It started to rain in New York tonight, and the windows of the old houses on the banks of the Hudson River flickered with dim light. When reflected on the river banks, they looked like candles that were about to burn out.
A soft sound of "click, click, click" came from one of the somewhat old houses. Rocket Raccoon cautiously walked up the wooden stairs that were not wide, and followed Schiller to the second floor of his small clinic in Hell's Kitchen.
Compared to his office at Arkham Sanitarium, this place was cramped and cramped, Rocket Raccoon thought.
The first floor of this small clinic is often very lively, with Schiller making breakfast in the kitchen, Peter and Pikachu sitting on the sofa playing games, Natasha leaning against the door, and Steve passing by on his morning jog to say hello.
Still vivid in my mind, the peaceful days are always particularly nostalgic.
And the golden and red figure who stayed up until three o'clock in the middle of the night and landed on the roof of the small clinic. Every tile on the roof of the clinic engraved Tony Stark's confusion about life and love.
As Schiller's figure who was walking in front stepped aside, Rocket Raccoon was finally able to see the whole place. There are two rooms on the second floor, one is Schiller's bedroom and the other is the guest room.
Don't expect to find any decent decoration here. The fact that Hell's Kitchen is a slum has not completely changed until now, but Rocket Raccoon was still surprised when he walked into Schiller's bedroom.
The space here is not large. After putting a bed, the tables and chairs in front of the window will inevitably look like canned waste stuffed in. This is by no means an unreasonable association. Rocket Raccoon shook his head. From top to bottom, almost everything here
Every space is filled with all kinds of weird collectibles.
If four desk lamps on a bedside table weren't enough - it seems the doctor thought so, so he also inserted two small candlesticks between the four desk 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. As soon as he turned around, the tip of his tail knocked over something.
Rocket Raccoon turned his head and saw that it was a gorgeously decorated easter egg. He wanted to step forward and touch the glittering decoration, so he directly picked up the egg with one hand and placed it in the remaining corner of the top shelf of the bookshelf next to him.
, Schiller said with great satisfaction: "The Faberge egg is very good, right?"
"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you mentioned before is a disease that allows you to keep your house tidy, then I really hope you have this disease. This place is like a big maze to me." Rocket Raccoon looked around.
, I had to move my legs carefully, for fear that I would bump into something terrible again.
It is very possible that there must be some dangerous items in this doctor's strange collection, and what is more dangerous than that is that they are all expensive. If they are broken, he will not be able to afford to sell them.
.
At this time, a pair of hands reached Rocket Raccoon's armpits and picked him up. Rocket Raccoon exclaimed, but did not struggle. When he looked down at the collection, he found a sense of order in the chaos.
.
Yes, there are many things here, from Faberge eggs to ink bottles of a certain Swiss brand, from berets embroidered with bird patterns to knots hanging on the ground, and even a row of patterns with the same pattern but different colors
Crystal wine glasses, these things stacked together will inevitably make people feel a little blocked.
But in fact, these things are all arranged in categories, and there is absolutely no one leaning on other collections in an awkward manner. There is no one thing standing in the wrong line and appearing in a place where it should not be.
This is really weird, Rocket Raccoon thought so when he was placed on the table, but soon something even weirder appeared. Schiller took out a notebook from his handbag.
When Rocket Raccoon saw this notebook for the first time, he couldn't even confirm whether it was what he thought it was. It was some kind of collection used to record text, because its appearance seemed to be able to do more.
Look.
The huge notebook has a leather cover, and 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 edges of the cover are smashed in just right.
A buckle connects a belt of the same material and a lock that hangs the two belts.
If Rocket Raccoon had to describe it, this notebook has a kind of simple horror.
Schiller put the notebook on the table, and sat on the soft leather chair. He let out a sigh, and took out a lot of pens from his briefcase. Rocket Raccoon recognized that it was the person who had been killed during the day.
He spreads the pen on his desk in Arkham's office.
They seemed to have been carefully selected, and they must be very careful, because Rocket Raccoon could tell that they should come from different production lines, use different processes, and even the years of manufacture are different.
But Schiller did not immediately open the pen and start writing. Instead, he reached out to open the drawer and took out a bottle of ink and a quill from the drawer.
"Oh my God, you don't want to use the remains of a poor bird to write with, do you?" Rocket Raccoon had obviously never seen such a primitive pen before, and described it as a part of a bird corpse in a fuss.
"What you said is really right. I also like this explanation very much." Schiller opened his notebook and continued: "I really hope that readers who read this book can also think of this kind of scene."
Rocket Raccoon tilted his head in confusion. He walked along the edge of the table to the window sill in front of the table, and sat down face to face with Schiller. He looked at Schiller's action of dipping ink and asked: "Reader? Do you want to give it to me?"
Who’s writing? You’re not going to fill it up, are you?”
"Can't you?" Schiller flicked the pen tip to shake off the excess ink, opened the first page of the black notebook and started writing.
"This is written with a quill."
In Karma Taj's meditation room, Strange and Stark sat opposite each other in front of the circular Zen window. The light coming from the window turned them into two hazy silhouettes.
"But its material analysis data shows that its history has not reached the era when only quills can be used." Stark denied, and then whispered to himself as if he was deep in thought: "Or he
There is a unique pursuit, thinking that the words outlined with part of the bird carcass will have more vitality."
"Perhaps that's the case." Strange confirmed his idea. He changed his posture, put his other arm against the armrest and said: "In that dark age, black magic discussed life and death, and even
Even deeper than now.”
"Do you think this is a note left by a dark magician?" It didn't sound like a question, but like a naked denial. Stark looked at Strange opposite and said: "We all
After reading the contents, it does not record any magic circles or spells, but is more like a weird and terrifying travelogue."
"But we can't deny that the content is too dark, like the ravings of a madman full of weird and crazy thoughts after being awakened by a nightmare in the middle of the night. It is ancient and terrifying."
"We should not focus on the darkness, but should explore the truth behind it. There is no doubt that this crazy story will not stop in Colorado, and the darkness you care about may also be spreading."
Strange's eyes rested on a notebook placed in the center of the table. The pure black cover had no text, but when he recalled the story described in the first chapter, he still felt his heart tremble.
“On an ordinary summer evening in the Southwest, I returned to my home in Englewood. I hadn’t been back here in many years, but what I needed to do more than miss it was to visit my mother’s grave.
I am inconspicuous here, which is a good thing. It has been a long time since the horrific accident. People in the town have forgotten many things, and I am also very different.
For me, this is the best news, because I understand that what I want to do this time should not attract too many people's attention, and those horrors cannot be too close to ordinary people, but I have a reason to pursue it.
When it got a little dark and the sun's afterglow was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree, I set foot on the road to the cemetery. The cars on the road were all driving in the opposite direction to me. I knew they were thinking that I was a
Freak, evening is not a good time to remember your loved ones.
…
I came to the cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, where my mother was buried. The state of her death was really inhumane, so she was buried in the edge of the grave. I think this is good.
Better than two dead farmhands and a cow.
Walking straight into the cemetery, I saw two larks landing on my mother's tombstone. These little birds are all over Englewood and even the entire state of Colorado. They are elves of the Rocky Mountains, but I am not.
Standing in front of my mother's grave, I began to recall the past days uncontrollably. What confused and frightened me the most was that this hard-working woman had emphasized to me many times that when I was born, the stars in the sky were all in a row.
It became a straight line, as if calling me to return to them, maybe I should have done so long ago.
I don't know how long it took, the rain also fell, and I saw a black shadow running through the dense bushes. I put my hand on the gun at my waist, but I realized that I was making a fuss, it was just a gun.
Small animals.
Please forgive me, but this shaggy, sharp-toothed little creature insists on its image rights and does not allow me to include any details of his appearance in my book.
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 spoke a standard English with some southern flavor.
Say hello to me.
This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks about it will be deeply surprised by the chaos and darkness I plunge into next. Is this a fascinating story? Maybe not...
"
In Colorado, in a cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, a young man stood next to the grave. Two skylarks had just fluttered their wings and flew into the sky. An inconspicuous black shadow scurried through the bushes behind the grave. The speed was very fast, but it still caused a stir.
Attention of youth.
He put his hand on the gun on his waist, but soon realized that it was just a passing small animal. He sighed softly, reached out and stroked his blond hair, complaining that he was too nervous due to nervousness.
sensitive.
The complaints continued, and the raccoon jumped to the top of the tombstone, stretched out a paw, and said to him in English with a southern flavor:
