You reached the patio table, finally, the ornately carved wooden box waiting like a dark promise. The dead fern beside it seemed to mock you with its brittle finality. You glanced around one last time: street empty, neighbor's house dark, Arthur’s house still lifeless. Just you, the box, and the unnervingly cold key.
Taking a shaky breath, you knelt beside the table. The key slid into the old lock with a faint metallic scrape. It felt… snug. A perfect fit. You hesitated for a heartbeat, the implications of what you were doing washing over you. This felt like crossing a threshold. Opening this box wasn't just about finding answers about Arthur; it felt like formally accepting your entry into this hidden, sanity-shredding reality of Still-Blooms and listening cities.
No going back now.
You turned the key.
The mechanism inside the lock resisted for a second, stiff with age or disuse, then gave way with a loud, resonant CLICK that echoed shockingly in the quiet backyard. It sounded less like a lock opening and more like a bone snapping. You froze, listening, certain the sound must have carried, must have alerted someone or something. But only silence answered. The wind whispered through the leaves. A distant dog barked. Nothing else.
With trembling hands, you lifted the lid of the box.
The inside was lined with faded, dark velvet, smelling faintly of dust, old paper, and that same cold, metallic tang you associated with the Blooms and Arthur’s office. There wasn't a hoard of arcane artifacts or anything overtly supernatural nestled within. Instead, the box was tightly packed with documents.
On top lay a slim, leather-bound notebook, its cover worn smooth with handling. Beneath it were stacks of loose papers–printed articles heavily annotated with Arthur’s precise, increasingly frantic handwriting; architectural blueprints marked with strange symbols that weren’t standard notation; grainy black-and-white photographs; and several hand-drawn maps even more detailed and disturbing than the ones in his office.
This was it. Arthur’s research. His descent.
You lifted the leather-bound notebook out first. It felt heavy, dense with information. The cover was blank, no title. You carefully opened it to the first page.
The entry was dated almost a year ago. Arthur’s handwriting was neat, controlled, the script of a meticulous academic.
June 28th. Began preliminary historical overlay for District 7 Redevelopment Proposal. Standard archival review. Encountered anomalous reference in 1888 surveyor’s log: ‘Ground exhibits unusual rigidity, peculiar veridian strata observed near old rail spur.’ Cross-referenced with geological surveys–no mention of such strata. Dismissed as likely transcription error or colloquialism. Peculiar phrasing, though. ‘Veridian Weft.’ Almost poetic. Must maintain objectivity.
You flipped forward a few pages. The entries detailed Arthur’s usual work–zoning disputes, historical preservation consultations, complaints about inconsistent street naming conventions. All normal. Boringly normal. Then, about months ago, the tone began to shift.
October 12th. Revisiting District 7 anomalies. Found similar ‘Veridian Weft’ references in unrelated documents spanning decades. Always peripheral, always dismissed. Pattern emergence is statistically improbable for random error. Coincidence threshold exceeded. Also noted recurring mentions of persistent, unidentified fungal/mineral growths, particularly near Canal Quarter demolitions in the ‘50s. ‘Still-Bloom’ descriptor used colloquially by sanitation crews. No formal botanical or geological match. Cold documented property? Intriguing. Requires systematic investigation.
You felt a chill trace its way down your spine despite the relatively mild evening air. This was the beginning. The first thread Arthur pulled that started unraveling everything. You kept reading, flipping through pages documenting his growing obsession. He started visiting the sites, taking soil samples (which lab reports dismissed as inconclusive or contaminated), photographing strange erosions and discolorations.
Then came the first mention of the language.
November 19th. Attended Maple Avenue community feedback session. Standard NIMBYism, but observed… linguistic drift? Residents using neologisms such as ‘cognito-shift,’ ‘thought-murk’, with apparent shared understanding, yet unable to define them when pressed. Not standard slang. Structure feels… internally consistent but etymologically rootless. As if seeded directly into local discourse. Concerning. Is this related to the geological/biological anomalies? A localized environmental neurotoxin affecting speech centres? Or something… else?
Something else.
You knew that feeling. You flipped faster, the pages blurring. Arthur’s handwriting became smaller, more cramped. He started documenting his own experiences–finding the words cropping up in unexpected places, feeling a strange resonance with them, experiencing unsettling dreams he couldn’t quite recall.
April 5th. Found first intact specimen. District 7 fissure site. Bone-white, faceted, colder than ambient temperature. Structure defies simple crystallization patterns. Fractal complexity observed under magnification. Attempted removal... extremely difficult. Small shard detached–sharp, potentially hazardous. Feels… resonant. Holding it produces mild dissociation, fleeting auditory hallucinations (whispering?). Sample bagged for analysis (discreetly). Must not jump to conclusions. Must remain rigorous.
He found the same one you did. The one you cut yourself on. That cold resonance… you knew exactly what he meant.
The entries became more erratic. He documented finding more Blooms, including the ones in the Canal Quarter. He wrote about trying to research the Silent Winter of 1907 and the Ash Meadow Riot, hitting the same dead ends you did, but finding tantalizing hints in personal diaries and forgotten municipal sub-archives–whispers of mass confusion, people wandering off, language breaking down.
Then, he mentioned the old man.
April 18th. Encountered an individual sketching in the Canal Quarter lot. Elderly, dishevelled, but unnervingly lucid regarding the Blooms. Used the terms ‘Still-Bloom’ and ‘Veridian Weft’ without prompting. Spoke of historical occurrences, ‘Thoughtless Gardens,’ a ‘planting season.’ Possesses detailed observational knowledge but frames it in unsettlingly metaphorical, almost Gnostic terms. Claims the Blooms are ‘listening,’ that they ‘change the thoughts that roost.’ Drew a disturbing portrait incorporating Bloom imagery. Source of valuable ethnographic data? Or manifestation of localized cognitive decay he claims to observe? Caution advised. He seems… attuned.
Attuned. That was one word for it. Fucking terrifying was another.
You quickly scanned the next few pages. Arthur documented his discovery of the terms ‘Thoughtling’ and something called ‘A?e?s?h?t?’?R?h?a?l?’–pieced together from fragmented historical accounts, obscure philosophical texts mentioned in old library catalogues, and possibly information gleaned from the old man.
April 22nd. The pattern solidifies. A?e?s?h?t?’?R?h?a?l?. ‘The Seed of Arrival.’ Not a god, not an entity in the conventional sense. More… a condition. A pre-cognitive symptom of reality thinning. It ‘roots’ in collective consciousness, destabilizing the mind/matter boundary. The Blooms are its physical anchors, its… sensory organs? Listening posts? The ‘Veridian Weft’–perhaps the mycelial network of its conceptual influence spreading through the substrate of thought itself? The linguistic drift, the altered art, the disappearances–all symptoms of it ‘preparing the soil.’ Preparing for what? The old texts are maddeningly vague. ‘That which deserves to be thought into existence.
Stolen novel; please report.
April 25th. The ‘Thoughtlings.’ Mentioned in the margins of a 1908 psychiatric case file (unauthorized access–digital ghost in the system?). Described as ‘conceptual larvae.’ Physical manifestations? The old man alluded to ‘gardeners.’ Are they one and the same? Creatures precipitated by the thinning veil? Responsible for tending the Blooms?
Saw… something near the Canal Quarter library late last night. Tall. Pale. Clicking sounds. Didn’t get a clear look. Imagination? Or are the larvae hatching?
You felt sick. He’d seen it too. Or something like it. The creature in the library wasn’t your imagination. It was a Thoughtling. A gardener. A conceptual larva. Christ.
Arthur’s handwriting deteriorated rapidly in the final entries. Loops became jagged slashes, sentences fragmented. He wrote about feeling his own thoughts shifting, becoming alien. Ideas arriving fully formed, ‘gifted.’ Paranoia warred with a terrifying sense of revelation.
????? ????. C??’? ????? ?y ?w? c?g??????. ?d??? b???? ??????c???d. B?????f??. ?????b??. ??g?c???y f??w?d y?? f???… ????? ???? ??????. ??? ???????? ??? ????yw???? ??w. ?? ??? ?????c b??w??? ??d?? ????????. ?? ??? c??c?? ?? ??? ????????. ?? ??? c?d? ?f ??? c??y ???w???–??’? ???????g, ?d?????g, W?????G ?????f ??. ???y’?? ??? ???? ????????g. ???y’?? ???????g. ?????g? ??. ?????g? ??. ??? B???? ?? ?y d???… ?? w??????? c??c????????. ???????b?? g?????????. Thought is how it breathes.
????? 2???. ????????? ?. ?????? ?? ?????????? ?’? ??????? ???????????. ???? ????????? ?????. ?????. ??? ??? ??? ?????????, ?????????? ?? ????????????????, ?????????? ?????????. ????????? ??? ??? ?????? ????????. ?? ?????? ??? ??? ??? ???????????… ???? ??????? ??????????? ?????? ?’? ????? ???????. ?????? ??? ?????? ????? ??.
E. Thorne? Miskatonic University? Wasn't that in Arkham, Massachusetts? The heartland of Lovecraftian horror cliché? It seemed almost absurdly trope-y, yet here it was, in Arthur’s desperate, unraveling notes. Had this Thorne person replied? Was there an ally out there?
The last entry was barely legible, scrawled across the page, ink bleeding through.
??? 2??. ??? ??? ?? ??? ???. ??? ??? ?? ??? ???. ??????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ????? ?? ??? ???????. ???? ?? ??????V? ??? ????????. ??? ???… ???? ?? ?????? ?????? ???? ???????????. ?????? ??? ????????? ???? ??. ???? ????? ?? ??? ????? ???. ??’? ??? ???? ??? ??. ??? ?????… ??’? ??????? ?????? ?? ?????. ? ?????????. ?????????. ???? ??? ?????. ???? ??????. ??’? ????V??? ?? ?????????…
The rest of the page was just jagged lines, like an EKG reading gone haywire.
You sat back, the notebook heavy in your lap. Your breath came in ragged gasps. Arthur Penvarnon wasn't just missing. He was gone. Consumed. Bloomed–whatever that truly meant. Possibly even… turning into one of those things from the photo. He knew it was happening, tried to preserve his research, tried to leave something. For you? For this E. Thorne?
Find the Nexus? What the hell is a 'Nexus'? Some kind of central point? The source? Arthur wrote it like it was obvious, crucial, but offered no explanation. It was just another piece of cryptic desperation from a mind shattering under the weight of… whatever this is.
And A?e?s?h?t?’?R?h?a?l?… the name itself felt wrong in your mouth, alien, like a burr under the tongue. Arthur seemed convinced it was the source, this 'Seed of Arrival,' but reading it felt like reading the ravings of a doomsday prophet. Could any of it be real? Or was it just the architecture of his breakdown? He mentioned Miskatonic University, E. Thorne… someone hopefully more grounded than Arthur became.
You quickly riffled through the loose papers in the box. More maps, marked with intersecting lines pointing towards… the Municipal Annex? The old rail yards? The university? Several locations seemed significant. There were printouts of complex mathematical formulas that made your eyes cross, newspaper clippings about sudden closures of local businesses or unexplained technological glitches, and several disturbing photographs.
One showed a piece of public art–a modern sculpture downtown–subtly altered. Where smooth steel curves should have been, the photo showed faint, bone-white, fractal patterns seemingly growing out of the metal. Another showed a library book, open to a page where the printed text seemed to dissolve into meaningless symbols resembling the Bloom facets.
The most disturbing photo was tucked near the bottom. It was recent, seemingly taken with a phone camera, looking out through a grimy window. It showed the alleyway behind the Municipal Annex. And standing there, partially obscured by a dumpster, was the tall, pale, faceless figure of a Thoughtling. Just… standing there. Watching the building.
They were close. They weren’t just lurking in abandoned libraries. They were near your workplace. Near Arthur’s office, where he kept a Bloom. Were they watching him? Or the building itself?
Your hands were shaking uncontrollably now. This was too much. Arthur’s notes painted a picture of… what? Reality itself being infected? Language turning into a weapon? Strange growths appearing everywhere, tended by clicking, faceless things he called 'Thoughtlings'? Colleagues potentially turning into... fungal husks? It sounded like pulp sci-fi horror, completely insane, yet... the evidence was piling up around you. The Blooms were real. The clicking creature was real. The linguistic weirdness was happening. Arthur’s theories about why felt like frantic leaps–alien entities, psychic parasites–maybe, maybe not. But the phenomena were undeniable. And terrifying.
You jumped as a loud thump sounded from upstairs inside Arthur's house.
Silence.
Your blood ran cold.
Was someone inside? Had they been there all along? Was it neighbours checking on the place? Or… something else? One of the gardeners? Had Arthur not left the house at all?
Thump. Closer this time. Like something heavy being dragged across a wooden floor.
Fuck this.
You couldn't stay here. You grabbed the notebook and the most relevant-looking maps and photos, stuffing them hastily into your messenger bag. You left the other articles and blueprints–too much to carry, too risky to linger. You slammed the lid of the box shut, leaving the key in the lock. Let someone else find it. Let them deal with whatever was upstairs.
Another sound. A faint, rhythmic clicking, seemingly coming from the direction of the back door.
No. No fucking way.
You scrambled backwards, crab-walking away from the patio table, eyes glued to the back door, barely visible in the deepening gloom. The clicking grew slightly louder, closer.
Chk-chk-chk…
You turned and ran. Vaulted the low wooden gate, not caring about the noise, and sprinted down the quiet suburban street, away from the dark house, away from the clicking, away from the terrifying secrets held in Arthur Penvarnon’s lockbox sutra.
You had Arthur's notes now.
Names that felt jagged and wrong–A?e?s?h?t?’?R?h?a?l?, Thoughtling, Thoughtless Garden.
A contact–E. Thorne.
Locations marked on maps, hints of... something Arthur called the Nexus.
You had his horrifying, fragmented confirmation that the things you were seeing weren't just in your head.
You also had the sickening certainty that you were neck-deep in something vast and monstrously insidious, even if you couldn't grasp its full shape or trust Arthur's final interpretations. And whatever was inside Arthur’s house was just one small, clicking piece of it. That 'Nexus' Arthur frantically mentioned... you had no idea what it was, but his urgency made it seem critical. And the 'gardeners,' the Thoughtlings... they were out there. You needed to find E. Thorne, hoping she was real and sane. You needed to figure out what Arthur meant by the Nexus. Before Stillwater Creek completely succumbed to this... this cognitive plague. Before you became just another casualty, another thought harvested for a garden you couldn't comprehend.
chapter, I've just added a small clarification to the entry regarding the creature encountered back in the Chapter 3 library–what you might call the 'Bloom Tender.'