From The Journal of Erik Henriksson
July 12, 1924
I arrived at the bus stop early. It's oppressively hot today and the sun seems to beat everyone underneath it in order to demoralize those who have the misfortune of having to walk beneath it. More so if one were, like myself, carrying these heavy bags.
These bags are heavy because they contain what remains of my worldly possessions. Everything I own in two suitcases.
I am keeping this journal because, I am, by trade, a journalist. I was born in Bergen, Norway, however, my parents immigrated to the United States when I was merely an infant. I am bilingual in that I am fluent in both Norwegian and English. That being said, I do not possess an accent as one might understand. I am, and have always been, to my knowledge, American. We settled in Providence, Rhode Island and lived our entire lives here. Until now, Providence was home. Everyone I know lives there. My parents, however, chose to move again, favoring the mainland to that of the island. So, it was Arkham, Massachusetts where I would be travelling. I had seen mistrustful faces everywhere and I may have appeared a sight.
I am short in stature, barely managing to reach a height of five feet and nine inches. Being educated in Rhode Island, I became keenly aware that, though I can also measure in metric, it is imperial measurements that reign supreme.
I feel it necessary and important to point out that my career in journalism is centered around my own curiosity. It is insatiable. Seeking answers to mysteries and obtaining a full and objective point of view is why I spend my time in perpetual documentation of anything and everything that only I can verify at any given moment. Upon notice of my intentions to move, the local paper for whom I worked did me the service of sending word ahead to another paper in Arkham in an inquest to see if accomodation among their ranks could be met. There had been a bit of a waiting period until one such news publication had announced that they did, in fact, have room in their pool of fellow journalists for me and I would be able to find employment after I had settled in. I had written a note of thanks, personally, and assured them that it would not take long to settle in. For the moment, I would be remaining with my parents until I had secured accomodations of my own. The promise of being able to contribute within the home was of utmost import to me. Certainly, my mother and father would have no problem accomodating me, however, I insisted on remaining as independent as possible.
I had been fanning myself with my hat after putting my suitcases down. As I looked around and took in the scenery around me, a grey motor coach approached to bear me and my belongings via many bus and train trips, into Arkham. I put my hat back upon my head and picked up my suitcases again.
Two younger, sullen-looking men emerged from the bus and one of them looked me up and down, as though he were attempting in his mind to weigh odds of some type of outcome about me. The driver emerged behind them. He looked at me. His shirt bearing the bus emblem was stained and then he proceeded around the bus, only to cross the street to the tobacconist across from us. Though many of my peers smoked, I could not bring myself to adopt such a habit. I tried only once, as I recall, I'd become sickened by the smoke, coughing and, as the colleague stated, I was "turning green." Turning green was not ever a fate with which I wanted to revisit. Since then, I have politely declined offers of any further tobacco use. It simply does not suit me.
When the driver returned a few moments later, he asked me where I was heading. I showed him my ticket to Ossipee.
"Mmm-hm," he said as he finished rolling his cigarette and began reaching for his matches. He lit his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the still air, directing it to his right, I presume, to politely keep it from exhaling it directly at me. He gestured to the back of the coach, "Luggage rack's up there."
I admit that the limit of my physical fitness is that I simply am not strong. To me, the cases were heavy and I did struggle to lift them. Carrying them was something of a task but lifting them, I could feel the sun draining my diminished strength. Out of my periphery, I did see the driver standing there, watching me while enjoying his cigarette for a moment before stepping over to me and aiding me in lifting the cases into the rack to secure them.
"Heavy bags for a small'un," he remarked. I remember thinking that his comment was rather rude. Being tired and ready to continue on, I simply thought better than to point out how offended I was and simply responded, conveying my thanks. I boarded the motor coach, thankful to be out of the menacing sun. Again, I removed my hat and began to fan myself. When the driver boarded, thumping the remainder of his cigarette into the gutter, I became aware, much to my relief that I would be the coach's only passenger. As the engine came to life under the driver's key and he began to drive, I watched for a moment as all that I knew and was familiar to me passed and became scenery and locale that would be but a memory, at least for the time being.
I watched it all for a moment until the awareness that the inside of the motor coach was becoming stuffy. The driver opened a window close to him. I changed my seat and allowed the breeze to run over my face with relief. I placed my had on the seat beside me. With every bend in the road, my stomach would lurch. I took several deep breaths and pushed away all the thoughts of how I didn't want to leave out of my head. I relaxed into the journey. I remember thinking that perhaps I needed a change and perhaps Arkham would supply such a change. What good is curiosity if it does not occasionally get the better of a man? It is the only way that truth is truly found, is it not?
We travelled with cornfields and small hamlets passing us until the bus slowed to a stop to pick up someone else. She was a heavyset woman who took a seat well away from me. She departed at the next stop afterward.
I had begun to doze off, sleep threatening to overtake me until there was a sudden and sharp turn of the coach. Immediately, any thought of sleeping for the duration of my journey had been interrupted in a manner most sudden and abrupt. There was the sound of someone yelling and I managed to grab the seat in front of me to keep me from falling out of the seat and onto the floor. As I pulled myself upright, I noticed the driver had arisen from his seat and was out of the door. I collected myself and stood to peer through the windshield to see what the trouble could possibly be.
What I had witnessed was a tractor that had broken down on the road. The driver had unleashed a litany of epithets in a tirade against the farmer who was doing what he could where he was. The driver's tirade was awful and, as I was about to depart the bus to offer assistance and hopefully stop the driver's verbal abuse of the farmer, the driver had turned and stormed back into the bus to continue the journey. Slowly, I resumed my seat and looked between the driver and the farmer. The driver slowly threaded the bus around the tractor and continued on. I could hear my pulse in my ears as I wondered if the driver had seen the tractor coming or if this was because, perhaps he hadn't been paying attention and had only looked to see the tractor, narrowly avoiding it.
I think the driver noticed my incredulity.
"Hey, look pal, sorry about all that before," he said. I detected a sense of earnestness in his apology, "That guy was dumber than a hog. I'm Silas, by the way, what's your name?"
"Erik," I said, introducing myself from where I sat, "I'm Erik Henriksson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Silas." I didn't think it wise to point out that the near-miss was as much the fault of Silas as it was the farmer stopped in the road due to what I could only possibly assume was mechanical failure.
"Where you headed?" he asked me, "I mean where's your last stop?"
"Oh," I said, "Arkham, Massachusetts. I'll be staying with family. I'm a journalist and I'll be working for a small publication,The Arkham Gazette, investigating stories and reporting on them."
"Arkham?" he asked, "Can't say I've been there. Went to Boston once but that place isn't for me. Too much hustle and bustle. Not much for city life, myself."
"Understandable," I said. I smiled to myself, "I find it's certainly not for everyone. It's been my observation that some are just acclimated to certain locales. For some, a city would suit them and others prefer a more rural setting. Then there are those who wish for a happy medium of a small town."
"Yeah!" he said to me nodding as he kept his eyes on the road ahead, "The Townies! You a townie?"
"Yes," I replied, grinning and nearly laughing a bit, despite myself, "I suppose I am. At least, that is how I've grown up in Providence."
"So what were you doing in Providence?" he asked.
"I was a journalist there but my stories were mostly whimsical stories and vapid society columns," I said, waving a hand dismissively.
"Bet you got to see a lot of parties with those, what did you call them?" he asked, "Society columns?"
"Occasionally," I said, nodding, "It was all formal attire kinds of things and what all the wealthy where doing at any moment. Sometimes, it was something as simple as an interview with a local philanthropist or business person whom had enriched themselves. I was, however, discouraged from truly investigating the veracity of their various claims."
At once, as we crested the hill of a road, not having made any stops since the incident with the farmer, I beheld a sight that stopped the conversation cold. With my own two eyes, I saw one of the most beautiful vistas I do believe that I've ever beheld. The treeline was simply magnificent with a river snaking it's way through those trees, parting them. My thoughts were immediately of my father and I fishing along those banks of that river, casting baited lines into the water and reeling great and heavy fish from them, preparing them with my mother and then sitting down to a dinner of fish filets baked with herbs and lemon juice afterward. There were white mountains in the background, their summit s disappearing into clouds that seemed to surround them. It seemed untouched by man, save for the road upon which we travelled. Not a single settlement anywhere could be seen, not even a cabin. Birds moved from treetop to treetop and, if I'm not mistaken, I'm certain I could have made out two white-tailed deer.
Even Silas had lapsed into silence. Though I wondered if I could have survived out here in the wilderness on my own, I had also wondered if Silas had also seen this magnificent view, himself.
It was then, as the sky began to darken and the clouds began to display red and pink hues that we crested another hill and I saw a settlement ahead.
Was this Ossipee? I certainly did not recall the descriptions matching what I was seeing. Nor did it match the photos I'd seen. As I was contemplating whether or not I should attempt to convince Silas to stop so I could stretch my legs, it would seem that providence interrupted and did not give me the opportunity or perhaps it decided to be even more persuasive than even I could be. The engine began to stutter as we reached the top of the hill. He manipulated the gear shift and uttered something I couldn't seem to make out. He then began to wrestle with the steering wheel as he pulled and grunted, guiding the coach into a bay near some small buildings. These were low, squat buildings and he parked near them, stopping and then departed the coach, heading for the engine compartment.
After a few moments, I followed, curious as to what had occurred. I found Silas with both arms in the engine compartment. He seemed frustrated. He withdrew his arms and retrieved a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Dunno what's wrong with 'er," he said, "Could be something with the oil pressure, I really couldn't tell you. It's getting dark, pal and I can't do anything with it until the engine cools. We're probably gonna be here all night. Won't see any help until morning."
"Oh," I said, a sense of dread coming over me. I don't think one day would harm anything but a failure in the engine could take longer than one day to repair. Even then, I'm not entirely certain because I do not possess anything in the way of mechanical aptitude.
"Listen," he said, possibly noting my dismay, "This is Emberhead. We're miles away from anywhere so, if you want, you can either sleep on the coach or you can head on over to May Ledbetter's place. She usually keeps a spare room for guests and the people here are decent people. May's place is up that alley, turn right and she's the first house on your left. If you're gonna do that, just be sure to meet me here at eight in the morning so we know where we stand."
I nodded and took my suitcases down from the luggage rack. I made my way to May Ledbetter's house, following Silas' instructions implicitly. The home itself was unassuming, a nameplate hanging from the porch read "Ledbetter" and the sign hanging underneath it read "Lodging Room."
I knocked on the door.
After a moment I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. I heard a lock being disengaged and then the door opened and what greeted me was a woman with loose curls and a rough-looking house dress standing before me.
"Hello," she said greeting me, "Am I to take it that you're looking for a room for the night?" Her voice had a slight Irish lilt to it.
"Yes," I said, "I'm Erik Henriksson. I was directed here, what are your rates for the night?"
"Oh you'll find them more than reasonable," she said, "Come in, come in, let's get your things put away and then get you some tea."
Inside was a small, cramped house with a low ceiling and the aroma of tea filled the air. There was a small fire in the fireplace and the house itself was warm, almost cozy.
"Have you come to Emberhead for the festival?" she asked me.
This was the first I'd ever heard of Emberhead or a festival in it. Curious, I decided to press just a little by using a bit of cunning.
"Oh yes, Ma'am," I said, "I've been sent specifically for your festival but, I am afraid I don't know all that much about it. Would you be so kind as to tell me more?"
She filled our tea cups and we sat and sipped as she explained that there was a Beacon on the cliff. There would be a procession to that cliffside beacon and then it would be lit. It keeps the spirit of the town alive for another year, she explained.
"It's a celebration!" she said with a smile, her voice trailing off, "...a celebration. Oh you didn't come to hear me blather on about local affairs, did you?" she said, "Let's get you to your room."
When she quoted a rate as low as the one she quoted me, I accepted without hesitation. The room was small but dinner was a hearty stew that May had skillfully prepared herself. I hadn't expected such a modest meal to warm the soul as it did, however, I still had a couple of hours before bed. I decided to press a little more. I had to wonder if such a superstition was something that warranted a celebration on it's anniversary.
She spoke at length about life in Emberhead.
"My sister's always writing me letters asking how I could be in such a small town without being bored," she said, "She lives in New York City and writes about how she's afraid to walk home at night. I ask you!"
I spoke about my hopes of a new life in Arkham, however, it was almost as if she didn't hear me in the least.
"It's a small place here, yes," she says, "Everyone here knows everyone. Everyone works together. We have real community here, save for the ones that exclude themselves, of course. I don't think I could live anywhere else now."
As the hour wore on, she seemed to become more reflective.
"It's not always easy. I'm a widow, you know. We have a little money, and of course I appreciate the custom of travelers like yourself. I know we’ll never starve as long as we live here. But I don’t see myself marrying again. I know every man in this village. I know them too well, if you see what I mean.”
I nodded, understanding what it is she meant indeed.
She pushed a hand through her head and her mouth twisted briefly before she yawned.
"Time for me to turn in," she said to me, "When would you like breakfast?"
As May stood, I heard a clunk behind me. I looked over my shoulder but all I could see was a wooden door, securely closed.
May tutted.
“The young lady of the house," she said, "She’ll have been listening to us. Ruth! Come and greet our guest.”
There was a short pause, then the door creaked open. Two wide eyes peered at me from the gap, between tousled hair and a rough nightgown.
“What do you say?” The eyes blinked. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Now get back to bed.” The door closed again. “My daughter Ruth. Ten years this summer. She’s a delight and a torment all in one. Don’t worry, she sleeps in with me. She’ll not disturb you. Good night now.”
I retired to the room. It was chilly, but I was too tired to worry about lighting the fire. The sheets were clean and the bed soon warmed up. The silence outside was strange after living in a town for so long, but I soon drifted off into sleep.
