[Note found clutched in the hands of one Mr. Thomas Adolphus. When he was discovered in his rented room, he was muttering incoherently about moving walls and angles being wrong]

Many will think my incredible tale to be utter nonsense, to be the ravings of a lunatic. But, I tell you, the story I am penning is true, Oh the horror! It is true.

My tale truly begins one years ago, in the small town of Arkham, Massachusetts. I had just come in to town, bright eyed and optimistic, to inspect the college I was to attend – Miskatonic University. Oh! If I had only listened to the strange man, if only I was superstitious! That night, the 3rd of August in the year 1910, a great meteor shower had come over the town, many landing in the town or the immediate country side. People began evacuating immediately after, but I in my curiosity chose to stay and see what these meteors were that scared the people so. As I approached one that had embedded itself in the main roadway of the town, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder. I turned and saw a young man with long curly hair and Victorian attire.

He stared into my eyes, as if he was laying bare my soul! Suddenly, he smiled and said, "They've not gotten you yet! But, if I were you, I would leave these meteors alone. 'Ignorance is bliss,' they always say."

Suddenly, his tone darkened, "Stay away from the meteors, knowledge may be power, but whatever is in those meteorites isn't worth the cost."

Then, quick as a flash, he strode toward the meteor. He stooped over and pulled a small box out of the meteor; he studied it for a while, then he rapidly shot off into the darkness.

Reeling from the experience, I headed off toward my hotel room to put myself together in peace. But, horror of horrors, one of the cursed meteors had crashed through my window, embedding itself inside my suitcase. As I pulled the meteor from its resting place, I heard a crack. Oh, but if only I had heeded what I saw, for within my suitcase lay my mirror, shattered in a hundred shards. But I, in my cursed youthful curiosity, decided to inspect the meteor, not heeding the omen of ill-fortune that my shattered mirror precipitated.

Within the meteor was a box, identical to the one the strange man had discovered earlier. I hurriedly worked to pry the box open, yet no matter how hard I worked, the latch-less box would not allow itself to be opened. I feverishly racked my brain for means to lay bear the contents of the box, but no matter what methods I attempted, my work was in vain – the box remained shut. Oh, if only I had purged that monstrous idea from my head, if I had never thought of opening the box ever again.

For the next few weeks, I did just that, absorbing myself in my studies at Miskatonic. But then, in the second trimester of the year, I discovered Miskatonic's copy of the accursed Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhadrez. Immersing myself in the tome of deepest evil, I slowly lost touch with reality. I delved deeper and deeper into its dreadful lore, learning things that no man should ever become privy to – Hastur the Unspeakable, Yog-Sothoth, Nyarlathotep, and arcane lore of which the knowledge would shake even Hell itself. But worst of all, I read of meteor showers throughout history, always heralding the advent of incursions into our world.

For the next four months, I devoted myself entirely to the study of the Necronomicon. I zealously searched for knowledge of boxes from the sky, but I was not able to discover the knowledge I coveted (though now, looking back, I am overjoyed that my endeavors were unsuccessful).

Nevertheless, Fate conspired against me, and on one black, overcast morning, I discovered the knowledge I sought. I discovered I must go beyond the 'meaning' of the box; I must manipulate directly the matter that made the box, and not allow what I perceived of the box to influence me. I rushed madly toward my rented room, and tore the box from where I kept it hidden. And then, Oh blackest day, the box opened!

But what I saw within turned my blood to ice, the box was empty! My despair rapidly turned to boiling anger; I raged to the walls, to all within the sound of my voice! How could fate be so cruel as steal my justly won prize, I roared, how could fate snatch what was rightfully mine?

Suddenly, the room began to spin. The angles on the walls shifted, if there be any word that comes close to the madness I witnessed. The room shrunk, it grew, it shifted, it twisted; my head began to spin as I tried to run, but no matter which direction I went, no matter which of the rapidly multiplying tunnels I chose, I ended up in the same spot. Now entombed in a labyrinth of my own making, I began to scream, to shriek, at my tomb,

After hours of yelling and searching, I collapsed. Finding in one of my pockets this very paper, I set out to write my experiences. Fate, however, is not done with me; the very words I write are not the words that appear on paper, and I can only hope what you are reading is what I truly wrote down. The words I am reading, Oh! black knowledge, they hurt, Oh they hur…..

[Curiously, the man that reported Adolphus's condition to the police matched the description of the young man with long curly hair and Victorian attire.]