Lost Worlds

No entry since June the 25th, which only goes to demonstrate what I have said previously regarding my slipshod handling of the keeping of diaries. But, I have been occupied in numerous tasks here in Babbage, not the least being the first steps towards realising a public Exhibition devoted to the vanished worlds of pre-Adamite times, as revealed by palaentology and geology. I will call it the Palaeozoic Museum, in honour of Mr. Benjamin Water House Hawkins. Indeed, I hope that reproductions of Hawkins' fine murals and sculptures will comprise the centerpiece of this museum. It is a daunting undertaking, no doubt. For now, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had provided me with a portion of the first floor of the Undershaw Society, near the northeast corner of Babbage. I have only just begun work in earnest, and am trying to decide whether the main focus of the intitial phase of the "museum" shall be a reconstruction of Hawkins' plesiosaur or of his magnificent Hadrosaurus.

Meanwhile, Miss Paine has begun to settle into our flat in the Canal District. Though I took a companion as a means of easing my loneliness in this strange new world, in truth the period of adjustment is proving a challenge all its own. I am accustomed to living with no one but my late father, and Miss Paine has many peculiar and irritating quirks and habits. But I am trying, within the limits of my own disposition, to be gracious and accommodating. We have had a couple of strained conversations. A few days back, she was gone most of the day, when I'd expected her to be present and to provide company. In her absence, I confess I turned to spirits, as is too often my habit in times of solitude and despair. When she did turn up, well after sunset, I fear I allowed the spirits I had imbibed to speak for me, and I spoke things I now wish I had not. I came perilously near revealing something of how I arrived in this world, a matter which I would prefer she not know for the time being. It is blasted difficult, keeping such secrets. The girl is so...devoid of inhibition, like so much of her world. And me, I am a product of my dear lost Providence and that world's year 1887. I believe that many people here must find me stuffy, overly reserved, and, perhaps, even arrogant. I hope it is not so.

As for the Black Beast of Kittiwickshire, it continues to haunt Caledon. My interest in the "Monster" grows. It seems a problem far beyond the usual scope of my scientific inquiry...but perhaps not. Capt. Susenko and the others clearly believe it to be a super-natural creature, but I would prefer to approach the problem free of these a priori assumptions of otherworldly beings and influences. I have begun to work the problem over in my mind, perhaps as another means of being distracted from my present situation, and perhaps because I was somehow deeply effected by my own encounter with the creature just last week. I have been searching the wilds of Caledon for another glimpse, and last night while visiting Capt. Susenko and Miss Maertens at her estate in Caledon Eyre (accompanied by Miss Paine), I almost got my wish. Alas, I did not see the beast, though our "faerie" talismans glowed their warnings, and the fiend's howl clearly echoed beneath the full moon.

I have bought a pistol, a small Derringer, and have begun to experiment with ammunition which might prove more effective against this "werewolf" than mere lead and gunpowder. I thank my father for all the chemistry he imparted to me during my education, even before my years at Brown! And one last thing, for now, will I record. I do so with some trepidation. Miss Maertens was apparently attacked by the beast some days ago, and she reported to me that she was scratched during the encounter. I hope neither she nor the Capt. saw my shock at that news. I am working on an hypothesis regarding this lycanthropy, and if I am correct, I fear it may consist of a sort of contagious pathology of the blood. But that sounds so much like legend, and I will not alarm them until I have hard evidence. However, I will watch the woman, in case she should prove infected and pose a danger to herself and others.

I have, so far, had no further communication with Miss Terry Lightfoot and the Time Lord Oolon Sputnik.