13 June 1923
My Dear Aunt Sophie,
I cannot begin to express my gratitude at having received the brass elephant serving bowl you were so generous to confer upon me. It looks splendid in the center of our dinner table. The bowl seems to move about of its own accord, but not to worry: Molly and the children find it a delightful experience to just sit and watch it move.
We had Dr. Adolphus Smythe over for tea, and I asked him what he thought of it. He, too, found it to be a gorgeous piece. I asked him about the strange movements, and he said something about curses and Elder Signs and some nonsense about the Return of the Old Gods. He is Dean of the Department of Medieval Metaphysics at Miskatonic University, and begged me to allow him to take the bowl back with him for testing. I explained to him that Molly and I could never let the piece out of our home. It is, after all, a reminder of your love and caring for us.
By the way, how is Uncle Alastair? I hope his wound from the Great War is not troubling him as much as it was last year. Oh dear, I believe your gift is now hovering over the table. I must consult my appointment book and find Dr. Smythe's telephone number. Thank you again, Aunt Sophie! You are a veritable queen among women.
Glad Tidings and My Deepest Affection,
Your Loving Nephew,
Reginald
23 June 1923
My Dear Aunt Sophie,
I sincerely hope that you and Uncle Alastair are weathering the summer heat in relative comfort. I am writing to update you on the brass elephant serving bowl you gave Molly and me for our anniversary. As you know, I observed the bowl move about our table under its own power. This was last week. After you and Uncle Alastair gifted us with the bowl, we found a home for it on the dinner table in the dining room. For the past three mornings, our maidservant Nell has entered the dining room to find the bowl missing. Each morning, she eventually found the bowl on the hearth in the parlor. Each time she found it there, she returned it to the dining room, only to find it back on the hearth the next morning. She did not tell us about the bowl until yesterday, fearing that we would call her a liar (or, worse, think her mad). Aunt Sophie, Nell has been with us for more than five years. In that time, I have found her to be the very model of honesty. Besides, after witnessing the bowl move about the dinner table by itself with my own two eyes, I am not prepared to disbelieve the poor girl’s account.
As you know from my last letter, we consulted Dr. Adolphus Smythe on the matter. I refused to allow Dr. Smythe to take the bowl back to Miskatonic University with him for testing. You and Uncle Alastair are dear to me, and I am not about to let your anniversary present to Molly and me leave these premises! Little did I know that Molly had taken the liberty of calling in her own expert. It seems that Molly’s father has an old friend by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is an elderly beekeeper from Great Britain who just happens to be in New England on vacation. We had him and Dr. Smythe for dinner two nights ago, and they ignited a quarrel that I will not soon forget!
It all started when Dr. Smythe introduced his theory that the bowl’s odd behavior is due to supernatural causes. He said the bowl is “haunted.”
Well, Mr. Holmes proceeded to light up a pipe, and lambasted Dr. Smythe for what he called “intellectual laziness.” Holmes accused Smythe of reaching for a supernatural explanation when the possibilities for a natural explanation have not yet been exhausted.
Dr. Smythe reacted to this by getting to his feet and angrily reminding Holmes that two distinguished gentlemen of Smythe’s acquaintance have done substantive and unquestioned work on what they call “paranormal phenomena.” One is a British writer named Arthur Conan Doyle. Another is a man of letters from Providence named Howard Philips Lovecraft.
Holmes took a puff on his pipe, and waved off Smythe’s claims about the research performed by Doyle and Lovecraft. “My good man” he pontificated. “Any researcher who looks to supernatural causes rather than natural causes is a veritable sloth. I am familiar with both of these men, and their work is simple nonsense and tomfoolery. Doyle believes in fairies, and Lovecraft believes in giant green octopuses. I once investigated the case of a supposedly-haunted hound. The beast turned out to be a hungry dog slathered with luminescent paint. My dear Doctor, do you also believe the moon is made of cheese?”
At this, Smythe rapped his brass-encrusted cane on the dinner table and exclaimed, “Sir, you are a closed-minded John Bull! I, on the other hand, am a learned American researcher! Good day to you!” He then pulled on his coat and left our house.
So, as you can see, life at home has been anything but dull. The mystery of the elephant serving bowl remains. We are grateful to you and Uncle Alastair for the gift, but I am afraid it has filled our home with questions. Will Mr. Holmes’ strictly-scientific methods solve its riddle? If Holmes cannot solve the riddle, then who will?
I remain…
Your Humble and Loving Nephew,
Reginald
1 July 1923
Dear Aunt Sophie,
I hope that you and Uncle Alastair have weathered the recent unexpected rainfall without too much difficulty. Molly and I are doing quite well. We both want to thank you again for the generous anniversary gift. We want to assure you that the strange problems we have had with the brass elephant serving bowl you gave us do not reflect upon you at all. In fact, the problem may not be with the bowl itself!
Please allow me to explain. You do, of course, remember the incident in which the bowl eluded our maid (Nell) by disappearing from one room and reappearing in another. Soon thereafter, Nell claimed that she woke up in the middle of the night to find the bowl hovering over her bed. As you can imagine, neither Molly nor myself could believe such a thing, but knowing Nell to be a level-headed young woman, we did not dismiss her claim outright.
The strange part occurred the following evening. According to Nell, the bowl not only hovered above her bed, but the bas-relief elephant on the side of the bowl appeared to move and even speak. In a gruff voice, the elephant said something to Nell about “strange eons.”
As you can imagine, Nell was inconsolable. Nell refused to sleep in the house, so we set up a cot for her on the covered porch. Well, the next night the bowl visited her again, and uttered something to her: a single word which sounds like “k-thul-hu.” This was the end of the rope, so to speak, for Nell. I am afraid the poor girl is now in the care of Dr. Adolphus Smythe at the Miskatonic Asylum for the Insane in Arkham. Am I surprised to witness such hysterics? Not really. After all, Nell is a young woman, and an Irish Catholic at that. But she always seemed to be such a hard-working and efficient young lady. It troubles me now to think that Molly and I trusted her with Baby Alastair for so many months.
Speaking of Baby Ally, I must return to my original point: according to the latest expert we have retained to look into this business with the serving bowl, the problem is not with the bowl itself, but with the previous owner of our house. Dr. Smythe recommended that we speak with a writer from Providence named Howard Phillips Lovecraft, so we paid the train fare to have Mr. Lovecraft come out to the house.
Lovecraft is a mild-mannered gentleman with delicate features and intense eyes. He showed Molly and me the fruits of his research, and what he had to show us sent tingles down my spine. According to public records, the house where we now live was once owned by a man named Thomas Denyson. Denyson returned from the Great War without a face, and the locals referred to him as “the masked man.” He became more and more reclusive after the war, and the obvious scars he brought home with him from Europe apparently paled in comparison with the emotional scars.
What does all this have to do with Baby Ally, you might ask. It pains me to put pen to paper on this subject, Aunt Sophie, but I must tell you. Lovecraft showed me an old floorplan of our house, dated 1918. The floorplan contains rooms and chambers that Molly and I never dreamed existed here, including a basement library (with a secret staircase connecting it with the old hollow tree in front of the house), a dungeon, a lift, and a mausoleum.
I looked Mr. Lovecraft in the eyes just this afternoon. “What was the lift for?” I asked.
Lovecraft looked intently at Molly, then at me. “The lift was designed to transport the children.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
Lovecraft leaned close. “Mr. and Mrs. Berryman, if you read the newspapers from 1918, you will find that Thomas Denyson was arrested, tried, and hanged for luring neighborhood children into this house, taking them down to the mausoleum using the lift, and killing them there. He sacrificed children to his god, Cthulhu.”
Lovecraft stared more deeply into my eyes. “Mr. Berryman, the strange behavior of your serving bowl is only the beginning. The spirit of Thomas Denyson is after your son. If we are to save young Alastair, you and I must venture down into the chambers under this house. Will you join me?”
I said yes, Aunt Sophie. What else could I say? Please pray for us.
I remain…
Your Humble Nephew,
Reginald
