We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Sunday, November 15 (day 168)]
[The Miskatonic]

I should frankly never have come here if I had anyplace better to go. The electric is a caking of powder on the face of a jumped-up tramp, half the roads are dirt, and a good two-thirds of the dwellings are in disrepair. This latter fact has in no wise kept half of them from being occupied, and I can only wish I were surprised.

There is a travelling sideshow on the outskirts of town which has apparently forgotten to travel.

Having exchanged mercifully literate letters with Hutchinson, I arrived in town yesterday in possession of adequate directions and a key to the house I had arranged to rent. It is off to the west of Silk Road, a drear thing. The clapboard siding has been repaired sometime in the last half-century or so, but I do not think it has been lived in for at least as long as I have lived. I left my trunk there and set out to take a look about. The eponymous Main Street was cluttered with stalls, a thin swamp of secondhand goods and picked-over flotsam. The second-most interesting thing I saw was a collection of old plates from a Gray's... used, of course, to interleave a far more common kind of plate and keep them from chipping one against the other. I expected no better.

All in all, Saturday was a quite depressing day. I find many are, lately. I bought a surprisingly adequate dinner at the Cafe and retired to my new home. The sitting room is at the front of the house and possesses a large bay window. A few lights have been replaced with trimmed panels of wood and another two are cracked, but I think it will serve. I suppose I shall have to get curtains, as well.

There is a basement.

I made up a bed from the blankets in my trunk and slept in the back room. When I awoke this morning, I was not a little stiff. While the dwelling I have let hardly puts Excolo's electricity to best use, I find not needing to wrestle with matches and gas for the stove is a relief. I brew a little tea and drink it standing in the kitchen, fully dressed and in my coat. The house is chilly and smells of dust and, faintly, of rotting cloth. I shall finish airing it out today, and arrange for firewood.

The town is quite quiet this morning, and the wind has died; clouds have clotted over the sky. The rest of my things should arrive this afternoon. I find myself a touch uncertain as to how to proceed from here. I suppose I shall need to settle in for a while, then talk to people; the rumours I have heard were a touch vague, and the more recent ones--the louder--seemed to mention a doctor.

Hands in my coat pockets, I find myself heading back towards the Miskatonic. I suppose I should eat, and it is fairly close to empty at this time of morning. Soup, perhaps.

[Open]
[Closed]

We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Sunday, November 15 (day 168)]
[The Miskatonic]

I should frankly never have come here if I had anyplace better to go. The electric is a caking of powder on the face of a jumped-up tramp, half the roads are dirt, and a good two-thirds of the dwellings are in disrepair. This latter fact has in no wise kept half of them from being occupied, and I can only wish I were surprised.

There is a travelling sideshow on the outskirts of town which has apparently forgotten to travel.

Having exchanged mercifully literate letters with Hutchinson, I arrived in town yesterday in possession of adequate directions and a key to the house I had arranged to rent. It is off to the west of Silk Road, a drear thing. The clapboard siding has been repaired sometime in the last half-century or so, but I do not think it has been lived in for at least as long as I have lived. I left my trunk there and set out to take a look about. The eponymous Main Street was cluttered with stalls, a thin swamp of secondhand goods and picked-over flotsam. The second-most interesting thing I saw was a collection of old plates from a Gray's... used, of course, to interleave a far more common kind of plate and keep them from chipping one against the other. I expected no better.

All in all, Saturday was a quite depressing day. I find many are, lately. I bought a surprisingly adequate dinner at the Cafe and retired to my new home. The sitting room is at the front of the house and possesses a large bay window. A few lights have been replaced with trimmed panels of wood and another two are cracked, but I think it will serve. I suppose I shall have to get curtains, as well.

There is a basement.

I made up a bed from the blankets in my trunk and slept in the back room. When I awoke this morning, I was not a little stiff. While the dwelling I have let hardly puts Excolo's electricity to best use, I find not needing to wrestle with matches and gas for the stove is a relief. I brew a little tea and drink it standing in the kitchen, fully dressed and in my coat. The house is chilly and smells of dust and, faintly, of rotting cloth. I shall finish airing it out today, and arrange for firewood.

The town is quite quiet this morning, and the wind has died; clouds have clotted over the sky. The rest of my things should arrive this afternoon. I find myself a touch uncertain as to how to proceed from here. I suppose I shall need to settle in for a while, then talk to people; the rumours I have heard were a touch vague, and the more recent ones--the louder--seemed to mention a doctor.

Hands in my coat pockets, I find myself heading back towards the Miskatonic. I suppose I should eat, and it is fairly close to empty at this time of morning. Soup, perhaps.

[Open]
[Closed]