Acquisitions #0176-1175b-1_4 Transcript

My dear Cyrus,

Page 1 of Acquisition #0176-1175b. All pages may be viewed on the Collection page.

Your recent letter struck me with a melancholic joy I cannot fully articulate. While I am saddened I must wait months for your eventual visit, I cannot wait any longer. I must tell you of my visit with Miss Laura Carter. I must put these words to paper so they may be archived and documented before my erratic mind obliterates it from all memory.

The young lady uses a simple slate and piece of chalk to commune with spirits beyond our comprehension and I must tell you she is convincing. I am sure your brother’s acquaintance, Ross, would be able to determine a simple sleight of hand or distraction Miss Carter uses to write the majority of her messages, but I must insist my time with her was genuine. A colleague of mine recently told a story of one of his friends seeing her and being “fooled” into believing her parlor trick. There was something in the way he spoke of this friend’s experience that, in spite of the mocking tone, resonated with me. I knew I must see her for myself. And so I was able to find her address and I visited her last Saturday. Perhaps I was full of a false confidence only men of my stature seem to possess, but I was delighted to find that she was not only home, but willing to accommodate me later that afternoon.

We sat in a simple room with only a table, three chairs, and lamps placed in the corners. The third chair remained empty as we took our seats. Miss Carter asked me a few questions which I answered with vagueries. All seemed normal at first, albeit uncanny. I told her I was searching for my father, who as you know passed some 5 years ago estranged from our family, in an attempt to find closure. I wanted to remain vague without lying, as that felt to be overly deceptive on my part. The lamps were lowered, she whispered a quiet prayer, and it had started. I began to hear her scribble on her slate under the table. The first few phrases were generic enough, making what felt like educated guesses based on my responses to her questions to infer on the kind of person my father was. What happened next intrigued me. The slate claimed a detail I failed to mention; that I am the youngest in my family, and that unlike my brothers before me, he never took me to the circus on my 9th birthday. I was astonished by this. I don’t think I’ve told anyone about that, not even yourself. It proved to me that, at the very least, something was occurring here of interest and perhaps of supernatural value.

At this point, Miss Carter seemed to slowly dissolve in the seat before me. The lamps were so low I could not see properly, but it seemed as though she had opened her eyes and was mumbling something under her breath. I thought I had heard her repeating the word “circus” over and over again, as if a nervous tick of frightening strength. From here the room began to vibrate in excitement. With it came the sound of clicking porcelain and silverware, yet nothing in the room seemed to actually move. A rumbling vibration of sorts was surrounding us without shifting a single object or piece of furniture. I could hear this shaking but failed to feel it.

As it gained strength, it became a rumble, immediately freezing me in my seat. It was familiar. I had felt its roar before. I have no doubt in my mind that I once again heard that sound. The sound from months ago, the one you insist was merely the drowned out shouting and rioting of a public house in the distance. The sound I had felt with the pink glow in the streets. It was here, in Miss Carters’ house, during the midday sun.

I would chalk this up to excitement and my imagination as you have in the past, I had at first thought so at the time. Miss Carter was so young and clearly trying to make a name for herself among the other spiritualists in the area, it would be no surprise to me if she wanted to have a ruckus occasion and saw me an easy mark for her deception. It wasn’t until after the forceful end of the seance and she had made her way back onto her chair that the lamps were turned back on and I saw it. I saw the slate she had been scribbling onto with a ferocious intensity as the sound enveloped me. It had one word traced over itself over and over and over again.

Rose.

I knew I could not be dreaming or forcing connections where they were not meant to be. You are the only one I have confided in about my experience on that evening months ago. Miss Carter had no reason to connect that otherworldly sound with the word “rose”. Even stranger, whatever spirit possessed her seemed to decorate the margins of the slate surrounding the word. A more proper word escapes me – surrounding the word were scribbles and shapes resembling floral motifs from medieval manuscripts or French tapestries or something different altogether. If I had to guess, it was as if the spirit was attempting to communicate something that language itself fails to properly convey. They were not random marks, but felt intentional. Upon noticing this, I felt a presence beyond myself and Miss Carter. In the corner of my eye I felt a shadow leaping just out of eyesight. I took my leave at once, ensuring Miss Carter was well enough after the episode before returning to my home.

You recently evoked William of Ockam, implying I should find a conclusion with the fewest assumptions. Which possibility requires less tests of faith; that a strange assortment of coincidences have lined up in such wonderful and terrifying manners, or that I witnessed something beyond the mortal coil that continues to haunt me? Or am I going mad?

I am anxiously awaiting your visit, counting the seconds until I may see you and be with you again, so you may once again hold me down and anchor me.

Yours,

Niklaus