31 March 1895 SAINT DENIS, LEMOYNE
Dr. Kane's personal journal:
The conference in Philadelphia was uneventful, if not moderately diverting considering how tedious the days have grown in Saint Denis. Mind you, I am not unhappy, rather, it is merely my constant battle against discontentment rearing its ugly head again. I am, as usual, ever plagued by the need for novelty and risk, lest I fall into a listless stagnation in which the very quality of my work declines. The conference, at least, gave me something new to see.
More often than not, I found myself wandering the streets late into the evening. The events of the alleyway in Saint Denis still fresh in my memory gave me a healthy caution, and for the most part, I got a handle on my substance abuse. But there in Philadelphia away from the overly familiar, it provided a great deal of time for introspection and examination of my wellbeing.
On the train ride back to Lemoyne, a sort of impending dread settled over me, and I got the peculiar notion I was riding to my doom. My hand reflexively would occasionally leap to my neck as if I were being attacked by my would-be killer in the streets again, but each time it was naught but imagined sensation.
I drifted to sleep a few times on the journey, and each time startled awake drenched in a cold sweat with a vague memory of having been chased through a dark maze. Sleep became a far off prospect as time went on, and I resigned myself to combing through the various papers and books I'd acquired at the medical conference to keep my mind distracted from the dreams. As the train approached the swamp and the black smoke of Saint Denis became visible over the treeline, I had an unbearable urge to leap out a window and go back the way I'd come -- back to Philadelphia, back to safety. How queer, is it not, that a foreign town should become such a sanctuary? I love Saint Denis -- not nearly as much as dear London, but nonetheless I have become quite fond of its humid eccentricities. It is a shame to feel this way about my home now.
When I arrived at the station, I gathered my luggage and went straight to the post office to collect my missed mail -- surprisingly less than I'd expected, most of which was Department of Commerce business. Then, I went to my office where I found a shredded note from an "X" (no doubt who that is), which I placed in a drawer for later. Nurse Gale had kept everything in order, and Dr. Fox had been kind enough to stock the shelves in my absence.
Upon reorienting myself, the looming dread began to lift and I started to feel as though all that apprehension had been foolish and for naught. There was nothing here -- no criminal lurking behind a door, no monsters from my nightmares in the alleyway. In fact, the office felt bright as shafts of spring sunlight cut through the gloom in dusty veils of golden effervescence. I felt utterly secure.
That night I returned to my small apartment and once again that pall of doom pressed down on me. Possessed by a furious mania, I swiftly latched my window and bolted my door thrice. I decided then to also spread a fine layer of salt from my storage on the floor surrounding my bed to be sure that should someone indeed attempt to enter my bedchamber, there would be undeniable evidence of their trespassing. When I laid my head down that night, I did so fully anticipating I would return to another night of fitful dreams, but when my eyes next opened, they were greeted by the sun, and I found I had slept through the entire night peacefully. The window remained latched, the door locked, and the salt unmolested.
Now I felt sure that my apprehension had been misplaced. I felt utterly foolish for believing that my ailment, which was undoubtedly a symptom of stress and drug use so easily cured by a mere holiday. The only trouble now, was the trouble I had made for myself in littering my own floor with salt.
And thus was my trip to Philadelphia. I remain in good spirits and good health. While I am still a bit emotionally exhausted from the trip, I am quite glad indeed to be home. For now, while I dread the inevitable doldrums of uninteresting routine, I have avoided using opium and cocaine for fear that any return to such would likewise send me hurtling back into that addled state of mania and mad paranoia. I will have to find other means of occupying myself.
I know it is wrong to wish for another mass murderer to stalk the streets of Saint Denis, but I do so miss the intrigue and the thrill. While I have learned about a new series of killings, I suppose it is absurd to hope for another Blackwood case. I am not a gambling man, but it can be so satisfyingly sweet to cheat Death.
- Galen Jonathan Kane