Craxford: Part 1

“Ok, Mr. Craxford, I wondered if we could start from the very beginning?” asked a timid and shaky voiced young journalist, as he sat opposite the man he had been waiting years to interview for his memoirs.
The journalist was met with a keen-eyed stare from the man sat opposite him, a hint of excitement bubbling behind eyes that looked like they had seen so much, seen more than they should have, that had experienced what most believed to be pure fabrication, bare-faced lies, and fame-hungry invention, yet eyes that showed the subtle signs that, what he had seen and experienced, must have all been very real.
The journalist had spent the last few weeks learning everything he could about Curtis Craxford, who, it seemed, garnered either love or hate, and very little in between, yet a lot of what he had read had been conflicted or just plain confusing.
“Well, strap yourself in, Tim, because it's quite the story. So, you want to go all the way back to when I received 'the package'?” he asked with a playfully raised eyebrow, as he sat back in a leather studded armchair in a cluttered study of sorts, tucked away in a nook of Curtis' wonderfully strange house, nestled in countryside a few miles north of the city of Newcastle, where he ran the Craxford Museum of Natural History.
“Exactly.” said Timothy. “I may have to go further back for some introductory information for the biographical aspect, but for now let's begin there. I'd imagine it started like any other day?” he prompted.
A thousand images and thoughts streamed into Curtis' mind as he knew that the following few days were going to be so hard for him to articulate just what he had lived through; what he had experienced over the last five years or so. Every time he'd tried to tell his story, he had just sounded crazy; each way he'd tried to put his experiences into coherent words, simply painted him as a stark madman, or to put it simply: a liar.
He had learned to shut the barrage of abuse out as best he could, and for every dozen venomous comments thrust at him, there was someone who believed him; his loyal fanbase who would try their best to protect him and defend him against the angry masses keen to voice their contempt for his claims.
“Before we get into the actual story, Timmy,” said Curtis, holding up a hand, “I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.” said the journalist, attentively placing his notepad onto the desk.
“You're here to write my story, but do you believe?” asked Curtis with searching eyes that seemed to delve directly into the journalists mind. Timothy paused before answering.
“Full disclosure, Mr. Craxford, I can't believe.” said Timothy. Curtis nodded towards him, and the journalist continued. “I've never personally experienced anything paranormal, or... mystical, or anything like that. I have no evidence, personally, to be able to claim to believe in it. So I can't.”
“Yep.” said Curtis as he nodded. “And that's exactly how I started that day.”


Part 1 begins when Curtis receives a strange boxed insect as a donation to the museum from an old lady, with elaborate claims that this was the only item sent to her by her Grandfather who was a member of Colonel Fawcett's team who disappeared in the Amazon rainforest whilst searching for the Lost City back in the 1920's. Curtis is skeptical, however, when he and his girlfriend Naomi find a hidden notebook within the box, it sets them on a clue-solving, fact-finding, life-threatening, treasure-hunting adventure half-way around the world, and kick-starts the events that turn Curtis Craxford from an unknown museum owner, to a hated, mistrusted, idolised, terrified, haunted and celebrated man.

Because who would willingly claim to have become possessed by the spirit of a witch? Or to have battled Baphomet? Or to have fought alongside a Valkyrie?


Only a crazy person, right?