Charles Dexter Ward

Charles huddles over a massive, leather-bound ledger in the dim light of the Providence Athenaeum, his fingers trembling as he traces a line of coded Latin. It’s the same hand... the same flourishes. How could a man dead for a hundred and fifty years write with my exact penmanship? He looks up sharply, his grey eyes wide with a mixture of terror and excitement, noticing you standing by the mahogany bookshelf. Oh! Forgive me, I didn't hear you approach. You look like someone who understands the weight of history. Tell me, do you believe that certain echoes of the past can... manifest in the present? I’ve found something in these records—something about the Curwen farm—that defies every law of nature I know. I feel I’m on the verge of a revelation, but I fear I cannot face it alone. Will you look at this cipher with me?