October 3, 1937

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The conversation went badly.

I went to the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, looking for Professor Adam Lucas.

He didn’t want to be found.

I gathered as much after I loosened the tongues of several of the man’s colleagues. Granted, they each had a few teeth less than a whole set when I was finished with my questioning, but I got enough out of them to know that he’d gone into hiding when his secretary was found without her fine head of hair.

So, feeling less than generous, I went in search of Lucas, and by nightfall, I found him. He was shacked up in a hovel tucked away on one of my own islands.

He was writing music furiously by candlelight.

His squeal of terror when I stepped into the room set my teeth on edge, and I closed the door none too gently behind me.

“Mr. Blood,” he stuttered.

I took a seat in the hovel’s only other chair. I glanced at the spartan layout of the place and then focused on the professor, whose face gleamed with nervous sweat.

“What have you done?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You would have done it yourself.”

His eyes flickered to the butts of the Colts. “In fact,” he continued, “I would say you are a fool for not having done it sooner.”

He was trying to bait me into killing him.

The man knew he would not hold up under torture, and that pleased me.

“You’re writing music,” I stated, nodding my head towards his work, his hands stealing out to cover it protectively. “For whom?”

He shook his head.

Reaching out, I took hold of one of his hands, ignored the cold sweat on his skin, and broke his index finger.

He bit down hard enough on his lips to draw blood.

“For whom?”

I broke the middle finger next when he remained silent. He passed out at the pinky, and his voice cracked with pain when I broke the thumb.

But he told me what he was doing.

He was writing music for my mother.

“Music and blood,” he whispered, his head hanging low and vomit drying on his shirt. “They’ll open a door for her to come home.”

“Do you know what my mother does to those who fail?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

“You will.”

I exited the hovel and left the doomed man to his thoughts.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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