12/4/29. I've seen some shit. I've spent the past week trying to make sense of what happened at that damn Corbitt House - hopefully writing it out will help clear my head. If not, there's always my good pal Jameson to calm the nerves. About a week ago, I drove Mr. Cartier to another one of his adventure club shindigs, when some author by the name of Hemingway Henry is going on about a well paying job opportunity for adventurers. He mentioned something about checking on the Corbitt House in the North End, but it wasn't until he uttered the property owner's name that I started to pay attention: Bernard Knott. Bernie and I go way back - that guy owes me and he knows it. Long story short, turns out some of his new tenants up and left right after moving in and Bernie was worried about his investment. Word on the street was that old man Corbitt was into some seriously messed up shit. Nobody has seen Corbitt in years, but I heard that the house drove some poor Italian fellow insane - ran him right out of the house and into the loony bin. Maybe the same thing happened to the most recent tenants? Fearing we had a crime scene on our hands, I drove Cartier and Henry to Miskatonic University in Arkham to recruit one of the top forensic pathologists in the country. He wasn't there, so we had to settle for some lippy doll named Hannah Carson - excuse me, Dr. Hannah Carson. Once she finally decided to help us out, I drove everyone back to Boston, where we eventually met up with some journalists from the Globe at some speak. Henry had some writing connection with them and, along with the booze Cartier kept throwing their way, convinced them to bring us to the Globe's archives. Henry and the lady doc were able to find some articles about the House, more or less confirming all those rumors on the street. By that point it was well past midnight, so we headed back to Cartier's boat and called it a night.