It was raining in New York tonight, and the windows of the old houses on the banks of the Hudson River shimmered with a hazy light, and when reflected on the riverbank, it looked like a candle flame that was about to burn out.

A soft "click" came from one of the old houses, and Rocket Raccoon cautiously walked up the not-so-spacious wooden staircase and followed Schiller to the second floor of his Hell's Kitchen clinic.

Compared to his office in Arkham Sanatorium, it was cramped and cramped, cramped like a can, Rocket Raccoon thought.

The ground floor of this small clinic is often bustling, with Schiller making breakfast in the kitchen, Peter and Pikachu sitting on the couch playing games, Natasha leaning against the door, and Steve passing by in the morning to greet her.

and the golden and red figure that did not sleep at three o'clock in the middle of the night and fell on the roof of the small clinic, and every tile on the roof of the clinic was engraved with Tony Stark's confusion about life and love.

With the figure of Schiller walking in front of him, the Rocket Raccoon finally got a full view of the place, and there were two rooms on the second floor, one was Schiller's bedroom and the other was a guest room.

Don't expect to find any decent décor here, the fact that Hell's Kitchen is a ghetto hasn't completely changed until now, but when you walk into Schiller's bedroom, you still surprise Rocket Raccoon.

There's not a lot of space here, and when you put a bed, the tables and chairs in front of the window are inevitably like canned scraps stuffed in, which is by no means gratuitous, Rocket Raccoon shook his head, and almost every space here from top to bottom is stuffed with all kinds of strange collectibles.

If four lamps on a bedside table weren't enough—the doctor seemed to think so, so he stuffed two small candlesticks in the middle of the four lamps.

Rocket Raccoon suddenly felt that it was not unreasonable for humans to evolve like this, at least now he felt that his tail was too redundant, and as soon as he turned around, the tip of his tail knocked down something.

Rocket Raccoon turned his head and saw that it was a richly decorated Easter egg, he wanted to step forward and touch the golden decoration, so he picked up the egg directly with one hand and put it in the corner of the top grid of the bookshelf next to him, Schiller was still very satisfied and said: "Fabergé Easter egg, very good, right?" ”

"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you talked about earlier is a condition that keeps your house tidy, then I really wish you had it, it's like a big maze for me." The Rocket Raccoon looked left and right, and had to step cautiously for fear that he would run into something terrible.

It is quite possible that there must be some dangerous items in the doctor's strange collection, and what is more dangerous than that is that they are very expensive, and if they break, they will not be able to afford to sell him.

At this moment, a pair of hands reached under the armpit of the Rocket Raccoon and picked him up, the Rocket Raccoon exclaimed, but did not struggle, and when he looked down at the collections, he found a trace of order in the mess.

Yes, there's a lot of stuff here, from Fabergé eggs to a Swiss inkwell, from berets embroidered with bird motifs to knots hanging from the ground, and even a row of crystal wine glasses with the same pattern but in different colors.

But in fact, these things are all arranged in different categories, and there is no one who does not lean on the other collections, and none of them stand in the wrong line and appear where it should not be.

It was weird, Rocket Raccoon had thought when he was placed on the table, but soon something even stranger appeared, and Schiller pulled a notebook out of his handbag.

The first time Rocket Raccoon saw the notebook, he couldn't even confirm if it was what he thought it was, it was some kind of collection of words to write down, as it looked like it could do more.

The huge notebook has a leather cover, the four corners are edged with metal, the part of the metal that holds the cover is twisted into a gorgeous pattern, the pure black leather cover has no content, and the edge of the cover is just right smashed into a lock, connecting the same material strap and a lock that hangs the two belts.

If I had to describe Rocket Raccoon, this notebook has a rustic horror to it.

Schiller laid his notebook on the table, sat down in the soft leather chair himself, and let out a groan, and pulled out a large pile of pens from his briefcase, which Rocket Raccoon recognized as the pens he had spread out on Arkham's office desk during the day.

It looks like it's been carefully chosen, and it must have been very careful, because Rocket Raccoons can tell that they should come from different production lines, use different processes, and even have different years of manufacture.

But instead of immediately opening the pen and starting to write, Schiller reached out and pulled open the drawer, from which he took out a bottle of ink and a quill.

"God, you're not trying to write from the remains of some poor bird, are you?" Rocket Raccoon had apparently never seen such a quaint pen, and fussed about describing it as part of a bird's carcass.

"You're right, and I like the explanation." Schiller opened his notebook to himself and continued: "I wish readers who read this book could also relate to such scenes." ”

Rocket Raccoon tilted his head a little puzzled, he walked along the edge of the table to the windowsill in front of the table, and sat down to face Schiller, watching Schiller's action of dipping in ink and asked, "Reader?" Who are you trying to write to? You're not going to fill it up, are you? ”

"Can't you?" Schiller flicked the tip of the pen, shook off the excess ink, and opened the first page of the black notebook to begin to put pen to paper.

"It's written with a quill."

In Kama Taj's meditation room, Strange and Stark sit opposite each other in front of a circular meditation window, the light that filters through the window and turns them into two hazy silhouettes.

"But its material analysis data shows that it has not reached the age when quills could only be used." Stark denied it, and then, as if in deep thought, whispered to himself, "Or maybe he has a peculiar quest for writing that is sketched in a part of a bird's carcass to be more alive." ”

"Maybe that's right." Strange affirmed his thoughts, changed his position, put his other arm against the armrest, and said, "In those dark times, the dark arts were even more in-depth about life and death than they are now. ”

"Do you think this is a note left by a dark magician?" It didn't sound like a question and more like a blatant denial, Stark looked at Strange across from him and said, "We've all read it, it's not about any circles or spells, it's more like a weird and scary travelogue. ”

"But we can't deny that the content is too dark, like the babble of a madman full of grotesque fanatics after being awakened by a nightmare in the middle of the night, ancient and terrifying."

"Instead of focusing on the darkness, we should explore the truth behind it, and there is no doubt that this crazy story will not stop in Colorado, and the darkness you care about may be spreading as well."

Strange's gaze rested on a notebook in the center of the table, the plain black cover devoid of any text, but he still felt his heart shudder as he recalled the story described in the first chapter.

"On an ordinary summer evening in the Southwest, I returned home in Englewood, which I hadn't been to in years, but what I needed to do more than nostalgia was to see my mother's grave.

I'm not here to show off, and that's a good thing, it's been a long time since that horrific accident, and the people of the town have forgotten a lot of things, and I'm very different.

This is good news for me, because I know that what I am going to do this time should not attract too many people's attention, and that the horrors must not be too close to normal people, but I have a reason to pursue it.

It was a little dark, and the sun was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree, and I set out on the road to the cemetery, all the cars on the road were driving in the opposite direction from me, and I knew they were thinking that I was a freak, and that evening was not a good time to remember my loved ones.

……

I went to the cemetery outside Englewood, where my mother was buried, and her death was so inhumane that she was buried in a grave at the very edge, which I thought was better than the two dead farm helpers and a cow.

Walking all the way to the inside of the cemetery, I saw two larks on top of my mother's tombstone, tiny birds all over Englewood and all over Colorado, they were the elves of the Rocky Mountains, but I wasn't.

Standing in front of my mother's grave, I began to think uncontrollably about the days that had passed, and the most perplexing and frightening thing for me was that this hardworking woman had stressed to me many times that when I was born, the stars in the sky were joined in a straight line, as if calling to me to return to them, and perhaps I should have done it a long time ago.

After some time, the rain also fell, and I saw a dark figure running through the dense bushes, and I put my hand on the gun on my waist, but I realized that I was making a fuss, it was just a small animal.

Forgive me, this hairy, fanged little creature insists on its image rights, and thus does not allow me to touch on any details of his appearance in my writings.

Yes, I had to get his permission, because when he finally ran out of the bushes and came to me, he opened his mouth and said a standard mouthful of southern English to me.

It sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks about it must be deeply amazed at the chaos and darkness that I am plunging into next, is this a fascinating story? Maybe not ......"

In the cemetery outside Englewood, Colorado, a young man stood by the grave, two larks had just flapped their wings and flew into the sky, and an inconspicuous black shadow scurried through the bushes behind the grave, with a fast speed, but still caught the attention of the youth.

He pressed his hand to the gun at his waist, but soon realized that it was just a passing creature, and he sighed softly and reached out to stroke his blonde hair, complaining that he was too sensitive due to nervous tension.

The complaining continued, and the raccoon jumped to the top of the tombstone, stretched out a paw, and said to him in a southern-style English:

"Hello, Peter Quayle."

(End of chapter)