II.

I know that I am late, but I expect a slow day at the university. I am oddly impatient- I have a feeling of panic. No one will care if I am late, of course, but I am still aware of the possibility.

The office is fairly empty today. I am relieved- I find the majority of my colleagues tedious. The nature of the majority is dull and jaded- uninterested in much besides workload completion. There are not enough true workers- just the apathy of the awful and typical graduates. There is-

I find the others try me greatly. They are callous, and cold. That is something which I know for sure. They are all odd- wide mouths, too tall, too short- and strange voices.

How did I end up here? I don't know what I can do- I feel connected to this place, but I have always wanted to leave.

I have little to do- I am simply stuck with the awful work. There is a monotony, yes, but a sure purpose as well. I have a purpose in bringing people the truth about the ancient world. This is something which simply must be done.

I do not know why I detest company and social functions. I simply have better things to do. I see why others enjoy these things, though it seems nonsensical. That is the real problem, and there seems to be no end in sight. That is the real thing of it all- the real and true pain of monotony.

I know now that I can still find another line of work, but I feel completely enmeshed. I am in a world with no boundaries to the educated, yet here I am.

I set to work organizing files. It is a tedious task- the pointless trudge through forgotten articles and awards- the simply arbitrary to the hard won, begotten by a dead researcher long forgotten. I notice that some are for surely tongue in cheek matters:

For Exemplary Service in the Investigation of the Martian Aurora, Excellent Leadership in the Dyer Incident, Derleth-Bierce Award, Assistance in the Dunwhich-Whately Incident...

Miskatonic is known for its strange practices... And yet that is what I adore about it. That is just a fact.

I am bored by the time ten arrives, and suffering by half past eleven. I am desperate for any intervention. I am nearly considering fleeing...

Salvation? A knock at the door. I am eager but sluggish- perhaps I am no longer needed. Perhaps I have an opportunity to at last flee Arkham-

Emily Marsh is here. Ah, Marsh, who I had hoped to avoid today. In fact, I always wish to avoid her. Marsh has a rather nasty history here. No, she is not overtly hostile or traitorous- but, whether through luck or passive aggression, rather… Unpleasant outcomes surround her. Her influence is great, and her insight is disturbingly acute. The research of Marsh is never doubted, and has been used in many papers of students, faculty, and more auspicious research endeavors. Marsh is certainly difficult to work with, however. Her body language and accent are eerily foreign- for though Miskatonic prides itself upon staff of many nationalities, Marsh's behavior is an anomaly. She seems nearly cruel, though just short- as though she cannot quite bring herself to invest enough emotion for cruelty.

In some ways, Marsh is an informational black hole. She is surrounded by a constant hush- reports and awards are vague, articles pertaining to her- university and otherwise- are sparse and to the trained mind ever so inconsistent- and she is praised without well explained cause.

Marsh is of the vulgarly eccentric variety. There is an inexplicable repulsion about her. She often says little, and she is secretive with her own research. What she does, I certainly don't know in detail- something about underwater seismograph measurements. There are a number of others in her department, but they keep quiet as well.

All at once, I feel a shift- an impossibly impalpable shift, but indefinably there nonetheless. I feel a kinship to Marsh at this moment- an unwilling connection, but there nonetheless. It claws and grips- it is here to stay, I believe. Yes- this is doubtlessly something damning. Marsh has horridly blank eyes, I realize. Does she ever blink? Her pupils are colossal- there is hardly any hint of iris. She is too intense; she is uncomfortably unrelenting. In fact, I want nothing more than to draw away. There is a sour smell, and my throat is dry. My tongue is swollen. My legs tremble.

I can see that Marsh is in rare form- she seems to be holding back a dire excitement. She is so different than the other occasions I have seen her- she is certainly still contemptuous. She still has a high tilt to her chin, gaze over my shoulder.

Marsh informs me of a recent finding- a unique object of Antarctic origin. It will be cataclysmic to science, if the first reports are any indication. My opinion is wanted- I could have my name on a report.

This entire business is odd. This is just wrong- just completely stilted. This isn't quite right- though I cannot quite grasp the wrongness. Is it the abruptness of the information, without the press and the crazed coverage? Something sinister? There is indeed something sinister- the uneasy, queasy stench of Arkham hangs heavily about this. There is something terribly perverted in this city, isn't there? Just as Innsmouth is blackly corrupted. Have I missed some vital knowledge about New England? Some secret which belongs to the natives?

Marsh is making a stale explanation. She drones and drones, and she never seems to stop. That is the way of my colleagues. Droning, droning, droning. Does it ever end? Life will end, but what comfort does that give? Is there such a thing as true comfort? I don't believe so. Comfort seems a phantasm, a memory which provides only a brief, sour relief. Light is sour. The world is sour. Breath is sour. The crypt and worms wait, and more worms await the past crawlers.

I desperately wish for joy at Marsh's news. I should know relief. Yet there is a tense block- a stilling, stifling terror. Has there ever been such a nightmare?

I am nearly thrilled. I finally have a project to pass the time with. Here is the solution. All is right now. We are united. We are completely fine.

Marsh warns us that the artifact is shocking- it has never been seen- and may have adverse effects. We don't have much time to examine it before the press gets in on it. There is too much to absorb. There is something not right-

Marsh explains the security of the artifact- the sinister thing puts out fatal radiation. Welding masks are needed to safely watch it. I am confused by the dark implications- and yet excited by the new technology. What does Marsh mean by disturbing? What are we about to see? The anticipation is choking. I am still stuck in the world of boredom- the life is slow to return. There is often something which congeals in boredom- an awful clingingness. That is the awful nightmare.

We prepare quite quickly for the examination. We are anxious to be done- or, I am at the least.

I worry about the possible radiation exposure- how can Marsh possibly know what won't get through? That is pressing. That is the troubling thought of new technology.

I suppose I must trust Marsh's judgement. She is meant to be the particle department's head for a reason. Now that that is something I should entrust Marsh with- her technical skills are nearly paranormal.

The walk to the artifact seems at once unbearably long and searingly short. That is the way of fear, I suppose.

I am reluctant to look at it-