Max left Frederick’s pyramid shaped form standing on the foggy dockside streets after getting him to agree to meet the next night. Surprisingly, Frederick had insisted on a pub renowned for its chess players rather than one of the less reputable places that such men usually frequented.

Once on Main Street, it didn’t take long for Max to flag down a coach to take him to the asylum. Furtive shadows creeped along the edges of the streets around him but his mind was elsewhere.

The Westchester Asylum in New York was second only to Arkham in providing care for the strange and dangerous. Derangements grew more common with each passing day. Worse, no one appeared to be safe. Men of every station were committed in droves. Idly, Max wondered how long until the whole world joined hands and descended in madness together.

Far in the distance a train whistled shrilly. Some wild thing screeched back defiantly.

Alone in his coach, Max shuddered and patted his hip flask, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.