Teacher Hershel's Layton Journal - Misthallery: day 1
Now I'm staying in a room in North Ely Hotel, in Misthallery. Yes, for helping Scotland Yard and following my duty as citizen and yada yada yada this and more.
Anyway, now I elaborate why I'm here: apparently a letter has been sent to the police station. And not a common letter...
The envelope doesn't have any track or odd features, just that's completely typed with a typewriter. Well, maybe the sender Clark Triton has an impossible handwriting like me.
Neither the paper has something special: a white sheet where few informations have been tracked, but a story that goes beyond imagination. In a nutshell, apparently this specter is terrorizing the town and demolishing streets and quarters during the night. And, clearly, the Yard that doesn't believe in "these bravados" ought to entrust such an odd case to such an odd man. Good choice.
I mean, fair enough, I teach philosophy in a high school, but this doesn't mean that I believe in fairies and gnomes!
What caught my attention and lured me to continue the search is the second message hidden in the letter, made with the first digit of each line. "Helpsos". Too well made for being a simple prank...
Arrived in Misthallery in few hours, we've found part of the buildings wiped out, the weeps and the yells still filled the empty heights. In the air just the sentence «The Specter! It wants all of us dead!» I'd already known they were pretty superstitious habits, but I would'ven't said they could actually believe it.
I've investigated a bit asking questions to the inhabitants and guess what? They told me they hear a flute playing when the Specter disappears in the mist! Just a coincidence? Probably not, giving the fact that it's all in the Specter's fashion, like in the story.
Anyway we managed to visit Clark and apparently he was oblivious about the letter we've received... peculiar, identity theft? Maybe I'm just speculating, but the matter is even more interesting.
Being arrived in Misthallery late, we've decided —Emmy and I— that tomorrow morning we're consulting the town's Inspector, a certain Levin Jakes, also known as "Third Eye": apparently he's an able detective that can close his cases really fast. Particular the high rank of suicides and incidents in this town, though...
Theodore Bronev POV
The fog draws a condolence veil on the present and future ruins, the grey sky and humidity make the environment more stagnant.
Today is not an exploration night: I'm in the office owned by a Levin Jakes one, a bastard not different from that Hawks, both leeches and bent. I say this is a motive enough worthy for executing him. He had it coming.
The slow obese's foot make themselves notice even from fifty meters, the hallways lack of stranger steps. The tossed and shaken keys unlock the door that opens with remarkable complaints, exactly like the wooden pavement, under pressure. The man doesn't bother in switching on the light: the lamps must have been burnt by months by now because of his sloth, a candle should suffice. He sits panting on the chair, the backside makes it scream and plead for mercy, he deaf of its troubles. He starts ransacking the documents shattered on the desk with no pattern, folders only equate with the red writing "case closed". Yes, closed with an accident or a suicide, there is any difference at all? Only in few there is the name of an innocent called as culprit, just for extinguishing suspects.
Those files are thin, skinny, the pictures ineffective, the proof mustered poor, the deduction a waste, a rubbish in the wrong place. «A way, must find a way... this fucking Specter...» the beast babbles, the nails in the papers, almost as if gathering the words, an excuse that casually makes sense, a verdict in his behalf.
No, he is not the "Third Eye", but he is a mortal man, corrupted, not that far from Targent, not that far from Hawks; all of them belonging to the same race: bastards. Curiously they all have to have a nickname that refers to their acute sight and insight. Ridiculous.
He is a man that doesn't deserve mercy, a thief, a clown that makes this already mad world a circus.
He continues pointlessly his work with the documents and doesn't detect my presence, being perfectly cryptized with the darkness of the wardrobe, the breaths mute, the noose kept in my left hand, ready for action. The silence of the wings tells me I'm not in danger, that I can go anytime. I reach stealthy his back, I hasten in taking the dagger, the blade reaches the throat before he can react. «Don't move.»
He realized the ambush, his shoulders barely lifted, the freezing cold proven by the dancing curtains. «W-who are you?» he asks me, the mouth wide open speechless, the voice trembling. Weak.
«I'm the Specter.» sternly I answer ironically. Yes, it exists, I exist.
His shoulders lift almost ready to laugh, few chuckles escapes him. What a worrying incontinence. Then he realizes who has not the leverage, the upper hand. «What do you want from me?! I-I can give you anything! I can pay you any prize!»
A delirious man, that's what you are. «You'll give me anything I want?»
«Y-yes.»
«And any prize?»
«I said yes! Now wanna tell me what the fuck you want?!» he trembles even more and sweats a lot: he's growing impatient. He can't stop gazing under the desk, where he has placed for several years an emergency switch: pushing it causes the arrival of fifteen patrols ready to suppress the stranger. As if I haven't already noticed that threat.
«You just have to follow my orders.—I wait some seconds—Stay still and don't dare to turn around.» I slowly draw down the blade, he trembles in fear and determination.
As he realizes he has green light, he throws under the table for reaching his salvation. And he does, but remain just with incredulity and little oxygen n the lungs.
I toss his toward me, the noose enveloped completely the throat. The right hand keeps the crazy beast and the feet pushes on its back in order to tame it. It doesn't take long before he faints. Now I can work with no bothers. I lay the animal on the table, I tie the rope on the beam right above the king's chair, pressing for few instants on the throne's pillow. In the end I let the gravity do the rest: the man wakes up when everything is already set, spes ultima dea, he turns, making the chair fall, signing his destiny. He tosses, agitates the legs terribly, cyanosis on the face, like a bug trapped under a glass. I'm surprised the beam can lift all that weight. Anxiety steals him all the air, that little that was present in the bags. The brains dies, as if it was not already.
I leave a message on the typewriter, it can be seen as a farewell letter, I don't care.
victim's name: levin jakes
cause of death: strangulation
motive: suicide
CASE CLOSED