Beneath the Fog of London - An Eldritch Horror Quest

[Azel]

Prologue​

It is the year 1887 and path of the world is decided under the thick fog of London. Distinguished gentlemen decide in fancy parlours the fate of people a world away and the stroke of a banker's pen wields more might in these days than the armies of kings did in centuries past. Meanwhile, the engines of the Empire work tirelessly to sate the ever-growing hunger of the great city, bringing goods and people alike to be consumed in it's smoke choked streets.

But not all things unloaded in London's docks are as mundane as Irish grain or Chinese tea. It is the age of science and reason and many of those most exalted men in the world have taken a liking to other treasures to be found in the far-flung colonies. Art stolen from the heart of Africa, the long-forgotten artifacts of Egypt and yet stranger things fill studies and collections, taken with little regard for primitive superstition or the warnings carved into the tombs that kept them for millennia.

The march of science and industry was inevitable, and it had practiced well to ignore the warnings of those who feared where it may lead. Many believed that no secret should be kept from the light of inquiry and no taboo should have been held sacred in the furtherance of knowledge. It was the price of enlightenment to part with such notions and one many were all too willing to pay.

And you were one of them. It was not that you had set out to become a scholar. Far from it. But there was some idle curiosity and as you dove into your studies, that seed found fertile soil. Soon the smell of ink and paper became more addictive than the best laudanum and the library in your small townhome in London grew and grew. It was not the work of your contemporaries that caught your attention though, but of those old masters that had been called dreamers or madmen in their time.

You had read about the wonders of this age. About the work of great engineers and the miracle of electricity, the marvels made by chemists and apothecaries alike. And yet none of it caught your fancy for long. Only in the ramblings held on withered parchment was your curiosity truly sated and soon enough you found kindred minds and spirits as you read about those long dead men's quests for…


[] [Obsession] … power.
An unrefined and brutish goal, fit only for a primitive man of primitive character and not for a proper English gentleman.

[] [Obsession] … longevity.
You were not old by any stretch of the imagination, but you were greying rather early and each such hair in your beard still was an unwelcome reminder of the inevitable march of time. Would it not have been marvellous to deny the reaper? For all their efforts, the doctors of this age could yet only delay the embrace of death, but not turn it away entirely. And yet you knew deep in your bones that something must have existed. Some way to defeat nature once and for all, with nothing short of eternity the price of the struggle.

[] [Obsession] … control.
The ebb and flow of humanity had always baffled you and even more so since you began to all but live in your study. Worst of all were the petty games played by gentry and aristocracy alike. All the rumour mongering and power plays. Would it not have been nice to longer have to play these games? To know the truth of a mans heart by just glancing at him? But if you knew something, then maybe you could even take a step further.

[] [Obsession] … fate.
Of all the secrets of the world, none was greater than that of what came tomorrow. For uncounted years man had tried to unravel it, asking spirits and gods for guidance and looking for it in everything from the movement of clouds to the entrails of fish. And yet, no method had been found and no tool devised to see what the next day would bring. Before you knew it, you are one of them. One of those many men through the ages to lust for the power to predict the future.

[] [Obsession] … prestige.
You had been born with the greatest stain a man of your status could bear. As a commoner. A fairly poor one at that. Something that the peerage and gentry were still snickering about behind your back. So, it was perhaps only natural that your felt kinship to wise men and alchemists of ages past that had to navigate the politics of royal courts to fund their research. But perhaps, like some of them, you too could rise in station. All you had to do was prove your worth to the Empire and they would see that they were in error to dismiss you.


Your studies soon became an ever-growing part of your life, crowding out social gatherings and what little family you had left. The time others spent looking for a wife, you instead spent perusing old books in an antiquary. Instead of organizing grand feasts and dances, you tracked down men who dealt in the obscure. It took most of your time and a considerable chunk of wealth, though luckily you had…


[] [Income] … a small estate in the Midlands.
Inherited from a distant uncle who died without an heir, the manor of Brightford Hall near Birmingham and the surrounding estate have given you a comfortable income, even though you admittedly neglected the place somewhat. So absorbed had you been by your studies that you had yet to actually set foot into the place instead of administrating it by letter and telegraph.

[] [Income] … a stake in a shipping company.
With the stream of goods moving all over the Empire, buying a sizeable share in a shipping company had been a pricey but wise investment. Not only could you live well off the dividends, but your fellow shareholders were quite pleased how little you messed with the companies affairs, baring the odds package you had them acquire overseas for you.

[] [Income] … a sizable coal mine.
The old patch of land near Sheffield that your family owned had almost been sold for a few pounds and it was luck that you could recognize the signs of coal hiding under the hillside on your visit meant so seal the deal. Now there were a dozen mine shafts and even a small stretch of railroad to your name and England's endless thirst for coal would keep you rich for a long time to come.

[] [Income] … an antiquary of your own.
Formerly a much less remarkable tailors shop, you had shifted the small business to peddle curiosities and luxuries to the upper class. At first, most of the items were things you found in your own searches, but for a while now you had hired your own clerks to acquire stock as your own time was spent reading. The income was only modest, though you were willing to accept that for the sake of deriving some income directly from your passions.


Something was about to change in this routine though. In this cold January, as the fog hung thick and cloying over the city, choking the life out of it with its sulfuric smell, you were almost giddy with excitement. Your latest acquisition was nearly there. A belated Christmas gift almost. Only a few references in other texts had set you on the path of the elusive book and on a search that had consumed much time and money.

It had taken nearly a year to find a copy of the manuscript. Hundreds of letters, sent to collectors, scholars, and universities the world over. Many went unanswered. Some came back with advice to give up your search. Yet your persevered, knowing in your soul that there must have been at least one copy left. But finally, it had come. You could almost hear the parcel calling for you from across the city, and you felt the hunger grow to sit down and devour the text.

The work of the medieval Arab philosopher Faisal abd Shadar would soon be in your hands and then you would see if it truly were just the ramblings of a madman, or something much more.

---

AN: I have lately found that I miss writing dark fantasy and more character driven stories, so instead of my usual fare of mechanics heavy quests, I'll try something more narrative focused.

 

[Azel]

Chapter 1 – The Codex​

22nd January 1887

Even though it was midday when you arrived at the shop, there was barely any light reaching through the thick soup hanging over the city. You could barely make out the sign of 'Castrich & Sax – Books & Antiquities' and if you hadn't known the name, you would have been hard pressed to decipher it. The inside though was inviting as always.

The large display window was filled with the yellow shin of the gas lamps, the warm glow framing some lavishly decorated books and tomes laid out on velvet cloth. Besides them stood a few canopic jars and a partially unwrapped mummified cat with a small set of surgical tools gleaming beneath. On the opposite end of the window were more recent artwork. Wood carvings from the dark continent and painted porcelain from China.

It was a nice display for the passers-by's and you certainly didn't begrudge the old Mr. Castrich his sense for business, but it always felt slightly odd to walk past such overpriced junk when entering the shop. Luckily, as the bell chimed, it was not Castrich greeting you.

"What a surprise to see you, Mr. Barnham," the younger of the two owners called from behind the counter. "What could possibly be the reason for you to visit us on this fine day?"

You walked over without bothering to remove your coat. Even the musky smell of parchment and the pleasant warmth couldn't move you to savour the moment. "Oh, I just passed by and decided to come in for a chit-chat," you joked back. "Why, is there something special about today that you are so surprised by my presence, Mr. Sax?"

"Well, I thought you would at least need till the evening to come. Good thing I did not bet on it." As he spoke, he turned away from you and took out a set of keys for the sturdy cupboard behind the counter.

"I was lucky to have nothing scheduled today, so I did not need to cancel anything."

"Not willing to wait a second longer for your price, Mr. Barnham?" He chuckled lightly as he placed the oil cloth wrapped parcel down before you. "To be honest, I am quite glad to have this out of the shop."

"Please don't tell me you have begun to believe that hokum about a curse," you cut back with an edge of annoyance while rummaging for your purse from beneath your coat.

"That Mr. Greene certainly believed in it. He sent another letter with the package. Told me to warn you once again." Mr. Sax paused, glancing down at the large, but unassuming package. "You are going to read it, right? What if that Greene fellow is on to something?"

"I believe," you replied evenly while counting out the pounds, including a generous tip. "That our friend from Boston is either in possessions of a most active imagination or a brother in spirit to Mr. Castrich. Plenty of superstitious people who would pay a premium for a cursed book that drives you mad."

"No offense, Mr. Barnham, but many would call you the strange one for wanting this book so badly. If you don't believe in curses, what is in there but the heatstroke induced hallucinations of some long dead Moor?"

"Oh, I am expecting to read about plenty of those, Mr. Sax. And yet, among the drivel, you will often find the odd bit of gold. The work of Abd-Shadar comes highly recommended in that regard by some rather accomplished naturalist across the centuries."

Gently you let your hand glide over the package, the feeling of finally grasping what you had searched so long sending a warm shiver up your spine. "Just imagine. A journey of 600 years, spanning four continents. Such a long path coming to an end on your counter. Aren't you the least bit curious to see what secrets it brought along from its travels?"

"No," came the immediate reply, followed by a small chuckle. "But I sure hope you will get your moneys worth out of it. Not that you want a refund if the book is not driving you mad as advertised."

"You will receive a most through tongue lashing if my mental faculties do not sharply decline by next week," you told him a stern tone while picking up the large codex. "Good day to you, Mr. Sax."

"And to you, Mr. Barnham."

---

The trip back home was almost unbearable and this time it was not the weathers' fault. It felt pointless to take the coach for the short distance between your home and the shop, but trudging back through the sludge seemed to take forever. You wanted nothing more than hunker down in your study, perhaps with a good cup of tea, and forget about the rest of the world for a while.

So, when you came through the front door, you did not even wait for your butler to show himself. "Andrich," you called into the entrance hall while shutting the door and shrugging off your coat in the same motion. "A pot of tea for my study, if you will. If someone inquires about me, tell them I am indisposed for the foreseeable future."

True to form, the old manservant appeared silently beside you a moment later, taking your coat and scarf. "I will tell Ms. Corpton to set up some water immediately, sir. I must inform you though that there is a guest waiting in the drawing room. Mr. Gladwell arrived a short while ago and requested an urgent meeting. Shall I tell him you are indisposed and prepare the guest room for him?"

You were already halfway to the stairs when the words registered and smothered your enthusiasm. "No," you ground out. "Prepare a room for him, but I guess this is indeed urgent if he came all the way from the mines without announcement." Reluctantly, you handed Andrich the still wrapped package. "Bring it to the study with the tea."

There were no words for your disappointment at the interruption and it was probably quite noticeable as you almost stormed over to the drawing room with hurried steps. Not that the occupant was noticing. You knew Thomas Gladwell as a neat and tidy man that took pride in his even temperament and composure. For him, that was the outward sign of a professional and capable accountant.

What you saw sitting in the plush chair of your drawing room with an untouched cup of tea before him had only a passing resemblance with the Gladwell you knew. He almost jumped from his seat when you entered and yet he barely made eye contact with you. Instead, he kept glancing at a small package that rested on the table before him as if a live cobra was just about to slither out of it.

It took him a moment to snap out of it and rise to greet you. "Mr. Barnham. Sir. Good day to you. I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you out of the blue."

"Good day to you too, Mr. Gladwell," you replied carefully before sitting down. This seemed like it would take longer than expected. "I doubt that you would have come from Sheffield without good reason. Though I am surprised you had no letter sent ahead."

"I…" He trailed off before sitting back down and staring at his tea, gulping down half the cup a moment later. "I thought a letter would not quite be able to convey the situation."

"Was there an accident?" Of course, there was. There always were accidents. It was a coal mine after all. But he wouldn't have come over a small cave-in or similar trifle.

"So to speak," he ground out before sighing and downing the rest of the cup. "It started about two months ago. The workers in shaft twelve had started complaining about seeing things. Eyes watching them from the coal seams. Movement in the shadows. That kind of thing."

"Of course," he continued. "We thought it was just some mining gas making everyone woozy. Had someone check that they weren't drinking or smoking laudanum down in the shafts when nobody was looking. But nothing. Instead, they even started saying the shaft was haunted."

You tried to keep your voice even, but you were not sure how well you succeeded. "You came here to tell me that one of the mineshafts is haunted."

"Not at all, sir! You see why I did not write this in a letter? A haunted mineshaft!" He laughed nervously and you could not tell if it was because he believed the story or because he thought you did not. "Unfortunately, sir, the workers did believe it. After a while, they said they even saw something in the coal grasping for them. One miner claimed he saw a friend of his getting dragged in."

"Sounds to me as if part of a shaft collapsed and buried someone," you pointed out. "You said it yourself. Maybe it is just gas and they see what they expect to see."

"Yes," he nodded urgently while staring forlornly at the empty tea cup. "I said the same. But the next time someone got dragged in, a boy in one of the smaller shafts, another worker got his hand and tried to drag him back out. But…"

As he spoke, he finally unwrapped the small package. In it was the severed hand of a young man, about 16 years old or so. It was still covered in coal dust, though there had been an effort to clean it up a bit, but at the wrist, it still was pitch black. And it did not seem to have been torn off as the story implied. There was a ragged edge as if the flesh had been shattered.

While Mr. Gladwell was still putting it down, his hands trembling all the way, you quickly grabbed the teaspoon from his cup. When tapping the fingers, they were soft, like flesh was supposed to be. So was the palm. Yet, when you reached the wrist, it was solid and took on an ever so slight dent.

"I swear to you, Mr. Barnham," the nervous accountant spoke while you still marvelled at what was before you. "I swear to the almighty above. The hand is flesh, but the wrist is coal. When they tried to drag him out, his skin got black as pitch and his wrist just broke. Shattered. There wasn't even a speck of blood."

"I have never seen anything like this. And nobody else has either!" His voice jumped as his explanation became frantic. "I had a physician in Sheffield look at this and he thought I was playing him for a fool. I just closed shaft twelve and came here was fast as I could."

"Please, sir," he began to almost plead with you. "You are an educated man. Please tell me there is a good explanation for this."


What do you tell him?

[] You need to investigate this yourself. Travel to your mine in Willerton, near Sheffield, and see what you can learn there.

[] Learned or not, you are just as baffled by this as Mr. Gladwell. Send him ahead to calm the workers while you try to find some books or other sources in London that might have an explanation for the hand.

[] While you have no explanation either, you have some favours you could call in from the Royal London Hospital. Maybe the surgeons can tell you more about the hand while Mr. Gladwell tries to keep order at the mine.

[] This is indeed a strange thing, but if it has been ongoing for two months, you can spare a few days to read your codex. Send Mr. Gladwell to calm the workers and keep the shaft closed until you have time for this. Maybe you will find something relevant in the old compendium.

[] There are a lot of unknown dangers in mines and you will not become hysteric over this. Send Mr. Gladwell back to Willerton and let him re-open the shaft. The miners just need to be more careful.

---

AN: Being a Victorian coal baron comes with it's perks. Like a lot of money, a big house, servants and a casual disregard for the life of the poor.

 

[Azel]

Chapter 2 – The Matter at Hand​

23rd January 1887

While Mr. Gladwells trust in your ability to find an explanation, perhaps even a solution, was rather flattering, you knew no more than him. A mans flesh turning into coal was akin to something from the more fanciful books you had read. Those that were more a product of the authors active imagination than careful observation of the world. Thus, all you could do at the time was to reassure him that you would look into things and then sent him back off to the mines with an order to keep the shaft closed and the workers calm.

Losing the production of shaft number twelve was more an annoyance than a threat for now, the other shafts still producing more than enough to keep your income up, but you had not ordered the new shaft drilled on a lark. The shallow deposits would run out within the year and then shaft twelve was supposed to be the first foray into the deeper coal seams. A solution had to be found before that happened.

However, no amount of urgency could conjure a lead on the matter from thin air. You had to do research and with how little information you had, that was daunting prospect. Well. There was one lead at least. Briefly you considered taking the hand straight to the Royal London Hospital and call in a few old favours to have some of the surgeons look at it. However, the thought withered as quickly as it had come. You still remembered other debates you had with them, back when your interest in medicine had first been kindled. They would have not taken well to the notion of something abnormal having happened in your mine.

That left you with only one option. The time had come to put to the test what you had read about so much. You even had the right tools around the house, bought on a whim a year or so ago, and they were just as pristine and unused as they were on that day. When you had dreamed of the day where your theories and learnings would be put to practical use, you had always seen yourself standing before distillation columns and alembics, trying to brew the one true elixir as generations of alchemists and apothecaries before you.

But fate had another plan, and so you found yourself taking up scalpel and forceps on this fine Sunday morning. Not in a operating room, but right at home in your study with only a folded bedsheet beneath the hand to protect the fine writing desk. You had read about this countless of times, could name every bone and sinew, and yet there was a sense of trepidation as steel met flesh and slid in with little resistance.

A few times you had to pause and gather yourself as your own hands began to itch and hurt in sympathy to what you did to the one that Mr. Gladwell brought you. Skin was peeled from the palm, muscles cut apart to reveal the bones beneath for inspection and while the first cuts were unsure and amateurish, you found it to become much easier as time went on. Unease and the distaste for the task got replaced by curiosity and soon enough your cuts were sure and swift.

In the palm you already found the first strangeness of the hand. No blood was found within the veins, not even dried up, but instead a fine black powder coated veins and arteries from within. Once you felt more confident in your abilities, you moved on towards the wrist and found more such strangeness.

Both tibia and ulna were fully made from coal, white and solid bone replaced by brittle black, yet the muscles above were only partially changed. Lengthwise, some fibres were likewise turned to coal, while others were still supple flesh. The skin above was the opposite, with the border between man and mineral so sharp that you could separate them with just a light tug.

Part of you had still not wanted to believe the tale that Mr. Gladwell had spun, but as you carefully noted down your observations, there was no denying it. The coal was not just pressed onto the body and neither was it the result of charring like from a boiler incident. The dead man had turned into coal from the inside out and nothing in the medical texts you kept at home had the slightest hint to what could have caused this.

The only reference that barely matched was a retelling of the story of king Midas in which the man had dabbled in alchemy and made a philtre that could turn things into gold. According to that tale, he drank it in the belief that it would make him immortal, but just turned him to gold from the inside out before his greedy court hacked him apart to make coins of him. A ghastly and yet entertaining tale written by some long dead Roman poet, but hardly applicable to your issue.

There were certainly other things. Black lung disease. Anthrax was causing black and hard patches of necrosis. You were dimly recalling of some affliction that caused a person to excrete coal. Something had there to be to make sense of this, even though you could not quiet the nagging voice that you were wasting your time. No disease could act so fast. And even if it did, why was there no body? 'It was dragged into the coal seam,' Mr. Gladwell had told you. Diseases did not drag people into solid minerals.

Out of the corner of you eye, you looked at the still wrapped package laying on the side table where you had put it when you needed your desk for the impromptu dissection. Perhaps you had a book that could help you after all? The codex of Abd-Shadar allegedly contained a veritable compendium of strange occurrences and legends. Maybe the man had heard of something similar as what happened in the mineshafts of Willerton. Just a quick peek and you might have had your answer.

No. You shook yourself and tore your eyes from the book, instead focusing back onto your notes. They were legends. Tall tales to share at a campfire in the desert. You needed more solid information and not to dive for the next best explanation like a superstitious fool. First you would read the science on the matter and then the legends to discern truth from fiction. Just because your library did not contain a good theory, it did not mean that there was none to find. You just needed a bigger library. Preferably with a focus on medical matters. And you knew just the right place to find the right book.

---

26th January 1887

You had not found the right book yet and even with the towering bookshelves of the Royal London Hospital's library around you, the hope that you would find it any time soon seemed dimmer with each passing hour. If anything, it felt as if the tall shelves stacked with paper and leather were taunting you. So much knowledge. So many volumes of research notes and dissertations. And yet nothing that could explain what you had seen with your own eyes.

Something had to be there that could help and if not, maybe at least knowing about all the things that could not explain the severed hand now resting in formaldehyde in your study. Dozens of books on necrosis and infections of all kinds had yielded nothing. There was no parasite or bacterium that could have acted fast enough. You even had given some of the coal to a chemist the day before to verify its nature and the man confirmed that it was perfectly mundane coal and not some strange form of dead flesh.

And yet, for all your work over the past days, you could only note down your frustrations as you sat in the drafty library with only the petroleum lamp to keep you company at the late hour. With a thud you closed the last volume you had meant to read that day and one of the last ones that seemed in any way helpful found in the index of the library. The last page of notes went into your folder and you were ready to leave, but when you look back up from your bag, you were no longer alone.

A young women in a nurses uniform had snuck up on you, standing right next to the reading desk and curiously peering at the cover of one the journals still splayed out around you. "It is rare to see someone this late in the library at this time of the year," she spoke without looking at you. "And you don't have the air of a student cramming for an exam either way."

For a moment you wondered how she could be so quiet on the marble tiles, but banished the thought for now. "Ah, I am not a student in this fine hospital," you replied evenly while getting up, though the woman just kept reading the book titles. "My name is Horace Barnham and I am merely a guest who wanted to do some research in your library and apparently forgot the time."

Finally, she turned to you and smiled while holding out her own book. "Then you would be the one who pestered the librarian for this earlier today. I took it yesterday to have some light reading during my shift."

You glanced down on the title and frowned as you took it. "Not many would not call a dissertation on a grisly topic like spontaneous self-immolation cases light reading Miss…"

"Miss Scott. A pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Barnham. And I can assure you that this work is fairly tame compared to my usual fare. This library is full of rather vivid dissections of the human anatomy after all, and I do need something to pass the time at night."

"Not the most exiting shift I assume?" You asked her lightly while sorting the remaining books you had splayed out on the desk.

"No. Occasionally a patient wakes up at night and needs some tending, but most nights it is rather quiet." While she spoke, she shorted a stack of journals and handed them to you. "Say, Mr. Barnham, what is it that you are researching? I can see the newest work of Mr. Koch on Anthrax and some textbooks on burns in your pile."

You briefly paused and glanced at her from the corner of your eye. It was hardly something illicit you were looking up and yet you felt rather self-conscious about chasing what increasingly looked like a ghost story turned flesh and coal. "Just a strange injury I came across. Unfortunately it seems hard to pin down what caused it."

"Maybe I could help you? It seems to be urgent." She asked with a bright smile again, stretching out her hand. "I do read a lot and might know something that could help you with that riddle. And I can assure you that I am much less judgemental than many others here that would offer their aid."

"It is not something of… ill-repute," you tell her while holding your bag tight. "Merely an oddity. Nothing that would be concerning to talk about."

She briefly pursed her lips before grinning, her hand still outstretched. "And yet you spend three days researching on your own instead of asking for the help of whoever got you past the porter and prevented the librarian from throwing you out in the evening."

Perceptive of her. An admirable quality, even though it was mighty inconvenient for you in that moment. Or perhaps it was the lucky break you had been waiting for. "If I shared the details of the case, could I also be assured of your discretion?"

"Certainly," she answered without hesitation. "What kind of nurse would I be to gossip about people's ills and injuries?"

You took a deep breath and sighed at what you were about to do. With some trepidation you took the folder out of your bag again and handed her the notes you had made during the autopsy of the hand. "The hand was the only thing found. The body is missing." It was the only thing you were willing to share beyond your notes.

Contrary to your first fears, she did not seem concerned or dismissive of what she read, instead studying the notes carefully and occasionally asking for some clarification when what you wrote was unclear. Then she became quiet and pensive, staring at the crude drawing you had made the summed up your findings.

"I agree with your conclusion that whatever happened worked from inside out, but I am afraid that I can't recall anything helpful either." She handed you the notes back with a frown. "This sounds more as if the Soot Man got the poor sod than any disease I ever saw."

"The Soot Man?"

"Just a story I've read somewhere. It was about a boy that did not do his chores and made up wild tales as for why. One thing was that he should have scrubbed the soot from the fireplace, but he said there was a man living in the soot and looking out at him. It would be like tearing down his house if he cleaned up the soot and so he didn't. The tale ends with the boy disappearing and only a stain of soot on the ground near the fireplace being left because the Soot Man took him."

She chuckled lightly at the end of the brief tale. "Just a story to make unruly children do their chores."

For you though, it was anything but. Soot was just dust of ash and coal. "Sometimes there is a grain of truth to such stories," you said idly while staring at your notes. Something that lived in coal dust and could drag people away. Why did this fit so well? The feeling of unease returned as if to gloat that you wasted time on a stubborn attempt to find a solution with the sciences first.

"Maybe," she replied after a moment of thought. "It is an intriguing mystery you have there, Mr. Barnham and I must admit that I got quite curious about the matter too. It's a shame I can't help you more, but I wish you luck in solving it. Maybe you will come back and enlighten me too once you found an answer."

And then she turned and walked away, leaving you alone with your thoughts.


What now?

[] Travel to the mines in Willerton and look for more clues. There is likely nothing more you can learn while in London.

[] Read the codex and see if you can find anything about a Soot Man. It is far too good a clue to ignore it.

[] Speak to the surgeons and doctors. Maybe they will know more than a random nurse you have met in the middle of the night.