Cornelius Jones, Esq.
12-B Ambrose Ct,
Carcosa.
HAROLD opens the envelope carefully. Inside is the front cover of a hard-backed book. On the inside, in what appears to be his own handwriting, it reads “Tell me, have you seen the Yellow Sign?” It seems to be written in fountain pen, yet by someone who is not proficient with using one; there is a smudged thumbprint below the writing. He turns the cover over and on the front there is no text, only a mysterious and ominous symbol in gold leaf. He finds himself disturbed by it, and takes it to work to investigate further.
He runs the fingerprint. As he has come to expect, it is a match to his own. He looks for towns or cities called Carcosa but finds none; he runs this through an anagram generator and finds that it yields no results in English. Frustrated, he takes the book cover to Harley O’Brian for analysis.
“Harley, I’d like you to look at something,” he says. Harley looks upon the symbol and utters:
“Tell me, have you seen the Yellow Sign?”
At that moment, there can almost be heard, somewhere deep within Harley O’Brian’s powerful yet fragile mind, the sound of a dried, brittle twig snapping.
“Uh, that’s interesting,” he says. “Let me get back to you on that.” O’Brian takes the book cover and returns to his office, where he begins researching the symbol with fanatical intensity, and in the process, starts writing a computer virus that will spread around the world (to be activated at a designated time, displaying the pulsating image on a million screens with a soundtrack of throbbing trance music).
Meanwhile, in San Francisco, MALCOLM receives a call from his associate DENNIS, of that city's branch of the FBI. There is a report of a kidnapping that may have occult connections, that was passed on to DENNIS by a friendly in the Bureau. DENNIS is unable to look into it so he called MALCOLM (working his day job at the CDCP) and asks if he has any Delta Green FBI contacts. MALCOLM tells him that he will contact H-Cell, two of whom are FBI, and enlist the rest of M-Cell if necessary.
HAROLD gets a call from MALCOLM to fly up to San Francisco. He will be coming alone for now; HECTOR is recovering from an embarassing surgical procedure and HANNIBAL has not returned his phone calls since the BioGenesys operation. HAROLD made some calls to the U.S. Marshall's office and found that HANNIBAL has been showing up to work, albeit sproadically, so he is trying not to worry too much about it.
MALCOLM also calls MASON, who has been in Lake Tahoe. MASON hires a local pilot with a Cessna 177 and flies to Buchanan Field Airport, some 27 mile northeast of SF International. MASON, as always, has with him a black duffel bag of items that would be difficult to bring on a commercial flight.
They have the original FBI and Police reports. The missing person is a woman called Abigail Laura Wright, an artist who lives in a rent-controlled apartment managed by a philanthropic group called ARTLIFE. She was reported missing over two months ago by her father, a SFPD officer. Her apartment was devoid of furniture and had the carpet pulled up, but the walls and ceiling were layered with thousands of seemingly meaningless items, such as bits of paper, playing cards, dentures, shoes, radios, artificial limbs, a 1940s-style wheelchair, all applied with some fast-setting epoxy. Among these items was a scrap of paper featuring a hand-scrawled symbol in blue pen, which was the tip-off to DENNIS's DG contact. All these items remain on the wall, as the investigators were afraid that to remove them might damage them or otherwise compromise whatever message they may be trying to convey.
By the time the agents arrive at the building (they have the key to the apartment), it is late afternoon. The building is a three-storey brownstone with a faux-castle facade, complete with porticullis over the front door and two-dimensional towers jutting past the flat roof. The keystone identifies the building as "The Macallister Building, 1924." It is in the artsy neighborhood near Golden Gate Park.
The agents let themselves in and see Abigail's apartment firsthand. It looks like some kind of shrine. MALCOLM spends some time getting a sample of the epoxy and the others begin searching for clues. The report describes the location of the so-called occult symbol, and they locate this scrap of paper.
"Hey, that's the symbol I sent to myself this morning," says HAROLD. In blue ink, it doesn't look nearly as foreboding. He explains the morning's events to the others.
By eleven o'clock, HAROLD has found a hand-drawn map of the building with X's where the closets are. In the margins near some of these are written the notes "Man with white shoes and briefcase", "Door on 7/12", "Roses and Butter"; there are also doors drawn on exterior walls that say "Mr Castaigne" and "The Smoking Lounge".
MALCOLM says it's time for him to return to his life-partner, Stewie. HAROLD is happy to call it a night because he has the sense he is being watched. He and MASON take a photo of Abigail and hit the local bars and coffee-shops.
Well after midnight they find a coffee house where the picture is recognized. "Sure, she used to come in here a lot. One of her pictures is over there." He points to a painting of a quaint pastoral scene on the wall. "Not seen her lately."
"She's been missing for almost two months," says MASON. The barkeep tells them that she came in with friends sometimes, but doesn't know them by name. She had an art show a half a year ago at the Mercury, a local gallery. MASON leaves his card with the man. It reads "Seth Carter, Vice President (Public Relations), Trashmasters Garbage Disposal Systems."
The agents are at the all-night Fried Chicken & Waffles joint when they hear from MALCOLM the next morning. He has called MITCH and asked him to come up.
HAROLD goes by the local FBI office and gets a bugscanner. He can't shake the feeling that they are being watched at the apartment. MALCOLM's epoxy tests were inconclusive so he returns to the apartment to get another sample. The others go the visit Abigail's father, officer Thomas Wright.
Thomas Wright is very concerned for his daughter but years on the force have hardened him. He doesn't know her friends well, but she had a boyfriend last year that he liked, who was called Raymond Wilson. As this conversation ensues, HAROLD sees the police station fade and blur, and rematerialize as an elegant courtroom. Officer Wright is no longer a policeman but a royal figure; the other officers are not officers but courtiers behaving in a reverential manner towards him. Further, they are all speaking in German. This apparition lasts only several moments and then vanishes. HAROLD is shaken. Wright and the agents exchange contact information and they depart.
HAROLD and MASON meet with the director of ARTLIFE, Cynthia LeChance, at her office downtown. She agrees to go with the agents to the Macallister Building to interview the other residents. There are only four currently living there, she tells them, and they are all almost two months overdue with their rent. She has sent notices that if they don't get current within the next two weeks she will have to evict them all.
They arrive at the building and have a look at Abigail's apartment again. MALCOLM has been here again to collect another glue sample and has returned to his office, he has dropped MITCH off after picking him up at the airport. They go across the hall and knock on the door.
Thomas Manuel answers the door. The agents ask if he knew Abigail, and he says he did. He calls her Laura, her middle name. "I think she was just a free spirit. Talked about seeing the country; I guess she finally up and left."
"Or is it that you just killed her?" says HAROLD. MITCH tells HAROLD to behave. The room is totally spartan, like a hotel. There is no sign of any personal items except for an expensive-looking stereo.
"That's a nice stereo," says MITCH. "What do you play on it?"
"Nothing," he says. "It was a gift from my parents." There are no CDs visible so this might be true.
"So you're an artist," says HAROLD. There is no sign of any art supplies around. "Where are your paintings?"
"I paint in the basement. The Night Manager lets me use it for my work."
Cynthia LeChance frowns. "We don't have a Night Manager," she says.
"Sure you do. You know the guy. Older, white hair. Kind of Einstein-looking. Has an accent."
"Is it German?" asks HAROLD?
"I don't know. Maybe Russian?" he says.
The agents ask to see his work. He takes them downstairs. There is a boiler room and several storage rooms. In one of these is a box of paints, an easel and a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. He produces one of these and show the agents. It is blank, except for the bottom where it says "My Great Work, Vol. 4" in flowing cursive.
"Not much to it, is there?" asks HAROLD.
Manuel gets defensive. "What do you know? Are you an artist? Anyway, it's a work in progress."
LeChance reminds him to send in his rent check. The agents go back upstairs, and down the hall to the next resident's apartment.
An older, frumpy man answers the door. His apartment is neat and orderly. There is a television on but muted, and an old electronic word processor on the table. They ascertain that he is Roger Carun, a semi-popular science fiction author who has written a half-dozen books in the "Nightsea" series. MITCH, a sci-fi fan, develops a rapport.
"Did you go to the San Diego Con this year?" he asks.
"No... I was supposed to go, I think... I guess I didn't make it. When was that? Last month?"
"What are you watching?"
"Stargate marathon on SciFi channel."
"Regular, or Atlantis?"
"Just Stargate. I like it better anyway."
"Me too," says MITCH.
Concerning Abigail, he knew her by sight but they didn't talk. "I had to call the leasing office after she had a loud New Years' Eve party a few years back, and she never spoke to me much after that," he says. He saw her talk to the comic artist upstairs sometimes. He says he'll call them if he thinks of anything else.
They go upstairs. A young man called Louis Post answers the door. His apartment is filthy: the garbage from his garbage can has overflowed onto the floor, there are dirty plates and laundry everywhere, pizza boxes stacked on all surfaces, and a pervasive smell of mildew.
"Can I help you?" he asks. They ask him about Abigail. He saw her a few days before she was reported missing. She had been in the hall with a bag. Groceries, perhaps. Otherwise, he hasn't heard from her. MITCH gets the vibe that maybe Post smokes marijuana.
Across the hall, they find the building's final current resident. A portly, older woman answers the door. LeChance introduces her as Michelle Vanfitz. They gather that she is an author of feminist fiction and poetry, and find her personality abrasive. She habitually quotes from Gloria Steinem and other writers, and believes there is foul-play in the Wright case. "Some... Man probably did this," she says. She cannot specify which man, and it seems she blames all men in general for her perceived mistreatment of all women.
LeChance, having introduced all the residents, returns to her office. The agents decide to look in the empty apartments, especially those with the 'x's marked on the hand-drawn map. They decide to wait in the on marked "7/12" for 7:12 pm. MITCH goes to ask Post where he orders his pizza.
"The place across the street," Post tells him.
"You got any green?" asks MITCH.
"No, I'm all out... Hey, are you a cop?"
"Not really. I'm off duty anyway. Who's your hookup?"
Post is hesitant. Then: "the place across the street."
MITCH goes across the street and orders two pizzas. He also asks the pizza guy for some marijuana.
"Uh, who sent you?" he asks. MITCH tells him that Post did. The pizza guy relaxes. "Oh, okay then," he says. "Tell him I said 'what's up,' I haven't seen him in a couple of weeks. Thought he was on vacation."
"Does he come in regularly?" asks MITCH.
"Almost every day, until a couple of weeks ago."
MITCH takes the pizza and goes back to Post's apartment. He offers some to Post, who goes to get some milk to have with it. MITCH notices the milk is two weeks past its expiration date; Post pours himself a large glass and drinks it with no ill effects. MITCH takes a glass and cautiously sips it and finds it tastes fresh.
He meets up with the others. "I don't think anybody has left the building for weeks," he says.
MASON is pulling down all the smoke detectors, now paranoid that they may be bugged. They pull up the carpeting in several of the rooms but find nothing unusual. HAROLD is frustrated. 7:12 comes and goes without incident. It begins to get dark outside. They call MALCOLM and tell him where they are.
HAROLD goes into the bathroom of the apartment they're in, stands in front of the mirror with his eyes closed, and says "Bloody Mary!" three times. He opens his eyes. In the mirror behind him, a woman passes by the door in Edwardian dress. HAROLD screams.
The other agents saw no sign of a woman. HAROLD goes back in the bathroom and looks out the tiny window. Outside, it is snowing, and horse-drawn carriages trundle along below by the light of gaslamps. Downstairs a door slams.
They rush downstairs and hear a voice in Post's room. It is unlocked, so MITCH steps quietly inside. Post is seated at his desk, facing away from them. He is speaking to an ornately framed mirror and drawing. MITCH creeps up to see what he is doing. For a brief moment he catches a glimpse of a figure in the mirror that is not Post's reflection. Then he steps on a Doritos wrapper and the noise startles Post. He turns, sees MITCH, and jumps to attack him. MITCH recoils from the attack and tries to escape to the hallway. He calls for MASON.
"Drop him," says MITCH.
MASON draws his weapon and shoots him twice. Post slumps against the wall.
"I didn't mean kill him!" cries MITCH.
"Shouldn't have said 'drop him' then," says MASON coolly. MITCH tries to apply first aid. He is unsuccessful; Post is dead. They look at his mirror. It is perfectly normal now. What is not normal are his paintings: they depict gruesome scenes of dead, bloated babies and other horrific subjects.
They cross the hall to Vanfitz's door. Surely she heard the gunshots. They knock, but there is no answer. They use their key and enter.
The small apartment is now a grand library, with crystal chandeliers and crushed velvet drapes. Her bookshelves are now lined with leather-bound volumes of zoology, philosophy and other topics. Broad doorways open into other galleries beyond. The agents walk through the apartment and eventually find Vanfitz. She is much more cordial now, and reading a book.
"What, aren't you a feminist anymore?" asks MASON. She assures them that she is, and says that the play she is reading now is one of the first pieces of feminist literature. She shows them the book, entitled The King In Yellow. On its front cover is the dreadful Yellow Sign. HAROLD takes it from her and reads a page. Its characters seem to be residents of the building, including some they haven't met: Mark Roark and a dog. There are FBI agents mentioned as well.
"Who is Mark Roark?" asks HAROLD. Vanfitz tells them that he's usually up in the Smoking Lounge, on Fourth. "This building only has three floors," says HAROLD. Vanfitz looks puzzled.
"No, it doesn't," she says.
They go upstairs, with Vanfitz, and up again to the stairs that allow roof access. Instead of a roof, however, they find themselves in what appears to be a turn-of-the-century gentlemen's club. They hear snippets of genteel conversation, catch glimpses of men in smoking jackets talking in small groups, but these visions are always fleeting. HAROLD looks in a broad mirror on the wall and in the reflection sees a man in a 1930s-style suit and obvious hairpiece standing by the bar. He turns around, and the man is still there.
"Are you Mark Roark," says HAROLD.
"Yes sir," says the man. He nods to Vanfitz. "Absinthe?" he asks, gesturing to a pale green bottle with no label.
"Yes, thank you," says HAROLD. "We're looking for Laura Abigail Wright. Have you seen her?"
"Sure, she's shacked up with that damned salesman, up on Seventh," he says.
"You're going to take us to them," says MASON.
Roark bristles. "Now look here, I'll do no such thing. Who are you to come in here and -"
He is cut short as MASON blows his head off.
Vanfitz shrieks and runs down the stairs. "You brute of a MAN!" she yells. MITCH and HAROLD are shocked.
"What? He probably wasn't even real anyway," says MASON defensively.
HAROLD tries to call MALCOLM. He dials his number, but is connected to a switchboard operator.
"Uh, what year is it?" he asks her.
"1908," she says incredulously. He hangs up.
"Don't shoot anyone else. I think we've gone back in time," he says.
"Least I've got my gun," says MASON, then notices it has transformed into a flintlock pistol. Unfazed, he makes sure it's primed.
They wander the halls, at one point ascending a wide staircase with elaborate balustrades. Down the hall they hear the sound of actors orating and an audience applauding. When they reach the room they find a child's puppet stage with marionettes dancing in Shakespearean garb.
"I'm not looking behind there," says HAROLD. MITCH does anyway.
"Look!" he announces. "There's nobody controlling these puppets!"
In another room they find a seam along the wall, where it meets the ceiling. They can see rafters above. They try to pry it open farther and the whole wall falls forward, revealing an audience of life-sized marionettes facing them. Behind them is a brightly painted set resembling a 21st-century street. MASON shoots one of the marionettes, and they all silently stand and start to file out of a doorway behind them. When the agents reach the doorway to the hall, all the marionettes have vanished.
Suddenly a man in a blue work jumpsuit leaps out at them.
"Oh my god," he gasps. "Are you cops? I've been trapped here for weeks..."
HAROLD assumed the man must be insane, if he had indeed been here for that long. "No, I've been hiding. Everytime I hear someone I run to a vacant room. I've been eating leftover cake and champagne forever. You've gotta get me out of here!"
"How did you get here?" the agents ask. He tells them his name is David Langford, and that he works for the cable company. He had been disconnecting someone's cable on the roof of the building one evening, and then suddenly he found himself in this bizarre, seemingly endless labyrinth.
"Let's see some ID," demands HAROLD.
"That's just the thing... I have some, see, but it says I'm a citizen of The Imperial Dynasty of America. What the hell does that mean?"
"See?" says HAROLD to MASON. "You shouldn't have shot that guy."
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