For reference this is taken from Paper Chase written by Keith Herber, Mark Morrison, John Sullivan, L.N. Isinwyll, with Mike Mason, Dan Kramer, and Chris Spivey, thank you!

Paper Chase
“Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places”
—H. P. Lovecraft, The Picture in the House

Welcome to your next scenario of Call of Cthulhu, the Horror/Investigative roleplaying game of mystery wherein you, an ordinary person, shall encounter and confront the terrifying alien forces of the Cthulhu mythos. Now that you've gotten some experience under your belt concerning the rules and the way the game operates, we will enter into our first freeform scenario. This is still something intended for a beginner, so it's not going to be incredibly complex or puzzling (especially in comparison to something like Masks), but nevertheless, it is time to begin... welcome, to Paper Chase.

----
Ossipee, 12:44 PM, September 4th, 1921.

You've done it... you've made it. You're... alive. After hours of following the trail you collapse as in front of the first signs of a civilization not trying to sacrifice you in some time.

The flames flicker over you, covering the grass, scorching your legs, and your face as you cannot scream, for your mouth has been utterly charred over. As you awaken in a grassy field, a butterfly resting on your head flits away into the cloudy blue sky above. You look around you. You are not in Emberhead anymore. You're somewhere else, somewhere... safe. As you rise to your feet and dust off your dirty clothes you realize... you're entirely without papers. As for the bike, you discarded the broken thing some time ago after a spill left it in ruins. But, everything will be fine with you arriving a couple days late, I mean, you were nearly sacrificed by an insane tiny village on the top of a cliff.

As you think that in full you realize just how crazy that really sounds. It would almost be a better excuse to say that your dog ate your ticket. Who would believe you?

You slowly trudge into the city, thick dark circles are under your eyes and your shoes are ruined at this point, and they were new as well. You wanted to give a good first impression during your gallery, even if the actual event was on the 2nd. People seem to give you a wide berth as you search for something, a telegraph, a phone booth, anything that would allow for you to contact the good people at Miskatonic who offered this in the first place and beg for them to excuse your absence. Eventually, you find one.

Outside Ossipee, 6:19 PM, September 4th, 1921.

The gallery was closed! They're unsure about a later showing! You have to... interview for the space to show off your work? They have no right! You angrily slam your foot into the side of the motor-coach, you made sure to get onto one with plenty of other people this time. The haughty woman to the left of you gives you a stern glance and shifts away from you as you do this. This wasn't at all how everything was supposed to go, but eventually, the twisting and winding turns of the road begin to allow for you to drift off. At least this driver is better than Silas.

Rochester, 8:15 PM, September 4th, 1921.

It's pouring rain, but all you can think of are the faces, of May, Silas, Mr. Winters, even little Ruth, they were all, to some extent involved in... ritual sacrifice, and for what? The bus lets some passengers out and others on as it continues towards Arkham.

Portsmouth, 1:11 PM, September 5th, 1921.

As you board the train to Newburyport and then to Arkham you happen to glance in a mirror. What happened? It's been nearly a couple of days since that whole dream occurred, but was it a dream? Some aspects are fading now, so it must be. It was just a festival with some weird rural townsfolk. "Altitude sickness." You think to yourself. That's the rational explanation for everything that happened. However... perhaps the answers are not always the rational ones?
A cart comes by offering snacks, you go to by some chocolate BB bars when the sudden lightness of your wallet hits you.

Newburyport, 4:27 PM, September 5th, 1921.

It's a small communal village, you do not wish to explore further.

Arkham, 7:30 PM, September 5th, 1921.

You've arrived. You're nearly 3 days late from whatever hallucination-induced nightmare you experienced combined with calling every transportation company known to man. As you finally step off of the train, with nothing on you but a couple of scraps, you cannot help wonder. Why? Was it worth it? Why didn't you just go back? You could simply comply to your father's wishes, groaning about how he was right. And, at the same time, you just cannot explain it.
As you're looking around, aiming to hopefully find a hostel or at least a comfortable park bench, a man comes up to you. He's in his late fifties with several tufts of white hair. He also has a bit of a scholarly look. As you approach you eye him curiously, "Hello there, my name is Mr. Rupert Merriweather. I was just walking by the station when I happened to notice a certain look in your eyes. I don't normally say this to people I just met, but, I feel a... kindred spirit with you, would you be willing to go to a cafe and talk with me for a moment?"

The man seems friendly enough, as you were hoping oh so long ago the citizenry of Arkham would be. And yet, part of you has been scarred by the events prior. Can you truly trust this man?