Chapter Two: …from the Diaries of Nameless,
the Narrator
“There are reasons I chronicle the
exploits and eccentricities of my dear friend, C. Auguste Dupin, and reasons I
remain anonymous as I write each entry. The rational for the former is far more
interesting, I think, than the latter, as I have come to know him better. In
doing so, I have come to appreciate the keen workings of his mind and it has
been my privilege to facilitate him in his desire to be a great detective. And,
of course, it is worth mentioning that, at the time we met (as he would recount
the tale) while searching for the same rare book, it had been my intention to
kill him.
Dupin, more than any other man of
his time and reality, has a remarkable ability to see, intuit, envision, that
is to say, in all the ways possible, to know
the connections between small pieces of a design, a clear picture if you will,
of how they all fit. He senses their order, their sequence, how each fits the
whole. He is every bit the Chess Master who sees multiple steps ahead, before
even his opponent can. He possesses quite a thirst for knowledge and challenge,
and that was how we met. As I overheard him talking to the manager of the obscure
little library where we met, my blood froze when he mentioned that particular
book. I wondered if he could be one of
the agents of the unnamable one, but in a rare coincidence that was merely
that, he was looking for an ordinary copy of the Hortulus Animae cum Orantunculis Aliquibus Superadditis of
Grüninger. He was looking for a prayer book, thank God. He did not need to die.
Over time, we became friends and I came up
with the idea of renting a rather poorly-kept mansion, outside of the city,
where we could read, debate, play chess and otherwise interact with the outside
world as little as necessary. Him, for his reasons and me, for mine. But when I
read of “the Extraordinary Murders” it was hard to conceal my shock and
concern, not just for myself, but for Dupin. I knew this was the sort of
locked-room mystery his mind thrived on, and he would not be dissuaded from
investigating. I would be powerless to stop him unless I shared truths about
myself I would rather he not learn. No, I would not be able to keep him away
from it, so I had to find a way to mislead him towards any conclusion, but the
truth. For I doubt that even C. Auguste Dupin could gaze into that void and not
go immediately mad. I took it upon myself to guide him towards conclusions that
would support a world view he could live with and thrive within.”
Interlude No. 1
Interlude No. 1
The year is 1960 and the man portraying “H.
George Wells” was practicing his lines when there came a knock at his dressing
room door. Confounded by the losing of his place, the actor opened the door.
What stood there… he had no words for the abomination that stood before him. It
was a putrescent column of rot, all eyes and impossible limbs and so many teeth-filled
mouths. His wonder and horror lasted only as long as it took for the
monstrosity to casually flick an appendage, whose razored talon separated the
poor actor’s head clean off at the neck. With that the murderous rot vanished
like the remnants of a dream, except this dream left the actor quite dead.
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