Post by TheUdjat on Mar 11, 2008 8:29:24 GMT -5
Tommy, Jeremy, Jack-
Finally deciding to enter this mysterious building, you proceed down a short, dank alley to a side door, well-used and marred by scrapes and dents from handtrucks and shipping crates – likely from Emerson Imports. Unlike the front door, this entrance is locked. [Locksmith roll.] But Tommy makes short work of that. When the rusty door swings open, it reveals a dark, small room, barely big enough for the shipments that must dwell within.
Stepping inside [presumably with some sort of light] you take a moment to look over the room. It is unremarkable and fairly featureless, with several large crates around the room and one other door that leads into the Ju-Ju House storefront. Curiously, two rather large packing crates have been pried open – indeed, a crowbar still rests nearby. [Spot checks.] All of you also notice a curiously torn piece of cloth near one packing crate that matches the scrap retrieved by Jeremy at the scene of Samuel’s disappearance. The two fabrics are identical – Samuel must have been here.
[Listen checks.] To punctuate this discovery, Tommy begins to here something faint and far-off. Calling the others’ attention to it, you all soon hear it: drums. They are quiet and distant, muffled by thick walls, but it is there, just over the volume of your own racing heartbeats; thumping, thudding, jubilant drums.
Moving cautiously into the other room, you try to discern the source of the ominous drums. The storefront of Ju-Ju House is dark, and the great shadows cast by flashlight only amplify the strange angles and silhouettes of African art in this room, at times making you think you see figures or something worse lurking around – but the place is empty. But the drums are more audible here, beating louder, more incessantly, telling you that are growing closer to whatever lies at the heart of Ju-Ju House. [Spot checks.] Looking around the store, Tommy soon comes across something most suspicious – behind the counter a large, luxurious carpet covers a section of floor, but one corner of it has been careless left up, enough to reveal the groove of something beneath it. Moving the rug aside reveals a large, steel trapdoor set into the floor, complete with a handle to pull it up. The trapdoor is heavy, but it is nothing for Jackhammer Joe to move.
[I’m going to assume you’ll keep going, but if you prefer to leave now, disregard the rest of this post.] Cracking open the trapdoor lets the sound of tribal drums flood into the room, revealing just how loud the ululations are. You can tell, now, that chanting of some kind accompanies the frantic music, though none of you recognize the language. Beyond the trapdoor, a narrow staircase, wide enough for only one person, sinks down into the depths, with only a dim light from beyond providing illumination.
Proceeding cautiously into the basement, you are immediately struck by how different the walls are from the rest of Ju-Ju House. Rather than a cellar or storage room, the basement hallway is lined with rough-hewn stone, almost like a cavern. A single flickering lantern hangs overhead, casting its light on innumerable symbols and markings over every inch of wall visible. At the end of the hallways is a massive oaken door, reinforced with iron bands, and it is from this single door that the sound of drums and chanting comes from. Every step makes the music louder, the strange words more distinct, and the horror ever more real.
Something else can be heard under the horrific cacophony as well – pleading. Weaker voices, human voices, whimpering and crying and pleading for mercy. But they are almost lost beneath the din, and certainly ignored by the frenzied chanters.
One of the voices is Samuel.
The massive door rests closed ahead of you, rimmed in the reddish gleam of firelight. It is unlocked.
Sam, Rebecca, Thurman, Joe-
Erica sighs heavily, clasping her hands together and staring at them for several moments. It seems recalling all of this to memory is taxing for the woman, which is hardly surprising. Still watching her wringing hands, she begins to speak. “There was much that was... unusual about Roger’s sudden expedition, but then, there was much that was unusual about Roger himself. My brother was not what you might call a ‘responsible’ individual. He enjoyed his distractions and his pastimes, but he did little for the family’s holdings. It was... well, rather disgraceful.”
“I was not exceptionally surprised when he took in with a strange new crowd – he tended to do such things. But this woman, this negro woman, became his obsession.” She shakes her head again. “I thought it was a passing interest, as so many of his things are, but he seemed enraptured with this woman. He would disappear for nights at a time, and reappear disheveled, as if he had not slept in days, saying only that he had been to Harlem. Speaking of sleep, he would have horrific nightmares about someone or something calling to him, but then would refuse to discuss them when he was awake.”
“It was in the depths of this strangeness that he announced he would take an Expedition to Egypt. Now, my brother is—was—not what one would call scholarly. I can’t imagine he had any researches or projects that required him to visit there, but I guessed that it had something to do with that negro woman.” She laughs a little, without humor. “To be honest, I thought the trip would do him some good – he would see the woman for the common charlatan she was and he would be done with her. But as the voyage grew closer, he only grew more obsessed with her, calling her ‘my priestess’ and ‘my queen’ and other such nonsense.”
“I honestly don’t know what business he had in Egypt, nor what drove him to sidetrack in Kenya. It is a mystery to me, as it was then.”
“As for my personal visit to Kenya... it was nothing remarkable, that I know of. I did not speak to many people beyond the officials investigating the massacre, and they seemed to know what they were talking about. The site of the massacre itself was a little unnerving, I suppose – the whole ground seemed disturbingly calm and almost serene, but somehow, mm, wrong. I did not stay long, nor did I look too long at the bodies. It is no wonder that the principals could not be identified...”
She gives Sam a curious look. “Yes, he was, but I wonder how it is your friend discovered this.” She pauses a moment, then shrugs a little. “Perhaps it was not so secret – his psychoanalyst, after all, accompanied him on the Expedition. Robert Huston was his name. After Roger began having those terrible dreams, I recommended him to Robert Huston, who had been of great help to me. I fear that may have been a mistake, now.”
“Robert Huston seemed a sensitive and intelligent man, with incredible insight, but I wonder if he didn’t encourage this sojourn to Africa, and Roger’s obsession with that woman. Unfortunately I cannot say – those records are not privy to me, being as they are a doctor’s personal records. Only Doctor Huston or a practitioner of his caliber would have access to them.”
“It is curious that you know of his safe, though.” Her expression again becomes slightly suspicious, or at least more analytical. “There are no records within the old safe, but I did find a few old books of Roger’s some time ago, just after an attempted break-in. I read them, too.” She shudders. “They were... not your standard fare.”
She looks off to the side, for a moment torn with indecision. “I cannot see how they would help your investigation, but if you would like to look over them, I can retrieve them. I insist that they remain here, however.”
Finally deciding to enter this mysterious building, you proceed down a short, dank alley to a side door, well-used and marred by scrapes and dents from handtrucks and shipping crates – likely from Emerson Imports. Unlike the front door, this entrance is locked. [Locksmith roll.] But Tommy makes short work of that. When the rusty door swings open, it reveals a dark, small room, barely big enough for the shipments that must dwell within.
Stepping inside [presumably with some sort of light] you take a moment to look over the room. It is unremarkable and fairly featureless, with several large crates around the room and one other door that leads into the Ju-Ju House storefront. Curiously, two rather large packing crates have been pried open – indeed, a crowbar still rests nearby. [Spot checks.] All of you also notice a curiously torn piece of cloth near one packing crate that matches the scrap retrieved by Jeremy at the scene of Samuel’s disappearance. The two fabrics are identical – Samuel must have been here.
[Listen checks.] To punctuate this discovery, Tommy begins to here something faint and far-off. Calling the others’ attention to it, you all soon hear it: drums. They are quiet and distant, muffled by thick walls, but it is there, just over the volume of your own racing heartbeats; thumping, thudding, jubilant drums.
Moving cautiously into the other room, you try to discern the source of the ominous drums. The storefront of Ju-Ju House is dark, and the great shadows cast by flashlight only amplify the strange angles and silhouettes of African art in this room, at times making you think you see figures or something worse lurking around – but the place is empty. But the drums are more audible here, beating louder, more incessantly, telling you that are growing closer to whatever lies at the heart of Ju-Ju House. [Spot checks.] Looking around the store, Tommy soon comes across something most suspicious – behind the counter a large, luxurious carpet covers a section of floor, but one corner of it has been careless left up, enough to reveal the groove of something beneath it. Moving the rug aside reveals a large, steel trapdoor set into the floor, complete with a handle to pull it up. The trapdoor is heavy, but it is nothing for Jackhammer Joe to move.
[I’m going to assume you’ll keep going, but if you prefer to leave now, disregard the rest of this post.] Cracking open the trapdoor lets the sound of tribal drums flood into the room, revealing just how loud the ululations are. You can tell, now, that chanting of some kind accompanies the frantic music, though none of you recognize the language. Beyond the trapdoor, a narrow staircase, wide enough for only one person, sinks down into the depths, with only a dim light from beyond providing illumination.
Proceeding cautiously into the basement, you are immediately struck by how different the walls are from the rest of Ju-Ju House. Rather than a cellar or storage room, the basement hallway is lined with rough-hewn stone, almost like a cavern. A single flickering lantern hangs overhead, casting its light on innumerable symbols and markings over every inch of wall visible. At the end of the hallways is a massive oaken door, reinforced with iron bands, and it is from this single door that the sound of drums and chanting comes from. Every step makes the music louder, the strange words more distinct, and the horror ever more real.
Something else can be heard under the horrific cacophony as well – pleading. Weaker voices, human voices, whimpering and crying and pleading for mercy. But they are almost lost beneath the din, and certainly ignored by the frenzied chanters.
One of the voices is Samuel.
The massive door rests closed ahead of you, rimmed in the reddish gleam of firelight. It is unlocked.
Sam, Rebecca, Thurman, Joe-
"I'm very pleased that you're willing to reconsider, Miss Carlyle. Such flexibility is the gift of a most disciplined mind. Principally, we would like to inquire into the purpose of your brother's expedition to Africa, and of the side-trip to Kenya. There were many wild rumors about their movements, as you know, and I'm sure many were far from the mark. But as this is an unusual situation, it cannot hurt to examine the matter with a bit more rigor. Did your brother have any new interests in the months beforehand, some new research or project he had that somehow drew him to Africa? Also, we would be most interested in your own account of your voyage to Africa and the investigation you undertook once there. Since I have never been there, madam," Sam smiles in good humor, which quickly becomes somber again "I would place a great deal of weight on your impressions of the natives you worked with, and your account of the discovery of the party's native bearers. It seems that they, and the land where they were found, were in a very strange state."
Erica sighs heavily, clasping her hands together and staring at them for several moments. It seems recalling all of this to memory is taxing for the woman, which is hardly surprising. Still watching her wringing hands, she begins to speak. “There was much that was... unusual about Roger’s sudden expedition, but then, there was much that was unusual about Roger himself. My brother was not what you might call a ‘responsible’ individual. He enjoyed his distractions and his pastimes, but he did little for the family’s holdings. It was... well, rather disgraceful.”
“I was not exceptionally surprised when he took in with a strange new crowd – he tended to do such things. But this woman, this negro woman, became his obsession.” She shakes her head again. “I thought it was a passing interest, as so many of his things are, but he seemed enraptured with this woman. He would disappear for nights at a time, and reappear disheveled, as if he had not slept in days, saying only that he had been to Harlem. Speaking of sleep, he would have horrific nightmares about someone or something calling to him, but then would refuse to discuss them when he was awake.”
“It was in the depths of this strangeness that he announced he would take an Expedition to Egypt. Now, my brother is—was—not what one would call scholarly. I can’t imagine he had any researches or projects that required him to visit there, but I guessed that it had something to do with that negro woman.” She laughs a little, without humor. “To be honest, I thought the trip would do him some good – he would see the woman for the common charlatan she was and he would be done with her. But as the voyage grew closer, he only grew more obsessed with her, calling her ‘my priestess’ and ‘my queen’ and other such nonsense.”
“I honestly don’t know what business he had in Egypt, nor what drove him to sidetrack in Kenya. It is a mystery to me, as it was then.”
“As for my personal visit to Kenya... it was nothing remarkable, that I know of. I did not speak to many people beyond the officials investigating the massacre, and they seemed to know what they were talking about. The site of the massacre itself was a little unnerving, I suppose – the whole ground seemed disturbingly calm and almost serene, but somehow, mm, wrong. I did not stay long, nor did I look too long at the bodies. It is no wonder that the principals could not be identified...”
"Elias' notes also seemed to indicated that your brother was undergoing psychoanalysis, and analysis of his dreams. They seemed important, but I do not know how. He also noted that some records, possibly of these dreams or of his original research, could be found in his safe. Presumably you now possess these writings, and we were curious if you had read and examined them yourself." Sam pauses a bit, uncertain as to how to describe Elias' last frantic communiques. "Mr. Elias' notes place a great deal of weight on these records, but why I do not know."
She gives Sam a curious look. “Yes, he was, but I wonder how it is your friend discovered this.” She pauses a moment, then shrugs a little. “Perhaps it was not so secret – his psychoanalyst, after all, accompanied him on the Expedition. Robert Huston was his name. After Roger began having those terrible dreams, I recommended him to Robert Huston, who had been of great help to me. I fear that may have been a mistake, now.”
“Robert Huston seemed a sensitive and intelligent man, with incredible insight, but I wonder if he didn’t encourage this sojourn to Africa, and Roger’s obsession with that woman. Unfortunately I cannot say – those records are not privy to me, being as they are a doctor’s personal records. Only Doctor Huston or a practitioner of his caliber would have access to them.”
“It is curious that you know of his safe, though.” Her expression again becomes slightly suspicious, or at least more analytical. “There are no records within the old safe, but I did find a few old books of Roger’s some time ago, just after an attempted break-in. I read them, too.” She shudders. “They were... not your standard fare.”
She looks off to the side, for a moment torn with indecision. “I cannot see how they would help your investigation, but if you would like to look over them, I can retrieve them. I insist that they remain here, however.”
