V.

By the time I had fully grasped what I had seen, the museum was closing for the night, thus I was forced to take my leave. But, as you can imagine, I was completely enthralled by the vision of my friend's face, locked forever in that terribly empty gaze. I think it might be an understatement to conclude that an overflow of questions caused a secondary sense of bewildered shock, but I perceived within myself an odd tendency towards wonder, a sort of awe that pushed me to ask more questions. How could Richard turn into an Angel itself? Could it be that his interactions with the creatures somehow changed him completely? Why was he choosing to stay in the museum, even when he was not being looked upon? Is it possible that he waited for me to see him? These questions only provoked what was already previously intensified. Truthfully, if there was any cause for an active interest on my part, it was altogether motivated by a proper sense of fear.

I began with a thorough search through my grandfather's journal, a systematic study for any bit of information regarding an Angel's touch or perhaps an Angel's form, but I was unable to find any conclusive findings regarding either. The journal itself was not in any sort of logical order, some points at the beginning, while others related to it at the end. The record was detailed, to be sure, but what I wished to find was underneath a layer of scribbled notes and personal accounts. What I wished to find was something of specificity. But I was not discouraged. The following day, I went to the museum and waited once more for an opportunity to be alone with Richard's statue. As expected, as soon as the room was clear of any witnesses, Richard briefly revealed himself and, in the blink of an eye, returned to its previous state.

There is seldom an instance wherefore my interest in discovery is perpetuated by mystery, but after those first two occurrences, I was certainly led along by an overwhelming lack of answers. I returned to the museum on three other occasions, each time with the intent to find a pattern to the strangeness, and, as anticipated, he faced me. Yes, it was obvious to me that he was attempting to communicate, but I was still at a loss for what these messages meant... until, one day, something changed.

On Monday December tenth, I received a letter from the post office with a note apologizing for the tardiness of yet another piece of mail. This letter was dated on the 17th of November, addressed to me from Richard himself, and conclusively must have been lost in the shuffle of the other delayed letters. When I read it, I must confess, there was a bit of apprehension. Understandably, my attitude towards the matter was by this time an alarmedly personal one. I was afraid for Richard in his present circumstances, yet half intrigued by the contents it contained, but it acted as a way for me to affirm my confidence in Richard's efforts to communicate with me.

The letter reads as follows:

Saturday, 17 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

Your frustrations about the contradictions between the legends of the Weeping Angels and my side of the story is completely justifiable. I completely understand. I do... and I must apologize again. There's so much I wish you could understand, but I held back from revealing the full truth because I was afraid of your reaction. But that shouldn't have stopped me from being honest with you.

Lewis, probably the easiest way to explain to you why there is no record of the Weeping Angels, my great grandfather's house, or even Sally Sparrow, is because no records of them exist yet. Allow me to explain. In the future, there is a device called the internet that allows people from all over the world to communicate to each other in seconds. Information is at our fingertips and nothing is a secret. There are places called Forums where people discuss and share knowledge about anything in the world and that is where I found out about the Weeping Angels. Scripts about certain devices called DVDs, with an incomplete warning from a man called The Doctor, proliferated the web. Amongst the theories and fictions, I happened upon a complete copy by a man named Larry Nightingale. It interested me at how much sense it made so I sought him out. To my surprise, he told me his experience with the Weeping Angels first hand. His wife, Sally Sparrow, used to visit my great grandfather's house after he mysteriously disappeared, taking pictures of it's melancholy emptiness. They told me about how they were able to communicate with The Doctor and save his phone box and, ultimately, how they were able escape. I jumped onto the forums to spread the story but nobody believed me or what I had to say. Naturally, I had to give them proof, so I went to my great grandfather's house to see the statues myself. I took pictures of them, of the house, everything I needed in order to prove the story true. My mistake was moving them from their original spots. I wanted to take pictures of them individually. So I moved one out from the square to take a picture. My fatal mistake was blinking. One second I was in the basement of my great grandfather's house and in the next I was somewhere else, years in the past, confused and unsure of what happened. It wasn't until much later did I realize what had transpired. And, by that time, my desire to get back to the future was fully established. I thought that if the Weeping Angels could send me into the past, they could send me to the future. I just needed to find one.

Remember when you asked my why the Angels were so important to me? That is why I seek to find them. I wish to get back to my family, back to my time, and forget all of the horribleness they have caused me.

I hope you can forgive me for not being honest, Lewis. Our separate reasons for finding the Weeping Angels has, at its core, a common goal. I'm positive that by working together we can help each other in what we are actually looking for.

Signed,
Richard W. Drumlins

Such were the words for which I was to read when I received the letter. Afterwards, I held the paper in my hands, likely for minutes, before it was fully processed. The extreme disposition of his letter was highly irregular so that my brain whirled; and where before I had attempted to explain things away, I was now accustomed to believe in the most abnormal and incredible wonders. Reading Richard's letter was just the final point which gave me allowance to relinquish any contained mental self-control. But it was not the absurdity of time travel that caused me to reconsider what I had read, it was the revelation of Richard's true motivation for searching out the Weeping Angels. Although he did not initially tell me why, I determined that he only wanted to reconcile fact and fiction. But his motive was deeper than that. Unfortunately, knowing the truth did not satisfy my curiosity, but stoked the guilt that was already enflamed. Immediately, I grabbed my grandfather's journal, and sojourned to the Miskatonic Museum for the final time.

Peculiar as it was, the Miskatonic Museum was virtually deserted. A few patrons walked about the various display cases and exhibits, but, overall, the place was barren and empty. Verily, I found myself to be the only person in the Weeping Angel's exhibit, happily free from any distractions or need for patience. But it was then, the last time I set foot in that grim museum, that I felt the complete sense of loss.

I approached slowly, every step resounded by a skittish ricochet off of the hollowed walls. Now and then I reminded myself to breathe, for being in the presence of that statue never ceased to make my body tremble, even if I knew it held the consciousness of my good friend. A single light from the rafters listlessly drifted slightly off kilter just above Richard's display, causing its shadow to dance below the concrete mass it stood upon. As soon as I came just in front of the velvet rope, I stood still, unsure of what I wanted to say or do. As I had done previously, I closed my eyes, and upon opening them, found that Richard was already looking at me. It took a measurable amount of courage to match his silent stare.

I surveyed his stony features, looking for some sort of humanity, some sense of who he used to be, but seeing as I was already crushed by his letter, the reality of his disappearance readily set in. Whatever life my friend wanted back was gone forever. Whomever he loved, whomever he held dear to his heart, were gone because he could no longer be with them. Becoming an angel took away that hope- any hope for returning to his own time, and I felt the emptiness that sorrowful realization brought up within me. It was as though our quest had come to an abrupt halt. All the legends of the past, and all the stupefying imputations of Richard's photographs, even the relentless searching and the frustrations of impatience, it welled up in a meaningless memory that no longer carried a purpose.

"I'm sorry, Richard," I felt compelled to say. "I'm so, so sorry... I received your letter too late. I- I don't completely understand it... But I suppose it's not in my capabilities to know right now."

A slight chuckle escaped from my mouth at that moment, for over the course of my friendship with Richard, there were so many things I was not able to fathom, yet here I was again, fully aware of monstrous moving statues or time travel, but still I was unable to bear them at present. But the thought went away as quickly as it had come.

I shook my head in sadness and in an admitted defeat. "There is so much that I wish I could do for you... but there's nothing I can do- I am completely useless to help you! Your family will never see you again. Your friends. Your life... It's gone... We began this with such vigor and freeness. Our unencumbered reach was boundless in possibility. We had conviction. We had faith- each of us had something vital to prove... didn't we?... We were both right, you know. The Weeping Angels are indeed real. You found them... and my grandfather wasn't insane. We were both right, Richard... yet you didn't get what you wanted... I've never felt so disappointed."

Never was a sane man more dangerously close to appearing utterly insane. There I was, speaking to an Angel statue. It was a thoughtless rant to be sure, but it was full of genuine frustration and pain. I felt it necessary to tell him how I felt, even if I was unsure if he was able to hear. Saying it out loud kept the insufferable emotions I felt from building up into absolute mental chaos. But the statue continued to remain motionless. The blank expression on his face only facilitated further guiltiness.

"Look!" I exclaimed pulling out my grandfather's journal from my coat pocket. "I even found the journal. You never got a chance to read it... I wish I could go back in time and give this to you. Everything my grandfather found is in here. 'That which holds the image of an Angel becomes itself an Angel'. It's right here..." I looked down, the journal held firmly in my grasp. I was unable to face him anymore. "It was right here. It could've helped you. You could've thrown away those damned photographs... You wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have become one of them... Why did you have to look at them in the eyes-"

When I lifted my head, I was once again rattled by a surprising turn of events. Richard was no longer staring at me merely with stoicism. His arm was lifted, and his pointer finger was directed at me. To be brief and plain, I was taken aback. This one act was outside of the pattern I had seen over the last week and had considerably brought about a new message for me to encode and decipher. But it was outrageous! I had not yet understood the meaning behind the first!

"What are you trying to tell me?!" I lamented. "What is it that you want?"

Richard remained motionless. His finger pointed directly towards me.

"I don't understand, Richard! I don't know! Why are you doing this?!" I threw my hands into the air. "What is different about today? What possible reason could there be?!... Everything is as it was when I first came, and every subsequent visit afterwards has not changed. Nothing is different. The only other thing I can think of is-" I stopped. And looked at my grandfather's journal. I gripped it more tightly and moved closer to him. "Is it this?"

Richard was again motionless, but his finger was now pointed at the journal.

"Why do you want me to pay attention to this?"

Of course, he did not answer. He continued where he was. His finger pointed directly at the journal. But I was not discouraged. The new sense of understanding momentarily abated those previous emotions. Having come to the conclusion, I felt as though I should not allow myself to stop. I was so close to uncovering the truth. To discover that my grandfather's journal was the thing he had been waiting for was a particular comfort, but it is remarkable how answering one question only brings about more.

With slight hesitancy, I presented the journal just below his finger. "I don't know what you want, Richard. Please... help me understand."

It was then that I closed my eyes. And waited...

To feel the weight of his hand unseen upon the journal itself was both relieving and terrifying all at once. With my eyes closed, I heard the soft turning of pages and I wondered what it was he was searching for. It brought about a queer sort of aversion and panic, but I dared not open my eyes to look, until, finally, he stopped.

I realize how impossible it may still seem to you. The time has yet to come for you to experience what that word truly means. But the accumulation of my experiences had clearly led me up to that point. Although there was a strange sense of incompleteness to it all, Richard's messages pointed me in a certain direction, one that I had not fully understood. It was as if the knowledge of the Angel's existence had no significance without any application behind it. Indeed, I was overall reserved about what I might find, yet upon opening my eyes, the purpose became clear. With Richard's finger gently pressed against the tattered paper, my gaze slowly traveled from his face, to his hand, and down upon the printed page, where I found what he wanted me to see.

Penned in that cramped, archaic-looking scrawl, the journal was opened to the account of your plight with uncertainty, yes, the very story my father told me a week prior.

It was then that I realized what Richard wanted me to do. The idea was preposterous, to say the least, and it garnered definite inquiries regarding the reasons behind such a suggestion. I had never previously considered the thought, and there was no sensible logic behind it, but despite the incredible nature of what he implied, I could not help but at once take Richard more seriously than our friendship had previously precipitated. From the first, I saw that Richard was a man of character, kindness, and intelligence. He appreciated and valued our friendship as much as I did. But, it appeared that he also had greater control over what I can only assume to be the Angel's instinct. There was still a sense of humanity left within him. He was in there somewhere, trying to help me, despite that there was nothing left to do for him.

When he extended his finger towards me, I immediately understood that any natural apprehension was unfounded. I realized then that it was his friendship that furthered my motivation when he disappeared. Yes, it was even his act of friendship that moved me to do this, to trust in him implicitly and come to you, to pretend I didn't know you, and to wait patiently until the time arrived for me to reveal the truth. I suppose I will never get a chance to fully express to him how important his friendship was to me, but I can tell you how much yours meant. Because this is why I Have come. As I pen these words to you now, I can't help but wonder where I might be had it not been for you. From every fond memory as a child to now, I am forever indebted to you. Your experiences were the proof of my own conviction, the motivation behind my bouts with uncertainty. And with these words, I wish to return the gesture. These accounts of my life are not mere tales of fantasy. These are true. Indeed, these will give you strength whenever you feel lost or discredited... I am confident they will. But, regardless of what will happen, I suppose this is where my story ends.

Please, I implore you not to tell anyone who I am or what you have read. Like I have stated before, I have written this for you, and only you. In the end, I hope that it serves as a reminder. A reminder that everything you've accomplished was worth it. That everything you have yet to accomplish will help not only myself but millions of people for years to come.

Take care. Always remember that the truth you seek is not out of your reach. Do not give up, for in due time, you will find it.

Your loyal friend and loving grandson,
Lewis Holloway