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'Friends Call Me Wes' AKA The Diary of Wilson FanFic


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Friends Call Me Wes


Hello to whatever unfortunate soul happens across this journal recounting my days here in these bizarre lands. Or, to the potential editor's as well as publishers I will seek out after my prompt and dignified escape from these hellish nightmarescape. I ask that you suspend your disbelief at what will sound like outright madness on my part in stating that all the facts stated within this text are just that; facts. I humbly request that you grant me the patience and benefit of the doubt and leaf through this recollection of my survival and escape with an open mind, and an eager coffer. Or, if as I fear, this is being read by some poor fool doomed to suffer the same fate as I, to be exiled in this strange place full of strange things, then I have perished here and never again seen my home. But, first and foremost I am a man of science and that means that I have the prerogative, nay, an imperative to learn the secrets of this place and its inhabitants. The deal I struck with Maxwell, that chief among fiends, still rings loudly in my thoughts with Faustian irony. But I will not give that monster the satisfaction of my failure and death. Not so Soon, at least. But I get ahead of myself.

I suppose introductions are in order then. Very well, my name is Wilson A. Wilsley III, but Friends Call Me Wes. And this is the account of trials and horrors I have encountered after striking up a bargain with Maxwell Scharpe.

Edited by Scambo
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Day 1

Day 1

Truthfully, it is on the seventh day of my incarceration within this hell that I finally put Gobbler quill to papyrus in order to record my thoughts and findings. When I was deposited here most unceremoniously by the scoundrel Maxwell a week prior I lacked the materials and freedom of time to sit and write this log. The proper place for a story to begin is at its beginning I suppose, but the beginning for this story is a bit trickier. Do I begin with my own origins and what lead me to my downfall into this nightmare? Or do I skip the boring stuff and jump to stomping spiders and the Alchemy Engine? But brevity is not the natural inclination of the scholar nor the scientist, and as both I believe that it is necessary to establish a line of events that brought me to this wretched yet fascinating place. So, I suppose that my beginning shall be the starting point of this journal. I was born and raised in Arkham, Massachusetts and attended the Miskatonic university for both my undergrad and graduate studies.

I was raised within the upper class of Arkham; far removed from the crumbling gambrel roofs tucked away behind the gilded gates up on Hill street. Arkham had always been a place of mystery and superstition, but I was raised under the gaze of rationale and logic by my father. My mother I had never known, and my father was loathe to talk about the subject, explaining but once in my youth what had happened; that she had birthed her son and walked out when he was but a newborn babe, abandoning me to my father and estate staff. Though he was affluent, my father was not excessive; he had been born in the poorest district to a migrant English family, but he had not been content with poverty. No, my father flung himself into work when he was 12, entering into a carpentry and quickly learning the trade.

Ten years passed and the poor brit was now an up and coming carpenter with a furniture outlet of his own, a solid client base and a reputation for quality. Even now in his old age and success he refrains from the excesses favored by so many of our neighbors. However, I fear that I never quite was what he expected of me. Indeed, my father wished for an heir to his throne, someone to carry on the torch but I had other ambitions, perhaps higher than successing a mercantile lineage, or perhaps not, but it was where my heart lay nonetheless. Though he never understood my lust for knowledge and infatuation with education, he nonetheless encouraged me to follow my dreams and financed my studies at the Miskatonic, though I always felt the tinge of disappointment in his voice or in his gaze when we spoke on the family business. My father was never one for superstition, but nor was he a man of science. He was a man of logic; what he could see and know right in front of him, never concerning himself with what might lay beyond, with the possibilities that exist! I suppose that was always what drew us apart; he was too busy staring at what was right in front of him, and I was too busy staring at what could be instead of what already was. If I were to die here in this place, I suppose I would do so with no regrets save one; that my father and I parted on such harsh terms. So many vile words said in heat and not taken back in cooler mind gnaw at me. My own death is something I am willing to risk, but I can only fear that he feels the same guilt over our altercation as I and my disappearance from the world is surely doing his nerves no favors.

To my publishers, please feel free to cut the following. Or to the...intrepid adventure who stumbles this log and likely my mangled corpse, please give it to my father, Wilson A. Wilsley II. He lives in Arkham, Massachusetts at 49 Hill Street. He will see that you are duly rewarded for your efforts. Dad...if you're reading this and it isn't me who's giving it to you I'm sorry. For everything. I love you and what you want matters to me, but you always told me to follow my dreams and at this point I've come a little to far to stop. I guess thats what got where I am now, but as I said I have no regrets dad. I forgive you and I hope you can find it in your heart to do the same for me.

Now that thats over with, I will discuss the demon Maxwell, the greasy haired fiend responsible for all of this. I met him for the first time when I was attending a seminar in the Miskatonic. The seminar was on occult medicine, and the man at the podium was a pale, dapper sort with a long drawn English accent denoting aristocratic roots and a long history of eruditic study. He spoke at length about the archaic black book in the Miskatonic's library at which I could only balk. A book of ancient sorceries with command over the dead? The work of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazreb blah blah blah. At least, thats what I thought then. Some time went by after that and I kept finding myself drawn to the curious dissertations of the greasy mad man until such a time as I had obtained my under graduate in the sciences; medicine, physics and chemistry. I left Soon after for the land of my forefathers; England. My father didn't approve of course, and the heated 'debate' we had before I left had me simmering in rather harsh spirits. Curiously enough, I once again crossed paths with Maxwell there. Had I known then what I know now I would've ignored his seminars, perhaps looked into a way to dispel the creature parading about as a human but I was oblivious. I enrolled in several of his classes studying the occult and quickly devoured all the information I could. I become an almost encyclopedic expert on the arcane and all things magical.

I suppose that is what tempted into accepting the deal with that wretch. He told me that he could show me how to create an Alchemy Engine, how to craft effigies and symbols of power, the secret of transmogrification. I called him a liar, said that while it was interesting, the magic of the occult paled in comparison to the power offered by science. He cackled at that and thrust a hand outwards towards me. I still remember the words he said.

"Do you, Wilson A. Wilsley the third agree to the bargain set forth?"

"What bargain?" I asked.

"Why, I agree to teach you my secrets."

"Whats the catch?"

"No catch," He said.

"All you have to do is learn them. I teach, you learn. Simple enough?" His hand hovered, frozen in air for a moment before I reached out took his hand and accepted. the world spiraled into darkness then. When I awoke, I was laying on soft grass under a bright shining sun. Gone was the rainy dreariness of England in summer. Maxwell hovered above me, still greasy as ever. However, his posture was straightened, his pallor and timidness gone. His teeth were long and sharp as well as his nails which he checked.

"Hey pal, you don't look so good. Try to eat something before the sun goes down." And then, he vanished. And left me all alone. Here. In this unforgiving wilderness. I shudder to think at the panic and fear I felt when I realized that this wasn't some bizarre hallucination. This was real. But there was something else. Branded on the palm I had shaken with that fiend. It was a pentacle, filled with a number of inscriptures and symbols. They glowed with unknown power as those cryptic words ran through my head once more:

I teach, you learn. Simple enough?" Nothing about this has been simple. The first day was spent mostly in stunned awe before realistic pragmatism set in. I had entered into a deal with the devil for untold knowledge; Faust was always a favorite tale of mine and the irony was not lost on me. I would have raged and panicked but my mind was ablaze with possibilities now, racing with formulae and mysterious runes and symbols. I found myself in a curious boreal forest that appeared I snatched up some nearby twigs and a large chunk of flint I found laying nearby. Holding them in my hands, I could feel something stirring within the recesses of my mind, a door waiting to be unlocked...The branches and flint lost their form and definition, flowed into one another in flash of light. Then, I held a sturdy axe in my hand. As I live and breathe I cannot describe it. The this day it is still an unraveling mystery, these alchemic powers. The sun was setting quickly and what few berries I could find made for a pitiable supper but there was little enough time for me to construct a fire as I felt the chill of night fast approaching. But...there was something else. Sitting there, at the fire, I felt something watching me. Waiting. I called out, axe tight in hand but there was no response. Cold, frightened, and alone I spent the first night huddled by the fire, praying it didn't go out before the sun rose.

It did. I hadn't the time to gather enough wood to feed the flame through the night, and as I awoke with a start to hear something breathing close by my head. On instinct I swatted up at the thing with the axe and felt it connect. I'm not the strongest its true, but I have worked as a carpenter, I am the son of a craftsman and my hands are sure. Whatever it was shrieked and bolted off into the night As I tried fervently to get some of the dried grasses I had collected burning. In the sparse light offered by the weak light I saw that whatever I had struck had shattered the axe handle and bent the head. That was the first instance of alchemic weakness I discovered; that something made with alchemy is not as strong as something crafted by hand. At least, not yet. My powers are growing, but there is still much to learn about this place. But there, huddled next to the weak fire, watching the sun crest the horizon, eyes bloodshot from their all night vigil was how I brought in the dawn of my second day. But as the sun rose and I began to gaze about me, my thoughts were not on my empty stomach, the isolation, my death or even the monster that brought me here. No, I was captivated with how much there was to learn in this place.

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