March, 1882 We begin the ceremony as Mario instructed, according to that described in his book, De Vermis Mysteriis. A fire is set in the fireplace and a pentagram chalked on the floor, marked with appropriate symbols and illuminated by two black tapers placed near the center flanking the piece of amber with its entrapped spirit. The others sit in a circle whilst I, the designated "Watcher" who guards for malevolent spirits, sit in the far corner of the room. Mario throws a handful of powder in the fire, producing an evil-smelling smoke and dampening the flames which now burn a sputtering green and brown. Those seated begin the Latin chant Marion Allen has translated from his book. After nearly two hours I see a trail of smoke circling up from the piece of amber. It's surface seemed to bubbling, melting. Could this be it? Have we finally achieved success? I can see a form-- It is the following day. We have finished with our plans and have sworn a pact to never speak of what happened last night. We have satisfactorily explained the death of Robert, and in some manner the madness of Harold. The sherriff accepts the explanation of a carriage accident--we planned it well. Robert's neck was broken in the fall, we told him. Harold struck his head on a rock when the horse's leg broke and the carriage rolled. Would it be that it was only that. For the rest of us, we will be forever changed by what we saw last night. The thing formed in the center of the pentagram, shapeless, nearly invisible. Its terrible voice should have given us a clue but we were foolish. It spoke, then Marion cast that damned powder on the spirit, the Dust of Ibn-Gahzi he calls it, and that's when we could see it. Words cannot describe the faceless thing with a thousand maws. It roiled and bubbled, never fully revealing itself. So terrifying was its aspect that I sat as though frozen to the floor, the pen falling from my nerveless fingers. Cecil and Marion seemed as lifeless as I, while a short, sharp cry issued forth from Crawford's mouth. Robert, however, rose to his feet and before anyone could stop him, stepped forward as though to embrace our horrible guest. With its arms or appendages that seemed like arms, it took hold of poor Robert and twisted his head around as though it were a doll's head. The lifeless corpse was then thrown back in Harold's lap and that's when he began that damnable shrieking--the shrieking that hadn't stopped even after we handed him over to the sheriff's men. We still had a chance, apparently. Marion believes that if we had kept our whits about us, we could have reversed the chant and eventually forced back the creature to wherever it came from. But Crawford panicked and, mistakenly beliving it would dispel the creature, reached forward and destroyed part of the pentagram, breaking its effectiveness. Released from that binding symbol, the thing--with a screech that could have only been unholy satisfaction--fled the house, disappearing out the window as a roaring, screaming wind of boiling color. Marion believes that the thing could still be destroyed, or at least dispelled, but none of us have the stomach for such an undertaking. It is believed that the spell we cast inextricably binds the thing to the house and it is true that when we went back a few days later to retrieve our things, we heard it bumping around in the attic overhead. The warding signs carved cheerily by Marion in earlier times--happier times it seems--apparently are effective and bar the thing entry except into the attic of the house.