"Untitled"

I look over my desk and will find papers piled over one another. Nothing is organized, and no matter how many times I can try to organize my documents, everything gets mixed up again. I have locked myself in my study just so I can get everything in file. The countless nights, and the agonizing minutes of intense perspiration as I tried to figure out which document went next in order. Sometimes I think my madness in this task is ordained by Divine providence.
It all started when I had finally compiled all of my studies and was going to begin to record all of the evidence I gathered. Everything was in file, from the first reports from five years ago, to Lockwood’s journal entries from earlier in the decade. As I laid everything out on my desk the window blew open as the great Northeastern of ‘39 sent squalls of wind bursting against my Cap Cod seaside residence. One gust busted my study window open send all of the papers across the room.
In the days following, I tried to gather everything. I fear the winds may have carried the most vital accounts I gathered. I have now since stood before a desk full of these papers. Both accounts are scattered, some of the ink from the entries has faded away making identification even more difficult. I have now begun to feel as though God does not want man to know about Olitiau.


However, I was able to completely salvage the Lockwood accounts, they are as follows:


JOURNAL OF WILLIAM M. LOCKWOOD

COMPILATION OF MARCH 1932 ENTRIES

PRINTED AND RECORDED BY JOHN. A. HASCHENBACH

UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSSEE



12, MARCH 1932



I have never been in such a detrimental state of existence in my entire life. Dr. Meade believes I have a form of clinical depression, but I think the man’s full of it. All he wants to do is to make a quick buck. Meanwhile, my own mother and sister treat me like some animal penned up in a zoo. They approach me with caution acting as though I might bite. I really hate putting up with that. What I hate even more is the city, the people, the talking. The meaningless chatter of feeble people who think of nothing but radio programs and clothing fashions. All of those whores who parade up and down third avenue showing off their new Paris dresses and smirking with their white gloves and feathered hats, while millions of Americans starve across the country.
I can take a deep breath of relief now, as of this point, our train has officially left the city limits. We are currently stationed at Newark switching locomotives. I can already see the towering factories and ports of Jersey City growing smaller. It’s really a great privilege to be outside of the city. What’s even better is to be surrounded by the company of southern people. I know we haven’t even crossed the Mason-Dixie line yet, but this train seems to hold a preview for what awaits me. The kind and “live and let live” attitude unique only to people of the south.
As I sit here writing as a large green locomotive backs into our train, I can only think of my meeting with Dr. Meade yesterday. He said I needed some time away to cope with my stress. “A visit to the mountains down south,” he suggested. I remember taking my hat and coat and leaving the session only declaring that I was going to take his offer. I’m thinking about staying, maybe I won’t return. I will have to continue writing later, it’s difficult to write when the train is in motion.


13, MARCH 1932

The train arrived at Winston-Salem yesterday. I already noticed how nice the weather is down here when compared to the north. There is a bigger difference between Virginia and North Carolina. Virginia is stabbed with coal mines and factories, and North Carolina looks no different from the time when Calhoun once walked around these parts.
I hoped to come back, but I continued on my journey west to Knoxville. I received information to privately charter a flight by a local service to cross the Smokey Mountains. Instead, I was directed to the office of the Seaboard Railroad where I was offered a ride aboard a freight train carrying two passenger coaches at the end. I know it wasn’t traveling in style. But, I think it helped me to get closer to the people.
There were maybe only fifteen passengers in total aboard the train, but everyone seemed to get along with each other. Complete strangers learning to enjoy each other’s company, that’s what makes me love this region so much. Our train was traveling at a slow thirty miles an hour, the winds from the mountains made the coaches sway, but we still learned to get along. I lied to them, saying I was from Cumberland. I didn’t want to come off as a Cosmopolitan.
We talked about all sorts of affairs, including the upcoming election, and our disdain for “Herbie” as they call the president. One man in the back glared at us in an odd manner. Out of all of the passengers, he was the most disheveled, with a short beard, and the must ruggedly-shaped face I had ever seen. I am not sure if sub-human is the best way to describe him, but he didn’t seem that bright at first glance. As the train swayed and shook, he stood still, watching the rest of the passengers engaging in conversation. What I found most odd was the sound of the whistle’s high-pitched whistle startled him. It was loud, but he looked as though something was bothering him.
As the afternoon turned into dusk, an overcast sky hung overhead. Our locomotive thundered as it began to climb up-grade. I looked back at the man at the back of the coach. It looked as though he was staring at me. I thought he might have been mentally ill, perhaps his mother took narcotics during child birth. But, my mind was beginning to make notions that made my back shiver. It was of no advantage to look outside the window to see the growing mountain fog enveloping the peaks. He still continues to stare at me, as our train continues to climb into the foothills of the southern Appalachians. I can see that our train is now traveling into the fog. There’s something about this region that is different than our industrialized North. I fell it goes beyond saying it’s more relaxed, there seems to be bigger things at hand.


14, MARCH 1932

I woke up to the sudden slamming of the train brakes as I saw an envelope of steam swarm alongside the carriage sidings. I looked up to see a station sign reading, “Knoxville.” Our train pulled into the Louisville and Nashville freight yards, since our train was not a major passenger train. As I disembarked the train, a man came from behind and put his arm on my shoulder. It was Dr. Brit, whom I had conversed with yesterday. He was adamant about my liking of Southern-hospitality and the laid-back atmosphere. He told me about taking a motor coach to Sevierville, a few miles east.
He gave me directions and times of travel, intuiting that I was going to travel to world-class resort in the mountains. When I arrived at the hotel where I was told to wait for the transportation there, all I found was a hunched over man. He didn’t look a day under sixty, he swiveled a large brown pipe in his mouth, and his face seemed to have a foul look. I didn’t need to move close to him to find out if he smelled. He didn’t notice my presence until after he felt comfortable enough to scratch his crotch in public. When I asked about the transportation to Sevierville, he slowly turned at me, while continuing to scratch his genatalia, looking at me as though I had a tarantula on my face. He nearly stood cold staring at me directly in the eye.
I waited for a response form him, he moved his hand to signal for me to get aboard the wagon. I didn’t want to ask any question, I thought this situation was only a minor “step-off” for what awaited me. Dr. Brit had told me about a resort for people who wanted to retreat away from civilization. He said it was called “Spring Cove,” situated atop the summits in the Smokey Mountains. I think it sounds like a great idea, and a few days there in the cabin with no one to bother me sounded like a good idea. Even better was the opportunity to rent a firearm, I am going to get my own food. No drug stores, restaurants, or dives to cater to me.
I sat as the wagon bumped, and the horse limped making its way out of the Knoxville city limits. Every now and then our horse, which I presumed was a male, grew rapacious at the sight of the other, presumably, female horses on the solid mud pathways. A lone automobile occasionally passed our wagon by. At this point, the man still did not introduce himself, even though he grew vicious when he asked for my identity and references. I never felt more impatient in my life.
After five hours, we arrived along a small settlement situated along the banks of Douglas Lake. There were five cabins, one of which I reserved, and where I am currently residing. The man came up to me, informing me that I was to board a barge that was going to arrive early the next morning. After telling me this, he remained by my side. I did not want to see the sight of him anymore, after that speechless, agonizing ride from Knoxville. But, he decided to ask me where I came from. He became extremely curious, and asked what I did for a living, and I told him everything about my work with Dr. Lehmann in the expeditions to Peru.
I suppose it’s uncommon for an average citizen to come across an archaeologist who graduated with the highest honors from the University of Illinois. I told him everything about what I had studied in Chitzen Itza, Machu Pichu, and my latest trips to the deserts of Peru, where we found some in-earth rock fortresses. As much as I was pleased to explain everything to his lowly man, I was unable to avoid that horrible memory that put me in my unstable mindset. Every time I think about it, I always assure myself I could have done nothing to prevent it, but the image always returns to my head. The rainy morning in New Rochelle, where I walked outside finding a damp paper at my doorstep with the headlines about the disappearance of the airship “Italia.”
I had repeatedly told Dr. Lehmann to abstain from embarking on that voyage. I knew a venture to the North pole was dangerous, especially aboard a semi-rigid Airship filled with hydrogen gas. But, that fiend John Herot had filled his mind with spiritual, occult jargon. Somehow, he felt there was something in the north pole, at first I saw it as an important archaeological excavation. But, then I felt Lehmann was pursuing a ghost, something not real, something made of legends and superstitions.
Then, came the day when the news arrived about the rescue of the trapped crew in the North Pole. The majority of the men were accounted for, except for a Dr. Fritz Lehmann who was declared “missing.” No body, no traces of his existence. Now, I was all alone, without a partner to share my enthusiasm for my work. I guess, this is a confession, of my feelings about the affair. It hasn’t left my head ever since it revisited my thoughts while I explained to the wagon man about my past life.
The air is thin up here, the fog returned floating above the rim of the lake. Now, I am alone again. Tomorrow the barge will arrive, and I will finally be able to make my way into “Spring Cove.” Perhaps, then, I will be able to find solace…

15, MARCH 1932

I cannot begin to speak about what transpired today. My heart continues to beat without rest. I can barely hold my pen in place with the sweat from my palms sliding into my grip. I feel it’s better to give a proper, and full account of what happened. I will start with this morning.
I traveled aboard the barge from Douglas Lake to Sevierville. As the morning sun rose above the high pikes, the fog began to lift like a spirit loosening its grip on the one which it posses. The sounds of whippoorwills began to fill my body with a sense of foreboding. I was moving deeper into a region where few civilized men pass through. As we neared the town limits I was appalled by the sights that met my eyes. Never had I seen such deprivation and poverty in a single town. This small stream of water appeared to be the only link to the rest of the world. There were no signs of railroads or electrical grids.
As I looked around, I was met with stares from the local citizens. I never felt more unwelcome in such a setting. Every face seemed to show a vast amount of aging. It was as though these people were stuck in a time period foreign to the present. The age of yeoman farmers living out in the back woods awaiting the progress of civilization to reach their town. Yet, this town seemed to have been forgotten all together. It laid surrounded by a fortress of mountains, and a wall of forests occupied by bears and poisonous insects.
A hawk screeched overhead as our barge slowly bumped into a small collection of boards acting as a pier. Everyone seemed to just be standing around wasting away. It was as though they were awaiting the coming of Jesus Christ himself, and nothing else was going to make them move one inch from where they were standing.
I grabbed my two suitcases and proceeded to the town square where I was supposed to go to the commerce building to get information about traveling to Spring Cove. At the square was a desolate silence as two man sat quietly on a wooden plank supported by two eroded grey bricks. They both stared at me, watching what I was going to do next, as they both licked the tips of their cigars taking small puffs.
I saw no one else around, I decided to approach them asking them about Spring Cove. When I came up to them, they remained still, until one of them declared that I wasn’t from around “these parts.” I reinforced his claim by explaining where I was from. When I stated Spring Cove as my destination, both men grew startled. One had dropped his cigar as his jaw dropped. I was curious as to what about Spring Cove bothered these men. One of them got up from the plank and stared at me in the eye for almost five minutes. Maybe it was less, but it felt as though a good amount of time had passed.
In a droll Southern accent, he asked me if I knew anything about the history of Spring cove. I obviously didn’t, but he went on rambling about the disappearance of certain travelers and tourists. I became rather bored with his rants when he delved into detail about the personal backgrounds of each person. However, my fascination grew when he explained the story of the Cherokee chief Sakatowatsoo. Supposedly, back in the days of early European settlement in the years before the American Revolution, a Cherokee Chief had grown alarmed with the expansion of the settlements. He went to seek help from the gods, and went on a long retreat into the wilderness.
According to the Native legend, he appealed to the help of a deity that promised his village protection from the expansion of European settlement. But, when the push of white settlement pushed the Cherokee peoples west from their territory, the deity had cast a dark shadow over the region forbidding prosperity to anyone who dared to build upon the land which belonged to the descendants of Sakatowatsoo.
Of course, me being the bastard of science and reasoning dismissed this tale as nothing more than a camp fire ghost story for Hollow’s eve. I asked about getting up north to Spring Cove, and renting a fire arm, and the men were gladly willing to aide me. I assumed nothing meant much to this town unless it came in the form of profit.
I walked with the two men as one led me into a building where a vast amount of weapons were stockpiled. I was given a shot gun declared to be powerful enough to murder an angry mother bear. The other man pulled up with a horse and bogey. I was escorted to the bogey and the man cracked the horse’s hide with a whip, and I was on my way to Spring cove.
The sullen atmosphere of the town seemed to drift away as I traveled up into the mountains with the other man slowly guiding the horse. I can’t remember if we traveled five, or eight miles, but the horse was called to a stop. The man came out and left my luggage by the side of the bogey. He told me I was continue my way along the rode. I was told to continue until I reached a path with a four percent grade and to follow the dirt path after that point. It was from there I would arrive in Spring cove.
I made my way through as I watched grey salamanders run off the road in fear of my presence. The heat of the region began to rise as I walked into the savannah forest. The humidity from the nearby creeks caused my hair to grow moist making my head heavier. I felt the light breeze of the mountain air as I watched large amounts of mist envelope the mountain tops.
I found the grade, it looked rather daunting to climb. I tried to climb it slowly, but as I took each step, it felt as though someone was trying to pull me back. I was on my hands and knees with my suit case dragged alongside. What was supposed to be a path of less then a few feet, felt like a mile long ordeal. I found the dirty path, I felt myself fall on the ground as my heart pounded. I felt as though someone had put fifty pound bricks on my back. Yet, I looked back, and the grade didn’t look as difficult of a climb as it felt.
I slowly made my way long the dirt path. Amazeningly, before my eyes were bamboo trees. I didn’t suspect to see such trees in these parts. I soon found myself in front of a sing that read “Spring Cove.” There, in a circle of gravel rocks, was a large cabin with two stories and deer antlers at the foot of the door. A large man came out from the cabin. He introduced himself as George Lang, a self-made entrepreneur. He told me about his plan to make Spring Cove a top resort for vacationers, and hopefully to but Sevierville on the map. He told me about the past of the settlement, and how his ancestors had attempted to build a settlement in the early colonial days, but the crops failed and the summers and winters were intolerable.
Lang went on to explain how he thought the scenic views of the locale would be appealing to tourists wanting to retreat from the city chaos. I explained my sitation, and he was pleased with my news of Dr. Brit suggesting this place to me. Apparently Dr. Brit had given Lang a grant to build five cabins for tourists to stay. I was given the key to the second completed cabin which included a stove, bed, and wash tub.
He took me up there were I saw the cabin. It was about five hundred feet away from the main grounds. I was shocked by this distance feeling a cabin closer to the main office would give tourists a better peace of mind. But, Lang declared that he wanted to give people the best views in the region. I did feel the views were fantastic, and from inside the small cabin it looked as though I was floating above the cabin. I hardly went inside, it was too beautiful to go inside. The sun began to come out from behind the mountain mists and clear blue sky was visible. I felt then at that moment that I finally found the solace I had desired. After the long train ride to North Carolina, and the long trip to Knoxville, and barge ride from Douglas Lake, everything seemed to be have been worth the while.
I didn’t go inside, nor did I take Lang’s offer to join him for dinner. I remained outside sighing as the sun dipped below the mountain tops. I decided now was the time for a smoke from my Tobacco pipe. I took a few small puffs, letting the leaves burn inside the bowl as the breeze died down. After a minute or so, there was no breeze, or any howl from the winds. It was quiet. The only sound audible was the sound of the burning tobacco leaves.
As I sat there, watching the smoke fly into the sky, I heard a faint brushing noise. I thought for a moment that it was a bear. I began to stretch my arms preparing to go inside to get my gun. As I turned around, I heard a loud cracking noise. I turned around and saw something coming out from the forest below. For a moment, I was unable to feel myself move. I held my arm shaking as the pipe dropped from my hands. I began to walk back from where I was standing. I still can feel tears swelling in my eyes as I recollect it, but I saw a humanoid figure coming form out of the first. I then saw two bright glowing eyes, almost fluorescent in appearance. I didn’t give it a second glance, I ran inside the cabin. I grabbed my gun, and ran to the corner. The moon was out, shinning bright enough to cast clear shadows. I remained in the dark so not to be seen. Whatever it was, it moved closer, still not clearly visible. But, it walked around. I watched this dark figure move around from the corner of the window. It appeared naked, but two dark shadows came from its back like a cloak, but I think they were wings of some sort. I then heard a shriek, almost like that of the locomotive that startled the man two days ago. Oh, dear God! Whatever was out there, I cannot calculate the horror such a being can inspire. Only seeing those shadows was enough to keep me still with my gun gripped in my arms. I bit my lips and grinded my teeth as my eyes remained wide opened waiting for this monster to burst open the door into my cabin. I cowered below the window, and heard a large swooping noise as a dark shadow went against the window and a loud bang was heard on the roof. I then saw a light coming from the main grounds. It was Lang, the fool. He called out for me, I hesitated to answer in fear of this creature. As Lang came closer, OH GOD! I cannot talk about it, I can feel the tears forming in my eyes again. Not since the disappearance of Lang have I ever felt more frightened. As that kind man called out my name once again, a man who only meant to make a few bucks, his call was followed by a shriek. I am positive it was his voice I moved closer to see what happened. There, hovering over a motionless human body was a dark bat-like creature. Ears, above the head, with two bright eyes, and what appeared to have a humanoid appearance. Even more horrifying to recall was the grin on this beast’s face. It was grinning, as the blood of Lang poured from its razor sharp teeth. I screamed, feeling myself fall back against the cabin floor. I ran for my gun as I heard the swooping noise and loud bang on the roof. The beast, was, and still is there, perched on the roof. This Hellish minion is waiting for me to leave the safety of my cabin. Like Lang, it wants to devour me. I can hear its deep breathing as it pants slowly, accompanied by what sounds like whispers of some dead language. I am writing this now as it remains on the roof. I do not know what time it is, but I fear I may be here until daylight, that is, if this creature will leave by daylight. I fear I may not make it alive back to civilization. My hour may be at hand. I cannot recount what I may have done to deserve such a torment. But, God please, Lord Almighty! SAVE ME!

I always felt this story was perhaps the most credible to the existence of Olitiau. Unlike the account from the 1935 Central American expedition, the witness disappeared never to be found again. Several things add up, including the legend of Sakatawatsoo’s pact with the Fiend of the forest who promised him that no one would ever disturb the land of his people. Yet, I cannot understand what truly happened to Lang. Unlike the 1935 account, someone was murdered by the beast. What’s even more puzzling is the fact that Lang was found to have been strangled, and not maimed to death as Lockwood described. What I find even more interesting is the police report of a body found at the bottom of a crevice near Spring Cove. Perhaps this is where the corpse of Lockwood resides. I will be able to piece more information of the Lockwood/Lehmann affair when I travel to Berlin in two weeks. Hopefully, then, I will finally understand with this being is, and what its purpose is on earth.

-Sincerely,
Dr. Hedrick Spiel
November 14, 1939.