He came to Cross to kill me.
In 1908, Doctor Marcus Ainsworth, president of the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, decided that I was an unwelcome distraction. A roadblock, as it was, on the path to the school’s bright future.
From what information I’ve since gathered, Dr. Ainsworth sought out and received permission from the board of directors to have me removed from Cross.
In order to achieve this rather remarkable goal, Dr. Ainsworth sent word to Europe, seeking assistance from an organization that helped Miskatonic achieve some of its more prized items. This group, whose name I have yet to unearth, agreed to the request and sent an assassin to eliminate me.
He arrived in Cross by way of train, traveling in from Boston. The assassin was met by Dr. Ainsworth in the train station, and the two of them retired to the school’s campus.
By that evening, the assassin was in my house.
In a way, I felt bad for him. I don’t believe Miskatonic warned him properly about me. Perhaps they didn’t give him any information, or only what they felt was necessary.
Regardless of what was or wasn’t said, the man was ill-prepared.
He came in through the back door sometime after ten. I’d turned down the lights and was sitting in the study, smoking my pipe and enjoying a glass of bourbon.
I had one of my Colts on my lap, and when I heard the whisper of a shoe across the ancient wood in the hall, I put down the bourbon and took up the pistol. When the assassin stepped into the room, I shot him in the belly.
The heavy slug tore through him, causing him to drop to his knees. As I turned up the light, I saw a look of surprise on his face. His hands were empty, but given the size of the man, I don’t think he was planning on using a weapon.
He looked down at the wound, shook his head and then returned his gaze to me.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Siberia,” he answered in Russian.
“Who sent you?”
He smiled and adjusted the green-tinted glasses he wore. “Ainsworth.”
I nodded and blew his brains out.
One good turn deserves another.