The Tome

     I feel helpless. According to my pocket watch it is nearly three hours after midnight. I am unable to sleep though I am on the verge of complete exhaustion. As I write this journal my bones are chilled deeper than the frozen night air that howls unmercifully. Unmercifully. It is an incessant wind that rattles the frail windowpanes of the small office I have broken into. At times I am certain if it were able--if it were a real entity--it would shatter the glass and grasp me by the throat with icy fingers, slowly choking the life from me. Oh, despair! I wish I could stop these evil thoughts that come to my mind without bidding. I cannot control the violent trembling that wracks my enfeebled frame, but I must regain my composure. I would most like to forget the events of tonight, but it is etched upon my mind with dreadful clarity. This winter solstice I have experienced something so unearthly it is certain to haunt my dreams for years to come. Since sleep seems impossible, I will explain the horrid events of this day with the hope that it will do something to unburden my fear stricken mind. I feel the only way to dispel the evil specter which now haunts me is to describe my fearful expedition in this record. I will then file this letter with the other documents I have found here. I will start from the very beginning of the events that led up to this point.

     Several years ago my brother and I came to the United States from England. Our father owns a steel manufacturing plant in London. Since he is suffering from rheumatism and unable to travel, he sent me to the States to survey the situation with the railroads. I have been charged with the responsibility of eventually taking over the family business. For one reason this is because I am the eldest (by two years), but it is also more practical because my younger brother has no interest in business dealings. At first our father was greatly upset by this, but after a while he seemed to have given up the hope of both of us taking over the business.
     Prior to coming to the States my brother and I attended Oxford University. While I received degrees in business and then law, Anthony had an insatiable taste for literature. After taking a special class called "American History and the Literature of the States," he fell in love with the whole notion of a "New Frontier." When Anthony heard that father was sending me to the United States to have a look at the railroad expansion, he would not leave me alone until I agreed to bring him with me. Our father was disappointed by my brother's delusions but did nothing to make him stay in England.
     I have to admit that I myself have fallen in love with these United States of America. I have lived in Baltimore for the past three years and have thoroughly enjoyed the pleasant hospitality and good cheer that seems to be naturally invested in the people here.
     My younger brother Anthony is a romantic type, and I can understand his falling in love with the countryside; it is stunningly beautiful in the spring and fall. Anthony moved from Baltimore to Saint Louis about a year after we came to the states. He seemed set on pursuing the dream of frontier living. The letter he sent near the end of October indicated he was moving far west of Saint Louis to a remote plateau region he referred to as "Crescent Hill." He had purchased a plot of land some 200 square acres in size. He said that the price was so astoundingly good for such a beautiful plot of land that he couldn't pass it up. He alternately described it as living in the heart of an "Emersonian dream" and "Thoreau's perfect paradise." Apparently, he was very inspired by the works of the aforementioned writers.
     It seems he was making enough money to support his living expenses by writing frontier stories for publication in the Saint Louis newspapers. He has published quite often in many of the numerous Missouri newspapers which are full of astounding tales about the west and frontier living--and which often seem to be more fanciful than anything else. However, to purchase such an expanse of land he had to go to our father. I was stunned when our highly conservative father was only too delighted to give him the money. Anthony explained that he had taken a sudden interest in real estate, and I suppose that our father was so happy he had taken even the slightest interest in a business venture, that he blindly lent him the money without hesitation. Even I was amused by my brother's actions at first, but after researching current market prices on land in the region, I was shocked by the very low price which my brother claimed he had paid for what would be considered a prime agricultural plot of land. Seeing the possibility of perhaps making a few investments myself, I decided to visit my brother and have a look at this Saint Louis, Missouri, and what else it might have to offer in the area of real estate speculation. I was already intrigued by the possibilities that the railroad expansion offered, so it only seemed natural to look into other opportunities.
     I sent a letter to my brother informing him that I planned to visit in the spring with the first warm weather. Approximately a month and a half later, in early December, I received a letter from Anthony that greatly distressed me. Parts of it where nearly incoherent. He seemed to be referring to some woman he had become romantically involved with, but would describe her in terms as if to suggest he believed the land itself had become a real entity. "Nature visits me," he would start, "and drinks of my soul," or "She is lovely as she floats on the wind to me, and I allow her to pass through the window of my life." The letter was so full of statements such as these I was uncertain as to whether he referred to an actual woman he had met, or his "mystical surroundings that enchanted him beyond the words and visions of dreams." I knew that the works of Thoreau and Emerson had inspired him to flights of fancy, but this latest writing was far beyond what would be considered the grounded philosophical musings of a naturalist. Still, without visiting him in person I could not determine for certain whether he was simply being overly poetic or actually suffering from some type of dementia, possibly brought on by living so isolated from everything. Although Anthony is very much the romantic, this seemed extremely delusional, even for him.

     Fortunately, in one of his earlier letters he had enclosed a brief map and some written directions to his homestead. I decided that instead of waiting until spring I would visit him immediately, and the newly completed stretch of the Ohio & Mississippi Railroad offered the perfect opportunity. After two days I arrived from Baltimore to extremely frigid conditions in Illinois Town, which is on the east bank of the Mississippi opposite Saint Louis. The final stretch of the railroad had only just recently been extended to that point.
     The Mississippi was so choked with ice floes that it took all morning to ferry across the river, and I was lucky to find a chap brave enough to operate a ferry. As it was, the "ferry" was not much more than a small flat boat. Most of the standard ferry companies had closed due to the weather conditions. Surprisingly, a bridge has not yet been constructed across the river. This, in part, also pertains to my interest in Saint Louis. From the information I had gathered prior to making my expedition, a prominent businessman, Captain James Buchanan Eads, has been attempting to garner interest in a bridge company. However, as the ferryman dodged some rather large and menacing looking ice flows, he informed me that a bridge was dangerous and impossible on such a "right powerful and mighty" river, and only a fool would attempt or invest in such a fanciful venture. The rugged, working class individual, while quite skilled as an oarsman, was clearly uneducated in architecture and business. Although the river was quite deep and the bed consisted of shifting soils and sand, it was my impression that his speculation was more self-serving than anything else. I knew from my studies of the area that the ferry operators were opposed to a bridge, based purely on the affect it would have on their livelihood. Since the ferry operators had a strong presence in community, misinformation concerning the feasibility of building a bridge was fairly widespread. But there is no stopping progress, and I knew in due course a bridge would inevitably be built.
     It was almost noon by the time we had crossed the nearly frozen river. From a distance I had already noted the multitude of industrial smoke stacks that were belching black smoke into the air. Despite the freezing temperatures the wharf was alive and bustling. Saint Louis is currently the largest inland port in the United States, and this, combined with the current expansion of the many railroads, is certain to lead to very rapid growth over the next few decades. As it is, the wharf covers a stretch of several miles, and at the heart of the city the steamboats are anchored side by side with barely a breath of space between. I could see why the fire of 1949 had been so devastating. One boat catching a flame would quickly send the whole stretch on fire. As a result of the 1949 disaster the city fire ordinances were changed to require the building of brick structures along the riverfront. The many warehouses and factories have a relatively new appearance since they have been erected within the past eight years. Presently, the wharf itself is crowded with freight. Boxes, crates, merchandise and all types of cargo are overwhelming Front Street as nothing is able to ship out by boat. The river in its present condition is simply too treacherous for the steamboats to risk it.
     Saint Louis gives me the impression of a small town that has quickly outgrowing itself. Clearly from the viewpoint of a speculator such as myself the potential opportunity for investment is obvious. Saint Louis is a clear choice for a main transportation hub to the west. It is no wonder why the local magnates bill the place as the "gateway to the west." I think my father will be very pleased when I report back to him with this information.

     Armed with a map of Saint Louis, that I had prepared while still in Boston, in short order I reached the Virginia Hotel where a reserved stagecoach was waiting for me. Although I was nearly two hours late the carriage driver had waited. But then to my utter dismay he reneged on my reservation when he discovered that my precise destination was a place referred to as "Crescent Hill." On the reservation I had simply listed my destination as approximately twelve hours due west. My brother had given me the impression that this place was relatively remote and unknown. However, apparently this particular carriage driver knew of it and had a great dislike for the place, but he would not provide an explanation for why I should avoid it. While the man seemed genuinely concerned for my well being, for my part I had no choice, and no amount of money would persuade the carriage driver otherwise.
     I was left with a significant dilemma. Although there were several westward railroads, most notably the Pacific, none headed in the precise direction that I needed to go to reach my brother's estate. Frustrated, I spent the rest of the day searching for transportation. In desperation I began asking practically anyone who had some type of wagon or cart for passage. I had nearly given up when a stout fellow with a gruff appearance approached me. His clothing was dirty and disheveled, and I might have mistaken him for a vagabond had he not immediately stated, in an uncharacteristically soft voice with a German accent, that he had heard I was seeking passage, and he would be headed in the direction I needed first thing the next morning. His name was Frederick, and he was, in fact, a farmer who had recently finished bartering for wares at the Soulard Market. He said he would take me as far as a nearby village. I thought it was strange that my brother had never mentioned a town, and it was not indicated on any of the maps of the region I had obtained.
     We lodged for the night at a second-class hotel near the market as Frederick had already secured a room there. Since I did not want to loose track of the opportunity, I was forced to reside with Frederick, whose standards are not high. The place was basically a rowdy saloon complete with dancing girls, drunken rouges, and indiscrete merchants in search of willing participants for a game of chance. At one point a gunfight nearly broke out. I did not sleep well. I was already wide-awake very early the next morning when I heard Frederick stirring.
     "We must hurry," was all he said in his low voice with the thick German accent.
     It was still dark when I settled in amongst the several wooden crates and barrels that were loaded on the back of his wagon. It was bitter cold. During the night a light snow had begun to fall. As we set out a thin layer of white had already transformed the landscape.
     We departed from the Soulard district and made our way down Market Street past the multitude of two and three story brick buildings that were interspersed with dusky wood planked structures. Gas lamps illuminated the vacant streets, and the falling snow created a serene vision of the city.
     It was not long before we had left Saint Louis behind and were traveling past large country estates that quickly faded into rolling hills. It was at this point that we veered off the main road onto what appeared to be little more than a heavily utilized indian trail. The snow had continued to fall, and in fact had become steadily more intense. I was intrigued by the beauty of the countryside covered in its blanket of white, but the bitter cold made me want for a warm fire. It was rough going on the frozen trail, both for me and for the reluctant horse. Thankfully, Frederick had some wool blankets on his cart that he had just purchased at the market, and I wrapped them around myself against the bitter cold. At times I found myself shivering uncontrollably and at others I nearly drifted off--only to be inevitably jolted awake by the incessant bumping of the cart. As the day wore on the steady snow had increased into driving gusts. The back of the cart, myself included, had become buried in several inches of snow. I was constantly shaking the white powder off the blankets, and at Fredrick's bidding I used an old broom to brush off the wagon as best I could. I found it difficult to see given the conditions, and wondered how Frederick managed to continue on, but the farmer seemed to know where he was going. He often shouted at the horse in German, his voice filled with urgency.
     With the poor trail and icy gusts of wind, what should have been a twelve-hour journey had taken considerably longer, and so it was well into the evening hours by the time we reached what Frederick indicated were the outskirts of where I was headed. He pointed at a trail that veered off to the northwest, and said in a stern voice: "From here you make your own way. You are near the village." I had asked him the name of the place, but he said he did not know of a name and would say no more.
     By this time the driving snowfall had accumulated considerably. I expressed concern for his travel and offered to pay for a room for the night in the mysterious town with no name, but apparently this was out of the question as he claimed to have only a few more miles to travel. I thanked him for his kindness. I leapt down from the wagon and found the drifting snow to be quite a bit deeper than I had imagined.
     Frederick seemed a simple man. Despite our long journey, he had not spoken more than a few sentences to me, although I had made several attempts to engage him in conversation. But as I grabbed my baggage from the wagon, he said with what struck me as the deepest sincerity, "May God be with you," and crossed himself. With a snap of the reins he shouted loudly in German. Spurned into action the horse continued easterly on the harsh road with what seemed an increased sense of urgency. He rapidly disappeared from my sight in the darkness and blizzard conditions. At the time I thought the man to be insane for rejecting a nights lodging and foolishly continuing his journey. Now I understand why he did so.

     I had not gone far along the trail when through the falling snow I began to discern the dark shadows of a small cluster of buildings. As I approached I found a town center illuminated by a lone gas lamp. Straight across from me I identified the mystery town's sole tavern and inn. The sign above the door read "Hillside Saloon." It was the only establishment with a lighted window. By my recollection it was nearly midnight at that time.
     The barkeep was a tall, hulking native with long black hair and hard features that looked like they had been chiseled from granite. His frame was draped in a thick covering of leathers and animal skins. He introduced himself as Mugwah. Mugwah was friendly enough at first, offering me a free drink of brandy to toast my successful arrival. He spoke enthusiastically of my considerable bravery in the face of extreme cold and blinding snow, and with a big grin welcomed me to the "very small, very friendly Hillside Village." I accepted the brandy and good cheer graciously. We spoke briefly about the severe weather. He seemed to feel it had more to do with evil spirits than a fluctuating climate. I found him to be unusually superstitious. I had never before met a native and wondered if superstition was in their nature.
     Changing the subject I informed him that I was looking for a nearby homestead, and I hoped to reach it before the snow had accumulated much more. I figured the location was maybe a mile to the north. On this point it turned out I was right, but Mugwah seemed shocked that I was not planning to spend the night. At first I took this to be disappointment with the fact that he would not be making a few extra coins on a slow night, but when I explained that the place I was seeking was owned by my brother, Anthony Pearl, and inquired if he knew him, his face went as white as if he had just seen a ghost. He put the brandy away and told me that no one goes near the "paleface cliffs." He looked up at the ceiling and shook his arms as he informed me that we were "awakening the blood devil." He pointed at the door and shouted, "Go!" and then hurried into the back room. I heard what sounded like the door being bolted shut. Stunned and disgruntled, I took a bottle of whiskey, left a few coins on the counter and departed from the inn.

     I exited the inn and found that a palpable aura of gloom seemed to have settled over the small town, which consisted of little more than the saloon, a church, and a brief row of shops and other public buildings. The snow, which had appeared quaint earlier in the day, was now ominous and impenetrable. It had continued its onslaught in great spiraling swirls that were given an unnerving liveliness by a cold, piercing wind that howled ceaselessly. The whole place was deserted. Nature must have been sending me an omen. Oblivious, I stood at the center of the Village of Hillside under the light of the lone street lamp, and reexamined the directions my brother had sent me. I now realized that he had indicated the place in his directions, and I had mistaken "Hillside" as literally being "a hillside."
     When I was a young boy my father and I would make regular hunting expeditions. He had given me a compass that I keep with me to this day. Using it to first confirm my bearings, I then made my way to the north side of the village. Bleak winter forest loomed to each side of what Anthony named the "Northwest Road." Although there is not a road sign to indicate the place, I knew it could be none other. It is little more than an old trail leading up into a hilly wooded region, but a massive and gnarled oak tree that appears to be ancient indeed marks the spot. My brother had indicated the landmark on his map.
     I might have considered the hilly landscape transformed by this wintry scene picturesque, but the bitter wind chilled my thoughts, and the foreboding events of the day thus far had sapped my strength. I tapped the bottle of whiskey and took a long pull, resolved to find my brother.
     The so-called "Northwest Road" is terrible. I found it to be little more than an animal path. My good brother had warned me it was bad, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. If not for my extensive experience as a woodsman and hunter, I would have very much doubted it was the right place and turned back. The trail is in a complete state of disuse. Clearly it has been some time since anyone has actually used the route to reach or leave the nearby town from the region my brother refers to as "Crescent Hill." If it were not winter, what is now only a narrow trek probably would have been completely choked by vegetation. It is disused and forgotten, obviously spurned by the town inhabitants. In many places dead trees have fallen across the path. Obstacles such as these are numerous, which made my trudging through the snow all the more treacherous. As I struggled up hills, along ridges and through deep ravines, the onslaught of snow had become an all out blizzard. The stark and barren trees were being engulfed by a fearsome white. In places I stepped into drifts that were well over my knees. Often I became convinced I was no longer even following a path and instead simply wandering blindly through the snow, but inevitably I would find a split tree, a gigantic boulder, or some other natural landmark, indicated on my brother's map, that would let me know I was still on the trail. My progress was painfully slow, but what was becoming an overwhelming sense of dread and concern for my brother's safety forced me to continue on. Although I feared I would become disoriented in the dizzying swirl of snow, it was as if a strange presence had come over me and was guiding me forward. I struggled through the accumulating snow with the unsettling feeling that I was rushing into the midst of a dark dream. I trudged onward as if drawn by some kind of mysterious enchantment.

     I was on the verge of exhaustion, and convinced I could go no further, when I finally emerged from the woods into what, even in the darkness and blinding snow, I could tell is a vast hilltop plateau. It is, in fact, exactly how the map my brother provided me with depicts the geographical features of the landscape. Even though it was the dead of winter, I could still imagine the open prairie stretching out before me. According to his map, the flat plain stretches westward further than the eye can see. To the north a ridge of higher hills encompasses the northern boundary of the area he has purchased, curving around eastward until it runs down into the valley where I had climbed up from--the lowest reaches of which apparently hold the small town of Hillside.
     It is difficult for me to explain, but even though it was nearly pitch dark and blinding snow was pelting me from every direction, I had a clear autumn picture of the place in my mind. I could hear birds singing in an orchard to the north, and multicolored trees lined the northern ridge above a long line of limestone cliffs that formed the shape of a crescent moon. I could feel a light breeze blowing across the tops of the tall prairie grass, bringing with it the faint scent of winter coming. I could see the orange glow of the sunset as it illuminated the golden grass with a reddish tinge. These imaginings, of course, were based on the vivid descriptions my brother had provided in his letters. For a moment the vision was so clear that I almost forgot I was standing in the midst of a horrific winter storm. But the freezing cold was biting through my clothing and difficult to avoid, and with the howl of the wind I was returned to the reality of my situation with a brutally chilling snap.
     At first I panicked because I could see nothing in the distance except blackness, but then I discerned the dark shape of a structure and headed for it through the knee-deep snow. I soon determined that it was in fact my brother's house. The front of the house faced eastward. The small frame dwelling was made of timbers sawed flat and laid lengthwise. It is a fairly standard type of homestead architecture, and seemed to be a cross between the French and English models. This particular house was obviously one story, but appeared to have a loft or attic.
     I knocked loudly on the door. Receiving no answer I entered the place and set my bags down. Inside it was nearly as cold as the outdoors. I could not imagine my brother tolerating such extreme cold. A lamp that sat on a table had burned low, but still dimly illuminated the place. I shouted my brother's name several times, but my calls went unanswered. The inside was divided into two rooms--one in front and the other to the back. The back portion was probably an addition to the original structure. The place had wood planks covering the dirt floor. It was very rudimentary. In the center of the room was a large stone hearth. There was a cooking pot and some utensils there. I poked the pile of ashes and found smoldering coals. The smoldering coals in the hearth indicated that someone had been present in the house at least a few hours earlier.
     Shelves lining the west wall held a number of books and documents, several lanterns, other miscellaneous gear and some food supplies. The quaint home seemed fitting of the simple life of a frontiersman, and I have to admit I was surprised my brother would enjoy such a lifestyle, but in his letters he claimed it provided the perfect atmosphere for his writing. The only other item in the front room was a large trunk, and although I failed to check it, I assume it would have contained clothing and other personal belongings. Knowing my brother, I doubt there was anything of much value in it.
     I picked up the lamp. In the far wall was an open doorway that led into the back half of the house. There was nothing except farm gear and other outdoor equipment, but it is where I found a ladder leading up to the loft. The lack of my brother's presence was disturbing, and for some reason I doubted I would find him in the loft. As I climbed the ladder the only sound was the all too familiar, incessant wailing of the wind. I began to wonder if perhaps in his delirium he had wandered out into the storm and froze to death.
     I had ascended the ladder about half way when I noticed the heavy coat hanging on a peg by the door. I shuddered as a deep anxiety penetrated to the depths of my soul. With a great deal of apprehension I finished climbing the ladder.
     The light from the lantern cast ghastly shadows across the wide loft with its low and slanted ceiling. My brother was not to be found. Papers were strewn about the place. His bed was unkept, but he was not in it. He had a writing desk situated in front of a small window that looked out to the southeast. There were more papers on the desk. It appeared that he had been working extensively on a writing project, but becoming enraged he threw the entire manuscript up into the air.
     I walked over to the desk. There I found a letter which I have transcribed below. It was dated from the 22nd of December.

     I was shocked. I could not believe what my brother was saying. I noticed on the desk next to his letter what appeared to be the front page of a manuscript--possibly the one that was thrown about the place. The lines of verse were in my brother's handwriting. It was the beginning of a poem entitled "Across the Golden Field."
     I looked up from the page and noticed through the window a dot of light off in the distance. I ran to the ladder and nearly fell in my haste. The lamp crashed to the floor and went out. I hurried into the front room and grabbed another lantern from the shelf and was able to quickly ignite it. Rushing from the house I headed in the direction of the strange light I had seen. It was back in the direction from which I had come. I could see my foot falls in the snow, although they were filling rapidly with drifting snow, but the onslaught of freshly falling snow had finally seemed to slacken.
     I had not trudged far when I reached the area where I first emerged from the woods--the place that seemed to mark the southeastern boarder of the plateau region. Off to the left of the trail, and between the trees, I could see what appeared to be the flickering light of a small fire. It was a short ways ahead. I headed for it and had not gone far when the trees opened into a clearing. It seemed to be a courtyard area. In fact, when I found a snow-covered mound about two feet in height was not a tree stump, it suddenly struck me that I had entered into a cemetery. What I thought was a tree stump was actually a standing stone! Just beyond the grave marker the courtyard backed to a steep wooded incline, and an ornate vault had been constructed so that it was built into the side of the hillock. The thick, oaken door of the vault hung crooked on rusty, iron hinges and was open about a foot. Flickering firelight from inside the crypt spilled out into the graveyard area.

     At first I stood frozen in fear--completely unable to move. Although there was not a sound emanating from within, my intuition told me I had found my brother. But why on earth would he venture out to such a place in the midst of a blizzard? He had not even put his coat on. The dreadfulness of it all overwhelmed me, but I knew that I must investigate further. With a great deal of apprehension I turned my lantern down so low that it nearly went out, and then set it down in the snow. I took a few more steps until I was able to peer around the edge of the large oak door that was blackened with age and damp weather.
     The scene I beheld therein is an absolute nightmare I will never forget! It is an abomination of the cruelest kind!
     Numerous sconces holding fat, dripping candles illuminated the dank and smallish sepulcher. The limestone block lined walls were crumbling, and in many places gnarled tree roots had formed large crevices between them. The floor was littered with dirt, small rocks and other debris. It was a very crudely constructed vault. In the center of the chamber, upon the thick stone slab of a sarcophagus, lay my brother. A slender young woman, with long, reddish-blond hair flowing down her back, was straddling my brother. She was bent over him in such a way that she appeared to be kissing his neck. She was wearing only a transparent ashen gown that must have been white at one time, but which was now tattered from the rotting decay of an age spent in the grave--although she herself looked very much alive. The skin of her arms and body--what was clearly visible through the shreds of material--was youthfully smooth and firm, but it was as pale as the skin of a corpse. As I stood there transfixed, she suddenly sat bolt upright and turned her gaze in my direction.
     No words can sufficiently describe the hellish aberration that confronted me. She appeared to be a girl of no more than maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age. Blood was smeared across her mouth and face and hands and completely soaked the front of the transparent shroud hanging around her figure. Her eyes glowed with luminosity as if they belonged to a savage animal that was peering out from the cover of darkness. Leaning her head back she opened her mouth wide, and as a burst of hysterical laughter issued forth I witnessed her perversely elongated and sharply pointed upper canines that looked like the fangs of a great wolf. She then fixed her gaze in my direction once again and hissed loudly as though she were a vicious cat protecting its territory. Although I was only just barely peering around the edge of the crypt door, and should have been concealed by the outer darkness, the look in her preternatural eyes made me feel certain she could see me. I stood frozen in place, abhorred by what I was witnessing, but unable to back away. Though I willed it with all my strength, I could not move at all.
     Whether it was God, or simply fate, I do not know, but just at that very moment a tree branch over laden with snow dropped its load right on top of the crypt's doorway. The woman shrieked in rage, and it was an awful, anguished wail that sounded as if it issued from all three of the Furies at once. It terrified me to the depths of my soul, but apparently her hypnotic spell was broken. I fled as if the hounds of hell were at my heels. I ran through the snow until I could run no more, and then falling I crawled until I could run again, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I once again reached this nearby village. The lights of the Hillside Saloon had been extinguished, and the only illumination was from the lone gas lamp located at the center of town.

     This small building I broke into appears to serve as an office for real estate, property claims, land affairs and other such types of business. The sign for the place reads simply: "Stanton & Company." Presuming this would be the place to discover some information about the surrounding regions, I determined to search the establishment.
     I located some records filed under "Crescent Hill." It indicates that my brother currently holds the deed for the land. It also has a brief history of the area. The first settlers to make a claim were French fur traders in 1780. They were attacked and killed by natives. The natives were caught. When brought to trial they claimed the place was sacred ground, and in their belief they were justified in protecting the land. Unfortunately for them, however, a court order ruled that the original French claim was valid, and the savages responsible for the attack were sentenced to death by hanging. A garrison of soldiers from Saint Louis was then sent to disperse any natives remaining in the area.
     The only other notable information was a document that indicated shortly after the Louisiana Purchase a family of four obtained a property deed in 1817, but they mysteriously disappeared. It was rumored that they moved further westward.
     Oddly, there was also a clipping from a Saint Louis newspaper included in the file. It was odd because it had nothing to do with Crescent Hill, and instead pertained to the village of Hillside. Apparently there was an epidemic of a deadly anemia in 1820 that decimated the majority of the residents of the sparsely populated area. An English medical man from back east finally stopped it, but most of the few remaining survivors left the area. About that same time a man named Edward Stanton purchased the land. Presumably this is his office. I must have a talk with this gentleman. He is probably unaware of the present danger.

Most deeply concerned,
Alexander Pearl

P.S. I cannot believe it! My brother has just appeared at the door. I must let him in.