Dean Duncan's desk held a single leather-bound diary, open at the middle. The edges of the paper curled as though the fog had touched them, and the ink shifted in tone twice across the same page.
I lifted it carefully. The cover bore the year 1924, small and engraved.
I turned the page. Why am I so afraid? Yet something else preceded the fear.
The next leaf bore in sequence. Beside them, written in Roman letters, was pnakotic.