A *Mythos Story (that you help to write)

Some of you may remember the (abandoned) thread that aimed to fashion Twilight mythology into a scientific investigation, a la SCP Foundation. Well, I don't think it should be brought back, but something similar could be started. Let's have an ARG on the Forums. By all means join in, if you'd like. The guideline: It's a collaborative Mythos(any) story. Each post that counts should have a diary entry format, with a character name on it.
Let's begin.

March 30, 2012 - Murdoch's Journal.

This is weird. I wake up, and my cat just sits there on the chair, holding a snake in its mouth. Harmless, but freaky. So I called extermination team, but they found nothing. This is going on for a week already. Well, today I needed something from the shed. Found another damn snake instead. Creeps me out.
A letter came in today, which is strange, as I don't usually get anything but greeting cards via papermail. What's more, it was old. And addressed to someone by the name Moorworth. Tried returning; they said it's from their subbasement, and that the recipient was probably dead. I checked the date. 1922. I'll read it tomorrow. Today, I had too much work already.

March 30, 2012 - Police incident Report - Officer Paul Roake

Upon arrival at the the Hendersons' Cafe, officers were approached by the proprietor, Sal Henderson.
Mr. Henderson appeared to be under great duress and said he wished to report suspicious activity of one of his patrons earlier in the day.

Mr. Henderson told officers a detailed account of one of the establishment's regular customers, James Murdoch, seemingly suffering from an unknown ailment.

"He just collapsed, right 'ere" said Henderson, pointing to a crashed summer eyewear rack near the door.
"He began kicking and flailing, like he was being pecked at by damned guls." Henderson added.

Henderson's wife Freda described the man as looking unusually tired, and wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the previous day when she saw him at community bake sale.

""After his spell, he stood up, looked around, like he didn't recognize any of us, and then bolted from the shop. I ran out after him, but he was gone before I could get this old thing through the door" Henderson says, pointing at her walker.

There's been no property damage, and calls to the Murdoch residence have so far gone unanswered. As far as we can see, there's no need for further investigation, but we'll keep this open for a few days in the event that more details surface.

My new partner claims to have known the Murdoch family up in Birmingham, although he won't divulge much more than that.

Murdoch's Journal - 5.04.2012
I can't remember last two days, but seemingly I behaved normally. Freda told me I should seek help.
Almost a week ago I had this... fit in the Cafe. Thought snakes were all over me. Next day I went to apologize to Mr. Henderson himself, and paid for the coffee. Told him that nothing was wrong with his stuff.
Snakes... Well, they stopped bothering me after the fit. Strange. Now I keep having those dreams. Impossible architecture, outlandish writing. I never can remember the whole dream, just fragments. Thought it may be linked to the letter. Here it is.

Murdoch's Journal - 5.04.2012 - Attachment: Letter from 1922
London, 1922 / Dear Janice,
It seems to me that my days near their end, as I feel sicker each hour. No one can save me now, for it was me who brought the disease unto myself. And as I get weaker, HE grows stronger.
My last will is simple, yet it may seem odd: You must burn my corpse, and throw the ashes into the sea. That way, should HE come, at least he will have hard time doing so.
You should also take care of my journals. Keep them safe. Do whatever you can to preserve them. My descendant... Though he will not be named Moorworth... will take care of them.
Oh no. HE is calling.
[unintelligible]
He is Great. He is Powerful. He is Immortal.
He is [...]
[stained with ink]

April 5th, Officer Paul Roake - Supplemental Report

Taking Officer Marsden's advice, I have gone to Birmingham in search of answers to some troubling questions surrounding James Murdoch.

Murdoch's father is credited as being the first Brit to set foot on the Antarctic landmass. Benson Murdoch Moorworth is listed as a passenger on the HMS Endurance, a Norwegian-built ice breaking ship commissioned by the UK for patrol and later, scientific voyages to Antarctica.

Family members say that when Moorworth returned to the UK from his Antarctic voyage, he exhibited signs of depression and lived in relative seclusion. Later in life, he developed feinting spells that only deepened his new-found reclusive nature.

What I find most intriguing is that none of Moorworth's research papers have ever been published, and the breadth of his research was willed to his son, James Murdoch. One would think, that being one of a handful of people to ever have seen the Antarctic continent, that he'd have had some insight for the modern scientific world.

On the contrary, when he returned, he withdrew from his family and friends, set his affairs in order, and apparently quietly drank himself to death over the course of eleven months.

What happened on the Endurance? What could he have seen to cause him to abandon his work and family? More pressing though, is how is this related to Murdoch, and his recent strange activities?

==(This post contains no story content.)==
Anybody else wants to contribute to the story?

Personal Journal of Paul Roake, attached supplemental.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie."

The voice echoed through my mind and tore through my body. My skin fell to tatters and my muscles burst. My hair burned and my bones shattered. My blood boiled, while my mind called out in sing-song, "And with strange Aeons even death may die!"

I saw a man, overlooking a great pit of ice, surrounded by a wasteland of ashy white. Within the pit, was a city made of wicked spines, obscene recesses, and grotesque bulbous domes. The man turned to face me, but he was not a man, he was something horrible. His eyes gaped at me hungrily, and his mouth twisted into an excruciating grin. He whispered the words of blackness into me once more, and I rejoiced.

I awoke from the nightmare in a cold sweat. I don't normally have nightmares, and I've never woken like this before.
The wind is howling, and I can't shake this feeling that it's calling, singing a song that both excites and terrifies me. I can't shake this tune, but I can't quite make it out. I feel like I know it, somewhere before, I've heard it. It's a children's song, we used to sing it and play in the yard, bloody hell!? What is it? Hum it? Oh yes.

"All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the people. After them in double haste.."
The storm's stopped. All is quiet. The old grandfather clock in the hall strikes five. The old house is quiet, except for the rumble of the chime.

I've requested the official records of Moorworth be sent back to my office, Marsden will ring me when they arrive.

==(Out of character)==
So, here's a prototype of what the PDF could look like. This contains Murdoch's Journal entries up to date.

http://ompldr.org/vZGF0Yw
==(End Out of character)==

Murdoch's Journal, April 8th 2012
I had the strangest dream today. I was on a ship with sails, looking at darkness -- the ship was at high seas, and the weather truly terrible. Wind almost blew a crewman into the ocean at one point. It rained as if heaven and water were merging, and the waves were rolling over the deck as if the bulk of this ship was nothing. I think one of the masts broke in half. Then, everything just froze. Drops of rain were hanging in the air, as if I was inside a still-frame or a photo. A wave was crashing over the stern. Crewmen stood still. The wind stopped abruptly.
Then I saw a movement in this. An animal -- a starved ape, perhaps? -- ran in the shadows, and under the deck. I then heard a voice, with most outlandish utterances and deep, abnormal overtones. As I write what the voice said, something tells me there is only one way to write it, convolving the letters and adding symbols that seem to mean nothing -- or maybe they are there just to scare me?
The voice simply said: L̳̼̯͐́̍̂ͦ͊̇̐͋͡ͅē͖̤̭̺̳ͭ̅̐͊͘ả̺̟̫̹̲̯̮̹͂͊ͭͦ͂͠v̬͚͚̟͍͖̫̜̾ͬé͖͍̣̣͐ͧ̊͂ͮ̒ͥͅ.̼͇͍͇͇̮̬ͣͫ͂̌ ̎̅̒̍̒͏͍͓L̶̘͖̙̝ͬ͗̔̚̕͢ë́ͬ͛͆͆ͫ҉̟̝͕́a̛͈̥̳̤̭͉̼̯̘͒ͩ̽̊̚͞v̫͉̟̗̩͈͕̳ͩͩ̓́̕͢e̶͓̭͍̐͢.̞̯͉͍͇̦̰͌̌ ̳͇͈̯ͨͪ͊ͥͬ͠L̯̖̣͇̟̘̔̀̚͜ͅe͋͌҉͉̖̰̮͎̲̠͕̯͝a̸̙͈ͯ̾̀ͫͅͅv͑ͦ̀ͥ̓͂͒̽ͩ͡҉͍̯e̸̴̞̹̹̼͙̅̍̐͛͗̽ͣ̉̚.̼̯͍̘͎͙̈́͊ͥ͆̐ Over and over.
I then woke up, dream leaving me -- yet I think I still felt a presence in my house.
I did the sensible thing, meaning that I grabbed my Swiss Army Knife from the desk, and checked behind every door in every room. I found nothing.
I'm wondering, am I losing it?

==(Bump)==