A Night near Niverbrook

My search for answers led me to a tome I believe can be found in the personal Library of one Professor Brighton, late of the little burg of Niverbrook in *redacted* county. A respected scholar and widely traveled, Brighton had acquired many strange books and treatises in his various adventures, and his library was reputed, by a website, to be available to visitors. Upon my arrival I was informed that the Widow Brighton was gone, visiting relatives, but expected back the following day, or maybe the next. So I found a bed and breakfast for a reasonable expense in the next town, made my arrangements, and returned to explore the little village.

At first glance the little burg is just that, a tiny hamlet apparently doomed to obscurity according to the whims of the Interstate planners, a full six miles from the nearest highway and twenty to the closest grocery store who's milk can be relied upon to not be expired. Storefronts on the two or so blocks of "main street" are vacant save for two... a barbers and a small cafe.

The "Main Street Cafe," as a dilapidated sign named it, proved to be, by my estimations, the main congregating point in Niverbrook, save perhaps for the Congregationalist church down the road. The owner/operator, a distant older woman named Sylvie, seemed shocked when I went in... I gathered it had been ages since a non-native had patronized her business. It took her a few minutes to even find a menu, and while she searched the others eyed me with a curious mix of surprise and suspicion.

None were particularly eager to talk, beyond ascertaining why I was in town and how long it would be until I left. The fact that I was interested in the Brighton library did not seem to help matters, and at least two of the five present left within minutes of me announcing that as my intention. When I asked Sylvie if I had given offense, she'd considered her answer before responding.

"Ol' Esmerelda's a good enough sort. Comes in regular and best tipper in town. Can't say as anyone was too keen on ol' Wilbur, though. Oh, he can give himself airs and call hisself 'professor' till the cows come home but ask any three old-timers in town... naught much but old-timers LEFT... and you'll find one as remembers old Wilbur Brighton, biggest trouble-maker *redacted* county ever did see.

Always curious, always digging up what ought to be buried, and 'specting everyone to be all keen to see it. Why else would leave that old website up, sayin' anyone as was fixin' to look at his weird library was welcome? Brings in some mighty odd folk- often the only strangers we'll see in a year, which is why them folks skedaddled, I suppose. If you're fixin' to see them books, then you're one of 'em, seems to me.

Now you SEEM alright... polite enough, anyway...  and maybe you'd be keen on seeing something else we got around here. The opera house was built before the second world war, when Old Man Keener come home missin' a leg... they used to live in the green farmhouse I reckon you passed if you come in from the north... or maybe the old Wilkes bridge. No good for driving no more, and they put that ugly concrete slab just south of it... but that was once the only covered bridge in a hun'red miles.

Now Esmie'll be back in a day or two, but if you're willing to listen, not that I ever met a friend of Wilbur's who WAS, you'll do a bit of siteseein' and get on out of here and not wait for her. Nothing that boy ever dabbled in did anyone a lick of good, and I'm certain it was digging up evil in foreign parts what brought his untimely end. But if you're stubborn as the rest of them and stick around I reckon she'll let you in. Just be polite, she's had it hard of late, and don't move so easy as she used to."

I don't think I need to explain my excitement as I heard this speech, which matched the patterns so many of the old investigators experienced. Country locals can, I believe, be forgiven an unwillingness to delve to deep into the mysteries we pursue, no less as remote locations often seem to be the nurseries of the powers we fight. But her warning and well wishes seemed sincere enough. I thanked her and paid for the meal... a decent grilled cheese sandwich made on an ancient griddle... and then went out to see the sights as she had named them.

The Opera House was, as expected, a run-down example of late 1940's architecture. The sign in the marquee still advertised for a traveling show on a weekend over four years passed. The building wasn't abandoned, though... I saw a shadow in the windows as I read the marquee, though no one answered my knocking at the door. Likely a janitor or some such whose wages were paid by one of the trusts such buildings often had.

I then visited the green Keener house that she had mentioned and found it walled up. It had clearly once been the nicest house in town, and I found myself wondering if Keener had been mayor, or just a wealthy resident, and how he'd made his money before losing his leg in the war, which explained the dilapidated ramp on the front porch, but there was no sign or plaque bearing historical information, which was odd, as towns like these are often flush with them, like an old man rushing to write down their memoirs.

I will admit I was tempted to enter the old mansion... despite the boarded windows, the front door was wide open... but I did not wish to do so without at least the blessing of some local in a place of authority, say a policeman or at the very least old Sylvie. I cannot hope to impress the Widow Brighton with my requests if they come after being released from jail!

The Wilkes Bridge, however, WAS interesting, covered bridges not being widespread in this region or any region I know of for hours in any direction. Clearly dilapidated beyond automotive use, after a few careful steps I decided it was worth risking on foot, the stream below being quite low, and the drop being only a few feet. As I walked it's length, first on the western side, then the eastern, I noticed deep etchings in the boards over my head. I was hesitant to climb for a closer look, but found an interesting array of symbols and numbers and an arrow, followed by the letters WB.

Following the arrow, it was easy to find a loose board in the side of the bridge which revealed a tiny cubby. Inside, besides a considerable number of rat droppings, were a number of child's treasures... not the least a decoder ring which, when used, decoded the etchings to say "Wilbur's Stash, Goblins and Faeries Keep Out!"

I replaced the board and clambered back down. It seems that the Professor, as a boy, had a sense of imagination that had set him on a search for hidden places at an early age. Such minds are often the hallmark of investigators, and brought to mind a certain knot in a tree behind my parents house. I am sure I stowed treasures there, and wonder if any remain!

I am all the more eager to see what his library holds than I was when I set out to find this tiny, dying town. I drove back to the bed and breakfast, where I now sit enjoying a lovely dinner and writing this post with the host's gracious provision of free wifi.

Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I will have my hands on his books, and will get to see what his later searches discovered, once they were free from the childhood whimsy of his decoder ring.

--Addendum

When I mentioned the ring I remembered that I had placed it in my pocket, rather than sealed it back in the hiding place. Should I have time tomorrow, I will be sure to replace it. He placed wards, after all. Some of childhood's magic should remain safe.

Research, Research, Research

One of our biggest problems going forward is probably going to be separating fact from fantasy. The problem in doing that, however, is that common sense is no longer our ally. We will be investigating things that cannot possibly exist according to our current iteration of science. We will be seeing impossible things... and, if we're lucky, doing some ourselves.

What this means is that we have to go into this like children. Assuming nothing, believing that anything may be possible. I believe that this may be the source of the madness some of our forebears experienced. It wasn't that they were insane, not in the classical way, anyway, but rather that they were expanded, aware of a world bigger than our science, than our rules. Aware of a realm where magic... to our research a logical implausibility... is in fact a reality, and one potentially to great to comprehend.

We must also beware of hubris. It is heady stuff, to know and dabble in things the greatest minds of our age have deemed impossible. It would be easy to feel superior, to revel in the power that comes from holding a truth beyond the capacity of the doubters. But this power, this knowledge, is no boon. It will not lead to greatness. That is the way of the cultists, of the ones who join, rather than oppose, the forces that would destroy us all.

We do not hoard this knowledge to place ourselves above our fellow human beings, but rather do it as a sacrifice to allow them to live their lives. The human mind has grown, and will continue to grow. Perhaps, one day, we will join the great forces of the cosmos, and stand not as quaking mice but rather as an entity worthy of respect. Perhaps, even as potential rivals.

But for now, we do what we do knowing that we cannot escape it unscathed, and that our deeds, if they survive at all, will likely only exist in the half baked tales of madmen.

I never want it said that I led people into this under false pretenses.

I have a lead on a book that may be of assistance. I go tomorrow to locate a copy, located blessedly nearby. I will say more when I know more.

Be brave.

Getting Started

Ok, you're here. Good. if you're reading this, then you listened to my message and thought I was at least worth investigating. Or you thought I was crazy and would be amusing.

Or you're one of them. But I can't worry about that yet. Not at this point.

If you're here looking for proof, I can't just give it to you. It's all I have and if THEY read it, I'm dead. My proof is safe, and for now it needs to stay that way, but it's there for you to find for yourself. I am not some super-genius who unlocked a possible code, I'm just one guy who paid attention. Astronomy. Meterology. Politics. They all point to rising tide of chaos similar to the ones experienced by those earlier investigators I talked about.

If you want to know more about them, then they aren't hard to find, at least the scraps. Many were collected by a crazed editor named H.P. Lovecraft. His stories tell bits and pieces of their tales, but you have to take them all with a grain of salt. It was a great work that Lovecraft endeavored, but his own fears and prejudices nearly doomed the entire thing. Who knows what stories he ignored because of their source, what investigators had to fight on without encouragement because some recluse from New England feared the tone of their skin or their gender? We owe much... possibly EVERYthing... to Lovecraft, but we cannot afford to repeat his mistakes. Still, his collected works, and those of his associates, are the best picture we have of how the last surge was combated.

If you knew to look here, then you know how to contact me. If you are looking for answers, like I am, this can be a place to share what you find and what we're up against. If the readings are true then what we face is not one unified thread but thousands of fragmented menaces, any of which could endanger a few lives.

Or... all of them.

Find what you can, and report back. Not to me... I am no one's commander... but to the world. It needs to know. Both that it is in danger... and that it is defended.