to observe more of the vampire’s behaviour, simply to see the extent by which our own records may be accurate or inaccurate, but I will likewise admit that the path we chose prevented any further victims from happening, while my curiosity might have only led to more. There will be other chances, most likely, and in the meantime, I have plenty to write and think on.

Arden ⊙ Multa pars, una veritas.

[beholdthewatcher]

Regarding the Entity Watching Me

Statement taken directly from subject, circa the year 2016.

I’ve never really put much stock in ghost stories or horror shows. There’s plenty in the natural world or the man-made world to terrify and sicken people if you know where to look--and I should know, I’m plenty good at looking for things. I work at the reference desk at our local library, so I spend most of my days hunting down books or tapes on this, that, and the other thing. It’s big enough we almost always have something for what people are looking for, from World War One-era weaponry to Wiccanism, to, oh. I don’t know, baking? To that effect, I’ve seen plenty of odd books checked out by odd people, to the point where someone checking out erotica is probably the least exciting part of my day.

All this is to say that I didn’t think much of someone coming in looking for a book called Behold the Watcher--I’d just had Ms. Haverson, a regular, come in looking for her weekly fix of no less than four new knitting pattern books, and being that she’s been coming in for these since well before I was working there, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how bloody difficult that is. Needless to say, ‘Behold the Watcher’ didn’t set off any alarms like that woman and her knitting addiction. According to the patron looking for it- tall, dark clothes under a long leather coat, and a handsome-sounding voice- it was a poetry book, though when I asked him what the author’s name was, he couldn’t tell me. The title was certainly pompous enough to be poetry, and the patron’s description was vivid enough to do the job: ‘Bold, almost typewriter-like font for the title across a photorealistic, pale blue eye in a spotlight.’ I remember I almost wanted to ask him if he was actually looking for 1984, but my jokes tend to fall flat on the best of days, and any day with Ms. Haverson is decidedly not one of those, so. Frankly, I don’t know if looking up to meet his eyes sooner would’ve changed anything, but I do wonder sometimes.

So I start looking through what parts of our inventory and archives are available through the computers, and, sure enough, nothing. I wasn’t particularly surprised--safe to say after combing through books for four years, I know to trust my gut where it comes to whether or not we have something in the sorted parts of the library. I say ‘sorted’ because this isn’t actually the original building--the library moved to its downtown location a year before I started working there due to a fire. Needless to say, the main concern wasn’t so much organization as it was ‘making sure nothing else was lost to the flames’, and so we have plenty of things, archival materials especially, that just aren’t in the system. 

I told my mystery patron just that, that the book wasn’t in our digital database, and asked if he was certain that we had the book somewhere. He said oh yes, he’d checked it out some five years ago and returned it shortly after everything moved to the current building. Not that strange at the time, but now I can’t help but wonder if that man had somehow known the fire was going to happen beforehand and had acted to save his precious book.

At any rate, I told him I’d have a look for it, and seeing as it wasn’t a particularly busy day aside from Ms. Henderson, had Anette Petersley from the checkout desk cover me while I ventured into the labyrinthine basement that makes up both our historical archives and our unsorted section. It’s been an ongoing project for, again, as long as I’ve been here. Quite frankly, I probably spend the most time down there, devouring bits and pieces and glimpses of information as I put book after book onto reshelving cart after reshelving cart. It’s tedious and dreadfully boring, but I love it. Certainly, it’s more enjoyable than being forced to make eye contact with every stranger that shows up to the reference desk; No matter how kind a person is, I simply cannot stand to make eye contact with them. Eye contact leaves me crawling in my own skin, and the longer it’s maintained, the more I wonder just what, exactly the beady, expectant eyes of my unintentional adversary can see, how many secrets I might unknowingly give up to someone trained to look. Anyone could be watching, anyone could be looking for what makes me tick, and I loathe it.

The best part of the archives, though, is simply the sheer amount of information contained within. Everything from historical documents dating back to before the official foundation of our town to, yes, the poetry I had, by that point, been searching for for well over half an hour. It certainly didn’t help that I kept getting distracted by the mostly-unsorted biographies that kept cropping up--call me creepy, but I’ve always had a fondness for trying to experience the lives of people I’ve never met by way of written words. I’m sure a therapist would say something about escapism if I mentioned it aloud, but, well.

As best I could tell it took me fifty-ish minutes to find the book, tucked away behind what looked like a box of microfilm canisters and a pile of ancient atlases. Sure enough, it had the typewriter-font and the frankly unnervingly detailed eye in a spotlight motif I’d been told about. What I’d not been told of was the fact that the eye had some sort of holographic paint or something. In the dim fluorescent lighting of the basement, dust motes swirling lazily from between gaps in the shelving, I genuinely thought it was moving. I could only watch it at the very edges of my peripheral vision, as trying to meet it gave me the same heavy, skin-crawling effect that meeting a living thing’s gaze does. 

Still, for all its strangeness, I’d found the book, and I wasn’t about to let something as old as my reticence for eye contact stop me from doing my job. So I picked up the book and tried my best to ignore the heavy, skittering weight of the eye’s gaze as it seemed, to me, like it was greedily drinking in its surroundings, taking in new sight after new sight now that it wasn’t blocked by heavy boxes. At the time I considered it ridiculous, but I suppose I know better now.

Though I usually found the archives quite comfortable, holding that damn book made me feel almost claustrophobic, the walls too narrow and yet too far off to do anything to hide me from the eye. Tucking the book against my jacket only served to make the crawling sensation niggle at my ribs and press like fists against my lungs as I took the stairs two and three at a time. By the time I got back to the desk where Mr. Leather Coat was standing exactly as I’d left him, I was all but heaving for breath, desperately trying to keep my hands shaking as I handed it off. I couldn’t hear what he said past the roar of blood in my ears, but it didn’t much matter anyways; after a moment, he leaned down in a single hateful motion that’s been haunting me ever since.

He met my gaze with concern wrapped around the furrow of his brow and at the pinched corner of his mouth, but pale blue eyes bored into me with gleeful greed and froze me to my core. Seconds passed as small eternities spun on taut wire, ready to flay me to the bone and expose every secret I had ever even dreamt of hiding. 

He knew everything and I could do nothing, a butterfly writhing against the pin in its chest. Without words, I knew he knew that I’d gotten kicked from my foster home once I’d come out, knew that I’d broken into the flat that only three weeks ago got my legal name signed to it, knew that I half-cheated on all the exams that got me into uni on scholarships, knew that I’d never even considered looking for my brother when he disappeared because I was happy to be left alone with my books finally--

He knew it all and still, still he held my gaze and watched. Waited to see what I’d do. And bizarrely, beneath all the panic and fear, beneath the wave of pure hatred I felt for this strange man and his strange book, for those three eyes boring into the very essence of who I was… All I could do was wonder who he was, to try and figure out what he wanted from me, if anything.

Annoyingly enough, he was handsome too, though that was counteracted by the fact I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face, even if I barely weigh nine and a half stone soaking wet.

The man’s worry twisted into a smile, and it looked like it hurt. He seemed almost pleased, though I still don’t entirely know why. He then spoke the only words I can properly remember from the whole exchange, and those only because, despite sounding like really garbage poetry, they keep me up at night.

“In secret they gather their pieces of change--Behold the Watcher, watching all that is strange.”

And, well. You know the rest of the story: a business card with my adoptive family’s ancient crest and a bunch of research, a brother named Marcus that people at your fancy mansion know more about than I do apparently, and the tattoos that keep appearing, keep watching me. Right now there’s only the two on the back of my hands and the one under my necklace, but, well. That last one only appeared a few days ago, right before you lot asked me to come in for questioning. Funnily enough, I don’t ever remember handing the book over, only watching the patron leave with a sick swoop of dread in my stomach. I can’t even remember his face except for those damned eyes.

The worst part of the whole damn thing is that I’m still being watched. I know I’m still being watched. Even if all my skin is covered it crawls and writhes, wriggles as if the force of all those eyes I cannot see are fit to melt my skin. The feeling vanished briefly only when you told me that what I met was almost certainly no man, but a monster--though I maintain that he is certainly a man, just some sort of monstrous one. Still, I about cried from relief, so I hope you can pardon my lack of composure.

If the world is full of monsters like him, though, I want to know them all. I need to see them all--with any luck, one of them will have answers, or I’ll find my way to that bastard again and… I don’t know, do something to get this to stop. I can’t sleep easy, I’m going to lose my job if I’m not careful, and if one more person looks me in the eyes, I’m liable to end up behind bars even though, again, I probably couldn’t hurt anyone even if I sat on them. For all my facts and figures, for all I know of man-made horror, I have never felt it so viscerally as I do now, and I despise it. 

I want answers. I want to know what that thing was, I want to know what else there is, and I want to know how to stop it. I want to stop all of it, to keep anyone else from fearing as heavily as stones plummeting into icy depths.

I need to know what The Watcher is, and why it’s so intent on watching me, of all people. I’m willing to die trying, if that’s what it takes.