The air was torn, and the street was thrown into disarray.
When the smoke cleared and the debris had settled, there was a large hole in the center of Stiefel Street. Several members of the Gold Star Mothers of America, who were patiently waiting for the next train into Boston due to an issue with their own locomotive, were struck and killed by paving stones. Others were injured, but the majority remained unharmed.
Once the wounded and the dead were evacuated, the hole was examined, and I was one of the party who descended into it. We found bits and pieces of metal, smoothly polished steel, and fragments of copper wrapped in a strange material none of us were familiar with.
It bothered me greatly, though I could not say why, and I did my best to prevent people from taking mementos away from the strange hole. For the most part, I was successful, but there was some stubborn folk who shook their heads and walked away. They, I reasoned, would be dealt with later, before any harm could come to them because of what crashed into Cross.
It took me nearly a month to gather all the pieces back, and I was forced to break into the library of Miskatonic to recover the last few pieces. Now, as I reflect upon that occasion, I am glad I did.
The piece in the library was the only one with a name stamped upon it.
How a machine of today tore the fabric of time to plunge into Cross a full eight decades prior to its creation is a mystery, and it is one I hope to soon solve. I can only wonder what other pieces may have been sent back to us, and how many more might be hiding within the various rooms and safes of the Miskatonic.
I suspect I’ll be paying them a visit tonight, just to see what I might find.
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