By now it was late in the day, and the sky was darkening ominously. I had found nothing to suit me anywhere, and the stores were beginning to close. Just one more, I thought to myself, and then I’m off home for dinner and the writing will have to wait. Dejected and footsore, I trudged on, eventually finding myself at an unfamiliar turning in the old town. “Hob’s Lane”, the rusty street sign said. Never heard of it. Shrugging, I peered down the narrow, winding alley. There were a few small shops, but all were dark, save one whose window glimmered dimly. Just one look, then, and after that, back home to my cosy house and a quiet evening by the fire.
X
“Arkham Antiques” the sign above the window read. The store was shuttered, but chinks of light leaking between the peeling boards hinted that it might still be open. Stepping up optimistically, I entered, a bell tinkling as the door closed behind me. Inside, the shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with chests, cabinets, and a myriad of dusty objects piled higgledy-piggledy. Everything from a bored-looking stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling to a mysterious collection of dark crystals in a glass case, to row upon row of crumbling leather-bound books and... Wonder of wonders, four score or more pens, beneath a glass panel let into the dark wooden counter dividing the store. Standing there for a moment, leaning on the counter, almost breathless, my eyes caressed a remarkable collection that included nothing even remotely modern, and was all the better for it.
“Can I help you, sir?” A little man stepped quietly from behind the dark green curtain hiding the entry to the rear of the store. He was the kind of fellow you wouldn’t normally notice, just like his emporium. I guess he was well into his nineties, stooped somewhat, and bald except for an untidy grey wisp above each ear. Those ears, together with a rather sharp nose, supported gold-rimmed eyeglasses with half-moon shaped lenses. A white shirt and brown waistcoat replete with tarnished, almost black, silver pocket watch and chain, surmounted by a somewhat bedraggled spotted bow tie, all above baggy brown check pants, certainly placed him in a different era, entirely in keeping with the contents of the shop. “Well...” I tried to drag my eyes away from the pens and show a little courtesy, but it was not easy.
“Come, sir, you must have something in mind?” He looked a little irritated at first, or perhaps that was just the strange glint in his eyes, which reflected the flickering of the room’s only illumination, a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.
“Well, actually... I’m a writer,” I blurted out, rather self-consciously, “...and I’m looking for a pen, but it has to be a vintage fountain pen, none of that modern rubbish, something with real character and some history behind it. I’ve been all over the city today, and I can’t find what I want anywhere. I saw you were still open, and to be honest, you’re my last hope...”
“Funnily enough, sir, many people have said that to me over the years, and they usually seem to find something here, though it might not always be quite what they expected... Do you see anything you like?”
“I’ve just had a few moments to glance at these beautiful pens you have in your counter; is there anything you would recommend? I’ve always had a hankering for something with a nice flexible nib, but it has to be reliable and easy to fill, as I’ll be writing the first draft of my new book with it.” I looked hopefully at him.
“Let me see now...something special for a writer...something inspirational...In fact I know just the thing...” He knelt down behind the counter and seemed to be rummaging for ages, then stood up, holding a black tin box that rattled mysteriously. Placing it carefully on the counter, he flicked most of the heavy dust off with an old rag. “I’m sure this will interest you, sir! I picked this lot up in a local estate sale back in 1937. Apparently the fellow who owned it was a writer too, though he wasn’t very well-known in his lifetime, in fact his name escapes me...”
Lifting the lid, the storekeeper reached in and pulled out, first of all, a stack of small black notebooks, apparently well-used, some of them with the elastic closures worn through. “Moleskines, ah yes, they were always popular with writers back then,” he muttered as if to himself. Reaching deeper, he pulled out a small and rather battered cardboard box. “Ah yes, here it is! Just what you need, I fancy!” Grinning, he handed me the box. It was dark blue, and printed ornately across the top in white was “Waterman’s Ideal Fountain Pen”. I opened it and carefully took out the contents.
“It’s a Waterman’s #52 you know. Lovely pens they are, this one was made in Canada about 1924. It has a firm left oblique nib that should stand up well to a lot of writing, I’m sure it would be ‘ideal’ for a budding author such as yourself!” He chuckled at the pun, peering over his glasses as if to better see my reaction.
I looked closely at the pen, a simple but elegant chased black hard rubber tube. It had seen better days and the black had faded somewhat with age. Some of the gold had worn off the clip and the lever filler. A wide gold-filled band just below the lever contained a panel engraved with well-worn script letters that I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. “Well, I was rather thinking of something a bit fancier, but if you think this would be a good writer’s workhorse, then I’ll take your word for it, and since it already has some history as a writer’s pen, surely it will bring me good luck! How much?”
“Hmmm... Well, no-one else has ever been interested in it, and I’d rather it went to someone who will really put it to good use... How about a hundred dollars – and I’ll throw in the notebooks as well. You never know, they might come in useful?”
“I’ll take the lot, then, and thanks for your help.”
Grinning broadly, the little storekeeper threw all the battered Moleskines back in the box and carefully placed the pen within. “You’re very welcome, sir – and there’s no charge for the tin box. Just be sure to let me have a signed copy of your book when you’re a best-selling author!”
I handed over a small stack of bills, tucked the still-dusty box under my arm and strode out into the now-falling night, this time with a spring in my step, and headed for home, which was 10 Barnes Street, not all that far from Brown University.
X
Later that evening, having satisfied the inner man with a pleasant meal and a good glass of brandy, I removed to my study, sat down at my desk and opened the box again. As I did so, however, the window blew open and the rain, which was now falling outside, blew in, icy cold. I dashed over and shut it firmly, returning to the desk and the intriguing contents of the box.
Leaving the pen to one side for a moment, I now took the time to examine the notebooks. They were, as the storekeeper had said, Moleskines. The covers appeared worn and well-used, however on opening them, there appeared to be no writing on the finely lined pages. A pity, I would have loved to learn more about their previous owner from his writings – but on the other hand I now had a good supply of usable notebooks. Waste not want not, as they say!
I pondered for a moment, and reaching into a desk drawer I lifted out, at random, a small, heavy glass bottle filled with ink, with a faceted black cap.
“Ah, ‘Blue Night’, just right,” I said to myself.
Taking the #52 from its box and uncapping it, I tested the lever carefully. Remarkably, it felt like the ink sac was still pliable, so a practical test was in order. Removing the cap from the bottle, I dipped the nib and folded the lever gently out. A few small bubbles rising from the dark depths of the ink were encouraging, so I pressed the lever back in and wiped the nib. Taking up a sheet of Basildon Bond, I put pen to paper, but at first the nib was dry. Disappointed, I pressed a little harder, adjusting the angle of my hand; not being used to oblique nibs, perhaps there was a certain technique to it? Immediately, a wet, blue-black line began to form, and, scrawling my usual “Quick Brown Fox” test, I enjoyed a moment’s doodling and swirling lines back and forth. Success! It was indeed a firm nib, but the shading was delightful, and the smooth travel of the golden point over the paper was an intoxicating tactile experience.
‘Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival...a survival of a hugely remote period when...consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity...forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds...’
“That’s not right,” I murmured under my breath, nonplussed. I had planned to begin a science fiction story, full of strange planets and starships, but this was nothing like my intended opening passage. It made no sense at all. Somehow, the message from my brain appeared to have changed by the time it arrived at my hand, and I had written something completely incomprehensible to me. But surely that was impossible?
I tried again on another page:
‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.’
I lifted the nib from the paper, for now I was truly terrified, perhaps for the first time in my life. Yet the writing continued apace, without the intervention of any human hand or pen, filling page after page, and as it went the ink faded a little, as if it were as old as the pen itself...
The #52, now icy cold, fell slowly from my nerveless fingers; clattering softly onto the oak desktop, it rolled to a rest. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing bolt upright, and I began to come out in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. What could this mean?
Suddenly the window flew open again, and the freezing blast from beyond brought me to my feet once more. I stared out into the darkness, but that in itself was a fearful sight, for the lights of the city of Providence were failing, one by one, and as I looked towards the horizon, they flickered and went out. All that illumined the scene was an arc of light from Interstate 95 off to the west, but what that fitful glow now outlined from behind was dreadful indeed, though it were seen only in silhouette.
The Thing I saw cannot be described: there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled, and from the darkness came a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, a terrible, liquid, gibbering chant, repeated over and over: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
Slamming the window shut in abject terror, fighting an urge to run, to keep on running and never stop, I yet felt strangely compelled to return to my desk and, staring down at the fountain pen now once more clutched tightly in my hand, saw that it was somehow restored to deepest black. The fine chasing seemed to flow and twist like the moving scales of some dark serpent, but surely that must be a trick of the now flickering light. The trim shone again with crisp detail, the clip and lever unblemished, as if time had never passed for this pen.
Peering closer, I knew that I could now read the name engraved deeply upon the pristine gold-filled band: ‘H. P. Lovecraft.’ One final, uncontrollable urge to write laid down this fateful line: “In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”
Darkness fell, and my mind fled screaming into the abyss between the stars.
THERE IS A SEA SERPENT IN THE SWIMMING POOL
Martin R Zdziemborsky
I
At first, Alexander Brisbane thought it just a lack of work ethics that drove his best workers and foremen off the Dunwich Grand Hotel’s construction site and back to Boston. A pragmatic business man, he didn’t believe in the superstitious gossip that floated around his own construction site. He didn’t believe in curses or monsters or any such non-sense and he sure didn’t believe in sea serpents, especially the rumors of sea serpent appearing at night in his hotel’s swimming pool – until now.
II
By the age of 35, Alexander Julias Brisbane was one of the most prominent men not only in Boston, but throughout most of Massachusetts. He was the owner and president of Brisbane Construction, a company he built from the ground up. His was a quick assent because, a gambler by nature, he took chances. Every high risk adventure he undertook paid off. Soon his company was building the largest buildings and towers on the East Coast.
At a New Year’s party in Salem, he bumped into an old friend of his, fellow Princeton alumnus William Hilliard. They talked and laughed as old friends until Alex mentioned to William that he was a contractor. When he heard that, William coaxed Alex out to an empty balcony. “Now that we are away from prying ears,” he said, “I have a business proposition to make. We are old alumni friends, right? I need a partner in your field exactly. Together, we could make a lot of money if we play our cards right.”
“I’m listening,” Alex said, the mention of “cards” and the cold night air sobering him up a little.
“After graduation I moved to Washington,” William began. “In ‘33, I got on in the PWA, Public Works Administration – you know, part of FDR’s first New Deal. Anyway, a few months ago, I was having a few drinks with Secretary of the Interior, Harold L. Ickes. He told me about a second wave of big government spending to kick-start the economy in case there is a war with Germany or Japan. One of those plans is to build a major highway, from the tip of Maine to the tip of Florida – and I know where it will cut through Massachusetts. If, oh, say, someone like myself were to invest a large sum of money as a silent partner, in a land deal that would include buying acres of prime land along the path of the highway route and build a luxury hotel right on it, would, oh, say, someone like yourself be willing to build that hotel and co-own it?” William asked.
“Where?” Alex asked.
“At the end of Alsbury Pike,” William said then paused before adding, “Dunwich.”
“Dunwich?” Alex repeated.
“Yes. I know it has a bad reputation...” William started, but Alex cut him off.
“What, the town’s haunted or something? Let me tell you, that could make money. I know it’s the 20th century and most people, myself included, don’t believe in ghosts and hobgoblins but a lot of people still do. My wife, she’s from Ipswich; she does. She says that clairvoyants, mediums and séances to contact the ghost of Houdini are popular now. We could play that up, you know? How about, ‘Spend a night in a real haunted house’? We could open a few haunted restaurants too with fresh seafood imported daily from Innsmouth or Boston,” Alex said.
“You really don’t mind Dunwich?” William asked, wincing a little at the name of the town.
“Not if it makes money – but would it?” Alex asked.
“It would. When the highway is built, it would be the only, I repeat, only hotel on the highway at the only junction to Boston. It would have a waiting list for months in advance. We could follow the highway, building hotels along the way. Our own empire my boy. We could make the kind of money two men could retire rich on... if you want to take a once-in-a-lifetime chance,” William hinted.
That got Alex’s attention. Beneath the rugged exterior, the six-foot frame, the muscled shoulders, well-manicured hands, neatly combed hair, steel gray eyes, Princeton education and Bostonian breeding, Alex was still little more than a gambler who would be more content sitting in a poker game than in a meeting room or office. Betting small to win small never interested him. He liked the long shots, the foolish gam
bles that could pay off one thousand-to-one.
“How sure are you of this?” Alex asked, suddenly fully awake with the sound of money roaring in his ears.
“Positive, on my soul,” William said as inside, with a shout, everyone screamed, “Happy New Year 1939!” The two men toasted the New Year and their business venture. They talked and planned well into the morning.
For the next few weeks, Alex did his private research; he made inquiries, all confidential; and William mailed him the actual maps showing the as-yet-unnamed highway. Every piece of information that Alex could find confirmed that William was true to his word: there would be a major highway from the tip of Maine to the tip of Florida. He was going to own the only hotel on that stretch.
It was the gambler in him that pushed him to action. He would be gambling with everything he owned, and the idea of betting it all sent his blood racing. Despite warnings from his friends, bankers, and business partners – and ignoring the advice of his wife – Alex took out all his funds and liquidated most of his assets. Together with William’s savings, the pair put their scheme into action.
III
Through the fall of ‘39, Alex bought not only a few square miles of barren land near Alesbury Pike where the coming highway would intersect it, he also bought a few buildings in what was left of downtown Dunwich. The prices were dirt cheap, which was what he expected. When the locals became aware that Alex was trying to buy as much of their town as possible, they did the unexpected. They quit selling it to him, no matter the prices offered.
The ground breaking ceremony for the newly named Dunwich Grand Hotel Project fell on September 1st. It was a rainy, windy, cold morning and the day seemed laden with ill omens. That morning, Alex received the news that his grandfather had passed away. That afternoon, there were reports on the radio that the Germans had broken the Treaty of Versailles and invaded Poland. That evening, at dusk, Alex stood shivering in the rain, holding a shovel and posing for a picture with his foremen and draftsmen. As his shovel pierced the soil of Dunwich, an exceptionally bright blue-green burst of lightning exploded above their heads, followed by an ear-piercing and ground shaking clap of thunder.
New Tales of the Old Ones Page 28