That Which Should Not Be

by Talley, Brett J.

  That Which

  Should Not

  Be

  By

  Brett J. Talley

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright ©2011 by Brett J. Talley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN:978-1-936564-14-9(sc)

  ISBN:978-1-936564-15-6(dj)

  ISBN:978-1-936564-16-3(ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number:2011931054

  Printed in the United States of America

  JournalStone rev. date: October 7, 2011

  Cover Design:Denise Daniel

  Cover Art:Philip Renne

  Author Photo:Ann M. Donaldson

  Edited by:Elizabeth Reuter

  Dedication

  For all those without whom this book would not be.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Epilogue

  "We live on a placid island of ignorance in the black seas of infinity,

  and it was not meant that we should voyage far."

  The Call of Cthulhu

  Prologue

  Mr. Charles,

  Enclosed please find a document which I believe you will judge most intriguing. It was discovered among Mr. Weston’s personal belongings sometime after his disappearance. In fact, it was the only document located in the wall safe in his office. The contents are most fascinating, and despite the order and coherence thereof, I fear they raise grave concerns regarding Mr. Weston’s sanity in the last days of his life. In order to ensure that Mr. Weston’s will is probated post haste, I would recommend destroying this document at once lest it fall into vicious hands. I recognize this course may seem rather dramatic, but I believe once you have reviewed what can only be described as the feverish imaginings of a broken mind, you will agree it is better for all involved, not the least Mr. Weston himself, that it never sees the light of day.

  Always,

  David Ashton

  Lovecraft, Hartford & Shanks

  Part I

  Chapter

  1

  Carter Weston:

  The day has come, that day I always knew would, and my time is short. But I must protect the Book. I will not surrender it, no matter what the cost. And if my life is to be forfeit, then I shall die as I have lived, standing against the black tide that would cover us all.

  I suppose this could be called my final testament, for my family should know why I’ve spent the better part of my life in the dark corners of the world, why I have dedicated myself to the unspeakable horrors that lie beyond civilized man’s imagining. I have hunted them from hell-blasted planes to yawning chasms that know no end, from the moonlit towers of fallen temples to demon-haunted ruins of unimaginable antiquity. But never defeating them. Nay, would that it were so. Merely holding them at bay, as best I could, postponing what may well be their inevitable conquest. No, one cannot kill what can forever lie in repose. Sleeping. Waiting. And I fear the time of their awakening is upon us.

  I hope my family can forgive me. I hope they can understand why I have lived my life as I have. I hope this testament will give them that comfort. For it was not always to be so. I had never expected to live in the shadows. There was a time when my interests lay with quainter things.

  Those were younger, brighter days. My father was a Harvard man, and in his mind, so was I. It broke his heart, I suppose, when I chose Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts, instead of that ivy-gabled institution. I think back often now on that choice and I wonder what paths my life might have roamed had I listened to him instead. Ah, but regret is a broken road that is better not taken. Still, how things could have been different.

  I arrived with no more extravagant dreams than that of the life of an academician. And so I embarked upon a degree in history with a focus on the folklore of New England, a rich but narrow subject in which I intended to establish myself as the foremost expert. It was in this pursuit that I made the acquaintance of Henry Armitage.

  Henry was a brilliant mind, and even as a young man he was keenly interested in the occult and the role it played in the tales and myths of the common man. He came to Miskatonic to understand the dark shadow of man’s desires. The myths, I believed, at that time at least, leapt fully formed from primordial man, conjured merely to explain those things he did not understand. I was surprised to learn that Henry did not share this view. He believed there was more than a grain of truth embedded in those superstitions and ancient fears.

  Perhaps in another environment the learned men of the University would have shattered such a faith, crushed it with the hammer of science. But not at Miskatonic. I heard the whispers, the rumors of the shadow that hung over the town of Arkham. Miskatonic was witch-haunted ground, and there were those who spoke of nameless rites echoing through its darkened halls. I pushed such talk aside. I would brook no opposition to my chosen University. In honest moments, though, I could face the truth, or at least
the image of it. I belonged at Miskatonic and not in a trivial, romantic way. It called to me, pulled me, and since before I knew its name, I longed to be there. In truth, I never felt at home until the day I arrived on its grounds.

  But I digress now, and I must focus on the tale at hand. My time is short; I know that now. The stories I could tell would fill volumes, but the sands in the hourglass run thin, and I must ration my words.

  It was Henry who suggested I study under Dr. Atley Thayerson. It surprised me at the time, but for reasons I couldn't quite describe. It was entirely appropriate I should take Dr. Thayerson’s class on Folklore and the Occult. In fact, I suppose it would have been surprising to anyone familiar with my academic studies if I neglected to do so. Yet, there was something inside of me, buried deep, that recoiled at the thought. Not for any rational reason, none that I can articulate. I had steeled myself against the growing sense of inevitability involved. But somehow, Henry’s simple suggestion of the thing defeated my apparently unimposing defenses.

  Henry and I enrolled together, and it quickly became apparent to Thayerson that we were to be his star pupils. I devoured the class and, in doing so, felt the birth of an obsession — the occult was to become my passion. This will, of course, come as no surprise to those who know me; I have made the study of that subject my life’s work. But at the time, it was a revelation.

  In any event, I requested, and Dr. Thayerson eagerly granted, the opportunity to work more closely on the professor’s many and varied studies. It was then that my eyes began to open to the dark forces that move in the uncultivated lands beyond the borders of the world we know. But this was just the beginning for me, and my studies were merely that — an academic exercise. I spent my weekends and every free moment traveling about the Massachusetts countryside, as far into the wild as the roads would take me. Sometimes farther. To ancient towns and villages peopled by simple folk to whom even Boston was a far away Xanadu of modern wonder. I listened to their stories, obscure tales of late night visitations, of strange creatures that walked beneath darkened moons, of sleeping evils that invade men’s dreams. I dutifully recorded these tales, and I smiled inwardly at the horrified looks on the simple villager’s faces as they relayed them. I believed myself wise, and in my skepticism my wisdom was confirmed. But I had no faith.

  No, I found the occult fascinating in the way that folklore had always held my thoughts. The study of myth helped mankind to understand truth. It offered no such truth itself. And then came that day in late January of my second year at Miskatonic when everything changed.

  Chapter

  2

  The air was as crisp that day as any other in January, but there was an unnatural chill in the wind that portended the coming of a storm. The iron gray clouds that crept across the sky hung low, as if full to bursting with winter snow. I was perusing Cotton Mather’s Wonders of the Invisible World in front of the lighted hearth in my room quite contentedly when there was a sharp knock on my door. It was Henry.

  “Sorry to bother you, Carter. I met Dr. Thayerson today, and he seemed rather anxious to see you.”

  I remember placing a marker on my page. I did not return to that book for many years. I was confused. I had seen Thayerson only a day before, and he had seemed as relaxed and convivial as always. I could not imagine what could have provoked his anxiety to speak with me, yet again, so soon.

  “Did he say if something was wrong?” I asked Henry as I slipped on my boots and heavy coat.

  “He did not, just that I should find you and send you straightaway. He would say no more, and I admit I was concerned. I certainly hope nothing has happened.”

  I could see the anxiety in Henry’s face. He did not, on that day, possess the iron temperament that time and bitter experience has gifted him with.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Armitage,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I fear Thayerson is getting a little senile in his old age. He probably just forgot I saw him only yesterday. Besides, what could have come about in a single day that is so important?”

  I left Henry there. He did not seem convinced, but obviously there was no time to tend to his concerns. I made my way across Arkham Green to Putnam Hall. I found Dr. Thayerson pacing his office in what can only be described as a fevered state. Upon my arrival, though, his expression suddenly changed, as if he wished to present the impression to me that nothing of any terrible significance weighed on his mind.

  “Ah, Mr. Weston. Do sit down.”

  As I took the seat opposite him, Thayerson stretched his arms out across his desk and clasped his hands. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Weston, I have a favor to ask of you, and in the interest of complete honesty, it is no minor one.”

  I listened intently as he spoke, and I had already decided that whatever he asked I would do.

  “Are you familiar,” he said sternly, “with a book known as the Incendium Maleficarum?”

  “The Witch’s Fire?” I responded with some surprise. “Well, yes, Professor, of course. It is a book of some legend, if I remember correctly. I never studied its history directly, but I was under the impression it was merely a legend. No such book ever really existed.”

  “Oh, it exists,” he said in the way men do when they speak of what they are sure. “I would also take issue with your translation. It is better to say it is the Inferno of the Witch or the Flame of the Witch.”

  As Thayerson spoke, the only fire was the one in his eyes.

  “It means passion, total subjugation of oneself to the dark arts, to turn over body and soul to their devices. It is the most ancient of all books of witchcraft, the grimoire of grimoires.”

  “But, sir,” I said, drawing on my limited knowledge of the subject, “what of the Necronomicon then?”

  I watched as the color drained from Thayerson’s face at the mention of that dread tome, inked in blood and bound in human flesh. In my youth and foolishness, it meant nothing to me to speak of it, though now I would no doubt react in the same way.

  “The Necromonicon,” he whispered, though with great effort, “is altogether different. It is no common spell book, or even an uncommon one. Its purpose is . . . how to say it . . . otherworldly.” Thayerson now paused. “The Incendium Maleficarum, on the other hand, deals squarely with the forces ruling this world. The two books are dualistic, you see, and it is impossible to understand the one without the other. And when the two are brought together, the properly initiated is said to wield untold power over this world and beyond.”

  I watched as Thayerson spoke, and as he wove his tale I noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “Well sir,” I said calmly, “then I suppose it’s good this book, even if it did exist as you have said, has now been consigned to the pages of history.”

  Thayerson leaned back in his chair and sighed. He looked at me with his deeply hooded eyes and said, “It appears a copy has been found.”

  I sat forward quickly in my seat. Even though this was not my area of interest, a find such as this would be an invaluable artifact, a glimpse into an ancient religion both long dead in its real form and deeply distorted by error and myth in the form it exists today.

  “Where?” I exclaimed more than asked.

  “Very near here,” Thayerson said solemnly, “in a port town called Anchorhead.”

  I was shocked at this revelation. I had heard of the place. Its central point was a hill overlooking the port. The village cemetery had been placed on that hill. Death was ever-present there. That the markers of death could be seen by everyone from every part of the town at all times only helped to reinforce the knowledge of how dangerous living by the fruit of the sea could be. Then, Thayerson provided yet another shock.

  “Carter,” he said in an unexpected breech of formality, “I need you to retrieve that book. I need you to go to Anchorhead, acquire it by whatever means necessary, and return it here, to Miskatonic.”

  For a moment we sat in silence as I remained
dumbfounded by this request. It was the last thing I had expected.

  “It cannot remain out in the open,” Thayerson continued. “We must keep it here in our library, safe from those who would use it to do evil.”

  “But, sir,” I said, leaning forward, “if I may ask, if this book is of such importance, shouldn’t you be the one to retrieve it?”

  Thayerson visibly shuddered.

  “I fear,” he began, “that word of the book’s existence is known outside these four walls, and not all that seek it do so for noble purpose. But I suspect, strongly, they do not yet know its location.”

  Now he paused, and I watched as certain calculations were conducted in his mind. Then, he made a decision.

  “I believe, Mr. Weston, I’m being watched. It is expected by certain parties that I will make an effort to retrieve the book. It is, therefore, imperative that I not attempt it.”

  “I see,” I said, though in truth I felt even more mystified than before.

  “Do we know where the book is located in Anchorhead?”

  Thayerson sighed, showing me the palms of his hands in a sign of helplessness.

  “I do not. I know only it is said a copy of the book has come to that town. By what means, I’m unaware.”

  I glanced skeptically at Thayerson. He saw the doubt in my eyes.

  “I assure you this intelligence comes from a most reliable source,” he said. “I would not send you if I doubted it. I know this is a difficult charge, Mr. Weston. But in truth you are the only one I trust. Not even Armitage. His heart is too close to the dark arts. You, and you alone, must go to Anchorhead and seek out the book. I would ask you to be discreet, to use the natural charm with which you have been gifted to your advantage. Spare no expense, and stay as long as it takes. I will deal with your affairs here. Good luck, Carter,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “I’ve already purchased you a ticket on a north-bound train. It leaves Arkham Station in a little over an hour.”