Chapter 1378 The Call of the Stars (IV)

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 "click, click, click" 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. When he turned around, 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 the two belts.

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

Schiller put the notebook on the table, sat on the soft leather chair, and sighed. He took out a lot 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 carefully selected, because Rocket Raccoon can see that they should come from different production lines, use different processes, and even the years of manufacture are different.

But Schiller did not open the pen and start writing immediately, but reached out to open the drawer and took out a bottle of ink and a feather pen from the drawer.

"Oh my God, you're not trying to write with the remains of some poor bird, are you?" Rocket Raccoon had obviously never seen such a primitive pen, and described it in a fuss as part of a bird's corpse.

"You're right, I like this explanation too." Schiller opened the notebook and continued, "I really hope that readers who see this book can also associate this kind of scene."

Rocket Raccoon tilted his head in confusion. He walked along the edge of the table to the windowsill in front of the table, sat down and faced Schiller, and asked, "Reader? Who do you want to write to? You don't plan to fill it up, do you?"

"No?" Schiller flicked the tip of the pen lightly, shook off the excess ink, opened the first page of the black notebook and began to write.

"This is written with a feather pen."

In the meditation room of Kamar-Taj, Strange and Stark sat on the left and right in front of the round Zen window. The light coming through the window made them two silhouettes with a hazy outline.

"But its material analysis data shows that its history has not reached the age when only feather pens can be used." Stark denied, and then he whispered to himself as if he was lost in thought: "Or he has a unique pursuit, thinking that the words outlined with part of the bird's corpse will be more vital."

"Maybe that's the case." Strange confirmed his idea. He changed his posture and put his other arm on the armrest and said: "In that dark age, the exploration of life and death by black magic was even more in-depth than it is now."

"Do you think this is a note left by a black magician?" This didn't sound like a question, but rather a naked denial. Stark looked at Strange opposite and said : "We have all read the contents. There are no magic circles or spells recorded in it. It is more like a weird and scary travelogue."

"But we cannot deny that the contents are too dark, like the mumbling of a madman with a head full of bizarre fantasies who was awakened by a nightmare in the middle of the night. It is ancient and terrifying."

"We should not focus on the darkness, but explore the truth behind it. There is no doubt that this crazy story will not be limited to Colorado, and the darkness you care about may also be spreading."

Strange's eyes stayed on a notebook placed in the middle of the table. There was no text on the pure black cover, but when he recalled the story described in the first chapter, he still felt a tremor in his heart.

"On an ordinary summer evening in the southwest, I returned to my home in Englewood. I haven't been here for many years, but what I need to do more than miss is to visit my mother's grave.

I am not noticeable here, which is a good thing. It has been a long time since the horrific accident. People in the town have forgotten a lot of things, and I am also very different.

This is the best news for me, because I understand that what I am going to do this time should not attract too many people's attention. Those horrors cannot be too close to ordinary people, but I have a reason to pursue it.

When it was a little dark, the afterglow of the sun was pressed under the last branch of the spruce tree, and I set out to the grave. I was walking along the road to the cemetery. The cars on the road were all going in the opposite direction from me. I knew they were thinking I was a freak. The evening was not a good time to remember my relatives.

…

I came to the cemetery outside Englewood, where my mother was buried. Her death was really not worth telling outsiders, so she was buried in the grave at the edge. I think this is also good, better than the two dead farm hands and a cow.

Walking into the cemetery, I saw two skylarks on my mother's tombstone. The small birds are all over Englewood and even the whole of Colorado. They are the spirits of the Rocky Mountains, but I am not.

Standing in front of my mother's grave, I began to feel I recalled the past days in a controlled way, and what confused and frightened me the most was that this hardworking woman had repeatedly emphasized to me that when I was born, the stars in the sky were connected in a straight line, as if calling me to return to them, and perhaps I should have done so long ago.

I don’t know how long it took, and the rain fell. I saw a dark shadow running through the dense bushes. I put my hand on the gun at my waist, but I found that I was making a fuss. It was just a small animal.

Please forgive me, this hairy, sharp-toothed little animal insisted that it had the right of image, and thus did not allow me to mention any details of his appearance in my work.

Yes, I must 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 accents to greet me.

This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but anyone who thinks so will be deeply surprised by the chaos and darkness that I will fall into next. Is this an intriguing story? Maybe not..."

In a cemetery outside Englewood, Colorado, a young man stood beside a grave. Two skylarks had just flapped their wings and flew into the sky. An inconspicuous black shadow rushed through the bushes behind the grave. It was very fast, but it still attracted the young man's attention.

He put his hand on the gun at his waist, but soon realized that it was just a small animal passing by. He sighed softly, reached out and stroked his golden hair, complaining that he was too sensitive because of nervousness.

The grumbling continued until the raccoon hopped to the top of the tombstone, held out a paw, and said to him in Southern English:

"Hello, Peter Quill."

()