April 11, 2025
Reader Authorization Level: Red-Cipher Access
Date: February 3, 1947
Prepared by: Agent H. M. Caldwell, Division VII, Office of Anomalous Phenomena
To the authorized reader:
This dossier has been compiled from documents both authentic and anomalous—recovered across fractured timelines and reflective surfaces. Some originate in verifiable archives. Others emerged from the Mirror: a recursion field now believed to generate alternate versions of events and individuals. In several cases, dual versions of the same artifact exist—one that conforms to the observable record, and another that does not. We have included both where possible.
What follows is a continuation of the compiled dossier containing recovered journal entries, school reports, and private correspondence concerning two primary subjects of interest: Edward Aleister Crowley and Edgar Allan Poe.
You are to review this dossier not as an idle historian but as an active participant in the protection of national and metaphysical security. The events herein do not remain confined to their period. Reports of unusual abilities—unverified but recurring—have emerged among a small but growing population, particularly among children of certain bloodlines or who have been exposed to forbidden texts. This file is part of a broader effort to trace the origin of these abilities and to understand the arcane systems that may be reasserting themselves in our post-war world.
Crowley, long known to us as The Catalyst, exhibits patterns consistent with what we have come to call ‘Reversal Manifestation’—a psychological and spiritual inversion that tends to precede anomalous activation. Poe, long presumed dead, appears in records where he should not—his presence defies chronology, location, and logic. Yet we see his handwriting, his voice in recovered letters, and most curiously, the emotional thread that ties him to Lenore Wilkes. Her return in this dossier is more than coincidence—it is anchor, signal, and proof. It suggests that Poe is not merely manifesting but being drawn back by something powerful and unresolved. His connection to her may be the tether through which he crosses veils. where he should not, which in itself defies logic and suggests hidden hands at work.
Study each entry carefully. Patterns will emerge—subtle, recursive, and often disturbing. One such pattern is the growing entanglement between Crowley and Poe. According to all reliable records, they should not have known each other. Their timelines—geographic, historical, even cultural—should not overlap. Poe died in 1849. Crowley was born in 1875. And yet, here they are. And yet, here they are.
I have come to suspect that their intersection is not a coincidence, but a wound in the veil. A shimmer where one reflection bleeds into another. These are not merely children with unusual talents—they are echoes reaching across something broken. It is possible that Poe, or what remains of him, has been drawn toward Crowley by design. Or by something older still. There are gaps. Some documents may have been redacted or lost. But if you read with discernment, you may come to understand why this file has survived every effort at suppression.
This is not just history. It is a warning.
—Agent H. M. Caldwell
Division VII, O.A.P.
Field Note: There are signs that Subject S—code-name SALAZAR—is no longer confined to theoretical recursion. We have narrowed his locus to a fractured point near what remains of the Königsberg complex. Interference has increased. Another message followed.
LEVEL BLACK — MESSAGE INTERFERENCE (SOURCE: UNKNOWN)
You think you’ve located me? That’s cute.
I am not where you point. I am where you read.
The archive is a wound. And you—Agent Caldwell—you are the scab.
Peel yourself back. See what bleeds.
Tell the boy I remember him.
Document 8: Journal Entry – Edgar Allan Poe
Date: October 23rd, 1885
I followed him again. Not because I wanted to. Or maybe precisely because I did.
He said there was something I had to see. Behind the kitchens, past the stone wall. A girl from the village—older. I don’t know her name. He gave her coins. She looked at me once. Not with shame. Not with anything.
What he did—I cannot put to paper. Not because I lack the words, but because I fear them.
When he was finished, he smiled like he’d passed an exam. He said, “The flesh is a tool. You only sin if you pretend you’re not enjoying it.”
I went back to my room and vomited. Then I wrote this down. Then I read it twice.
Document 9: St. John’s Preparatory – Internal Report
Subject: Crowley, Edward Alexander
Filed by: Master E. Tilney
Date: October 24th, 1885
The boy was discovered behind the lower chapel with a local girl, not enrolled. Witness accounts conflict, but there is little doubt he instigated the encounter and compensated her with coin.
It is the second such incident in as many weeks.
When confronted, he expressed no remorse, quoting the Epistle of Paul in defense and openly mocking the concept of fornication.
Recommendation: Immediate consultation with Dr. Hayworth. Further disciplinary action pending.
Filed confidentially.
Document 10: Letter from Aleister Crowley (Unsent – found among personal effects / Mirror-Variant)
Date: October 25th, 1885
To Myself, or to the Devil—whichever name suits:
I have tasted it now—the filth, the ache, the heat that melts commandments and makes holy men weep.
I pressed against her not with hunger but with purpose. I wanted to see if He would stop me. He didn’t.
That’s how I know: God is not watching. Or worse—He is, and He approves.
The act is a spell. The body, an altar. I have opened the first gate. Let there be seven. One for each sin. One for each gate.
—Aleister
Document 11: Letter from Lenore Wilkes
To: Edgar Allan Poe, Warwickshire, England
Date: October 28th, 1885
From: Lenore Wilkes, Warwickshire (in residence)
Dearest Edgar,
Your school is beautiful. The fog in the mornings, the stone walls, the way the trees bend at the edges of the fields—I feel as though I’ve stepped into one of your dreams—beautiful, but not quite safe.
But that boy. Aleister. There is something wrong in him. I see it in the way the other boys fall silent around him. I see it in how he looks at me, not with interest, but as if I were something to be studied or taken apart.
You defend him, but only halfway. You say there’s no one better to spend time with. Edgar—anyone would be better. Anyone who doesn’t hollow out the air around him.
I know what loneliness feels like. But this isn’t about loneliness anymore. This is about what you’re letting near your soul.
I still keep your first letter tucked beneath my pillow. The one that said I was part of your soul. You were right, you know. But what if some parts of a soul are drawn to ruin?
Please write back soon.
With love, always,
Lenore
Field Note – Caldwell (Addendum):
I have reviewed Lenore’s handwriting against verified samples. It is consistent, though the paper itself resists dating. Some fibers behave as if newly formed; others seem older than the ink. The emotional charge is undeniable.
It may be that her voice—like Poe’s—persists across layers we do not yet understand.
I suspect this letter did not come from the past. It may have come through it.
To: Edgar Allan Poe, Warwickshire, England
Date: October 28th, 1885
From: Lenore Wilkes, Warwickshire (in residence)
Dearest Edgar,
Your school is beautiful. The fog in the mornings, the stone walls, the way the trees bend at the edges of the fields—I feel as though I’ve stepped into one of your dreams—beautiful, but not quite safe.
But that boy. Aleister. There is something wrong in him. I see it in the way the other boys fall silent around him. I see it in how he looks at me, not with interest, but as if I were something to be studied or taken apart.
You defend him, but only halfway. You say there’s no one better to spend time with. Edgar—anyone would be better. Anyone who doesn’t hollow out the air around him.
I know what loneliness feels like. But this isn’t about loneliness anymore. This is about what you’re letting near your soul.
I still keep your first letter tucked beneath my pillow. The one that said I was part of your soul. You were right, you know. But what if some parts of a soul are drawn to ruin?
Please write back soon.
With love, always,
Lenore
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