As promised in my Introduction, a Brief History of the Fiction-Writing Directorate. From the notes of Miss Callista Cornelius, transcribed from the handwritten original and annotated by Gustav Tauszig. Posted despite acts of violence and coersion.
Miss Cornelius was a striking young woman, and it is an honor to present her notes to you.
Miss Callista Cornelius
November 15
Arrival at the Directorate. What a bore this job looks to be! I’ve been commissioned to write some sort of pamphlet about this stodgy old literary society, the sort of thing they give to their members around the holidays, and everyone stands awkwardly around pretending to admire the overpriced twaddle, covertly slipping extra brandy into their egg-nog. That sort of tiresome tripe. It galls me to have to write pap like this, when there are so many urgent investigations awaiting me in the City. My only consolation is knowing that this soul-deadening drudge-work will cover my expenses for many months — months that I’ll be free to apply myself to my journalistic investigations.
God only knows why they chose me. I’ve built my reputation on undercovering scandals: my story about the meat-packing plant (never again will sausage pass between these lips!), the shameful conditions of the zeppelin-workers, my expose of Mr. Fowler’s “science” of phrenology. I’m not known for this kind of puff-job. The money’s good, though, so what’s a girl to do?
[Several of Miss Cornelius's investigations had lead her to the farthest fringes of the Directorate, and my superiors, in their wisdom, thought it best to divert her before she stumbled upon something that might interest her. For Miss Cornelius had proven herself quite intrepid, and my superiors feared to arouse her predatory instincts. What better way than to pay her handsomely to write some boring drivel? Convince her of our dullness, and she would never seek the truth.
Or so they thought. --G.T.]
A Grim and Dreary Mansion
I arrived at the Directorate headquarters in the late afternoon, as dusk was creeping about. No doubt the place will look better in the daylight, but now it simply looks old and damp and drafty. There’s a dank little pond in front of the building, all scummed over and foul-smelling. I thought I saw something shift beneath the surface, but surely that was my imagination. I’m weary from the long trip here, that’s all, and already resentful about the idiocy of this task.
Buck up, Callie! You’re here to do a job, and you’re damn well going to do it right. Focus, girl.
It is hard to focus here, I must admit. Everything is so dim, and shadows seem to creep around in the corners, when you aren’t watching them. The staff — residents? members? I am not sure who they are, exactly — are also a bit eccentric. I was met by a skinny bug-eyed chap in a top hat and tails named Gustav [O, faithful reader, now you know that these journals are presented honestly! --G.T.], had an awkward tea with a stiff old battle-axe named Ethel Lee. (Note, check the name; Ethel Lee sounds vastly more cheerful than the dour and implacable woman I met. She sounds like she should be square-dancing, with rosy cheeks and lots of laughter, not shut up in this grim building.)
Callie! Get ahold of yourself. This is no time for flights of fancy. You’re a journalist, not a novelist.
To Sleep
Yes. So. I have been given a clean and simple room on the second floor. All is quiet in the building now, though occasionally I hear strange howls outside. “Just the wolves,” Ethel Lee told me, with a curious smile. They don’t sound like any wolves I’ve ever heard, but I sensed this was not the time to question her.
In the morning, I meet with the Director himself, and will have to feign interest in this society I have committed myself to write about. I must sleep well tonight; it will not do to fall asleep while he is talking.
Ugh, there’s another one of those howls, and I swear I hear something sloshing. My room looks out over the pond–but it is too dark to see anything.
I think I’ll leave the candle burning tonight; in fact, I think I’ll light a second, and a third, so that this room will not have so many flickering shadows. I shall feel like a right idiot in the morning, but better that than laying awake all night.
[It saddens me that Miss Cornelius did not feel more welcome and at home at the Directorate. Why, this is a splendid old place, full of laughter and warmth! Had I only known, I might have found a way to comfort her. Perhaps I could have sent an oil lamp to her room, along with a plate of chocolate biscuits and some warm milk. --G.T.]
