Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope this letter reaches you safely. It will most likely require a little drying out, as even our reliable local postal service cannot fully combat what is upon us.
What started on Wednesday evening as a few gathering dark clouds and a spattering of gentle rain, has now become like nothing we have ever seen before here in Little Knee. It has now been four days since any of us has seen daylight, and the rain has only gotten stronger. As for the wind, I need only point to the vacant lot where the bowling alley previously stood to tell you how bad it’s gotten. If anyone sees the bowling alley, please do let us know.
As I write this letter, I sit in my office barely able to hear myself think over the constant violent drumming of the raindrops laying siege to our little town. If it were an actual drummer, I’d have told them what’s what days ago, but unfortunately precipitation is not so easily yelled at. Believe me, I’ve tried. The streets are flooded and the sewers below are turning up all manner of awful things. In the past 24 hours alone, officers have recovered seven crocodiles, what looks to be some rat-sized buildings of unknown origin and what we believe to be the remains of another undiscovered victim of Peter “Murderin’ Pete” Vinderlaut. He hid ’em well, folks.
At first, I thought to blame the gods, as we all did. After all, who else controls the weather? Who else has the power to craft the very heavens above to their will? Who else could play Little Knee like a game of chess, laughing as each pawn is knocked down, or in our case drowned. Well, citizens, it turns out there’s an answer.
My former secretary, who recently abandoned her post to join a cult (which I am still upset about), has still neglected to collect that box of 14 crystal skulls from the lawn of the police station. Well guess what, Catherine? It’s too late now. Even if you wanted to right your wrong and get them, good luck with that because the box is now out of reach. Literally. It’s floating in the air about fifty feet above the police station.
The skulls seem to be the centre of the storm, as far as I can see, though the glow from them is now so bright that I cannot bare to look upwards, and the hum so deafening that the mayor didn’t even seem to able to hear me over the telephone last night. Lightning strikes the box every so often, and for a brief second I feel compelled to head out into the storm and let it engulf me. But we all know what happened to poor George, the producer and host of our beloved LKTR public radio service, who climbed the roof of the horseshoe clubhouse and was, for lack of a better word, obliterated by lightning. Don’t listen to that urge, folks. Stay inside where it’s safe and warm, not outside where it’s not, and you’ll die.
I hope to travel home tonight using the old heavy diving suit that we confiscated from Bobby Greenberg late last year (by the way, Bobby, once this is over I will get a warrant for your garage and I better not find a certain monument to a certain Chinese war hero in there). If I make it, I will be glad to see my wife once more. If not, then know that I loved Little Knee with all my heart. I really did.
I pray for the safety of everyone tonight. For Catherine, despite her neglectful actions bringing about the worst storm in the history of our town. For the Greenbergs, whose disappointment in their rebellious son is enough to worry about without some dark magic hurricane going on outside. To the owners of the Snert Diner, who, reports indicate, may have gone insane from the storm and be tunnelling back to The Netherlands from inside their own restaurant. My prayers even go out to Jerry, the murder dog, who I imagine is cowered in the corner of one of his many new homes.
Ladies and gentlemen,
Paul Fitzgerald, Chief of Police