From the Journal of Rev. Col. Elijah Q. Gridley

January 10th - 1885

Well, the last few days have proved to be of great interest, to be sure. For more than a fortnight I have been in the employ of a group of gentlemen that refer to themselves as The Agency. Apparently "Quackery" is taken quite seriously here in St. Louis, and to save myself from incarceration, I agreed to a brief stint serving as a clerk in their library. The goals of this organization have yet to make themselves apparent to me, but their library is filled with myriad of subject matter, and much of it tends toward the mystical and arcane. The assignment has proven fortuitous, as it has afforded me the time to continue honing my skills. I am certain that, soon, I shall be in a position to operate to my fullest potential. That matter, however, will have to be addressed, in more detail, later.

I feel my time in the library may be limited, however. For, yesterday, as I was proceeding into the Agency's Headquarters, I was taken by Bullock, the gentleman I assume to be in charge, to one of the lower levels. I was escorted into a room with two other gentlemen (more about them in a bit). At this point a cadre of severed heads was laid out on a table to be examined. The larger of my new companions seemed to start at the fact that their heads were in some state of re-generation. I was sent to seek the counsel of a man named Rigby (whom, I believe, might share some of the same interests as myself). He stated some theory about dead not staying dead, and that the only way to insure complete destruction of the abomination was to destroy the brain. In the spirit of fairness, I had always assumed that those stories were tales told by the uneducated masses whom afforded me an income, however, this gentleman seemed to me quite intelligent, and earnest in his assessment. Upon his recommendation the large gentleman in the room, a Mr. Kestral, summarily deposed the brain matter of the heads in question. This seemed to deter any regeneration from occurring.

After that, I believe I was arbitrarily assigned to these two gentlemen as an aide of some sort. I suppose it is fitting to use this space to describe my new "colleagues".

First, there is the mysterious and antiquated Mr. Agustine Kestral. He is a thickly built and bullish man that seems to me a specimen more fit for farm labor than Government employment. I assumed, at first, he was the "brute" force of this duo, but this man is no brute. He seems to be some sort of Holy man. He appears to be a man of temperance, honesty, loyalty, justice and courage. I remain dubious about a long-lived association. To that point, upon the realization of my "gift", the warnings and sermons seem to have begun in earnest. I am putting all of my hope in the fact his zeal is but an opening volley in an otherwise quiet battle of beliefs. While I know little of his past, I can say he is soft spoken, kind to strangers, and based on the items he produced at the agency, not incapable of stunning violence. He was able, however, to save our little group from a "dust-up" as I believe the yokels of this town term it.

The second of my new companions calls himself Clayton Sanbel. He seems to be, at current, the de facto leader of this "group". As of yet, I have no need to challenge him, as my ability to be alarmingly convincing, and my largess with any coin I might have in my pocket, have paved the way for my acceptance into their fold. Mr. Sanbel seems to have some acquaintance with The Sanbel Hotel, though I have yet to determine the degree. Having a safe place to operate from, would be quite a luxury, and I feel that Mr. Sanbel and myself are cut from the same cloth. In addition to his proclivity for a good drink and a gentlemanly game of cards, he has also expressed an interest in darker things, and it is highly possible that I have found the apprentice I have been looking for. It is, therefore, without arrogance that I say I expect Mr. Sanbel and myself to fast become friends.

After the incident with the heads, we were given leave for the evening. The gentleman took me with them to see the paymaster, and after I "reminded" him of how much we were owed, the giant and his handler saw fit to pad my pocket with enough coin to ensure a pleasant evening. We took the ferry over to the other side of the city and spent our evening engaged in revelry. Well, such was the case with Mr. Sanbel and myself. Mr. Kestral had his alloted daily imbibement, stopped off at a place of worship, and turned in for the night. After doubling, via a few hours of card playing, the handsome donation I had received, I too went to seek a bed. Not for rest, but it was pleasant nonetheless.

When morning arrived, I, once again, returned my attention to the quest, and after perusing the morning paper, I found two estate sales that seemed promising. After, stopping in at my tailor's for a new suit, and to outfit my new friends (they travel like common peasants), they accompanied me, quite unaware, in my search for power and enlightenment. It should be noted that it was at the tailor's that I came to the perplexing realization that Mr. Kestral wears a shirt of chain under his regular shirt. I suppose this is some sort of spiritual self-flagellation, that seems to be the custom with the more extreme branches of Christianity.

It should also be noted that as we were leaving the saloon, a gentleman who did not fair well at the card table last night returned, with the apparent intention of liquidating some of last nights losses from our pockets. As I urged the group to flee, the giant was able to stall our would-be attacker with some philosophical quandary of some sort. While I was interested, to spend too much time questioning would have detracted me from the task at hand.

Now, to the most important point of the last 24 hours events. At the second estate sale, I found a copy of the book dated 1860, roughly 20 years earlier than the copy I possess. I cannot wait any longer to begin deciphering this text.

I also read today that the Orioles remain in last place in the American association. This would not be so unbearable except for the fact that I am currently in the home of the Browns, who sit solidly in first place. Oyster Burns and Gid Gardener have played most detestably, and I fear we will not win 45 games this year. Oh, if only there were a hex for getting on base. Speaking of Hexes, I must not waste too much time with recreation, and spend my time in training. So, it is with that thought ever present in my consciousness, I set down my pen, and end the story of the today's events.