FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Human mind is a fickle invention. Despite its power, tiny misstep can cause the whole titanic structure to collapse, be it an immediate loss of sanity, caused by an unfortunate glimpse of unimaginable, whispered forbidden incantation, line of text in blasphemous book or meeting of an individual, who has no place on soil of our earth. Somebody will mercifully succumb into an instant mind disintegration, lucky poor sods, while others will crumble gradually, as their soul gets chipped apart piece by piece by madness they have to experience.

I presume I must assign myself to the second category, as, after surviving all the hellish alleyways I had to endure during unfortunate events of my life, I am still a free woman, able to walk streets of Wheatfield without restrictions, and not being confined to a bed in a lunatic asylum. I still wonder whether I should count myself lucky.

That early autumn was when it all began, cruel fate did not even allow me to gather some proper experience before putting ghoulish machinations in my path. I was with the force for just half a year, finishing the academy in spring and immediately landing a job at Wheatfield's Bluntenberry precinct, sparing myself of holidays and eagerly sitting behind my own desk at the station for the first time just two weeks after graduation. Burning with zeal for a cause of upholding a law in Wheatfield, bringing criminals to justice, I was impatiently waiting to be assigned a case I could really sink my teeth in, alas, reality hit me with an uppercut, shattering all the expectations I had built up while at the academy - fate of many similarly motivated colleagues. My green badge did not allow me to carry out any investigations by myself and I was a mere assistant for my superiors, while dealing with crime of the lousiest proportions: smuggling of bootlegged alcohol, drunken brawls, disorderly conduct, prostitutes with customers skipping pay…

There was no need to emphasize I was becoming quite dull and my motivation was comparable to a last snow, slowly melting away into a sewer grate in the midday sun. Unfortunately, Wheatfield, despite being a large and expanding city with nearly every establishment imaginable, was not a Boston or Arkham, and the majority of local people were fresh immigrants, yet too shy to fully show their true selves, something older folks were not too keen to see happen.

During my spare time, of which I had a rather large amount, I did some information digging. I started with going through a list of old cases, going all the way back into the seventeenth century when the city was founded. A large portion of the earliest entries were, understandably, written in the simplest matter and their credibility was doubtful. Even the majority of policemen of that time were illiterate and their recounting of events that took place could be distorted.

Crimes were mostly disputes and accusations over livestock and land, thievery of building material, assaults and arson - and mostly probably provoked and aided by over consumption of local moonshine. Reading through them became as dull as daily work itself, but I persisted and eventually noticed there were periods when reports were suspiciously vague, usually lasting for a month or two, until returning to the regular uninteresting standard.

This one caught my attention, dating thirty years back: apparently, there were disturbances among the local population caused by an immigrant group of monkey workers, responsible for frequent loitering, petty thefts and harassments. This group of bricklayers and carpenters were employed by a wealthy local, going by the name of Thomas Betruggen, owner of a now closed iron mine, located inside Foxtops, a sparse mountain range west of the city. Apparently, they were connected to a series of disappearances in years 1883 and 1884, although no concrete conclusion was ever given. Most of the workers died during an accident in winter of 1884, when one tunnel of a golden mine gave up and collapsed, along with a Thomas Betruggen, two policemen and a certain professor from Arkham university, Walther P.. I could not determine what caused the accident, or why there were so many people at such an unusual place at once, but disappearances halted with this tragedy and it was stated the body of only one policeman could be recovered, as walls were too unstable to dig away the rubble.

Twenty years earlier, local farmers from what is called Hanginton hills, an extensive hillock north of the city with fertile soil, yet a bit isolated area, were terrorized by an unknown animal, preying on their livestock. These reports stopped after the death of a H. Werger, possibly some vagrant who stumbled upon Wheatfield during his tour of New England, as he was not listed as a local, as far as I could determine.

There were a few more occurrences of such strange cases, but informations were becoming gradually sparser, and I could not paint a satisfying picture of what was happening. On one particularly warm day of beginning September, I have stayed long over my shift at the station's archives, compiling dates, names and every possible detail of every peculiar incident that have happened, hoping I will later be able to find more informations regarding these matters - a newspaper article, chronicle entry or some oldtimer, whose mind I could poke for some educating anecdote. I did not even notice how late it was, until I put away my pen and suddenly became overwhelmed with exhaustion and strain. Irresistible yawning watered my eyes and my whole body screamed for rest, as I was packing my notebook and returning all the entries back into archives. I was all alone in the basement, accompanied only by occasional electrical cracks of light bulbs and muffled music from a radio upstairs, an attempt to make a night shift a tad more enjoyable for a vigilant crew. There were moments, when I suspected I have been hearing peculiar noises, coming somewhere from the far end of the basement, squelchy, as if something large was dragged through a muddy field, but I could not determine the exact source. I simply wrote it off as vibrations coming from motorcars on the streets and paid no mind to it, grabbed my coat and bag, and climbed upstairs. Old bear with large gray spots on left cheek, sitting behind the receptionist desk reading today's newspaper, nodded at me in a farewell as I stepped out into the cool late evening.

Morning was cold and rainy, but daytime sun was still warming the city with summer temperatures and all the puddles were already dried up, although the breeze did not hesitate to chase the first brown leaves over the pavement as I walked home. My family's house, inherited from my wealthy grandfather, whose riches was my father attempting to extend with not exactly noteworthy success, was only a mere quarter an hour of walking away from the police station, a humble one floor villa sitting at the waterfront right over the Holbert's bridge, crossing the Westbrook river. Town was mostly silent at this time, the distant rattle of passing train was echoing in cobblestone lined streets, muffled merriment was escaping through gaps of taverns and pubs, and breeze was quietly whistling over the red tiled roofs. No motorcar or a bored group of ruffians was heard as I followed the pavement line home.

Only until I stepped onto a Holbert's bridge did my ears pick up a suspicious noise coming from down below. Fulfilling my policewoman duty, expecting some mischief happening, I stopped and carefully leaned over the stone wall, gazing into a shadow covered waterfront. Street lamps were not strong enough to illuminate the whole space and I could only make out two figures caught in some form of an argument. Not the violent kind I would expect, both seemed worried about something, but they were too far for me to hear the contents of their quarrel.

“It's gone too long… Must find it… Cannot leave… You fool!" was all I could decipher and unfortunately, that was the end of their conversation. Two mysterious night pedestrians then quickly disappeared into the dark corridors and narrow streets of Wheatfield, leaving no trace for me to follow. Even though I was intrigued to ascertain what was the cause of such an argument and identity of responsible fellows, all I could do was to sigh with disappointment and carry on home. I wanted to give chase, but there was no way for me to trace them in this night city.

Next day I had to put my history research to rest, as a concerned citizen suddenly arrived at a station in the early morning, asking us for assistance in vacating a certain undesired individual from his premises, who almost panicky stormed into his house and took residence in his attic, refusing to leave. Host against his will, in fear a squatter might be dangerous or suffering some illness, locked him inside and seeked help from the lawmen. I was exhilarated, to say the least, even if this was probably another drunken ballad or stress induced psychosis, I was eager to go out and actually conduct some police work.

Man in need, a middle aged deer in an older, yet still elegant, beige suit was explaining the whole incident, as me and my partner drove us back to his house on Haster avenue. Earlier today, around three o'clock in the morning, he was awoken by a frantic banging on the door, accompanied by muffled gasps and whimpering. Expecting this to be just another drunkard, desperate to find a way home, he stayed in bed, not wishing to deal with this sort and hoped he will soon get tired and leave on his own.

It did not happen, though, the perpetrator was persistent and started to even seem desperate. Christensen, as a new unwilling landlord was named, decided to drive away this annoyance from his doorstep with force and got out of bed, but was overwhelmed by an unexpected strength coming from such a frail body. As soon as he opened the door, barely dressed woman stormed inside his hallway, pushed him into a shoe cabinet and frantically ran around a ground floor like a wild animal, toppling over chairs and breaking one vase, until she found her way upstairs, scaring his wife to near fainting and ultimately hiding in the dusty attic. Christensen was not willing to enter the attic by himself and check up on an unwanted guest, so he securely locked the door and went to a police station for assistance.

I stopped the police motorcar by the sidewalk and we all entered the Christensen's house, where Mrs. Christensen was nervously pacing back and forth around the first floor hallway, where the door leading to an attic was located. She was relieved to see us and informed us an unknown woman was still upstairs, as she occasionally heard sobs and creaking wood, as somebody was quietly walking around.

Armed with pocket torches, we had Mr. Christensen unlock the attic door, so we could climb up wooden stairs into the dark and dusty premises. We called out for the invader, informing her we are members of the police force and mean no harm. We found her hunkered behind a chest in the far corner, sobbing and shaking, eyes wide open with fear. As she noticed her hiding spot was discovered, she wanted to scurry away, but it was apparent her body was utterly exhausted and lacked any strength to put up an actual fight, as merely grabbing her arms was enough to subdue her. It was apparent she suffered an immense shock and we asked the Christensen family if we could lay her on their couch for further examination and evaluation of the situation.

Despite concerning an unexpected house invader, the family showcased a surprising hospitality, providing not only seating, but also a blanket, a cup of tea and some crackers as well, as what remained of her clothes were only a few tatters, covering mere necessities. She reeked of a strange odor, her fur and hair was messy with bruise spots, as if she was held either in shackles or tied up with a rope. Especially her legs were covered in an unknown substance, now dry and crumbling upon touch, with red cuts shining on her toes, hinting she was moving through a very hostile terrain.

She kept putting up a meaningless fight, but as we tucked her in, both her body and mind seemed to either decide we have only the best intentions or it was all pointless and just gave up, falling into a deep inert slumber. Christensens did not protest when we asked to keep the unknown woman at their house, until the physician arrives to examine her, displaying their good christian values, despite formerly intending to drive away an alleged drunkard with force.

My partner and superior, a rather skeptical tyger, did not mind when I suggested the idea to scout the surroundings in hope of discovering where this poor soul came from. His opinion was of the simplest ones: this unfortunate woman merely did not manage to handle her dose of opioids, sending her on a psychotic spree through a night city. Could not deny it was a plausible explanation, but I secretly hoped there would be more to this, alas, my hunt for evidence of some extraordinarily heinous crime was in vain.

I have spent over an hour searching surrounding streets and alleyways, but discovered only a few pieces of torn cloth that could possibly match the attire of the victim. I found some wrecked bushes, through which our unknown woman crawled into Christensen's garden, but could not backtrack her steps beyond the low brick wall. I assumed the alleway, separating Christensen's house from their neighbors, must have been the only way woman could have come from, but there was no way for me to determine the exact trail, winding between low brick houses of the old Parkhast. There were too many intricate corridors and gutters, strange moldy doorways and rusty iron grates, leading seemingly nowhere, unless a traveler possessed appropriate knowledge, for me to find anything. There are rumors about secret tunnels sprawling under whole Wheatfield, used by criminals, undesirables and forbidden - sects, fanatics and lunatics - to safely travel around the city, but given how low and petty crime is here, I have had my doubts those few bootleggers and pickpocketers would have any need for such sophisticated contraptions.

Empty handed, I returned to Christensen's house, as first rain drops started dotting my coat, ruining my idea to call for hounds from the neighboring station, with a physician arriving shortly after. Young fellow, only a few years older than me, going by the honored name of Kian Porter of the wealthy Porter family, whose business was based on transporting iron ore and other raw materials via the Westbrook river down to mysterious Briarport, did not linger and immediately started performing his trade.

As suspected, the woman, a mouse of seemingly low morals, was suffering from a stress induced shock, albeit lacking any serious physical wounds, other than some minor cuts and bruises. Porter finished his examination and stated the woman is physically fine, but requires proper rest, before she could be questioned about her situation and suggested for her to be transported to his office for proper observation to which we had no remarks.

We returned to the station, agreeing there is not much else for us to do, until a woman wakes up from her concussion, but we were greeted with numerous reports of people complaining about disturbing the peace upon our arrival. Apparently, many citizens suddenly experienced a series of odd noises and loud rumblings carrying through the night, incapable of determining their sources. We quickly went over the reports and set off to assist troopers already collecting information and assuring public peace.

Majority of these reports originated on the Sorter hill, functioning as a city border on western side, with inner slope covered with many houses and villas, built in modern style with covered porches and large gardens, as if they were overlooking poorer, older residencies slowly succumbing to a desolation bellow them. There was a sort of wealth surge that shook the Wheatfield, as Betruggen's iron mine, source of the city's most important business, dried up and closed down, many people feared years of prosperity suddenly came to a halt and fled town in search of better life, leaving behind empty houses and buildings. Some were taken over by squatters who came from the north, others were left without any vacancies or care, gradually falling apart from elements. No wave of poverty happened, though, the city survived without issues, built factories, schools and expanded other businesses. This, in turn, caused a flood of new immigrants, who either took over empty houses, driving away unwanted guests and renovating the old buildings, or demolished the ruins and started anew. And right now, something was happening that was stealing sleep from both newcomers and oldtimers alike.

Light rain had already passed by the time we arrived on the Alpamist street, where a line of police cars signaled a large concentration of law enforcements. We joined the questioning and compiled our own reports, as there were still many citizens willing to complain and give their statements of what happened.

Last night, starting at around nine o'clock, and stretching all the way until around three o'clock in the morning, people were startled by strange noises that seemed to come from everywhere - outside, their houses, underground - accompanied by light shaking, as if there was storm passing or something was moving through the ground. People were reporting a lot of rumble was coming from the top of the hill, where an old villa was carved into a slope, overlooking the whole Wheatfield.

“T'was that prof' Harlington, good miss. Not a bad fellow, but 'er since he came back from that A'rika, he ain't right in 'is mind, I tell ya. Folks say somethin' happened to 'im there, he talks less, comes home late and stays up all night and makes strange noises when you walk around. He got that weird look in 'is eyes, like he wasn' himself. Mah boy Frankie and his friends snuck up to his garden one night, saw him with some lady inside, but never saw her leave. God knows w'at's he up to in his blasted home and that damn greenhouse."

Old maid Tursnip, a real archival citizen, who looked like she was old even in times when first stones of Wheatfield were laid, was more than happy to share every single little gossip she accumulated over her unbelievably long lifespan, while still maintaining surprising energy and strength. She was missing a few teeth, her fennec ears were balding and dropping, but she still moved while scrubbing laundry with a level of dexterity, like a single slap from her calloused hand could send me to the ground.

She pointed her concerns towards the house of one Emil Harlington, a renowned zoologist from Wheatfield university of natural sciences. I was aware of this name, as not too long ago, newspapers were covering his return from an expedition into Africa and he experienced some trouble in Briarport's harbor, but was not otherwise acquainted with him in other way. I wanted to pay him a visit, but was informed he will be at university at this moment, giving lectures about his African expedition to the students. My superior had no objections when I desired to move investigations onto academic grounds, although doubting it will yield anything actually useful, he allowed me to move there by myself, while he finishes questioning the locals.

Upon presenting my badge, I was happily assisted by university's staff and directed to an auditorium, where Harlington was currently lecturing his presentation. I took over an empty seat right by the door and sat quietly with other students, until his speech was finished. He was nearing the end of his topic, so a lot of context was lost to me, but I could determine he was describing a certain, as yet unknown, reptile he discovered during his tour, which had peculiar movement habits. While it routinely just crawled around like a regular reptile, it also possessed hard protrusions over its body, which it could use to suddenly bounce from the ground, spin and propel itself forward like a drill, covering short distances towards its prey extremely quickly. While being rather small and harmless to humans, its anatomy combined with a fairly hard skull and bone structure still makes such encounters a painful experience and could prove dangerous to children. He heard stories from natives about broken fingers and ribs, when startled reptile lunged at them in self defense, and even a few rare fatalities, when hunters sneaking through the jungle were struck in the head or neck at particularly bad spots. Harlington even had such a specimen on display, taxidermied in a glass box, and according to him, is currently attempting to persuade the scientific community this particular creature would bear his name.

Lecture came to an end with an applause, students started leaving their seats and I approached Mr. Harlington as he was packing his notes and hastily answering queries from interested listeners. I stood and quietly waited my turn, but as the badge flashed in the auditorium's lights, it deterred everyone from connecting with their professor and caused them to flee the scene, hoping for a better opportunity to satisfy their thirst for knowledge.

Emil Harlington did not match the picture I imagined according to a Turnsnip's description - he was a young fox, intelligent and well mannered, lacking any form of wickedness or strange looks. He was happy to oblige with questioning and aid me in an investigation, but asked me to accompany him to his cabinet, so he can prepare for his next lesson in the meantime. I offered to help him carry his taxidermied creature and took a closer look upon it along the way. It was a strange thing, there was no doubt about it, and while its body was mostly similar to its European and American counterparts, its head looked nearly alien. It had an X shaped mouth, consisting of four flaps and large black eyes, looking almost fish-like. I, myself, would describe it as a worm, rather than a reptile, but I understood I am not in a position to classify new species.

Harlington explained to me his house was a target of a burglar group last night, although he only reports property damage without anything being stolen. Both his greenhouse and entrance from the back porch was damaged, but thieves scurried away as he and his assistant were awoken by their forced entry. This did not match the statements of other people, to which he replied this is all he was aware of. Incident itself took all of his attention and he claimed the hilltop where his house stands tends to get a bit windy, carrying away lots of noises from down below.

I was skeptical of his statement, naturally, but Harlington insisted I would visit his house today and carry out an investigation myself. Misdemeanor was already reported, of course, but it was probably relayed to a different precinct than mine, as, so far, no detectives have contacted him. Harlington explained his assistant is currently home, watching over it, until investigation is finished and he can have the door and windows repaired, and if I do wish, can go there right away. He himself still needs to finish his lectures, but would join us as soon as possible.

I agreed to this, presuming if there was something foul at play here, it would be best to investigate it right away, before he manages to cover all the traces. I set off right away, joined up with my partner along the way and brought our motor car in front of the Harlington residency. It was an old and unsightly structure, spotted roof, wooden paneling crooked and peeling off at places, but it seemed some sort of renovation was in progress, second floor had new windows and judging by the folded scaffolding, material covered by tarp and some fresh paint on walls, Harlington had big plans with his house.

As the professor stated, it was fairly windy here, but not enough to drag away one's hat, although a lot of whistling was occupying my ears. It appears there were some intentions in breaking this element, as in the direction of strongest gusts were piled up heaps of soil as improvised windbreakers with samplings of bushes, which caused house to slowly sink below the ground level. It was a lonely structure, built highest on a Sorter hill ridge, creating sort of a landmark from the distance. Steep asphalt road was connecting the house with the city from the inner side and then lazily carried on through the grassy outer side, circling around small farmsteads, cellars and tombs chiseled into slope, connecting in the end with main road leading inland.

There was a drop of ominous look emitting from the house, probably given by the mixture of a fresh paint and destitution. Harlington's assistant, a very courteous squirrel, greeted us with a relief, watching out for policemen to finally arrive. He led us to the back porch and presented damage, pointing and telling how he imagined the whole invasion happened.

Wooden frames of the window next to the door were beaten and splintered, as someone was attempting to pry it open, lock on the door was knocked out and one hinge was loose, as if some serious force struck them from inside. Railing on the porch was broken at one point, wooden fence gate leading to a greenhouse was also wrecked and broken glass was covered with wooden planks.

Harlington's assistant, going by the name of Haldigan, explained thieves probably got inside by breaking the window, crawling in, then unlocking the door from inside, and as they got startled by their wakefulness, panicked, got stuck in the doorway and broke down the door as they tried to scurry away, breaking down fence, gate and a glass wall during their escape. He believed they ran downhill away from the city, but could not be sure, as darkness made it impossible to even see a glimpse of an attacker.

I did the typical line of questioning, but received no satisfactory answers that could help us in our investigation. Nothing was stolen, as far as they were aware, they could not tell how many of them were there nor what was their intention, but presumed it had to be a small group, maybe even a single strong person, as a crowd of criminals could easily overpower two of them. There was not even much of a value inside, any jewels or art pieces went with the last owner and all money they make is put into renovations or Harlington's research.

I was curious about the greenhouse and wanted to look inside in case thieves would leave some clues, but Haldigan, though saddened, denied me access in fear for my life. In this particular greenhouse, a rather spacious structure, Mr. Harlington keeps all sorts of critters he found during his expeditions and researches for further studies, but unfortunately, a certain species of extremely venomous spiders overpopulated, making a visit one dangerous stroll. If any of the thieves managed to break into the greenhouse, they are sure to be dead by now.

I asked how they intend to solve this spider problem, to which the squirrel shrugged his shoulders with despair, as they are still trying to come up with a solution, but assured me nobody outside of the greenhouse is in danger. If any spider got out, they would quickly go into hibernation and eventually freeze to death, as local temperatures are too cold for them. There is a possibility they could cool down the whole greenhouse to render spiders harmless, but it could put other rare specimens inside into danger.

I snorted with a small portion of disbelief, as I watched the greenhouse from the damaged porch and listened to Haldigan's story. I believed only about half of what he said: there could have been an intruder, this actually sounded plausible, but refused to take a group of frightened burglars for perpetrators. Maybe it was rather a group of bored kids, attempting to play tricks on a pair of weirdos, like the old Mrs. Tursnip mentioned? Although in this case, breaking windows and doors seemed rather overstretched.

I desired to take a stroll around the greenhouse, while my partner inspected more inside of the house, to which the squirrel had no objections, stating the outside should be safe of any critters, and accompanied my partner, leaving me alone in the garden. I walked around for quite some time, but failed to find any traces of any intruders. I stood at the low stone wall, marking the end of Harlington's property, and stared down the hill, sparsely covered with small farmsteads, abandoned ruins, cellars and crypts, incapable of finding a single reason why thieves would come from or escape this way. I studied small mounds, signaling entrances to underground, dug into hillside and wondered for a second whether tales about secret corridors and undiscovered caves under the city are true and if so, did one of those rusty metal gates lead into the dark underworld of Wheatfield, hiding unimaginable horrors?

I amused my bored mind with such thoughts and was ready to return inside, as weather was becoming rather cold, but a sudden struck of coincidence caught my attention and forced me to stay - ultimately plunging me into a series of harrowing incidents, forever scaring both my brain and soul. A price I paid for my foolish race for adventure and thrill, which made me face such dark perversities I was never able to speak out about them, forever condemning me to a slow succumbing to madness.

Sudden gust of strong wind blew into my back drove away clouds from the sky and as a sun exposed itself, grass covered meadows below me rippled and shone in the light, exposing a dark line of trampled patch, directly connected to Harlington's property. My attention was caught with this and I took a few steps to take a better look. It was not trampled, as I initially suspected, but rather rolled, as if some large and heavy boulder was the cause. I searched for a connecting point and discovered a few rocks chipped from the rock wall, planting a vision in my mind, imagining something must have either crawled or was dragged through here and down the hill.

Whatever caused it was rather narrow and did not move in a straight line. I jumped over the rock wall and carefully followed the trail, leading me a short way down the hill, where it ended in a small heap of dirt. Some digging must have been performed here, as marks from the spade blade were clearly visible. I tried to claw in the wet ground out of curiosity with my bare hands, but to no avail. I straightened up and my mind started piecing together the modus operandi of the whole incident. I suspected this all was nothing, but an insurance fraud, executed in an extremely amateurish way, and if I were to dig around a little, I would definitely discover some buried relic or jewelry, that was not yet reported as missing.

I returned into the house to ask for a shovel and a spade, both of which was provided to me by a rather confused Haldigan, and hastened back with my curious partner in tow. As I stood at the edge of mound and started to dig away heaps of dirt, I explained my intentions to him and although he was sympathetic to my idea and zeal, he urged me to stop, stating even if we are a representatives of law, we simply cannot walk around and ravage someone's property without a permit.

I already eagerly dug out a small hole, until a sense came to me, and stood at its bottom overwhelmed with defeat, as Cardenas took a hold of my equipment, effectively ending my excavation. Haldigan joined us at this time, wondering what we are up to and mentioning, we are far away from their property, when I felt sudden lightness under my feet and with a surprised shriek immediately sank into the hole, as dirt gave up and opened space below me. In panic, I threw my hands out and clawed fingers into the ground, stopping my unexpected descent. Both Cardenas and Haldigan immediately jumped to my aid, grabbing my arms and pulling me back up from the muddy grave.

I did not even manage to dust myself off, when we became victims of an angry rant, coming from a grumpy old farmer asking us without any decency what are we doing on his property. Cardenas spoke for us, explaining we are from Wheatfield police conducting an investigation, but this did not appease him one bit, fully aware of his rights, old goat forced us to fill the hole with dirt again, leave and to not come back without a proper permission, stating we probably dug into some ancient buried cellar or a house foundation and he does not want his livestock to cripple itself in some sudden ditch. He was especially angry with Haldingan, noting whatever impiety he and his partner are up to in their house to keep it in their house. Lit windows late at night and weird noises carrying over the meadows are not signs of a decent neighbor, he said.

I apologized for my rashness and undid my work, before we all returned back to Harlington's house, preparing myself for a harsh scolding I was to receive later. Squirrel helped me to clean myself up, brushing my trousers and to scrape dirt off my boots, apologizing for Mr. Green, their neighbor, but that goat was nothing but trouble ever since they moved into this house. He told us of accusations they stole some of his cattle from his pastures, but since he lacked a single piece of evidence to present to the police, he never called them.

“What could we possibly do with any farm animal?" he wondered, leaving us rather confused and unsure on how to carry out the rest of the investigation. I insisted on searching the hole I discovered, claiming it was made by the thieves, as it seemed fairly rude to accuse Haldigan of any crime at this point, to which Cardenas agreed, but doubted judge will give us a warrant if we will not present a sufficient evidence and Mr. Green did not seem very keen to just let us stroll freely around his property, no matter what reason we will give him.

I noticed the biologist duo is not exactly popular among the neighbors and asked for a reason, mentioning Green's dislike of late night lights and queer noises. Squirrel explained they bought this detached house so they could continue their research in peace outside of the university grounds without bothering anyone, as it may sometimes require them to stay up late. As for the source of odd noises, he suspects it could be some species of rather audible frogs they keep in the pond next to the greenhouse. Sounds get picked up by a wind and carried over the pastures, creating this eerie sensation when somebody unfamiliar might hear them in the middle of the night. I asked for the details about their research, but here Haldigan was not that forthcoming with sharing. He simply stated they are studying new species of African bugs discovered by Mr. Harlington and it did not seem right to talk about details without him present.

I asked if this research could prove valuable to somebody, inventing this wild theory that alleged thieves might actually be competitive biologists from different university, and - to my surprise - Haldigan seemed to agree with this presumption. I then insisted on seeing their research, but was denied once again with the statement it is up to Mr. Harlington, not him, to allow access to us.

We left Harlington's house in pursuit of other clues, until the professor returns from university, and I suggested we should question the kids from Sorter hill, as they might be guilty of trespassing and misconduct, retelling Cardenas the story from old Mrs. Turnsip. We spent several hours tracking down Frankie and his band around town and collecting their testimonies. They all agreed other than some trampled grass, they caused no material harm and only peeped through windows, wondering why are they all lit so long into the night. Once they saw some lady on the ground floor with them, but they never saw her leave. Weird noises were always coming from the house with strange humming and rumbling, as if something heavy was moving around. Kids admitted they were tempted to visit the greenhouse, but could never find their way inside with the door well locked, and the croaking of the strange frogs in the pond made them feel extremely uneasy. Even though they committed an act of trespassing, we decided to ignore this misdemeanor in a friendly manner and just left them with a warning they should halt their nightly spying visits, for it might be too dangerous for them.

This did not leave us with much material to work with, lights and strange sounds were already known, and whatever visits they had were of no concern to us. I presented my theory about the insurance scam to Cardenas, but he did not see any need to perform such a risky task, as money was not an issue for the duo, apparently. I insisted on searching the hole I discovered, but my partner warned me to be careful. That Green fellow looked like a type willing to take any chance to tussle with our precinct, causing unneeded problems.

I took to the archives searching for any additional information about Mr. Harlington, but even though several newspaper prints reported on his African expedition, they were very sparse on details. There was a mention of the accident he experienced there, but the column lacked any further description. Briarport daily had a small paragraph regarding the incident in docks, but again, journalists were not invested enough in that matter to investigate the cause of the problem. Something about a prohibited cargo, which could be anything, really. I returned to my home police station and in spare time phoned other precincts, asking whether they could provide me any additional information related to our cause and was informed several city harlots were reported missing through the week, but considering their social class, very little investigation was carried out until now. I asked about the details and wrote everything down in case I would conclude it is related to our case in any way and would decide to investigate. It was hardly something unheard of, prostitutes tend to randomly disappear and then reappear dead or barely alive some time later, with the culprit being mostly overdose of opioids and alcohol, rather than some lovelorn lover.

I wrote down all four reported disappearances and noticed each comes from a different part of town, which gave me an idea if there was a person or a group responsible for removal of these oldest profession workers from the street, this was a tactic he would use to reduce chances of his capture. I remembered kids mentioning ladie's visits at Harlington's house and wondered if there was any connection. A horrid vision of the duo becoming some Jack Ripper impersonators appeared in my mind, but that did not fit me with their characters at all, but I was curious whether the half-naked woman we escorted out of Christensen's house this morning was one of the missing harlots, escaping from the zoologist's imprisonment? Although, such scrawny mouse would have a hard time breaking down the back door for sure.

Even though there was no solid evidence so far, everything was suspiciously pointing towards Harlington's house and I was eager to conduct a proper search of his property. Could the hole behind his house hold the body of a dead prostitute? That would be a rather amateurish approach from somebody of their intellect.

I strained my mind thinking about everything related to the cause until it was time to return to the eerie house on the Sorter hill. Mr. Harlington was home and warmly welcomed us, already aware we wish to take a look at his research, not wasting any time to enthusiastically introduce us to his laboratory on the top floor. It was - rather underwhelming, so to say. Harlington gave us a short lecture, explaining how he inspects new species he discovered, how he categorizes them and how he researches if they have any properties we could benefit from.

It was exhausting and as I walked around, listening to the speech examining every cage, terrarium, pile of notes, I felt a heavy weight of failure setting in on me, as nothing here brought us any closer to a noteworthy clue. I politely thanked and asked whether anything of this would be worth the home invasion. Harlington explained unknown reptiles he brought with himself from Africa do hold certain value in a scientific community, but at this time it would be extremely difficult for somebody else to plausibly claim the prestige of discovery.

I continued with my questions, now showing curiosity about his alleged incident during the expedition. Fox was reluctant to share the details, claiming it was rather traumatizing experience, and only told a short story, about how he slipped on the bank of a river, fell into water and got carried away by a current, which, in the end, forced him to survive on his own in jungle for a few days. He was lucky wild animals and tropical diseases spared him, and he survived with just a few minor cuts and bruises, until local guides found him hungry and exhausted near a small cave he used as a shelter. Even though his mind experienced a severe strain that required a lengthy hospitalization to regain back its original state, it essentially helped him discover the unknown species about to bring him prestige in the zoologist community. Seeing I will not get any more details out of Harlington, I asked about local kids and if they caused any mischief to them, to which they both stated they sometimes saw them loitering around, but were otherwise unbothered by them. This signaled a dead end for me, with Cardenas we allowed them to fix their door, as we probably will not get any more clues out of it, and left pretty much empty handed, returning to station accompanied by a setting sun.

I refused to give up so easily, though, my youthful eagerness forcing me to ignore Cardenase's advice, gather needed equipment and after a short sleep, under cover of a night, trek to the Green's farm to finish my investigation. I was sure the key was somewhere there in that blasted heap of dirt the old goat was so protective of. Why? Was he connected to the incident in some way? Was his neighborly grudge only some ploy? My mind was unable to grasp a single strand of logic in this case.

Leaving the motor hidden in nearby woods, I crept to Green's pastures guided by a slim moonlight, keeping to a ground to avoid the attention of random eyes looking into the night. It was nearing two o'clock in the morning, the air was wet and cold, but movement and work kept me warm. Green's farmhouse was rather far with dark windows, signaling its occupants should be fast asleep, and I could only notice the roof of Harlington's house, rest blocked by a steep hill. With the help of a few pegs, I fashioned a piece of tarp into improvised shade to prevent the light of an electric lantern being spotted by unwanted eyes, and started digging.

Ground was soft, but wet, with dirt sticking to my shovel blade, and my back was slowly beginning to ache, as I was attempting to remain concealed, and even though work was slower than I was expecting, I soon hit a layer of old bricks and a hollow space I previously sunk into. I reached into the hole to remove them, but my weight on edge caused a collapse. First my electric lantern suddenly flashed as it quickly fell through the opening and I followed it right after, as the ground below me gave up, essentially repeating what happened yesterday's forenoon. I waved my arms into the dark, but there was nothing hard to grasp on, causing me to dive head first into the open mouth of the soil beast.

I panicked, immediately imagining I met my fate being buried alive, but some power refused to let me perish so easily. I slid down the heap of dirt and stopped myself with an involuntarily somersault onto something hard and cold. It was pitch black, with a stench of mold and moisture, but I felt a slight draft tingling on my face. Luckily, a small pocket flashlight hanging on my belt survived the fall and helped disperse the darkness around, as my lantern remained hopelessly buried under the immense heap of dirt. I stood up, dusted off the soil and inspected my surroundings. I was, indeed, in some underground room, most likely a cellar from an ancient, long demolished house. Good part of the ceiling gave in thanks to my excavation and the pile of ground was too big for me to dig through. Wet soil was incredibly difficult to grab with bare hands and digging even a small portion away was a rather exhausting task.

I looked around the room and discovered a large hole in the stone wall on the far side from me, the source of the draft I felt when I fell here. It was not exactly fresh, but moving air was a signal of another way onto the surface and I had to move quickly. My flashlight cannot last forever and the underground was cold, leaving the coat above, a shirt with a vest, now moist from soil, was not the best protection from chilly surroundings.

Cellar was otherwise empty, safe for a few broken down boxes and mushy wooden planks. I examined the hole leading further, noticing there was once a door frame with a door here, but mold and rot caused it to fall out of a stone wall a long time ago, now leaving it slowly disintegrating into ground. Doorway led into a tunnel, big enough to stand upright, leading deeper into the hill, and my only possible way back to the surface. My hot breath turned into steam in yellow electric light, as I crept forward through the eerily silent hallway dug into dirt mass, passing by rotten wooden beams meant for support, erected decades ago. I wondered when was the last time somebody even passed through here? These corridors must be ancient, definitely dating back to the establishment of the Wheatfield, probably built as means of a secret hideaways in case of an attack from bandits or angry natives, gradually connecting every household to create this elaborate web of tunnels.

Dirt soon turned into cut stone and masonry. I hit a crossroad, branching left, right and front. I first took a left turn, as the corridor aimed up and I hoped I would be closest to the surface this way, but after climbing a set of slippery stairs, I hit a door, now a lot stronger and dryer. I felt a rather warm draft from between the spacing, but it was locked and no amount of force I mustered would change it. I started banging on the door as violently as I could, while calling out for anyone that could hear me, but I had no idea whether this door led to someone's house or just into another cellar, buried and forgotten, just better ventilated. I noticed a marking chiseled into stone above the frame, numbers 313. I got a hunch, pulled out a notebook from my vest pocket and found the address of Harlington's house - house numbers matched.

I leaned on the door for a while, listening for any sound of human presence, but could not hear anything. I presumed this door must have led to their cellar and if they were really sleeping, there was no way they could hear me. I still had my pistol, but it would be foolish to attempt to damage the lock with a gunshot. I doubted a powerful, but soft .45 caliber could do anything, beside leaving me deaf in this enclosed space. I felt a dry scratching in my throat, as my body requested hydration, but my canteen was sadly in a bag on the surface. I swallowed slimy saliva in a desperate attempt to sate the thirst and turned around to continue traversing these mysterious caverns, descending back on the crossroad and now taking a left turn again, hoping this method will prevent me from getting lost. There was no point in waiting here, hoping one of my cries or bangs would wake up the biologists, I had to attempt to find another way out.

Silence here was maddening. When I stood still, I could not hear a single sound, but as soon as I took a step, even rustling of my clothes was uncomfortably loud and I caught myself creeping forward silently like a thief, as if I was worried I could warn something that could live down here of my presence.

I soon hit another crossroad, now in T shape. Here, I noticed markings chiseled into the walls, probably used as street signs for easier navigation. I noted them in my notebook and drew a simple map in case I would have to backtrack and again took a left turn. After a few meters I was presented with a seemingly innocent and ordinary finding, gradually turning into a harrowing discovery. On the floor made of large, roughly cut stones, I noticed a line of strange piles, I at first assumed was a regular soil, but after a few seconds, once my muzzle managed to pick apart other smells from the heavy odor of rot and moisture, I realized it might be a refuse from some animal - and a rather large one, given the size of this excrement. A distinctive stench, which took a while to notice at first, now became overwhelming, multiplied by the wet air, and caused me to become a bit nauseous to the point I had to cover my nose into the sleeve of my shirt.

Despite the disgust, this meant something must have been living, or at least passed through here, and not too long ago, although I could not determine what sort of animal it left here. I crouched and wanted to examine excrement a bit closer, not because I was some sort of a fecal enthusiast, but something seemed rather odd. Realization took about a minute to set in and nearly made me shriek out in fright. In this pile of undigested food were numerous big chunks of fur - a result of a human presence in a diet of whatever left this trail of stool.

I gasped, as I let horror overtake me for a while, the image of somebody being eaten, possibly alive, was already unsettling, even more so when I tried to think of an animal that could do that, and as I was recovering from the shock, my ears were hit with a terrifying rumbling, echoing in the cold and mold covered walls, as if something large was rolling or dragging itself somewhere around me. I shone in the corridor on both sides and listened, trying to pick where the sound was coming from or where it was heading, but it was difficult to determine. In fear of being next on the menu, I drew my personal pistol in a form of self defense, expecting to soon confront the mysterious maneater, but if it was hungry and on a prowl, it must have not been varry of my presence.

Rumbling soon began to quiet down, as its source moved farther away from me and eventually died off, leaving me in an absolute uncomfortable silence again with blood pulsating in my head. I calmed down a little bit, gathered my courage and pressed forward, as sickness from the revolting stench was stronger than a fear of an unknown and terrifying beast somewhere in the underground darkness.

I have spent almost an hour wandering through the forgotten caverns and to my surprise actually discovered some signs of a recent human presence here and there. A few cigarette butts, an empty petrol can, moldy end of bread and along my trail I found few small niches with empty boxes used for sitting, burned out candles, lanterns, a week old newspapers, everything supporting a theory these roads may be used by a criminal element of Wheatfield, but had no direct contact with any hoodlum. I, as well, found several more doors, but did not manage to get any of them to open, and got scared a few times as a distant rumbling moved around me, but again, no sight of a source.

At last, exhausted, dehydrated and near frozen, I managed to stumble upon a trampled stairway, half obstructed with rubble from collapsed ceiling, that safely led me back to the surface. I found myself in the cellar of a ruined house at the southern side of Wheatfield, nearly abandoned even by the poorest of the poor, with cold wind blowing through the empty windows. With chattering teeth, I lingered in a foyer for a while, making notes of a house position, before I set off on a long walk back to my belongings and an automobile.

By the time I got home, I could see the first beams of a sun on the horizon, a time I would normally wake up. I snuck into my room and collapsed on the bed in dirty clothes, immediately falling asleep, only to be woken up by my mother half an hour later stating I am late for work. I called the precinct, notifying them of my today's absence regarding a sickness I developed overnight, and resumed sleeping. Time spent crawling through a cold and damp catacombs left me a bit feverish and my body demanded some time to recover. Same could be said about my mind, as my slumber was attacked by a series of wild dreams, taking me back to the blasted underground, tormenting me with an unseen creature rumbling around.

I awoke sometime after noon, feeling rather rested and healthy, with just a slight coughing from the cold, only memory of my underground adventure, which seemed so distant now. I helped myself to a late lunch and grabbed today's newspaper to accompany me. I seemed to miss a rather hectic occurrence last night, as more and more people were reporting strange night noises, a group of tavern visitors were startled by something horrific in the streets and one woman was missing her child for a third day in a row. It all happened on a far side of Wheatfield, but my mind suddenly connected all the happenings into one case and painted the source as that creature I have heard in the tunnels, despite lacking a direct proof. I was strangely attracted to Harlington's house and believed the solution to all of this must be lying somewhere inside. If I only could look into their basement and find the door to the tunnels, and maybe somehow prove they are using them, maybe it could lead me further in the investigation.

I was eager to return back on track, but kept a cool head and took a slower approach. Hot bath calmed my judgment and washed away the slimy dirt. I then procured myself a fresh set of clothes, cleaned my boots and set off to the station to share my findings with Cardenas, but he left the precinct an hour ago to visit young doctor Porter, as the infatuated woman we found at Christensen's house seemingly awoke from her comatose state.

I immediately went to his clinic and joined up with Cardenas, who was already performing an interrogation. Mouse was still visibly shaken and her accounts of what happened were foggy at best, the result of a rather serious shock, as stated by Porter. She was a harlot by occupation, to no one's surprise, and the last sharp memory was her meeting with a client, after that, everything feels like a faint dream. She recalls a house somewhere, a lot of talking, she drank a lot… A feeling of immobilization, cold ground… Something wet and slimy wrapped around her legs and slowly moving upwards…

She suddenly sat upright on a bed and let out a horrifying shriek, coming from a person experiencing absolute terror, trying to push herself away with her feet. Me and Cardenas had to grab and hold her, while Porter prepared a dose of sedatives, but she suddenly calmed down, before he could approach her with a needle.

We gave her a second to recollect herself, she was firmly grasping my arm as a child seeking protection, gasping for breath.

“I remember, now…" she whispered. “The house on the hills, down in the cellar. Something is hiding there, he is hiding something. Bastard. All fancy, but he's a real devil, it was going to eat me and he watched. He watched… God, how he watched me, I remember it all, it had me by the legs! Something crashed upstairs, everyone was shook, I got up and ran. I ran, I ran far away, down the hill."

My arm became a comforting stuffed animal for a babbling harlot, she squeezed it, stroked it and held on to it for dear life, as she laid out her surprising statement, a flash of consciousness, before shock took over her and she was just muttering certain words over and over again. Porter applied a small dose of sedatives to her arm to help her relax and get more rest, it was not wise to pressure her into additional answers.

Cardenas was at loss for what that was supposed to mean, but I had a hunch which I shared with him. I have also explained my reasoning behind missing at work earlier today and pointed at Harlington as our prime suspect behind everything, but when my partner demanded some solid evidence for that, other than baseless accusations, I had to admit empty hands. Tiger detective was reluctant to agree to my suggestion of examining his cellar and see if it is connected to the underground tunnels, and if not, delve into said tunnels and attempt to open doors I presumed led to his house.

My partner was objectively against going spelunking, doubting I even had that experience, blaming it all on some short-term fever dream, but had to consent to another visitation of Harlington's house under my constant pressure.

We arrived as sunset started changing the color of the skies and found both scholars performing some renovations on the outside walls of their house. We were welcomed warmly and encountered no protests as we suggested we would like to investigate their basement. He led us there without a delay, asking for a source of such concern, but without direct evidence it felt wrong accusing him of any crime, one harlot's delirious claim was not a solid enough presumption.

Harlington's basement was no damp dwelling, it was a well maintained space with electric lights, used for storing and partial preparation of groceries, petrol, coal and other supplies needed to run a house. Brick walls, though cold, were sparse of any mold and while the floor had some stains, it could not be considered dirty. I immediately started snooping around, especially around walls and behind shelves, searching for a hidden door into caverns, leaving Cardenas to deal with the professor, but was quickly overwhelmed with frustration, as I could not find a single sign of it.

“Dear detectives, may I ask you about the source of your sudden interest in my basement?" Harlington asked, seeing my near furious state, slowly wagging his tail. “I want to help your investigation in any way possible, but it seems like your interest in me and my house is becoming an unhealthy obsession. If you wish to accuse me of any crime or participation in it, I demand you to present me with proof, or at least share a reason on why you barge into my house so frequently? Truly, I am starting to feel like a suspect."

I looked at Cardenas, wondering if we should disclose the statement of the harlot, but my partner politely backed out of the situation, apologizing for our sudden invasion of his privacy, claiming we heard rumors about underground tunnels going through the whole hill and wondered, if his house is connected to them, by any chance.

This calmed Harlington down right away and he amusingly replied he heard that rumor, too, and assured us, there are no secret entrances in his basement - to underground tunnels or anywhere else. He admitted his doubt such excavations could ever exist, stating work such a project would require would be immense and ultimately pointless. Yes, there could be a few tunnels connecting some neighboring houses, but not some sophisticated system of underground roads.

Cardenas thanked Harlington for his cooperation and before I could protest, nodded at me to leave the basement. Wheezing with helplessness, I gave in, hoping my more experienced supervisor knows what a proper course of action will be next, and walked up the stairs back outside.

Without a single piece of evidence, Cardenas became rather irritated, stating whore that just recovered must have been mistaken, sourcing her claim of kidnapping as simply a delirious state caused by overconsumption of opium. He was worried that if we kept pressing the professor with empty hands, he might start taking legal actions, and wanted to write off the whole incident as a prank from local kids, just as all the nightly rumblings. I objected with caverns I discovered and urged him to investigate them, with proper tools to open the door I presumed led to Harlington's basement, but Cardenas immediately halted all my plans that we needed all the proper permits to perform such an extensive operation.

I was filled with despair, as it seemed every obstacle I have overcome so far was in vain and our investigation pretty much finished without any real conclusion. I was disappointed with my partner's lack of drive, but understood after years of dealing with the lousiest crimes, he must have developed a certain apathy towards anything looking challenging.

I accompanied him back to the station and descended down into basement archives once again to escape his irritated mood, attempting to fill out a report from there, but struggled with proper description of what had exactly happened. I went over some legal books available in hope of finding advice on how to deal with this situation, but soon started dozing and ultimately fell asleep after a while.

I woke up about an hour later, with aching back, and decided to help myself with some coffee and maybe a patrol on the streets to freshen myself up. I had this nagging desire to delve into the underground again, but was worried I might make things even worse. Cardenas was nowhere to be found, but I refrained from asking about his whereabouts from the other policemen present - I was sure he had his reasons to abandon me here.

I returned to my corner in the basement with a cup of fresh coffee, delving back into paperwork, but was soon disturbed with a familiar rumbling that sent me into a state of increased heartbeat. I looked over my shoulder and listened for more noises in the silent dungeon, but could not hear anything more. I stood up and sneaked around with ears searching for any sound, but ended empty handed, again. In one of the corners, right behind the wall, I believed I heard some sort of scratching, but it was so vague I could not determine whether it was even real. I stood and stared at the wall, pondering whether I should follow the example of my partner or delve into the caverns under the Wheatfield once again, properly prepared, and finally make some progress in this weird case.

I sighted with despair and sat back to my table, going back over the books, but could hardly keep any focus. My mind, as harrowed by the underground experience as it was, could not let go and desired more exploration. I pressed on, trying to have some work done, but was interrupted by another rumbling, whose subtleness without any actual grasping point was driving me mad. I repeated my scouting of the archives and then walked up on the street, now slowly going empty as the evening began approaching. No pedestrian seemed to be alarmed by the sounds and I was met with confused looks from my colleagues. Was I actually going insane and just suffering from hallucinations?

I shook off the speculations and labeled the cause as stress and exhaustion, returning back to work. Coffee helped me focus and I was nearly done with my report, when I realized it was nearly eight o'clock in the evening already and most of the force left a long time ago. I decided to call it a day and started cleaning my desk, when another rumbling struck me - literally. I could feel very subtle vibrations going through my body and deducted this was no hallucination. Something heavy was moving around me.

I ran outside into a chilly night air and listened, frantically looking around. Rumbling again, very subtle, but I noticed a familiar shadow moving through the street to my right and decided to give a sneaky chase. I caught up with him very soon and despite my female constitution, my size, strength and overall athletic prowess surpassed his, giving me no trouble in grabbing him and preventing his escape.

“Mister Haldigan!" I struck him with a firm voice. “Why are you creeping around here at night?"

“Please, miss, you don't understand! You must let me go, we are all in great danger!"

Squirrel seemed to be in great distress, swiveling in an attempt to escape my grasp.

“I demand an explanation for your actions - and where is your colleague? You will tell me everything at the precinct."

I reached for handcuffs, but was stopped by Haldigan's hand.

“No, I cannot lose him, again. If you come with me, I will tell you everything, but you must help me put an end to this madness!"

We were interrupted by another rumbling, going seemingly somewhere around us and heading back to the police station.

“It's heading to the waterfront, but the path is blocked. It will go back."

“What are you talking about?" I asked slowly and examined Haldigan with an attentive look.

“Harlington had an accident during his African exploration, as you might have heard, but what you are not aware of is that he encountered certain dark magic during his wandering through the jungle and brought it back to Wheatfield. That dark magic is currently moving through the tunnels below us."

I listened to his story and watched him carefully, unsure of what to think, but with his statement, everything started making so much needed sense.

“You saw it, too, you know what I'm talking about!"

“No, I didn't see it," I said and let go of my grip on the squirrel assistant. “But I was in those tunnels and heard something large crawling around."

“Then you know what I'm talking about. You must help me stop my partner, he- It got over his head. He kept it well under control in the beginning, but as it grew larger and hungrier, Harlington got progressively more deprived. Don't let his courtesy fool you - he is a real devil when nobody's looking."

“Assuming I believe you, what do you suggest?"

“Arm yourself and meet me at our house. I will then explain everything to you."

I was not sure in the slightest of what to expect, but when arming was suggested, I did not spare any expenses. My rank allowed me to use precinct armory to my delight and proquisitioned myself a shortened shotgun, a memento from the Great war, handling of which I was very well familiar with thanks to courses on academy.

I arrived at Harlington's house in my motorcar shortly after and found the front door half open, with Haldigan calling me in right as I peeked inside. Living room, connected by a hall with the front door, was covered with notebooks, sole papers, diaries and sketchbooks, which the squirrel assistant must have hastily brought from above.

“I have prepared everything, here," he pointed at a stack of several notebooks at the coffee table. “In case of my sudden demise, this will explain everything, along with the instructions on how to stop Harlington. Now, follow me. We don't have much time, so I will explain to you as much as I can as we go."

Haldigan led me into the basement and after moving away a large old rug hanging on the wall revealed a secret door into the underground I was attempting to open. I shared my little adventure with the squirrel and he admitted they were aware of my presence, but simply could not reveal the connection of their house to the tunnels.

As we were delving deeper, accompanied with yellow lights of our electric lanterns as guides, throwing strange shadows all around, Haldigan spoke quietly with a calm voice, despite the rather harrowing circumstances, and briefly revealed Harlington's story that led to this situation.

During his African expedition, the fox professor got separated and subsequently lost in the jungle for a few days. Severely dehydrated and sick with fewer, he was saved by a primitive tribe, who fused his life with an Atkhnu, a species of worm native to the jungle surrounding the village, using ancient shamanistic magic. With this ritual, Harlington quickly recuperated and gained a new strength, but in turn, he had to provide for his new partner, as they were now dependent on each other. At first, care for the worm was rather simple and straightforward, Harlington fed it insects and small pests a few times a week, as the creature possessed a rather small appetite. Until that time, everything was all right and under control, and they even intended to form some sort of a scientific study that would explain the whole mechanic behind this bond, but then came a moment when the professor's will started breaking apart.

One afternoon, they came home and discovered a worm must have escaped its confinement and took on hunting down its own prey. It started with spiders in the greenhouse, greatly decimating their collection, some snakes and larger bugs. Then it feasted on the birds, resting on the fence around the house, dug into burrows of rodents in the garden and generally terrorized all animals in the vicinity.

At this moment, Harlington noticed growth in the size of his protege, as well as his own physical power. He fell for this charm very quickly, ignoring Haldigan's suggestion worm should be kept in a better confinement, and intended to feed him bigger species to see how is his diet connected to the sudden increase in size.

Scholar then started feeding the worm raw meat - first single cuts, then moved to whole parts and unprocessed halves, but this was not a sustainable solution. To have a whole living animal delivered to a house of two scientists would be very suspicious, so Harlington decided to resort to a crime - crime being stealing cattle from Mr. Green. Unfortunately, first attempt did not work out, so a biologist simply unleashed the worm at pastures at night, hoping it would feed and then return, but it found itself an entrance to the underground tunnels, the same hole I fell through, and began its rampage.

It was unbelievably evasive and intelligent, probably because it shared the intellect with Harlington, and managed to devour several of the poorest citizens without being noticed, gradually growing in size. Desperate search was commenced, but ground was too big to cover for only two people, so Harlington came up with a plan to lure Atkhnu back into their house with a sedated prostitute - which went as good as any other plan. Haldigan voiced his doubts about confining the worm again, even if the mouse would not run away, but his partner paid him no mind. He became increasingly difficult to reason with, becoming obsessed with his Atkhnu. It was harrowing to see him watch the worm devour something living, slowly gulping down a poor critter, with such interest and pleasure. It was difficult to determine how much of an old Harlington is still inside and Haldigan became scared of him, as all attempts to bring him back to his senses failed and finally, Harlington ran into the tunnels in search of his worm, the squirrel decided this nightmare must be stopped with force.

Distress was growing inside of me, as we were delving deeper into the maze of corridors and even though I have sometimes noticed places I have passed through during my first expedition, I soon lost a clear sense of where we came from. Haldigan was sure in his leadings, stopping a few times to make sure we were heading through the right direction, and this made me wonder how he can know which corridor is the right one? I started having my doubts if I made the right choice and came to the conclusion the scholar must be either mad or is leading me into a trap.

After a while, tunnels turned into caverns, which were rather spacious, as my flashlight could barely reach a stalactite covered ceiling and jagged walls, and Haldigan signaled me to stop. Place was cold and humid, with some rattling echoing through the rocky walls from the darkness in front of us, but the air was otherwise rather fresh, with a slight draft tingling on top of my ears. My companion whispered we are close and must not negotiate with Harlington in any way, instead promptly killing him without hesitation the first chance we get. I, naturally, disagreed with this procedure, instead wishing to bring a deranged biologist to justice, including questioning and court, getting the impression this was all some ploy for Haldigan to get rid of his partner, for whatever reason, and intended to protect Harlington until I could listen to his side of the story.

What followed was rather confusing and hectic, not to mention the whole horror aspect of the situation that immediately unraveled. We advanced further into the cave, but soon halted, as we encountered what we were looking for. Haldigan gasped for breath and I heard voices - not very clearly, as I prudently stuffed small pieces of cotton into my ears beforehand in fear of losing my hearing, if shooting were to occur in this enclosed space, but the squirrel's body was blocking my view. I wanted to sidestep to have a better look, but the wet stone floor caused me to slip and fall, sliding back a little. Beam from the flashlight was jumping around, drowning Haldigan and Harlington in darkness, disconnecting me from the situation for a short while.

I remember very little of what followed. I was tumbling around, trying to regain my footing and apprehend both of the men, forcing them to submission with the threat of my shotgun, but that did not happen. I called out on both of them, aiming the barrel to the faint light outlining Haldigan's body, and came closer. My own flashlight was now gradually illuminating the whole scene, but instead of carrying out my police duty and detaining both men, I slam fired five consecutive shots and apparently collapsed shortly after. I was told it was caused by gasses from burnt gunpowder, combined with not so fresh underground air filled with mold and rot, sending me into a state of dizziness. My memory was objecting to that statement, but nobody paid any attention to that.

I was found and rescued by my partner Cardenas inside the underground tunnels, who, while I was sleeping in the basement back at the precinct, went to secretly watch Harlington's house. He saw me armed with a shotgun come inside with Haldigan and after a while secretly followed us. He was just in the basement when he heard shots coming from the open door and went to investigate, when he found me collapsed on the floor not too far from the entrance. No sign of any of the biologists, though, and he could not even find whatever I was shooting at. No holes, pellets or spent shells anywhere, and when he later returned to the tunnels with me, we were not able to even find the cavern I supposedly opened fire in.

We kept the existence of the underground complex a secret for now, hoping to use it to our advantage in the future when fighting crime. Harlington and Haldigan were not heard of again and since investigation of their disappearance fell on us, we had a free hand in deciding what their fate was, although Cardenas was still very doubtful of my explanations, even after I presented Haldigan's notes, he just waved it off as a rambling of some madman. I soon gave up in my attempts to shed some light on what happened and even started doubting the authenticity of my own memories.

I went through Haldigan's notes, of course, in the beginning, they both seemed to be very interested in the magical aspect of Atkhnu and the primitive tribe that saved Harlington. They did some research in this regard, although study material on African witchcraft was rather limited. From what I gathered, things like this were not that uncommon through the whole dark continent and there were many reports of secluded primitive tribes mastering some form of wizardry, although there were disputes if it was real magic, as tribes like these usually quickly succumbed to a colonization process. Legend goes, a long time ago, before the first modern humans appeared, there were ancient civilizations populating the earth and were in close contact with the gods who gifted magical powers to their worshippers. These powers were then passed on to their descendants, forgotten through time and destruction, only to be discovered again by primitive natives.

Haldigan mentioned some god's names, but provided no details on them, leaving any additional research on me. A lot of the manuscript was dedicated to Atkhnu, who was supposed to be a worm from some distant planet, brought to earth by the ancient gods, then offered to the natives as a source of power. If Harlington had any magical capabilities, I could not tell, as not even Haldigan mentioned them, but it seemed he fully succumbed to the worm's powers, frantically searching for more nourishment.

It did not matter, as he was dead now - either dead or missing from this plane of existence, as in the notes, Haldigan was concerned whether Atkhnu could be really destroyed. In final moment, fused together with his lifegiver, or at least that is what I had deducted from those few seconds of horror when my flashlight illuminated the scaly crawling mass lying on a cavern floor with biologist's body joined together, until I unleashed barrage of lethal pellets, tearing apart everything they hit.

As for what happened to Haldigan, I could not say: was he devoured, fused with Harlington or became an unfortunate victim caught in a crossfire? I did not know. Whole event was so traumatic my mind tuned out some parts in order to keep me sane and left me with only flashes of shotgun barrel, lighting up Harlington's face laughing right at me as pellets were seemingly going straight through him.