From the Journal of Noah Davies

Dated November 12, 1912.

I was informed of my uncle William’s untimely passing earlier this week. A courier had been dispatched to personally deliver the note of my inheritance to my personal address. I found this particularly curious, as I had given particular instructions to the US Postal Service to forward all mail to my inbox at my office at Miskatonic University. The lad had a pallid complexion to him, and appeared to be on the very verge of death itself as he handed me the letter. I was to meet with William’s personal attorney at an address that I cannot recall at this moment.

Upon arrival, I felt a chill run down the crook of my spine. The building was not a typical lawyer’s office. It had been carefully adorned in gothic tastes: gargoyles lined the thick outer wall surrounding the building, much like a prison. I walked in, and a lovely blonde lady directed me to the attorney’s office. Over the course of the next hour, the pallid, half-dead man informed me that the inheritance was to be delivered to my residence within the coming week. He was rather hesitant to reveal what exactly it is I was to inherit, but he hinted that dear uncle William had once intended me to continue his anthropological work. I had moved into different academic pursuits, and this had unfortunately put me at ends with my now-departed uncle. He found my interest in the arts to be a waste of academic potential. We had quarreled late into his life, and to my sorrow, had never made peace.

About three days after the meeting with the attorney, a team of two movers delivered unto me my inheritance: a massive oak chest, which required the two of them to lift and move into my humble house. I directed them to leave it in my study, intending to exhume its contents at a later time. But that very night, in the midst of working on a portrait of one of my assistants, I found myself glancing repeatedly at the chest. It reeked of the sea, as though it had been taken directly from the ocean’s floor. It was a pungeant odour of fish and salt, and it seemed to seep into the very wood of my house’s walls, haunting them with an invisible stench.

The lock had been broken, and the chest opened after a bit of effort on my part. The seals had been rusted shut around the metal casings, and I heaved with quite a bit of strength. Inside was a number of items, which I have catalogued below:

-A briefcase, locked shut with a turn-slide lock. I am unaware of the combination, though the lock has been set on the code 0226.

-A series of letters denoting correspondence between my late uncle and a man by the incredibly odd and likely foreign name of Agloolik. I have posted a reminder to myself to read these in further detail later.

-An 1899 MK II model Enfield revolver, with four bullets still remaining in the cylinder. Almost all identification markers have been filed away.

-Most intriguing, an incredibly strange statuette, standing almost a foot tall. It depicts a most queer figure: an amorphous blob, off of which extend a number of tentacle-like appendages. It is composed of an unidentifiable material. At the base of the statue, there is written a series of unintelligible runic letters – none of which I am familiar with. They may be the name of the author, or perhaps the title of this odd, black piece of what I can only hesitantly refer to as art.

I’ve taken it upon myself to consult my uncle’s still-living contemporaries, though they have yet to respond to my letters. I shall show this odd statue to the anthropological professors at Miskatonic, and confer with a locksmith concerning the briefcase.

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