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FILE NOTICE
OFFICE OF INFORMATION RECORDS & SECURITY
------
The following file was recovered in poor condition from an archive safe in the year 2002. The safe, believed to have been owned by Mr. Wilson C. Cohen, was thought lost during the process of transporting documentation and materials out of Tombstone as part of the efforts of reorganization and merging of Concealment into the modern Containment Division during 1947.
Although the item referred to in this file (or a series of anomalies of similar qualities) has been confirmed to exist in possession of Military Intelligence Section XIII, a thorough sweep of Site-010 and other North American facilities has failed to recover the exact object referenced.
It is considered possible that the item has been lost during the sinking of the Kingston, an Authority vessel that disappeared in the Atlantic Sea while transporting numerous items for analysis and storage in European facilities. Seizure of the item by a third party agent, while unlikely, is a possibility.
CONCEALMENT MANIFEST No.828:
Record of Acquisition of Anomalie Obscura
Cargo Determination:
| Lethality |
Concealment |
Desirability |
Priority |
Status |
| 8 |
2 |
5 (OPHA) |
1 |
A |
Containment Lead: Mr. John Nicholson
Acquired By: Dr. Everett Kingston
Handling Guide
Do not handle the cane while unlocked. Remember not to hold it from its curved part for long when handling, ten minutes at the very most. Quickly drop it on the ground if a pale, white mist oozes from the floor, and remember to take cover.
If the cane is unlocked, rotate the curved part until the under-barrel retreats inside the cane, but without pressing the trigger.
When viewing the interior of the barrel, it is important the trigger on the outside of the handgrip not be pressed unless substantial protection, visual and physical, is provided to the viewing person — what such physical protection may be is uncertain to the writer.
When coming across the apparition — which you will recognize, no doubt, for its phantasmal pale color —, try to imitate a citizen of Her Majesty Victoria. Attempt to rid your tongue from any distinctively American aftertaste when conversing with him.
If that fails, consider surrendering. The apparition is of a merciful soldier, even if a fierce fighter. He should take you captive by retrieving any weapons before parting. Do not attempt to seize the cane, or he will pursue relentlessly.
Description:
ANOMALIE OBSCURA No.828 is a sparsely ornate cane of somewhat unusual proportions, likely for usage as a concealed weapon.
The cane is made of wood and metal, and is around an arm's length, but much thicker than average. Its grip is made of engraved silver, featuring an unknown crest what Dr. Kingston claims to be the crest of an English organization, as he gathers from a small portion of the Coat of Arms of Queen Victoria that is under it. Its upper half is decorated with sparse metal inlays, most of which have peeled off due to damage or age.
A rectangular cut is on the left side of the cane, showing a metal barrel inside. The wooden shell can be rotated, causing a shorter barrel to drop from inside the cane when held up, and a small trigger to come out of the silver grip. The bigger barrel is not tipped, but the smaller one is covered by a metal lid.
Pressing the trigger for longer than a few seconds causes the cane to fire a burst of electricity.
Discharge an electric
When the trigger is pressed, the cane releases a single, potent electric discharge in the shape of lightning from its greater barrel. The writer does regrettably not correctly understand how this is achieved, but internal inspection unveils a set of five to eight circular sigils embedded on the walls of the greater barrel, along with a concave lens on its bottom.
In turn, the lesser barrel shines a curious pale beam of light when the trigger is pulled, emitted through a circular hole left by a sliding metal lid. This pale beam is reflected by the mirror inside of the greater barrel, presumably igniting a reaction in the circular sigils that generate electricity.
This beam, impotent on its own, is projected by a small white object — perhaps a gem — that is harmful to the sight, as is the beam. Viewing either the gem or the beam more than twice damages the eye beyond seeing, but has no other qualities of note.
The cane is haunted by a ghostly redcoat English soldier, who appears at a short distance of the cane. He goes by the name of Phineas Moore, and is armed with a rifle and bayonet, both of which are real both of which Dr. Kingston insists to be material rather than ghostly.
Dr. Kingston describes Mr. Moore's appearance to be largely indistinct and translucent, with his silhouette glowing faintly. The degree of translucence is such that the apparition may be impossible to see during the day, save for his rifle. Mr. Moore's behavior is scarcely documented, with all sightings reported by Dr. Kingston.
Axton-Hornsby Anomaly Records agents in Tombstone are attempting to identify the place and time of death of Mr. Phineas Moore, to little success. It is strongly recommended by Dr. Kingston that this task be assigned a greater priority, and he suggests entering negotiations with the English Department of Occultism to that end.
Recountment of Sightings:
Mr. Ridge
I urge you not to take Dr. Kingston's testimony in serious account. He is known for great exaggerations and a penchant for storytelling. The Brits' interest for the cane suggests that at least parts of his story are true this time, but I do not believe any such "Bone Beast" to really exist.
If it were by me his account would be scrapped, but I would not want to brave his inhuman ability to pester every Authority official in Tombstone to have it included again. A hard enough job it was to get the recountment cut to a reasonable length.
— Nicholson
[…]
I was riding my way back to Tombstone after the afore described detour when I came across a wounded man, limping through the desert. Dressed like a true gentleman, he was! Covered head to toe in proper attire save for the coat, which he tied to his head, and a duster over the waistcoat and shirt. But oh, every piece in that wear was ragged and bloody, torn apart by what could only be a pack of wolves.
He fell to his knees before I came close, holding dearly to his cane to keep himself above the sand. If the state of his clothes were a tragedy, his face would be a horror story — the poor man had his left eye covered in what seemed like a horrendous mass of gore, but was instead a mixture of sand and his own blood upon closer inspection.
When my good Hippolytus finally took me close enough to the man, I rushed to his aid. He kept mouthing something at me, but could not find the strength to pronounce the words. I handed him my canteen and had him lie down while retrieving my medical supplies. It was then I realized — I had left my bags behind!
Fortunately, the pistol that Mr. Wilson had gifted me gave a fitting alternative. Indeed, each bullet possessed forty grains of life-saving gunpowder. I had to crack open four of the bullets with a knife before I had sufficient gunpowder to cover most of the wounds. Then, I reanimated the man with my trusty phial of cocaine.
When he could finally stand, the Sun was close to ending its flight. He finally spoke then — and told me to run.
His voice had the pleasing but strange aftertaste unique to the citizens of Her Majesty Victoria, of which he revealed to be a particularly outstanding one: a Knight of the Queen's Department of Occultism. He, along with a group of ten knights of equal renown led by one Baron Chisholme, had secretly arrived on the Californian coast only one month prior to our fortunate encounter.
They were sent by Her Majesty herself on a hunt for an artifact of particular interest — a pale green gem, no more than ten centimeters wide, taken for the Crown in the old times of the British Empire's wild conquest. It had been furiously fought for, only grasped by English hands once it had been ripped from the cradling corpse of a tribal chief in the Asias, last among his own people.
And indeed, from what the Englishman led me to believe, it was a beauty worth dying for. A crystal clear emerald, shining green even in the faintest of lights. But the death of its favored had turned its beauty into a blight, for it had since been cursed, cursed by the breath of some vengeful god, among a pantheon of heavenly patrons slaughtered by the advance of the Empire!
Possession of the gem had brought Her Majesty's Treasury great misfortune of an unusual sort. Time and time again, men posted to guard the shining trophy would be found splattered against the walls, heads broken inward by the great force of some inhuman brute. But still, the Empire held on to its prize: the gem was given to the Department of Occultism, to be locked among other relics of equally ill omen in a great vault under the Clock Tower of Westminster.
Grave mistake, that was! Soon enough, the many curses haunting the vault at the heart of the Empire compounded and mingled in the core of the green gem, leaking out of its crystalline bounds as a glowing miasma of seething hatred. Soon, the crypts under London filled with corpses — not all of them English, and not all of them in the image of our LORD.
Soon enough, the problem escaped the hands of the Department's Knights, mighty yet powerless against its immense loathing of everything born from the British Isles. Somehow the gem found itself in a ship moving South across the Atlantic Sea, and the Department fiercely tracked it across land and sea, through storm and drought — and finally followed it to the United States, where the gem's curse found them before they could find it.
And now, the man before me was the very last of his crew. He barely escaped the assault of that malignant thing and, unable to warn his kin of the fate that had befallen his band, was ready to give his life to the merciless sun of the Mojave Desert.
And ready he was still, right after I had saved him! He insisted that I needed to run away as swiftly as my horse could take me, to warn the mighty Authority of what was about to befall the American Continent.
I asked to take him with me — surely, a warrior as mighty as him would greatly aid in fighting this vengeful beast. But he reasoned that Hippolytus could not take us both somewhere safe before its arm was ready to crush us in one fell swoop. That, he said, was a risk he could not take: if he let me ride alone, I would surely escape alive, as the beast had no business with me. But if I found myself in the eye of the storm, it would be shamefully easy to add my life to its count.
At first I agreed. I left him with half a bag of bread and a coat for the night to come. He sat in the sand, cane in hand, wounds only healed in part, and right before I headed off, he shouted — I briefly failed to understand, but then I realized it was his name. Fredrick the Second was the only part that I managed to elucidate before the sounds slipped my mind, too ashamed to ask him again. I regret it now, oh so much! But I only shouted back mine and saluted him as I rode off into the night, lantern precariously hanging from my left hand. What a gloomy path awaited me!
Once I was a few miles away, another shameful realization stopped me in my tracks: I simply lacked any proof of the story that Sir Fredrick had told me. I trusted that gentlemanly visage not to have the ability to lie in such extreme circumstances, but such trust is normally not bestowed upon mine — so I had no way to prove what was about to come. I should have ran back to Sir Fredrick, but oh, LORD forgive the weakness of my flesh — I dared not head back that dark path, lest the arm of the Devil take me. I simply kept riding off, so fast the night's breath hurt my eyes.
Before long, poor Hippolytus was tired beyond recovery. I had forced him to exhaustion in my fear.
Obligated to stop to preserve the health of my partner, I resigned myself to sleeping by the lamp and hoping the sweet call of the night would be louder than my own whispering fear. Surely the beast would not be swift enough to catch me before dawn.
As I was starting to drift off into beautiful sleep, I caught a glimpse of green light. In a brief fit of panic, I jumped from the ground, and my eyes met with a small mass of bones no more than fifty meters away. For a second only, they appeared to move: simply a trick of the faint light.
A small sigh escaped my lips. The phenomenon, while horrific to the uneducated mind, is simply the result of the Moon's light upon discarded bones rather than the self-phosphoresence of a phantasm. The scare had merely been a product of my own panicking mind.
But then, as my eyes scrutinized the surrounding plateau, more and more faint green lights became visible. I was amidst a forest of bones, far more than should have been present. Unless they had been carried there by some inscrutable mind, there was no reason for their close arrangement around my very location — unless the Devil's hand had taken them there for a particular motive.
That dark thought immobilized me, as my hands fumbled around in search of the safety of Mr. Wilson's revolver. But as my fingers finally grasped that iron savior, I remembered that I had gotten rid of no less than four out of my six bullets to heal Sir Fredrick! Too scared to kick myself over it, I recalled Mr. Wilson's words to comfort me: he said that this gun, especially made among Colts like it, would keep me safe only with the titanic punch of a few shots.
As soon as I started to suspect my own paranoia, another green light made itself seen in the immediacies — brighter than the bones but fainter than my lamp, emanated by a small object rapidly approaching me. Only a few seconds later, the source became evident: a green ball, about as large as my hand, and exuding a faint mist of equal color.
Mere seconds afore that phantasmagorical vision, the ball stopped, and the bones around me floated toward it. Far more than I had seen — tens, then dozens, then hundreds of phosphorescent tatters dug themselves from the ground and spun around the growing green mist, and before I could find it in me to run, an accursed beast of bone stood mere steps before the circle of light. I heard Hippolytus's frenzied clop-clopping away, but that did not bother me — for my eyes were vexed by the disfigured amalgam in front of me.
It stepped forward, and its attributes slowly became clearer to me. Its two legs were made of no less than two dozen long femurs, tibias, fibulas, and smaller bones, assembled unequally and in polar contrast to the beautiful proportions of normal anatomy. Although the hand that had built it seemed to vaguely remember the proper placement of bones above where a pelvis should have been, things were not much better: it was a bollix of misaligned ribs, horizontally and vertically disposed, then wrapped around each other in an inflexible mass.
I did not get the chance to thoroughly see the head and arms, but what seemed to be an antler or mass of horns pierced a hole through the right eye of one skull of a cow among four, and two aberrations shaped like gigantic hands hanged from the shoulder. Amidst that incoherent assembly laid the green ball, wrapped in something dark.
Then its left hand leaped from the dark toward me — and failed to meet its target. A wooden cane held it barely back, and it was Sir Fredrick's hand that held it! Even made bloodied, battered shambles, he had somehow made it to me, and found the strength to push the hand of Death away from its prey.
"Run, fool!" — He shouted, pushing me away. Stumbling aback, I watched Sir Fredrick's dance with Death: jumping and sliding to the sides he'd barely avoid its brutal swipes by no more than a hair's length, evading the deathly hands with a grace untoward of a man that had barely stood up from the doors of Hades half a day ago. I even thought I saw him shine a faint gray glow, perhaps blessed by some ancient martial art.
When the shock finally faded from the otherworldly sights before me, I failed once more to run away — but in my heart of hearts I found a small spark of admiration for that man, a spark that ran through my nerves and fed on the surge of courage that raced across my arm when I fastened the grip on the revolver.
I tried to find an opening to fire at the beast without risking harm to Sir Fredrick, but the opening did not come. Only barely could he avoid its blows, and surely he would not if a bullet did as much as graze his scalp. But then, as swift as a cat's stride, he found himself right behind Death, with the ground end of his cane aimed at its back — and a heavenly light then left that cylinder, followed by fiery sparks of lightning!
But even such an incredible work of benevolent sorcery was like a kitten's clawing to that demon, for it had caught the awesome power of a storm's fury with merely its left arm. The strike had left it scarred, with a great black mark of disintegrating bone right below the arm: only an insignificant nuisance that bothered it not.
Shocked by the resilience of the beast, Sir Fredrick could not manage to evade its next blow: he could only attempt to block the impending pummeling with the wooden cane, and for that it was not enough. By miracle it did not snap, but I did hear a faint cracking of wood as Sir Fredrick coursed through the air and fell to the ground a meter away.
Now, my instinct shouted! If Sir Fredrick was to live, a bullet would have to accomplish what furious lightning couldn't — but if a gun there was that could fulfill the task, it had to be Mr. Wilson's gift. I aimed below the heads, sights affixed to that misshapen back, and before it took another step towards my wounded friend, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened: the beast only stopped, as if merely startled by the sound. Could it have been that the bullet did not pierce its demonic hide?
But no — I was slow to realize what had happened instead. In my endless cowardice my hands had failed me, swerving the bullet too far away from the beast. It turned around coldly, and its many hollow eyes seemed to stare directly into mine.
Panic grasped my nerves with an inextricable vice. The revolver in my hand became as good as useless in a few seconds, and the beast approached with a calm, gloating pace. But that spark was not to fade just yet: a stroke of genius shook away the gripping panic, and I lunged toward the oil lamp still shining beside me. As if directed by an alien intellect, my right clutched the handle and threw it at the looming white beast — which soon caught fire.
It was only then I realized that it had been ever silent, for it began to scream a hellish screech, more powerful than the whistle of a locomotive and so much more debilitating. My plans to finish the creature then and there fled my mind in the presence of renewed panic, and I ran toward Sir Fredrick. He still laid on the ground, clutching the wooden cane and whispering to himself.
An eerie gray glow exuded from the cane, but I paid no mind. I tried to help him get up and indeed he wanted to, were it not for the weakness taking away the mastery over his own body. He kept attempting to blurt something, his muscles failing to obey his iron will. He was such a pitiful sight — an unparalleled gentleman of battle, reduced to quivering flesh.
Then, the beast's screeching turned to roar. The flames had faded enough to permit it to move, but they still raged across its blackened torso. It stumbled toward us while I grasped for the revolver, afraid it would not suffice. But as I was returning to panic, Sir Fredrick's body began to shine a faint gray glow.
Quicker than I could reason what was occurring, the glow became a ghostly silhouette drawn over Sir Fredrick and rose to its feet, taking the wooden cane with it. Although it was difficult to clearly see its form beneath the glow, that shape was impossible not to correctly appreciate — the shape of a British soldier in redcoat uniform! The same uniform and tricorne hat that merited its wearer the epithet of "lobster" in the great war so many years ago!
The soldier looked at me for a second only and thundered toward the great beast, not a hint of fear in his steps. I think I saw surprise in those ghostly eyes. Whether pleasant or otherwise, I cannot know.
He fought Death's hand with even greater grace, even greater fury than Sir Fredrick before him, all with such impressive finesse that he succeeded in landing several blows across the beast's torso. Such dazzling skill felt unfitting on a uniform so rotten, but it did nothing more than frustrate the enemy. A disembodied echo rang on my ears just then, returning my mind to the urgency of the situation at hand: shoot it!
With pitiful lack of elegance my hands grasped the revolver once more, but this time they did not waver. As quickly as I had aimed at the beast, the British soldier lunged away — and then, I fired.
As soon as the bullet struck, a great explosion tore apart the creature's right side, melting the arm and some of its heads away from the body. It roared so loud it paralyzed my nerves, forcing me to drop the revolver. The remaining slag took on a crystalline appearance, as if suddenly becoming quartz. Other parts of its body burst with renewed flames, so great was the heat of the explosion. The beast shook and roared again, hurt at last but still alive — if one could count it as such. Its eyes were trained on my very soul with the inexpressive stillness of death.
It ran toward me with rage unparalleled, using its prevailing arm as large primates do to move. I did not see the British soldier anywhere, and I had just expended my very last bullet. I could not close my eyes, but I braced myself for what was to come.
But come, it did not. Yet again, my savior was right in front of me — the apparition of the British soldier held the cane on his right, aimed at the beast's remaining three heads and the green gem between them. Another branch of lightning left the ground end of the cane, and another branch of lightning struck the beast. It stopped in an instant, as if a stone wall had manifested between me and it. Still, I feared that it would not die — but I saw the gem burst, leaking green light from inside, and then the beast's entire body was sundered by the middle. The gem was carried with the lightning, and disappeared in the dead of night when it finally faded.
No one else remained but me and the man lying still on the ground. Both the beast and my savior had vanished into thin air, leaving the wooden cane on the ground in front of me. I carried it to Sir Fredrick, but I did not see his eyes meet mine. They gazed upon the dark firmament, frozen.
I did not find it in me to weep. I could only close his eyes and look at his face — the face of a fine gentleman, sullied by death.
Once again I heard that echo, and beside me saw the silhouette of the British soldier, leaning on a rifle with bayonet, with its stock upon ground. He too seemed to mourn Sir Fredrick's death, but only asked me for my name. He told me his was Phineas Moore. His voice had such a curious quality to it — as if spoken like a soft and gentle whisper, but twice as loud and potent.
He wondered why a rebel like me would aid a knight like Sir Fredrick in such a battle, when we were mortal enemies of the Queen. The man before me, no doubt an apparition, did not know the war had long been over. I could not gather the courage to tell him, unaware if he even knew he was dead. He told me of Sir Fredrick's final hours, how he prayed for me after I departed with the beast tailing me — and how it was not an angel, but Phineas himself who answered.
We both stood in silence for a long time, lamenting over Sir Fredrick's inert body. So long we were there that Day began cracking the night sky. Mr. Moore stood up, rifle slung over the shoulder, and said that he would return to his company so Sir Fredrick would be taken home and buried. I only nodded, and he walked off. His faint silhouette faded into the Sun's light.
I departed soon after, with the cane in my hand. I could not find the revolver Mr. Wilson had gifted me, nor the remains of my lamp, nor my horse.
I did not bury Sir Fredrick's body. Perhaps Mr. Moore was to soon return for it.
[…]
Storage and Utility
The cane has been stored in a Remington rifle box, packed with straw to prevent the barrel from unlocking. It will remain there when delivered to New York. An Axton-Hornsby liaison has insisted that it be sent to Brooklyn first for their analysis, pending Director Sam's approval and negotiation with the English Department of Occultism and Phenomena Affairs.
No particular precaution seems to be necessary when holding the cane by its grip. It appears that Mr. Moore is no longer interested by the cane as of our testing with its properties — were the ghost to truly exist.
SIGNED: Officer Stuart Ridge, Protectorate
Property of the Axton-Hornsby Exploration Society’s Anomaly Records
in collaboration with
Department of Aberration Concealment & Logistics
Document Digitized: 11/05/2006 - OIRS
