Sunday, 4th September, 1920

As I was keen on removing my mind from the frightening events of yesterday I decided to pay a visit to my new place of occupation; Oldham hospital. Unfortunately this day has left me with far greater concerns on my mind.

At the door I was welcomed by a Mr. Darcy which pointed me in the direction of the director of the hospital. Dr. David Oldham, the director, seems to be an experienced person. My first patient is a Mr. Eric Owen, who appears to be the focal point of some interest for the local law enforcement. I am a bit hesitant about all of this but Dr. Oldham instructed me to aid the police in trying to find the whereabouts of a Brandon Welsh, who is a friend of Eric's.

Eric Owen, Case file 30-40.
Diagnosis: Heavy schitzophrenia. Paranoia. Psychotic attacks. Bad influence.
Gender: Male
DoB: 1893
Profession: Fisherman, owns his own fishing boat.
Background: Came from Ireland with his father. Mother died on Ireland. Was recovered in current state alone and bleeding on his fishing boat.

Apparently Brandon is a patient who escaped a while back. He was receiving treatment after murdering his entire family.

I decided to investigate further so I visited Brandon's cell in the basement, where they seem to keep the dangerous patients. I got a cold shiver down my spine as I see a cell full of markings and the scribbles of an insane mind, but one marking indeed froze my blood to ice. I found the same strange symbol, the pentagram in his cell as I did in my book. I also see countdowns, counting down from 20. The classic reference to "them". I'm not at all sure of what to make of all of this. And then, something really strange happened... I saw something, a vision, the archangel Gabriel... Obviously the the strain of yesterday was affecting my mind at this point. But it wasn't over yet.

I managed to find out that Brandon murdered his family at the age of 21 and that they lived on Blueberry St. 13. He calls himself the Savior. A favorite den of his was a local dump called Carl's.

So with my friends, who also seem to have various interests in Brandon... So I admit it wasn't very smart, but we visited his home on Blueberry St. We uncovered a strange journal and a pendant with the symbol again.. I'm... starting to hear and see things... I can't explain it... They came after us... Giant fish-like men with hooks and harpoons.. it was.. it was.. We mananged to get back to my place... But in the basement, there was the same markings.. a big manuscript foretelling our doom as a civilization and how we are not alone.. Apparently the symbol is something called the sign of the Elders... but there were other, even more frightening things... alien in nature... a thing called a Shoggoth.. and a cube.

I think I might be losing my mind...

Saturday, 3rd September, 1920

My second day in Portsmouth turned out to be very eventful. My dinner party for my new friends in this town progressed smoothly when I heard a loud crash from the library.

I immediatelty rushed there only to find to my horror a burglar staring at me from the ledge of my broken window. Then he vanished outside without me having a proper chance to acquire a good recollection of his appearance. He seems to have stolen some of the books in the library, that belonged to the former owner of my home. Having spent most of the day sorting through the library while my new housemaid Mrs. Wilson prepared dinner I was able to recall a faint memory of the missing volumes. Apparently they were without title and author and contained many blank pages and a languague which I don't recognize. It is a lot like the book the burglar dropped. As I browsed through the pages of the dropped volume I came across a strange looking pentagram. The book itself seemed to instill an eerie feeling with me, but it must be the whole event that has left me ill at ease. Nevertheless I decided to secure the book in a desk drawer.

One of my party guests, Victor Ramski leapt after the burglar and pursued him into the woods. There he sustained a minor head injury that I was able to treat after finding him nearly unconcious. The tracks left by the burglar seem to indicate that he was barefooted and have abnormally large feet.

The police arrived rather promptly, but don't seem to have any leads on who performed this ghastly deed. I can but wait for their resolution of the matter, but I fear that closure in this matter is far from hand.

Friday, 2th September, 1920

I arrived by train to Portsmouth. On the train I meet three nice gentlemen; the chief editor of the Portsmouth newspaper Carl Anderson, private detective Frank Cast and the photographer Victor Ramski who also seems to be somekind of working class activist.

Carl struck me as a very nervous and jittery man and he was acting quite suspiciously. I suspect he might be acting out some unconcious urge to attract attention.

Frank seems like a blunt and hardened fellow. He was also very suspicious of Carl and suspected him of being up to no good. He seemed to expect that Carl would blow up the train. So slight tendencies of paranoia there, but I suppose that is what the job of being a private detective entails. The cynisism of his character hints at some serious disappointments in his past.

Victor's appearance is that of an idealist. He talked about the situation that has ensued the workers' revolution in Russia and how he hoped for the same kind of liberation for american workers, but quite frankly I found it so tedious I must've drifted off into other thoughts as I simply can't recall much of it.

I took the opportunity however to invite them all over to dinner in my new home, since I sadly have yet to make any friends in this town.

Waiting for me at the station was a Mr. Jones, my driver with my new car. Apparently he was also the driver for the previous owner of my house, who as I understand it was quite the exentric. Sadly though, he recently passed away. My impression of Jones is that he is quite the capable individual. I'm sure he will come to good use.

I had Jones drive me past the hospital before I arrived at my new home on 13th Rose Street.

All things seem in order. Most fascinating is the library, though it needs some sorting of the volumes.

Mental note: Hire a housekeeper.

Before 1920

It might be said of psychoanalysis that if you give it your little finger it will soon have your whole hand. - Sigmund Freud

I recieved my medical degree from Harvard School of Medicine in 1916. After that I completed my four year residence at Massachusetts General Hospital to recieve my certification in psychiatry in 1920.

Shortly thereafter I was approached by Oldham Hospital in Portsmouth and offered a position on their medical staff. I accepted.