from Scarlett Hanlon
Dear Jack,
I hate to intrude, but I have been offered an exceptional opportunity. During my studies, there have been a variety of subjects that have piqued my interest, but none more so than journalism. I have taken an introductory course in communications at my college, but an internship at a local paper will give me further insight into the field. Unfortunately, the local papers in Philadelphia such as the Inquirer or the Daily News could not offer me an opportunity. I expanded my search to the small surrounding towns of the city, but I had no such luck. My Uncle Rupert happens to be a researcher for a paper, but he lives in Canterbury. He works for the Lebanon Times. I must admit that I am a benefactor of nepotism, as Uncle Rupert has secured me my coveted position with the Times. I don’t have a clue what my duties will consist of, but I am elated just to be a part of the team and can’t wait to soak in as much knowledge as I can. My only problem is lodging. Uncle Rupert and Aunt Sylvia have just been blessed with a beautiful baby girl, and I wouldn’t dream of imposing upon them any further. You are the only other person I know in the whole state of Connecticut. Even with the most liberal-minded, I know it is inappropriate to ask a young man to stay throughout the summer at his parent’s house. I’m embarrassed to ask. Please don’t think any less of me. My drive for this position at the paper stifled any self-inhibitions and is causing me to trample upon the social norm. I understand if your parents refuse or if this proposition makes you uncomfortable, but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try. Regardless, I hope we will always remain friends.
Scarlett
From the Diary of Anonymous
Date unknown- When I woke, I was laying in my cot with the covers drawn over me. I was positioned flat on my back, which was not my normal manner of sleeping. I cradled my pillow on my side, but when my eyes opened, I laid stiff as a board. My first sensation was the realization that I felt refreshed. I flipped off the covers and swung my feet to the floor, and as my soles hit the tiles, I didn’t feel the cold sting that the unwelcoming surface often brought. I felt…clarity.
Reaching for my back, I tried to feel where the puncture wound from the needle was located. I twisted and turned, and it was miraculous that I couldn’t feel any throbbing. There was no pain, no trace of a needle being inserted into my spine. Closing my eyes, I could relive the terror, the shivering chill as the metal point pierced my skin. I shook when I remembered the agony of the elixir being administered as the burning entered inside me. It felt like a stream of lava coursing through my veins. The reminiscence of the pain caused me to convulse and shake, but as my eyes shot open, that horror extinguished.
Other than feeling rested and the surprising vanquishing of pain, I felt normal. -- ------- stated that the elixir -- gave me was the cure for all diseases. I was ignorant of any illness or ailment I suffered from, and other than my series of blackouts, there was nothing to cure. An idea flashed through my mind. I tested my strength. I sprung down on the floor, fell into the plank position, braced my muscles and tried to do a pushup. But I failed miserably. The medicine didn’t increase my muscular strength. The elixir was administered a short while ago, so it was likely the medicine hadn’t reached its full potential, nevertheless, there was a creeping thought in my mind that it put me under that intense torture for nothing. There was no tincture to cure my blackouts, there wasn’t anything to prevent a future disease that would ail me. -- ------- was a crazy sadist. Maybe -- aimed to torture me mentally as well as physically. -- captured me, imprisoned me without cause or reason, put me under an immense amount of pain, only to dangle a false carrot in front of me promising a lifetime of permanent health.
I took a deep breath, but it did little to slow my racing heart. My gut churned as I thought of my role in -- -------‘s eyes. I was --- put to torture. -- would first break my mind before -- broke my body. Would -- kill me or just dump my mangled body in a back alley when -- was finished with me?
Momma! Come find me! I can’t take it any longer. I thought I was strong, but I’m frightened. Use your power and influence. Use all the tools at your disposal. I know we had our differences. It was wrong of me to resist your plans for me. I will succumb to your wishes. Please find me! Get me out of here!
And -------, I miss you! Maybe word will spread of my disappearance. News has wings, and it can travel to the far reaches of the world. May the whispers find your ears, whether you’re in the jungles of the Amazon or a desert in Africa. You’ll hear of my plight and rush back home. You know people. People who can help locate me. -------, you’ll be my hero. You will rescue me, and then finally, my love, we can be together, forever.
I am haunted by many unwanted thoughts. My obsession with my loved one’s trying but failing to find me terrorized my waking moments. The possibilities of what my sadistic tormentor had in store for me haunted my dreams. So, when I heard the turning of the lock, my apprehension was magnified. I ran to the corner and stood with my body turned away from the door as if I were a disobedient child being punished. I heard the creak and turned my head. It was scary to shine a light on the impending danger but too frightening to be blind to the awaiting terror. As I cowered in the corner, I faced the villain, but when the tray of food came into my view, it surprised me as they gently placed it on the floor. -- ------- always brought me my meals, but this time -- sent one of --- goons. The goon had a kind disposition. He sorrowfully smiled as he left the tray and bowed out of the room. The door softly shut, but no matter how much care was put into turning the lock, it always made a loud clank. Before my treatment with the needle, I ate all my meals. I wanted to keep up my strength. I would need it if any opportunity for escape presented itself. That meal looked unappetizing. It wasn’t ill-prepared. It wasn’t something that I didn’t care for. I like baked chicken and rice, but the corded knot in my stomach twisted and wrenched. There wasn’t any sign of pain, but that lump blocked the entryway to my stomach and rendered it impassable. I wasn’t hungry, but it was more than that. I had an aversion to the meal.
From the Diary of Scarlett Hanlon
June 3rd - My natural inclination was to see them off at the train station. The intention wasn’t for the assurance that Uncle Thomas and Mr. Doyle make it to the station on time and safely catch their train, but to calm my anxiousness when it came to my time to depart. I have never used the rails nor have yet been to 30th Street Station. I wouldn’t know where to buy the ticket or how to catch the train. The hustle and bustle of this station is intimidating. I am naïve about this form of travel. Once I make it on the train, I believe I will be fine. I’m looking forward to feeling the speed of the train, but making it on board is overwhelming. But, I’m not a child that needs to clutch the protective hand of an adult. I’m not a helpless woman waiting for the guidance of any egotistical man. I will do this on my own.
We said our goodbyes outside Mr. Doyle’s apartment on Letitia St. as they were loading their luggage on the hansom. It was useful to discuss some last-minute details, but I think Uncle Thomas needed to give me his list of precautions one last time.
“This boy, this Jack, tell me once again how well you know him,” Uncle Thomas asked sternly.
“Uncle Thomas, I told you he is harmless—”
He cut me off. “And his parents, who are they?”
“I don’t know—”
Never waiting for my answer, his tirade continued, “If this Jack makes advances on you, bite him right here.” He then put his two fingers to the side of my neck. “It’s the jugular. And if he pins you down, straddles you, and clasps both your arms, look him straight in his eyes calmly, take deep heaving breaths, lean in and kiss him in the corner of his mouth. In the moment of his distraction, use this.” Uncle Thomas then brought out a small metal handle. He pushed a minuscule switch, and a blade shot up from within. Uncle Thomas added, “You stab him right in the gut. Here, here, hide it somewhere discreet.” He switched the blade back into the handle and thrust the knife into my pocket.
“Uncle Thomas!”
Mr. Doyle yelled to my Uncle, “Thomas, start loading your bags. We don’t have all day. We have a train to catch.”
Uncle Thomas huffed off as Mr. Doyle approached me. “I will offer some unsolicited advice. You will obtain most information lurking within the shadows. It’s never advantageous to be noticed or to make your intentions known. Just in case you approach a locked door, it’s useful to have a key.” He handed me a slip of paper.
I looked at it and gasped. “A press pass! A counterfeit?”
Mr. Doyle shook his head. “I have a few friends at the Inquirer. Come to think of it, I have a few enemies over there as well.”
“Thanks!”
He gave me a raised eyebrow. “This pass is only to be used to get you out of a jam and not an excuse to dive into trouble.”
I nodded.
Uncle Thomas came storming back. “A good preemptive kick to the groin will let Jack know his place.”
“Uncle Thomas!”
He took me by the shoulder and shook me gently. “Be the observer and nothing more.”
“I will.”
“I trust you, just not this evil world.”
“My eyes will be wide open at all times. I will take every precaution.”
Uncle Thomas abruptly hugged me tightly. My body went limp as he squeezed. He held me at arm’s length and asked, “What?”
“It’s just that I can’t remember you ever hugging me.”
“And you will receive another upon your safe return.”
From the Diary of John Doyle
June 3rd- Once again we are travel bound. Thomas and I are off to the Haverford Clinic, where Cordelia purportedly had spent the better part of a year. The Clinic specializes in neurologic disorders, and so is small in size and staff. Hopefully, we also will locate Dr. Kyle Monroe, who according to Mrs. Bethel’s diary, has left the practice. We have not wired the Clinic to inform them of our visit. An unabated response is often the most honest one. Not to say that Dr. Monroe or any other staff member has anything to hide, but I prefer my method. Thomas and I are not the police, we aren’t official investigators, and they do not owe us any answers. If we announce our visit, we are more likely to be met with resistance, but if we barge in, and ask our questions, we often will be greeted with stunned politeness and loose tongues.
Scarlett will leave for Lebanon in a few short days. We cast our net wide and somewhat blindly, but we’ll see what strange and revealing fish we reel in. And if we come up empty, we’ll move forward with our pride and positive attitude. We will regroup and then recast the net. Cordelia was set adrift only to drown in poisonous waters. And where there is poison, there swim venomous fish. Our vision is murky as a haze of fog surrounds us, but we do this for Cordelia. We do this for Charlie.
I don’t believe Thomas and I will find many answers at the Haverford Clinic. I have my suspicions, but my mind, as always, will be open. Scarlett may prove invaluable. There’s a wealth of information still to be discovered in Ashford. Whether it will help further our investigation remains to be seen, but I’m comforted that we have an ally like Scarlett on our team. I was astounded at the initiative that Scarlett took when she researched the newspapers of the surrounding towns in search of missing persons likely to be the victims of Cordelia. Scarlett will interview the three families from her news clips. With the few leads available to us, her intuition opened a new avenue to investigate. It pains me I had to steal the credit away from Scarlett for this discovery. We discussed the matter and thought it would be best. Thomas and I thrive on our openness with each other, so it was impossible to hide this detail from him, but I could not divulge that it was Scarlett who had this bright idea. I was not ready to admit that I corresponded with Scarlett before she joined our team. It is a hard thing to admit to your best mate that you have betrayed his confidence, especially when it involves his dear niece.
I pray I am acting with a clear mind and that my decisions are sound. My drive for discovery is inexhaustible but is now amplified by the need to unveil the truth of the details of my friend’s demise and also to shine a light on the shroud of mystery that surrounds Cordelia’s condition. In the end, I hope my recklessness doesn’t drive away the few people I care about the most.
The book of Cordelia’s life is closed and will remain so eternally, but a new chapter awaits us. The fate of my good friend, Dr. Charles Thorton, is concluded as his bones will probably be identified in the bin in the Bethel’s basement. I believe we will also find his remains in Cordelia’s stomach. Thomas and I have discovered a considerable amount of information, but there is still a great deal left to uncover. I have a feeling there is more out beyond the horizon, more troubles lurking stealthily in the shadows, maybe another poor soul needing our help. One book closes as another must be opened. We are off on a new discovery, and with eyes wide open, Thomas and I shall embark once again.
From the Diary of Anonymous
Date unknown- Don’t pray for me. I am lost. An elixir, a proposed panacea, was injected into me, but the only effects I feel are anxiety and despair. I am isolated. I am all alone. Maybe people are looking for me, on a course, for my discovery. Maybe they’re on their way now, setting off on a journey, picking up the breadcrumbs that will lead them here to this cell. But my rescue is just another false illusion. The walls of my cell are closing in. I look up at the stone ceiling and it lowers. Air still fills my lungs, but my breaths are becoming shorter. There are several candles in this cell and they’re threatening to burn out. Soon I’ll be enveloped in darkness. I’m running out of time. My ears strain for a sound. Strained for any sign that they’re out there. Praying that I’m not forgotten. Hope is a tool of torture that the devil wields in the face of his victims. My hope is all but lost. I will stare at these four stained walls until my mind erodes or I succumb to death. I am alone, in shambles. Here I will remain, a prisoner. Here I remain with my fear.