Containment Project 2 I - Nora

CONTAINMENT PROJECT EVALUATION
DATA LOG 26
Name: Qar’Ek Da’qu
Administrative Ambit: Chief of historic evaluation of Containment Project facilities on SOL-00I
Date: 20th day of the sixth month, year 372 after the founding of the republic
Authorisation: GIVEN
|:| During our work we discovered numerous documents within the four domes, as well as in the central dome, which was used as administrative Building. Once we had the power back on, we received access to all the documents made during this Project. As chief of the historic evaluation of the containment facilities I’ve taken the liberty to sort out the last entries we’ve found on the facility’s central computer. |:|
Containment Project Database Document No. 3.614.439
Hello. If you can read this, then this means that this limey facility is still being powered. A few weeks have passed, since the Containment Project as failed for good. How I know this? Well, I’m from Dome Edwardian 1920 and I’ve been one of the test subjects. The following are entries I’d recorded in three diaries and which I’ve decided to record on this machine for posterity’s sake.
Entry 1
3rd June 1980
The name’s Nora Cayden. I’m twenty and own the local apothecary here in Muntun Upon Stynn. Why am I writing this? 'Cause there’s bugger all to do here except working and getting intoxicated!
Aside from Muntun, there’s also the market town of Mennith, but it’s just as “exciting” there as it is here. I can’t wait to sell this damn thing and move to Edinburgh or Glasgow!
How I got this shop? Simple: my parents. No, they’re not dead, they...just decided to take a premature leave and handed the shop over to me. And since then, a few things have changed. For one, there’s a gramophone in the corner now - about time we had some music in here. Also, a statue of the dark lord Cthulhu now stands where a saint once stood, made by the local stone mason as a double copy. You must know I adore Lovecraft! I like reading something that sends a cold shiver down your spine on even colder autumn or winter nights! And lastly, I’m a woman who understands her craft. Let me put it this way: if I like you, then you’ll get some of my private stash. If not, then all you’ll get is a good dose of Jamaican funk in your face! I’ve been smoking this stuff for so long by this pint that I don’t even feel it anymore. At some point you just function normally. Like said, I can hardly get away from this place! What is still keeping me here? Three things in particular.
First and foremost there’s our “dear” reverend Sheller. As you might assume, I don’t really give a damn about religion or stuff like that. Sheller is my de-facto opposite. A screaming, frothing at the mouth Calvinist for whom everything and anything is satanic. And when I say everything, I mean everything! From music to haircuts, fashion to simple human interaction. Why I can name all those things? Well, just like everyone, the reverend (as well as his flock) gets sick from time to time. And now take a wild guess who operates the only apothecary close by? He barges into my shop on an almost daily basis, spreading his wild notions. When I had taken over the shop, I still thought much of it, but now I just play along and have much fun doing it.
The second reason, why I’m still here? Two words: Carlisle McAvin! If I had to describe him in one word, the only one I could think of is ‘fancy’! He’s the local mechanic and heads the general store belonging to his mechanic shop. And what luck that we see each other often enough. He buys his fuel in my apothecary every month and since he sells a great variety of stuff, I sometimes come over to see him. Of course I don't let my blush show. Yet, I still find it strange that someone like him hasn’t found anyone yet. Especially someone with such a wild ride like the one he has! Blood‑red paintwork, black canopy, white rims. What woman could say No to that?
Well, there is one thing I should mention. He’s…a bit older. All right, not that old, but definitely older than I am thirty-seven to be exact. And yes, I can already here the people gossiping what a scandal it would be if we two came together. But bugger that!
Unfortunately, attractiveness isn’t a one-way street. Basically put, I have a secret admirer. More accurately, it’s a young police officer. What the problem is? Well, nothing ‘gainst a dapper man in a uniform, but this guy has absolutely no charisma. Blimey, I could almost assume this bloke deems charisma to be some sort of Indian spicing! Thankfully, I hardly see him in my shop.
And the third reason why I still remain in this one-horse town is the landscape, the people and the place itself. You think this sounds crazy, consider what I just rambled on about? Well, apart from getting intoxicated and fancying my beloved mechanic, I also have quite a knack for drawing.
Call me crazy, but this town in the middle of nowhere with all its kooky people ever so often offers a subject. The mirror image of a building after the rain; old farmer Harrington drinking a beer after a hard day’s labour; or the one or other new dress in the window of our local tailor’s shop - these are the moments one could almost feel snug here. But I’d better stop writing, it's getting late.
Entry 2
6th June 1980
Today was one of those typical days - considering what you could call ‘typical’ here. After preparing a few remedies, I open the shop. It doesn't take more than an hour or so, until the first customers arrive. The earliest ones are usually the old people - everyone else is at work or in school themselves. Everyone, except one: Reverend Sheller.
I can almost pinpoint the exact time he arrives. This would be about ten o’ clock and once he's in he starts babbling on about Jesus and how I should receive him as my savoir. I then prepare his order while he spews some religious nonsense, to which I don’t pay any heed to. He then gets what he ordered, pays the exact amount (down to every penny!) and then goes about his day.
Friday is usually also the day when my best friend Becky comes over to visit. Her das man the local post office and thus she gives me everything I get as such personally. “You know, you could,” she always tells me: “Bar him from the shop, I mean, it’s yours after all, isn’t it?” I usually don't engage her talk.
Today, however, was a very special day as - you know who - came into my shop. You can hear the noise his car makes from afar - never mind the endless honking! Before he arrives, I quickly run into the back room with Becky and ask her, how I look. She usually returns this with some silly nonsense, before I head back into the shop and try not to blush when he walks in.
What follows is a small, cordial greeting on his part. I nod and ask, if he wants the usual stuff. He nods and we both go down into the cellar, each of us ascending and carrying a gallon of fuel respectively. He then pays, we carry the canisters to his car, before he politely thanks me and then leaves.
If he noticed anything? Sure hope so. Apart from the usual stuff, nothing exciting happened today. So basically it's just a good old day in Muntun.
Entry 3
7th June 1980
My…entire perception of reality has been changed. But…one after the other.
Saturdays I usually only work half the day. The rest of that day I use to prepare larger orders or remedies…and to replenish my private stash. To do so, I ride my bicycle deep into the highlands to gather flowers, grasses and herbs one can use to bring forth some pretty wild hallucinations!
This day, I went a little further out though in the hopes of finding something new to get intoxicated by. What I found though, was something entirely different! To be more accurate, I found two things. The first one was…a tile! Not pulling your leg! Lying in the grass, far away from any civilisation, I found a tile a large as a piece of paper and consisting of several layers. The first, inner, layer seemed to be made of some sort of matt glass. Underneath it was a riffled layer which felt like foam and behind this one a dark, matt, outer layer which was pretty worn and already somewhat green, as if it had been overgrown with moss.
At first, I couldn't explain this and thus searched the ground for more of those odd tiles…until I hit my head on thin air! Blimey, I'm telling you! I literally hit my head on nothing! I looked at what I had hit my head on and gaped in awe at the sight! I stood in front of a wall. A wall consisting of nothing but these strange tiles that all seemed to suggest as landscape reaching up to a horizon that didn't exist!
What was going on here?! I followed the strange wall, climbed over hills and stepped through smaller creeks to find out more about it. And finally, I reached a door. A large, steel door, above it a plaque reading EXIT. Exit? Exit to where? Hesitatingly I reached fr the handle, pressed downward…and the door opened!
I didn't go through it (Out of fear that it would shut on me), but I still risked a sneak peak and was quite astonished when I saw a desolate park in front of me. The pathway was overgrown, the hedges grew in all directions, the fence behind them was rusting. Whatever this was - it demanded an explanation!
I’m back home again. I lit a fire and a good pipe filled with ganja and am now staring at the strange tile as I'm writing this. Where did it come from? I mean, sure, it broke out of the afore mentioned wall. But where did the wall come from?
My gaze keeps fixing itself on the second Cthulhu statue on my mantelpiece. Was it really true? Rilye? The Old Ones? Bugger that! That's just a story using the recently discovered Mayan culture for its basis. And shouldn't I go to the police about this? Show it to them? I think I’ll have a good night’s sleep and then come back tomorrow with a possible solution.
Entry 4
9th June 1980
Had a spark of genius today which is why I took the day off. Staring at the tile while eating breakfast and trying to explain Saturday’s findings, I remembered something: Carlisle McAvin. Yes, yes, I know, I bring him up again, but I'm being serious now.
I went to our local library to seek out more answers. I was certainly not the only person to stumble upon the tiles and the mysterious wall and this there had to be some sort of mention of them. Long story short: I didn’t find what I had been looking for, but instead something completely different. I don't remember what time it had been, what book I had read through or how many, non‑informative pages I had read until my gaze fell upon a map. A map of Medieval Muntun; 1340 to be exact. And, according to the map, where we now have McAvin’s Auto there used to be an abbey!
The problem with that? Well, a few years ago, Carlisle and his father Wallace had had an underground warehouse built for them. I remember the pub both in Muntun as well as in Mennith being filled to the brim with guests - most of whom were even fuller! My point: during construction, someone must’ve found something! Pillars, sleeping quarters, the high altar or at least the crypt - but no one found anything! So either this map was a well-crafted forgery, or the McAvins are hiding something from all of us! Reason enough to pay them a visit.
Entry 5
9th June 1980
I have to admit that it did taker some guts to actually drive to the McAvins. For one, because I had no idea how Carlisle would react and secondly because I halfway expected not to bring out a single tone due to my nervousness. Luckily it didn’t turn out to be that bad. I put on some fine clothes, some makeup, applied some lipstick and then was on my way sometime in the afternoon.
The (technically) two story house of the McAvins sits on top of their mechanic shop and general store and is accessible for guests through a series of wooden steps at the side. Anxious I ascended the steps up to the door, took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, until someone opened me.
“Ah, young Miss Cayden!” Wallace called: “Something wrong?”
“No, everything’s dandy,” I hastily spoke: “Is Carlisle at home?”
“Fuel issues, eh?” he asked with a grin on his face. I simply nodded and he let me in. “He’s upstairs,” Wallace let me know before he yelled: “Carlisle! You got a visitor!”
“Who is it?” his voice came from above and his father uttered my name. Carlisle thus came down to greet me and to ask me, what I was here for.
“I’d like to tell you that. Alone.” I hastily spoke again, whereby Wallace simply grinned and replied that he was ‘going to put the kettle on’. Carlisle just stared at me in confusion, but then showed me to his room upstairs.
Upstairs he asked me, what was so important that I needed to talk to him. I reached into the basket I had brought with and pulled out the book and the tile and started talking. I showed him the page, pointed out all the inconsistencies and relayed my encounter with the wall and mentioned the abandoned park.
Yet…the reaction I got from him was not, what I expected. Instead of sharing the awe and excitement with me, he immediately stood up and declared: “I think I’ve heard enough! It’s…it’s time for you to go, Miss Cayden.” Upon this, he showed me out and closed the door behind me.
I just stood there for a while, staring at my basket, trying to progress what had just happened. Had he also seen something and just didn't want to talk about it? Was he even involved in this and was now trying to silence me.
Whatever the case, this strange behaviour demands answers!
Entry 6
16th June 1980
It's been a week and I haven't seen or heard anything from Carlisle since then. But then Becky gave me a letter by him. As I’ve already stated, her father works at the local post office so ny mail I get she brings me personally. I of course opened it when Becky wasn't looking and read what it said:
Dear Miss Cayden,
First, I must excuse the brash behaviour last Sunday. However, I’ve now come to realise that you also know things similar to what I know. If this proves to be true, please meet me today after work in my mechanic shop. I have to show you something
Kind Regards,
Mr. McAvin
At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it a ruse? Maybe. But why write me this letter then instead of ratting me out to whoever is behind it?
It's now six and it’ll be two hours until Carlisle gets off work. I’ve made a decision: I’m going to meet him.
Entry 7
16th June 1980
I swear, this story is getting crazier by the minute!
Rode to Carlisle this afternoon as planned and prettied myself up again. I rang the bell, he opened but due to somewhat oily reasons didn't shake my hand. Simply going into the shop caused my nose to pick up the pungent smell of oil, lubricants and metal. If we two are actually meant to be?
Either way, he lead me to an office part of the shop and spoke while washing his hands: “I’ve been having…let’s call them dreams for twenty years now. Dreams of steel hallways, of a boy in Roman clothing, of a cave with strange paintings in it.” He then opened a drawer, took a notebook out, slammed it on the table and spoke: “And now I know that they weren't dreams!” Reluctantly I took it, flipped the pages and read through it a little. “At first I thought they were retellings of wild dreams,” he replied as I wrote what he had written: “But then I found them - the hallways! They actually do exist! And before last Sunday I thought I was the only person who’d noticed something.”
I immediately put the book down. Did he just say there was an underground tunnel system beneath Muntun? That would explain the ridiculous tunnel on the road between Muntun and Mennith. Seriously, why is that even there?! Whatever. I referred to the entries in his diary and remarked that they, unlike the abandoned park, were described as being in good condition. “Once upon a time,” he gave back: “I went back down there as a sort of twentieth anniversary. But unlike back then, everything was falling apart. Rusty pipes. Lights that flickered or were broken all together. Mouldy smell and so on.”
“What does that mean? What is all this?”
“I don't know. And I don't know what exactly they did to me,” he replied and mused that he might have been lobotomised at some point.
“Total rubbish,” I answered while flipping through his diary. He inquired as to why and I retorted: “Well. You lost memories from one or more days - but not your personality. Not your creativity, not you individuality. If you had gotten a lobotomy done to you, l then that would be gone. Just as with everyone else that had that done to them.”
“But however built this place and locked us in it,” Carlisle grinned: “He or she doesn’t seem to have a high standard for security.” I just looked at him in confusion and he kept on grinning: “I did write saying I had something to show you.” I just nodded and he ordered me to follow him to his warehouse.
Entry 8
16th June 1980
Admittedly, upon entering, the warehouse did look as ordinary, as I had pictured it. Walls lined with shelves filled with all manner of tat and goods to be sold at the store.
Carlisle guided me to a shelf filled with crates and boxes and took out a small, green box with Christmas decorations on it and spoke: “What I'm about to show you has to stay between us!” I told him not to keep me in suspense, upon which he opened the box revealing an almost alien device. It was silver-coloured with a single 'eye', similar to a camera’s lens. Maybe it was one, but it appeared to not need a tripod, much less film reels in order to function! In addition to that, the device also possessed a foldout wing which Carlisle used to turn it on.
|:| At this point, I would like to interrupt the data log. During our excavations of the CP facilities, especially of D.E. 1920, we found multiple finds that corroborate many of the things mentioned in this, as well as in other diary entries. One of them is the previously mentioned camera which we found in a place I can’t disclose at the moment. The following is a translation/transcript of the first video shot with this camera containing footage of Miss Nora Cayden. |:|
TRANSCRIPT OF FIND NO. 41.143
RESTORATION CONDUCTED BY: QAR’EK DA’QU
TRANSCRIPT CONDUCTED BY: QAR’EK DA’QU
C: All right, camera is on. Say something!
N:What? What do you mean?
C: You know, say something.
N: This…this thing records what we’re saying?! Blimey!
C: Not just that. So, what do you have to say to the good people of Muntun.
N: I don't know. What’s there to say?
C: Seeing as we now have everything on record,. Maybe you could admit the fact that you prettied yourself up just for me.
|:> Nora Cayden’s face turns red. This is a sign of shame among this species with this specific skin colour.|<:
C: So it is true. But say - what do you want with a man my age?!
N: Well…you have a successful shop, a fancy ride - and to be honest, you look pretty dapper for your age!
C: I…um…to be honest…I don’t really know why that’s the case myself.
END OF TRANSCRIPT
|:| This is where the recording ends. Whether this is due to the device’s age or if Mister McAvin turned it off for emotional reasons is unclear to us. Unclear is also whether there was anything happening after this point as the rest of the entry was unreadable. It should also be noted that I will skip all subsequent entries in this log, as they are of no relevance. |:|
Entry 13
18th June 1980
The past week has been nothing short of bugger all! I am, for lack of a better term, torn back and forth.
If you’ve read entry eleven, then you’ll know that I read Carlisle's diary from twenty years ago in which he detailed his experiences. Even after flipping through the first few pages I wanted to uncover the mystery of the things written in it. The other domes, in which other epochs existed; the underground hallways with the yellow markings - all this itched me to go out exploring. And only to see what had become of the Roman boy.
But I’ve been having doubts about my endeavor for the past three days. What if I was to lose my memory as well, as it had been done to Carlisle? What if the Roman dome had been abandoned long ago - or crazier - everyone in it had died?!
But the urge to understand is too great. And thus I again sit in front of my fireplace with a good pipe filled with ganja wondering whether I should risk it.
|:| This is where the records in Document No. 3.614.439 end. There are no further entries of Miss Nora Cayden on this device and we are as yet unable to ascertain whether the person in question got bored or whether the central dome’s power supply cut out. |:|
Category:Diary/Journal
Category:Science