Chapter 1376 The Call of the Stars (Part 2)

It rained in New York tonight. The windows of the old houses on the banks of the Hudson River flickered dimly, and when reflected on the river bank, they looked like candles that were about to burn out.

A light "kakaka" sound came from one of the old houses. Rocket Raccoon walked up the narrow wooden stairs cautiously and followed Schiller to the second floor of his Hell's Kitchen clinic.

Compared with his office in Arkham Sanatorium, this place can be described as narrow and cramped, as crowded as a can, Rocket Raccoon thought.

The first floor of this small clinic is often very lively. The scenes of 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 run to greet him are still vivid in my mind. The peaceful days are always particularly nostalgic.

And the golden and red figure who didn't sleep at 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, who was walking in front of him, made way, Rocket Raccoon finally got a full view of the place. There were two rooms on the second floor, one was Schiller's bedroom and the other was a 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 when he walked into Schiller's bedroom, Rocket Raccoon was still surprised.

The space here is not big. After putting a bed, the table and chairs in front of the window will inevitably look like canned waste stuffed in. This is by no means an unfounded association. Rocket Raccoon shook his head. From top to bottom, almost every space here is filled with all kinds of strange and bizarre collections.

If four table lamps on a bedside table are not crowded enough - it seems that the doctor thinks so, so he stuffed two small candlesticks in the middle of the four table lamps.

Rocket Raccoon suddenly felt that it was not unreasonable for humans to evolve like this. At least he now felt that his tail was too redundant. He turned around and the tip of his tail knocked something down.

Rocket Raccoon turned his head and saw that it was a gorgeously decorated Easter egg. He wanted to touch the glittering decoration. He picked up the Easter egg with one hand and put it in the only remaining corner of the top grid of the bookshelf next to him. Schiller said with satisfaction: "Fabergé Easter eggs, very good, right?"

"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you mentioned before is a disease that allows you to keep your house clean, then I really hope you have this disease. This place is like a big maze to me." Rocket Raccoon looked around and had to step carefully, fearing that he would touch something incredible again.

This is very likely. There must be some dangerous items in the doctor's strange collection, and what is more dangerous than that is that they are all very expensive. If they are damaged, he can't afford to sell them.

At this time, a pair of hands reached under Rocket Raccoon's armpits and picked him up. Rocket Raccoon exclaimed, but did not struggle. When he looked down at these collections from a high place, he found a sense of beauty in order from the chaos.

Yes, there are a lot of things here, from Fabergé eggs to a Swiss brand of ink bottles, from berets embroidered with bird patterns to knots hanging on the ground, and even a row of crystal wine glasses with the same patterns but different colors. These things piled together will inevitably make people feel a little blocked.

But in fact, these things are arranged in different categories, and there is no one that is out of shape leaning on other collections, and no one is standing in the wrong line and appearing where it should not be.

This is really weird, Rocket Raccoon thought so when he was put 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, a collection of some kind of text recording, because its appearance looked like it could do more things.

The huge notebook has a leather cover, and the four corners are respectively edged with metal. The part of the metal that presses the cover is twisted into a gorgeous pattern. The pure black leather cover has no content. A lock is just right on the edge of the cover, connecting a belt of the same material and a lock that hangs on the two belts.

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If Rocket Raccoon must describe it, this notebook has a kind of rustic horror.

Schiller put the notebook on the table and sat on the soft leather chair. He sighed and took out a pile of pens from his briefcase. Rocket Raccoon recognized that they were the pens he spread out on the table in Arkham's office during the day.

It looks like they have been carefully selected, and they must be very careful, because Rocket Raccoon can see that they should come from different production lines, using different processes, and even the years of manufacture are different.

But Schiller did not open the fountain pen and start writing immediately. Instead, he reached out and opened the drawer, and took out a bottle of ink and a feather pen from the drawer.

"Oh my God, you don't want to write with the remains of some poor bird, do you?" Rocket Raccoon obviously had never seen such an ancient pen, and described it as a part of a bird's corpse in a fuss.

"You are absolutely right, and I like this explanation very much." Schiller opened his notebook and continued, "I really hope readers who read this book can think of such scenes."

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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.

"It was 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 position, 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 black magician?" This 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's 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 home to Englewood, a place I hadn’t been to in years but needed more than nostalgia to see 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.

This is the best news for me, 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 afterglow of the sun was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree, I set out 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 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 toward the inside of the cemetery, I saw two larks landing on my mother’s tombstone. The 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 his image rights and will 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 standard English with some southern flavor, Say hello to me.

It sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks of it like this will be deeply surprised by the chaos and darkness I am plunged 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 larks 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, stretched out his hand to stroke his blond hair, and complained 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:

"Hello, Peter Quill."