... And before we knew what had happened, we'd done just that. Why? We had no idea what we were going to do with all those black T-shirts, and frankly, when they're all folded up and stacked, or unfolded and hung in rows, the office seems full of a subsonic whispering in a language we can't understand.
When the second black parcel arrived, we knew we had a problem.
We didn't want to open it.
If "Pickman, Hobbes, and de Molay, Attorneys at Law" have a telephone number, they're not listed, meaning that they're the kind of law firm that doesn't want people to know that they're there. So it's not like we could call and ask "Why, exactly, are you sending these malevolent t-shirt designs to us?"
So we did what anyone would do. We sent the intern.
Riverdance wouldn't go. She said she'd had her turn already.
So we took on a new intern, a friend of hers named Foxglove Mountaincloud, and we gave Foxglove the assignment of going to Arkham, locating the Old Seminary Building, and having a talk with the law firm who was sending us these T-shirt designs.
We put her on a bus.
Don't look like that: what do you think we are, here, some kind of multinational? It was a perfectly good bus.


But we haven't heard from Foxglove since.

And the parcels... well, they just keep coming.
Our office is now full of shirts. They're black, mesmerizing, and restless. As more and more of them pile up in here the sound of their whispering gets stronger and clearer and we have an idea that once enough of them are gathered together we will begin to understand what they're saying. We would really, really prefer it if that did not happen.
Please buy these shirts. Please tell your friends to buy these shirts. Please give these shirts away to strangers. We do not want them. We especially don't want to have a lot of them stored in the same place. And they will not let us stop making them.
Sorry, got to go: there's someone at the door.