31 MARCH 1895 - ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
Dr. Kane's personal journal
31 March 1895
The conference in Philadelphia was uneventful, if not moderately diverting considering how tedious the days have grown in St. 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 St. Denis still fresh in my memory gave me a healthy caution, but did not stop me. In fact, it provided a great deal of time for introspection and examination of my wellbeing. My observations can be summarized thus:
Ever since arriving in Philadelphia, I have felt my vigour steadily return to me. My energy and mental acuity improved, and by the 4th day I felt entirely myself again for the first time in some weeks. I would naturally attribute this to a mere change in environment -- as is so often the case, and why so many doctors recommend spending winters or summers abroad for one's health -- were it not for the rapid recovery of the wound on my neck I have kept discreetly covered by my stand collar. In the weeks following my assault in the alleyway, the wound I received there utterly refused to close nor would it even stop oozing some ill-humoured fluid, all the while curiously showing no signs of infection. While the wound did weep, it did not discolor nor become foul in odor, nor did it seem to spread beyond the top of my collar. And yet, despite my efforts to stitch, bandage, and otherwise treat with various manner of natural and pharmacological remedy, it did not show the slightest bit of improvement. Every day, it was as fresh a wound as the last.
But mere days into my stay in Philadelphia, I began to notice the holes scabbing over. And within a week, they had stopped their weeping and closed. The most curious aspect of the wounds were the faint blueish capillaries that seemed inflamed at the surface of the skin, which was ever slightly blackened. By the end of the 2 weeks, though, it had verily healed entirely. All that remains now are two round scars a little over an inch apart. Naturally, I have included sketches to the best of my limited artistic ability here.
On the train ride back to Lemoyne, I felt a deep unease gathering within me. While I had all but forgotten the event and the nightly terrors that had plagued me ever since had finally ceased, the memories of the experience began flashing through my mind's eye with increased frequency the nearer we drew to the city. 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 it were being bitten by one of the swamp's insidious mosquitos, but each time there was nothing 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 St. 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 St. 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 monster waiting in the dark, no evil lurking behind a door, no creature of night stalking me 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, bolted my door thrice, and replaced the wreath of garlic graciously gifted to me by Miss Delano. I decided then to also spread a fine layer of salt 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. Upon examining my neck in the mirror, it remained just as it was with no sign of re-injury.
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, was the result of some supernatural malevolence. The only trouble now was that what I had made for myself in covering my floor in 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 my addiction may have addled my mental processes and impinged my ability to heal.
I know it is wrong to wish for another mass murderer to stalk the streets of St. Denis, especially as I have just recovered from a bout of mad paranoia, 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