Extracts from Dr. Baker's Journal
" Dear Sir,
Before giving you an update on the most extraordinary circumstances that surround our
expedition at present, let me just take this opportunity to again thank you for all the
support you have provided. Not only was your input in the formation of the expedition
and it's objectives worth it's weight in gold, but the considerable amount of money you
have put forward to fund it has been indispensable. We here at the institute are grateful
for your continued support.
As for the expedition, it has been temporarily 'postponed'.
The expedition leader, a Dr. John Baker, was recently found in a horrible state and
babbling incoherently in the streets of Melbourne. This is extraordinary as the last time we
actually received word from him was in Egypt, not a fortnight beforehand! Another
shocking fact is the disappearance of the other expedition members, including one Brad
Miller, Dr. Baker's research assistant.
The good Doctor is currently receiving treatment at "Swan River" Clinic for dehydration,
head trauma and a peculiar delirium which may be a result of his physical condition. Due
to his present state, we were unable to determine what had actually occurred to the rest of
the party let alone the Doctor himself. That is, until we found his journal in around the
same place he was found wandering the streets, aound the vacinity of St. Paul's Cathedral.
I have reproduced the most interesting portions here for you to explore. I'm sure you'll
find them fascinating and shocking as we here at the institute did :
""Journal Entry 79, Tuesday
....After losing our quarry in the Egyptian terrain, we have recently discovered
tracks leading into the desert. On foot. I hired some natives and another camel for
supplies and decided to make the journey into the shifting sands to follow....
Journal Entry 82, Friday
....(s)upplies are low already, that is, for those like Mr. Miller, who in his gluttony
has come to the lat of his water. He refuses my advice on the benefits of rationing. One
wonders how he is so thin and lanky when his eyes are bigger than his proverbial
stomach....
....men complain constantly, and wonder why we spend all our tdays following footprints
in the sand. The terrain never changes. Dunes as far as the eye can see, and always the
sun.....
....I received a translation of the natives whisperings from one of those I can trust, and it
appears that some will run from me soon and return to civilisation if I continue on my
present course. Apparently, they feel we are walking further and further into the more
barren and harsher parts of the desert. Towards the centre of a great expanse of nothing.
They speak of death, of wasting away. I will not turn back however, for I still hven't
found what I'm looking for, which is peculiar. We have horses (Brad and I) and the
natives are quite fast moving, some even riding camels, and yet we follow someone who is
on foot (and walking a dead straight path at that!). My only conclusion is that our 'prey' is
not sleeping and walking both day and night. If I were to begin such an action, I would
almost certainly be left by the greater portion of my 'hired help'......
Journal Entry 84, Sunday
....it was then, in the silence, that one of the natives suddenly started to cry out
frantically an pointed to the distant horizon slightly to our right. Everyone stopped and
squinted, looking into the direction he was pointing. My eyes grew wide and my heart
skipped a beat. There on the horizon was one of the most fearsome cloud formations I
had ever seen. I am no stranger to the rare appearance of great storms in deserts, but this
did not have the appearance of your average storm. It moved quickly and churned in the
skies like ink in water. The whole dark cloud mass seemed possessed of a mind of its
own. A seething leech upon the horizon. That was the final straw for the greater portion
of the slaves, and they dropped my belongings (except for a great deal of water!) and ran
back the way we had came, also taking all but one camel. Brad Miller gave chase,
shouting in a very colorful language for them to return from his horse, but the group of
natives splintered and ran every which way (but towards the cloud mass!). Brad Miller
was forced to give up, and returned with shoulders slumped, looking afraid as he stared at
the fast approaching storm.....
.....as it started to fill the sky around us I trembled in my boots. It certainly was not a
'natural' storm. Great thunderous crashes and rumblings shook the very ground beneath
us, and the air shook almost as much as I. But this was not the wort of it, for with every
crack or tremor of the sky, lightning both forked and sheet lit up the ever darkening sky.
Soon the remorseless sun was covered by dark clouds within which a most 'supernatural'
green, red and purple (!!) lightning danced. I fear the animals may die from fright. For
with every tremendous flash and 'gunshot-like' rumbling, the horses jumped and danced.
My own steed even started to froth at the mouth. I am reminded of a poem by Emily
Dickinson in which she speaks of "wind like a bugle" and the "electric moccasin", and now
here i experience it. And yet we continued, turning right into the great skies, for the
footprints had done the same. I am afraid....
Journal Entry 91, Sunday
...I have been permitted to write for Kar-Maddin respects the fact that it is of some
importance to me. And I would think he would entertain the notion that his reputation
amongst the people would be strengthened by my writings and their future discovery. We
have been captured and put into work as slaves of the man and his entourage....
...and were just settling to sleep when i heard Brad Miller cry out from his tent, which was
quickly muffled. And then from the ever present storm in the darkness outside, three men
burst into my own tent. Clad in garments I can only describe as being straight out of
Aladdin, although primarily black, blue and a deep crimson red, they drew great swords
and bound me up as I protested loudly. We had been captured by a group of Kar-Maddins
guards. Also known as desert warriors, they speak some English but one of the natives,
the same one that had translated his fellows grumblings, can also understand their primary
dialect....some of the natives had been slaughterd in the 'ambush'. I am left with only four
of the original twelve now!....
...I serve food and drinks in the main tent along with Brad Miller. Kar-Maddin's
humongous gut needs to be constantly filled as he sees guests, entertains, carries out
punishments and is constantly drooling at a dozen half-naked dancing girls. The man
makes me sick, my hatred for him matched only by the guards and other lazy slobs lying
about this massive tent. He truly is the "Tyrant of the Desert" (I have also heard him
being referred to as "Desert Mongoose", but only by dear friends lest you lose your
head!).....
Journal Entry 95, Thursday
I can hardly write I tremble so much. I'm lying in a bed in a most peculiar room.
All the others are dead! I cannot walk as yet, and I feel weak, but I can write. More on
the room later....
....and where visited two days ago by two peculiar strangers. We were first alerted to
their presence in the tent when from outside there came a blood-curdling scream and the
sound of battle. Guards around the tent drew weapons and looked to their evil master as
the tent grew silent. Kar-Maddin simply raised his hand, and although pale, seemed
curious as to what was going on. Understandably he motioned for his guards to remain
with him in the tent. The battle outside drew closer, and soon became nothing more than
an occasional scream. Then the tent flaps were drawn aside and a small man entered,
leaving the tent doors open and running to the centre of the tent, before everyone, and
addressed Kar-Maddin. He was a most ridiculous fellow, who looked like a monkey, and
most people in the tent looked at the open tent, expecting someone else to be the source
of the bloodshed outside. If not a group of armed men at least ONE other man besides
this little fellow. Someone else did indeed enter as the little man spoke loudly so all could
hear. "We come before Kar-Maddin with goods and wisdom seeking trade. I present to
the 'Desert Mongoose' ... (Kar-Maddin started yet remained seated) ...my master
'MAV-KENN!'" and the little man swept a hand to point to the other presence that had
walked (no! Glided!) into the room after him and now stood a little behind him. The
other sttod over six feet tall and was clad from head to foot in great black robes that
coverd every inch of skin and hung about his legs, dragging in the sand in his wake as he
moved silently. A great hood, which left his face deep within shadow, moved little. It
was as if death himself had entered, and it may well have been, for nothing of the person
within could be seen. Everything was silent for a few seconds, but it was forever.
Then I was alerted to whisperings amongst those gathered. I could only catch one word
that I knew. "Rakshasa". Evil desert spirits that dedicated themselves to tormenting man,
masters of illusion. Kar-Maddin must have heard the word to for he sprang from his chair
and gave the order for his men to descend. "KILL THEM!", he screamed.
Everything from there happened so very very fast. Hands appeared from the voluminous
black sleeves of MAV-KENN and threw two missiles into different corners of the room,
before twin scimitars appeared in there place in the enigmatic strangers hands. All slaves
dropped their things, including myself, and either ran or started to attack their captors. I
saw Brad attacking someone with the tray he had carried around during capture, beating
one of the captors about the head. I just stood in shock and watched proceedings. While
I could that is! I was watching as the stranger known as MAV-KENN wheeled and
danced with the deadly grace of a ballet master, slaying the approaching guards, when
suddenly I was alerted to the fact that the tent was filling with a thick grey smoke. The
missiles that had been thrown must have been smoke canisters! Soon I was struggling to
see four feet in front of me. I decided to leave the tent and run, or at least find Brad
Miller. I stumbled about, listening to others running and stepping over dead bodies, when
I tripped and fell on one and looked up to see the evil Kar-Maddin standing before me,
about to slice me in two, his face a mask of rage. But then he stopped, and fell dead to
the floor, his bulk falling to reveal the stranger in black behind him. But his hood was
down! And before I was struck from behind with a blow to the head I saw his face! IT
WAS HIM! THE ONE I HAD FOLLOWED IN THE DESERT! IT WAS VENKMAN!
I awakened in this very room in this very bed, yesterday. My head ached, which was not
helped by the constant rhythmical thrumming that seemed to come from the walls as from
some great power source. The room was covered in pale creamy paneling, with circular
mouldings of about 30 cm across in them. I looked about in confusion, and listened to the
far off strains of music....it was Khachaturian's Sabre Dance! I almost laughed! I forced
myself out of bed and out of the room (the door opening with a hiss as I approached it,
and sliding closed once I had passed through!) and down a corridor beyond, past other
doors and passages, until I reached the source of the music.
I walked into a control room that somehow seemed familiar to me. The classical tune was
booming in here! In the centre of the room was what was obviously some kind of control
console. Strangely shaped though. it was a hexagonal, sloping topped console raised
from the floor on a hexagonal base. Six trapeziodal control panels littered with buttons
and switches and readouts surrounded a central structure which rose and fell from the
middle of the console in time with the groaning, thrumming that I had felt back in the bed.
Three of the consoles on top had monitors jutting from them, and at one of them, on the
opposite side of the console from me, stood Venkman. The music stopped and Venkman
looked up at me.
"Hallo Sleepy head!" he grinned, and then looked back down at the monitor in front of
him, and comntinued typing.
"I leaned against the wall, my head still thumping, "where.....where are we?" I stammered
weakly. He didn't look up, instead, he stopped short and stroked the console before him,
looking thoughtful, before finally speaking. Looking around the room...
"My childhood", he whispered. And then looked at me. It was then that he approached
my side of the console. He wore a long black coat (only then I realised how cold I was),
sneakers, jeans with holes in the knees, and a grey shirt, with another black T-shirt
showing at his neck underneath. He grinned and pulled a paper bag from his jacket
pocket, "Jelly Baby??" he offered. I shook my head, he just ate one himself. It was then
that i realised where I was. "That's right, Doctor Baker, you're in a TARDIS! My own as
a matter of fact. traveling though the internet would ya believe! Through the collective
thoughts, dreams, horrors, lives and databases of thousands upon thousands! A whole
reality within the reality! Evidently i left a door open in the desert when I passed
through..." I started to feel dizzy, and my knees became weak, "...i suppose this is the
new subconscious! A realm of the imagination, the mind......oh dear, Dr. Baker,
perhaps..." I slipped to the floor as his face fell and he popped another jelly baby into his
mouth, "...perhaps I should take you home.." and I blacked out as he returned to the
controls, the music starting again. "Reality.." he said, as my eyes closed "....here we...."
That was the end of the good Doctors journals. I feel it may benefit his recovery at "Swan
River" if you were to visit and give him an opportunity to meet the man who has so long
supported his quest to find the elusive Venkman. It may even make him more determine
to take up another expedition.
Yours,
Professor Stephen V. Chase,
Institute Director.
THE LENGTHY LETTER IS PUT ASIDE AND A SIGH IS HEARD. THE
ARMCHAIR CREAKS. THEN A HAND REACHES FROM THE CHAIR AND
GRABS A NEARBY JELLY BABY FROM THE DESK. "YES. A SPLENDID
NOTION. PERHAPS IT IS TIME THE GOOD DOCTOR RECEIVED A VISIT",
SAYS VENKMAN, AND CHEWS THOUGHTFULLY......
"It has been theorised that at the centre of every philosophy lies The Musings of Dan"
or
"Deep beneath the desert sands lies The Lair of Dan"