Prologue

SECTION 1: TEASER

Helicopter Shot rolling New England hills near sunset. The sky is clear and crisp. It's fall and the leaves are turning magnificent colors. As voice over speaks, the copter flies towards the infamous town of Arkham, Mass.

VOICE OVER (Anthony Stewart Head aka "Giles"): In every generation, there is a Chosen One. She will fight against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.

Arkham is clearly visible, and we're rushing towards it.

VOICE OVER (ctd.): It is 1928, and a malevolent force stretches its shadowy hand over Arkham.

Zooming over Arkham, the camera "lands" in the middle of the quad of Miskatonic University. A pair of students, FRED and MABEL, is lounging on the grass, enjoying the sunset as they eat a picnic dinner. In the background, there's a statue of Jeremiah Orne, founder of Miskatonic University, and we can see some sort of plaque on it, large enough to be read, identifying where we are.

FRED: (nervous) There's been something I've been meaning to ask you.

MABEL: (excited) Yes, what is it?

FRED: Well, we've been seeing each other for a long time. I was wondering if you would - if you would do me the -

FRED pulls himself together, takes a small box from his jacket pocket, and gets on one knee. MABEL is delighted, as happy as she's ever been in her life.

FRED: Mabel, will you marry me?

Close up on MABEL, as the look of joy on her face turns to horror. She screams. The camera whip-cuts to see

ISSAC LEVINSON (played by Danny Strong, Jonathan from the modern show - with a mustache or something so it doesn't look just like J.), running from the Tyler Science Annex. He's holding his hand to his neck, which is bleeding profusely. His shirt is covered in blood. He looks around wildly, terrified of something. He stumbles forward, out of the shadow of the building into the light of the setting sun. As the sun touches him, he bursts into flame. He screams in agony and falls forward onto the grass of the quad. He writhes in pain as he burns to death. In seconds, all that is left is a smoking skeleton.

The past few days have been a whirlwind in your previously quiet existence. Rootless after the death of Isha, you drifted about, officially a Watcher but unofficially on their black list. They wouldn't admit they were wrong about the Cruciamentum and you wouldn't stop telling them just that. Eventually, they found you a position at the Miskatonic University Library in Arkham. The past year has been one of quiet study, though it has taken you some doing to convince Dr Armitage that you were trustworthy enough to have access to the "private collection." (There was an incident involving a dark wizard wanting access to the Necronomicon, with the expected, horrific results.)

The death of Isaac Levinson caught your eye, but you refused to get involved. That brought back memories too painful to confront without a good shot of bootleg whiskey. (Thank goodness for the speakeasy - living under Prohibition might have finally done the job countless demons and vampires had attempted.) Then, a cable arrived the next day. Either the Council had forgiven you or (more likely) they didn't have anyone else in the area. A new Slayer - Honoria Blackwell. The note snidely pointed out that she had passed her Cruciamentum, but her Watcher hadn't - with the cost of his own life protecting her from an interloping vampire. Poor Issac McCall. You had played darts with him back in Oxford. Honoria was currently in the care of Issac's harridan sister Agnes (a dreadful woman), but was on her way to Arkham within the week. She will be arriving shortly, and the two of you are expected to investigate the strange death of Isaac Levinson.

Meeting a fellow agent in a speakeasy had a certain humor to it. There wasn't a chance in hell that the place would be raided (cops too well paid off for that), but still, you'd feel awful silly in a roust. A jazz band was up on stage and Dan the Bartender was keeping the drinks flowing. You were just starting to loosen up and enjoy the music with the Captain walked in. He had a name, but you weren't cleared for that. Still, he kept the unit alive when you were on that damn frog hunt in Innsmouth. Just thinking about it caused you to finish your drink and signal for another. The Captain sat down at your table in the corner.

"Holt."

"Cap."

"Got something for you. The Levinson kid."

"The one who flamed up in the quad?"

"That's the one. He wasn't the first. Two others. Bums. Kid's family claimed his body, but we've got the other two in the city morgue for study."

"So what's my job? I'm no cutter."

"The cops are ignoring it, like they do everything else in this burg. But a friend of the kid is investigating. Jerry Astorbilt."

"Those Astorbilts?"

"Yup."

"So I'm supposed to scare the kid off or what?"

"Nope. You're a grieving cousin of Levinson's, in from New York and eager to find out what happened. The Project wants to investigate, and Astorbilt's stumbling around makes good cover." The Captain slid an envelope over to you, with information about Isaac and Astorbilt. Pictures. School records. Phone numbers.

A story! Not just any story, but The Story! There's an old saying - "Arkham isn't like other towns." A little research proved that. The only town with a similar per capita death rate is a little town in California. For the past few years, you've been working on The Story, but nobody wants to talk about it. Strange deaths. People moving away and never being heard from again. Whispers in the dark about witchcraft and things that walk like men in the night.

Once, you talked about The Story to your father, and asked why he didn't investigate what was wrong in Arkham. Your father is a brave man. He's stood up to the most powerful men in Arkham. Powerful men with wealth and privilege. He's run the Arkham Advertiser out of his own pocket when advertisers pulled out following a story about a prominent man's son and a serving girl. The day you asked about The Story, he turned pale. He closed the door to his office, sat you down and wiped the ever-present ink off of his hands. "Don't look into this." He looked around, and pulled the window shade down. "I know I told you never to be afraid of a story, but this one... You just can't do it, Scoop. It's not a story. It's an obituary." You had never seen him so scared before. You promised that you'd leave it alone. You hated the lie.

"Take care, Ace."

"Take care, Professor," you smiled, closed the door and watched your father walk down to his waiting car. Another "bloody boring" series of meetings in Washington at the embassy meant that he would be away for a week. You watched the car drive away, and then waited a few moments, flipping through assignments for school.

Seconds later, you were in your father's private basement study. He liked the quiet and felt that the setting and rising of the sun were not conducive to focused study. You knew where the secret panel was, concealing the safe. After all, you helped him install it. He never told you the combination, and it was state of the art, designed to keep its secrets safe from prying eyes.

Seth sat in the campus quad, sitting at the feet of Jeremiah Orne's statue. He played his coronet absently in the moonlight, feeling its gentle tug on the darker side of his psyche. He knew Isaac Levenson, though not well. Once, some of the Finns (a local gang of street kids acting tougher than they were) thought it would be fun to mess with college kids, and naturally, picked on the unimposing Isaac. You pulled them off him, and broke one tough's arm with a handy rock. She didn't come out or things might have gotten worse. After that, well, you wouldn't have called him a friend. He tried to get to know you, but you kept him at bay, like everyone else. Isaac had a good heart - all the more reason to push him away.

Now, he's dead. You play one last tune to his ghost, and returned to your room on Pickman Street. One of your housemates, a mathematics major named Walter Gilman, told you the other day that Jerry Astorbilt, the insufferable scion of a "powerful" (heh) family wanted to get Isaac's friends together to look into his unnatural demise. Walter, who studied with Isaac on occasion, was going, and urged you to go with him the next day. You nodded and told him you'd think about it. You knew his death wasn't the "accident in the science lab" the officials claimed it was. But you hadn't come to Arkham for that. You had more pressing concerns. Her.

You dreamed that night. One of those dreams.

A drawing room... money lived here... more than money... power. A high backed chair faced the fire... can't see who's there... a hand reaches for a wineglass on the table next to the chair.

Not wine... smelled familiar... she wants it... you slap her down...

A voice asks, "why are you here?"

Father is here... (Father is dead...) "Me boy can hep you. Better than the o'ters. Smart. Strong." Father glances your way, dark eyes catching the fire. "Pesky soul tho'."

The voice says, "they always get in the way. Fortunately, not a problem I share."

You walk around to look at the man in the chair. You can't see him clearly. Shadows move to cover him. "I have nothing to do with my father." Father cackles at that.

"Of course you do," he reaches over and picks up the silver tray the wineglass had rested on. His hand casts no reflection. He twirls the tray and holds it up like a mirror. You see the face you despise. "Nothing of your mother there, wouldn't you say?"

You snarl and swat the tray away. "Shut up." Father cackles.

The voice laughs, though there is no mirth in it. Shadows flow out of the man's fingertips and snatch the silver tray, returning it to his hand. "You have two choices. This is one." He holds the tray up again... shadows cover the sun... beasts run free in the streets... humans herded like cattle, their heads on pikes... you sup on their flesh... the Old Ones roam the earth and you bask in their glory.

He twirls the plate. "This is the other." You see yourself chained to an obsidian altar, naked and covered with symbols painted in black blood. People (?) in black robes chant around you. The leader reaches into your chest. Then the images of Armageddon reappear.

With a snap, he places the plate back down. "Make no mistake. You cannot oppose us. You cannot even slow us down. I offer you survival and power you know you crave. Consider your choices wisely."

Thomas swept in the basement of the Miskatonic University Athletic Association. He pushed the broom and mused about his schedule for the next day. "Classes - Beginner's English Literature, Intermediate History of Art and Studio Drawing One. Did the reading for the first two. Have to do another piece for Studio. Last piece stunk." Thomas pushed the broom angrily at that thought. He knew what he wanted to draw but something between brain and hand, a disaster occurred. He was making progress this semester, and even got a rare compliment from the instructor. Still, he heard the whispers of "why's the janitor here?"

Sweep. Sweep.

Thomas remembered his appointment tomorrow evening with Doctor Lazarus. He had met the "Watcher" in Calcutta a few years ago. You were working odd jobs on your way around the world. He and his "Slayer" were after the same demon-worshiping cult that had harassed the owner of the shop where you swept up. You liked Dr. Lazarus, even though he seemed to have no qualms about sending the girl, Isha, into harm's way. Still, she was no ordinary girl. When you ran into him on campus, you two went to the speakeasy to talk about old times and travels. He told you Isha was dead, and his eyes grew haunted. He muttered something about Slayers not having long lives and ordered more drinks.

Seems like Arkham is just like Calcutta or Sunnydale or Venice - a city with secrets beneath the surface. Are the monsters everywhere? Why doesn't someone do something about it? You've done what you can.

Sweep. Sweep.

The well-dressed student passes you, ignoring you the way most do. A shabbily dressed student follows him down the hall. You look up and blink. The rich boy reflects in the window you just washed. The other one doesn't. You pick up the broom and follow. The rich kid goes into the bathroom The other one starts to follow.

"Hey, kid. Can I see your student ID?" you ask in a loud voice.

The "student" looks both ways, and sees the hall is empty. "Sure," his face shifts to a demonic visage. He leaps at you. "Here it is."

You fend him off with the broom handle. "I think it's expired," you deadpan. He takes another swing at you, which you block with the broom. He's surprised that you're not screaming or running for help.

You whip the broom around, clouting the vampire solidly on the side of the head. He shakes his head, rattled. Enraged, he takes another swing at you. At the last second, you move out of the way, so that the blow is only a glancing one. Still, your arm aches and will be purple tomorrow.

Ignoring the pain, you flip the broom around, and hook his feet with the brush-end. He goes to the ground with a thud. He starts to get to his feet, but you take another swing at him, knocking him back down.

An odd thing. You notice a symbol tattooed on his hand. A black sun.

You quickly reverse the broom and drive the handle through his chest. The vampire explodes in a cloud of dust.

You sigh and lean on the broom, waiting for full feeling to come back into your arm.. The student comes out of the bathroom and looks at the dusty floor. "Missed a spot, pops."

You shake your head and go get the dust pan.

Honoria dreams.

History repeats itself. Each time you hope to change the outcome. The Cruciamentum. Powerless. Trapped in a house with a hungry vampire. Happy Birthday to me. You won. The vampire died. Vanessa showed up. You were going to die. Issac appeared, beaten and bloody. He drove her off. He died. "I've always been proud of you." You hold his cooling body and weep. Not again!

Something's different. Shadows grow. Hungry shadows. The blackness sweeps over you and you are alone. You hear laughter. "She? She is the one that will try to stop me? Ha! I have already won."

"She's not alone." You hear another voice say. One voice? Many voices?

"Wake up, girl." Miss Agnes raises the shade. It is late afternoon. Miss Agnes always insists that a lady needs her rest. The afternoon nap is her concession to your Calling. The past few weeks have been hard. You lost a Watcher, she a brother. The two of them had looked after you since your Calling. They often fought; so much you wondered how they could bear each other. But now that he's gone, you see how much she loved her brother. She doesn't blame you for his death, and says a good Christian like her brother will surely be in a better place. Still, she misses him. "I have your clothes and weapons ready. Doctor Lazarus is expecting you at the university library." She flutters around you, giving last minute pieces of advice. "My brother spoke well of Doctor Lazarus, even after -" She stopped herself. "He spoke well of the Doctor, and the Council knows what it's doing." You dress quickly in the outfit she had for you. For all the world, you were just another student, dressed a bit more conservatively than many, but not one that would stand out. Miss Agnes wouldn't stand for you looking anything less than a proper young lady, and tailored your clothes to be concealing as well as functional for Slaying. "Now, if the Doctor wishes for you to patrol after your meeting, I will wait up. The back door is set up like our house in Chicago. If not, hurry home, and don't talk to those college boys." She said "college boys" the way her brother spoke of demons. She handed you a last stake, which you slipped up your sleeve. "I've heard about what goes on on these campuses. Drinking. Socializing. DANCING."

Interlude: Chicago

A beautiful woman sang about love and loss. The musicians behind her kept up as best they could. They had excellent motivation: the corpses of band members who didn't play "like the songs Mummy sang to me."

At her feet, two played poker. The man had curly brown hair and smiled a lot. Across from him a beautiful woman, with hair as blond as the singer's was dark, dealt another hand.

"So, Vanessa, I hear you missed out on the Slayer. Good for me." He picked up his cards. "Sure you don't want to play for kittens?"

The woman shook her head. "That's no way to play cards, William."

"Spike."

"Whatever."

He tossed some cards back. "Two. So, I have a chance to come out ahead, then."

She dealt him replacements. "You wish, William."

He picked up his cards and scowled. "Spike. Anyway, I heard it was her Watcher what saved her. That's sloppy."

She scowled back. "Well, he paid for it. And his Slayer is still in play. I'll get her next time."

He smiled, "not unless I get her first."

"You lost that hand. I get the next shot."

"Always time for a rematch."

The singing stopped and the singer collapsed on the stage. Spike rushed to her side. Vanessa remained in her chair, irritated at the interruption. "What is it, Dru?"

The dark haired woman whispered in a singsong voice. "Darkness. Beautiful darkness. Shadows eating the sun. Tasty sun." She licked her lips.

"Have to say, I like that one, pet. Who's going to eat the sun?"

From the card table, Vanessa interrupted, "wouldn't that be bad for gravity or something?"

"Shut up, Vanessa," growled Spike.

Dru sat up and shook her head. "Silly." She held her hand up in front of the stage light, her hand casting a shadow on her face. "I don't like her, Spike. She doesn't want to dance."

"I wanted to play some cards," answered Vanessa.

Dru sighed. "I see your Slayer." She turned to Spike, her expression dropping. "My sweetie won't get to eat this Slayer."

"Told you," snarked Vanessa.

"Oh, you won't either. Hungry Shadows. Yum. Yum. Yum. Eat the Slayer. Eat the sun. Oh, but then how will I see the stars for the shadows?"

"You'll find a way, pet."

"So you're saying someone else is going to eat my Slayer?" Vanessa stood up. "Not on my unlife. See ya' Spike." She turned back to the couple.

Spike frowned. "I was going to win that hand." He stood up and helped Dru to her feet. "Well, what shall we do now?"

"Let's dance," she answered. She licked his cheek. "I love to dance with my Spike."

"Right then." He turned to the terrified musicians. "Play something slow and romantic. Or we kill you." He swept her into his arms.

She whispered into his ear, "aren't we going to kill them anyway?"

"Sure, but I want a dance first, and I don't fancy having to find another band." His jovial expression turned serious. "So is she going to get the Slayer? I don't fancy her being ahead of me."

"Oh, don't worry, my Spike. You'll get your Slayer." Then her face turned sad, "and then another one."

"Why the long face?"

"Well, look at you now," you tell your reflection. If you had imagined that you would be putting together a group of Sherlock's Irregulars a year ago, you would have assumed it had something to do with a raid of the girl's dorm. But those were different, less serious days. Your friend, your best friend, burned up in the quad last week and nobody seems to be the least bit interested. The police said something about a chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong. The newspapers only mentioned his death in the obituaries, with no mention of the circumstances. Private investigators, usually happy to spend Astorbilt Money, shied away. "Arkham isn't like other towns," they said. "Best to let the dead lie." Whatever that means! The Levensons didn't have money, power or influence. But you did, and for once it would be used for something other than getting you out of trouble.

You've pieced some parts of it together yourself. Isaac vanished two days before he, albeit briefly, reappeared. Nothing was out of place in his dorm room. His roommate had left school early in the semester to return to help with the family business, so the last person to see him was one of the servers in the dining hall the last evening before his disappearance. He didn't seem worried or upset, according to the waiter. As far as you could tell, he had no enemies. Oh, there were a few campus bullies who thought the small Jewish boy was an easy target, but those problems quickly vanished after becoming your friend. So, after dinner, he left the hall, presumably to head to his evening seminar. And that was the last of it.

While no Sherlock Holmes, you did wander the science annex, to see if there was any truth to the "science experiment" story. You didn't find anything to suggest that anyone was doing unsupervised work. However, one thought did cross your mind. Beneath Miskatonic University were a maze of steam tunnels and service corridors, some of them even predating the university itself. Before meeting Isaac, your only use for them was the one that led into the girl's dormitory. But, according to those who found "tunneling" to be a fun, though strange, pastime, the Science Annex was on top of a major crossroads of the tunnel network. Something for your "Irregulars" to investigate.

You check your outfit (Smashing!) in the mirror one last time, and then head out of the dorms. Your group was meeting in the library soon, and you were curious who would show up.