9 December 2026
Wednesday. The season of office parties is upon us, and an office has come to Northbridge in paper crowns.
There were twelve of them. My Lake Street laboratory holds six. I explained that I am a scientist, not a sardine merchant. They explained that they were a team. I explained that half the team could assist me while the other half was locked up elsewhere in the building at the same start time, and that they could argue about who did better over dinner. This pleased them enormously. Offices love a league table.
Six went down the corridor to something with ghosts in it. Six came to me. Mine woke the Subject. I have heard nothing from the ghosts, which I take as victory.
I should add that nobody else was in the laboratory but them. Every session is private. I am mad, but I am not so mad as to put strangers together in the dark and hope they get along.
In the margin: The paper crowns were left behind. I am wearing one. It fits. I shall keep it until somebody asks for it back, which, judging by how fast they ran off to dinner, will be never.
— V. Frankenstein
