Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1

by Price, Robert M.

  It was a Tuesday night when I got the call. It was well after ten, so I should have known it’d be bad news. It was Jeff – another old friend from Bowdoin I’d kept up with in touch-and-go fashion.

  “Have you heard about Carson?”

  “No.” I was already smiling. “What’s he done now?”

  “Died.”

  I was silent for a moment. “Well, that’s Carson!”

  I got the full story, so far as Jeff knew it. Carson had been ill a couple of years. Not enough to slow him down; not enough to make him tell any friends. He wouldn’t have wanted to upset us – that was like Carson, too. About four months back it got a lot worse. By then, it was too late. He’d spent the last two weeks in hospital. At some point, he’d given the staff Jeff’s name – not because he was his best friend but because he was his only friend in Baltimore, so he was the man on the spot. That was it.

  I saw Jeff at the funeral the following week, together with a couple of other Bowdoin alums. Also a sister Carson had never mentioned. Turns out his folks were Episcopalian. Nice service. That was in Marblehead, Massachusetts, where he came from. Marblehead seemed a very Carson place, just as Brunswick had. But Baltimore? Carson and his books were always out of place there. And he didn’t even live in a good part of Baltimore; his apartment was in a rough neighborhood. Rough. If I’d heard he’d been shot, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “It’s not all like The Wire!” He said that last time I saw him, about six years ago. But that was exactly how it looked to me. He laughed right after he’d said it. Said it in a voice graveled down to a Tom Waits rasp, then coughed a thick, syrupy cough. A sign of what was coming, though neither of us saw it.

  And now Carson was dead and buried. I was back home in Providence by nightfall.

  Three days later, the books arrived.

  The FedEx guy could hardly carry the box. I’ve never seen anyone so glad to get a signature. There was a brief note from Carson’s sister. She had drawn the short straw and was in Baltimore, putting her brother’s affairs in order. He’d made some preparations in his final weeks: a ramshackle but valid will and a lot of annotated wishes that were being honored, so far as they could be understood, given his dreadful handwriting. The books had been boxed up before she got there. His sis didn’t elaborate, but I gathered there were a lot of boxes. Before he left for the hospital, Carson had taped a list to the screen of his computer. I was on it and this was my box. That’s all she wrote and I knew I’d never hear from her again.

  I wasn’t surprised he’d sent me some books. He was generous, Carson; I was a friend and the books were what he cared about most in the world. That was partly why we’d seen so much less of each other over the years than we ought. After we graduated from Bowdoin we both left Brunswick. I went to Harvard Business School, chasing an MBA and the license to print money it promised back then. (We needn’t go into how that turned out.) Carson went to Yale for his MA, then Bologna – for years – for his PhD on Aldus Manutius and Renaissance printing techniques. I guess neither of us got good career advice. I fetched a box-cutter.

  Soon as I opened the package, I got a waft of that old, familiar smell of cigars. It was pretty strong, even though I knew the books had been kept in glass-fronted cabinets to prevent them being impregnated with the odor. The scent cheered me up. That’s Carson! And then my heart sank when I saw what he’d bequeathed me. They were the worst books in his collection. The very worst. And when I say worst, I don’t mean shabby, dog-eared, falling apart. No, some of them were beautiful, damn them. By worst, I mean disgusting, unsettling, disturbing, perverse, degenerate, monstrous, blasphemous. Evil. Black masses? Sure. Spells to torment and kill. Absolutely. Invocations to summon up devils and demons? Natch! How to conduct yourself at a witches’ sabbat? You betcha. The sort of thing Carson laughed at, but unpleasant, all the same. They were a real mix: some in Latin, some medieval French. A couple in German; one Arabic. Some would fit in your pocket; some were as thick as the New York telephone directory. The bindings didn’t bear scrutiny either – there was a stain on one that looked like a tattoo. Five were in English: two bound manuscripts, three printed. I picked one up: scuffed leather covers, crackly, cream-colored pages and an unfriendly typeface. I opened it at random:

  …take thou a Corpse well rotted and drag it Foot first across the threshold of a Lychgate. Do thou thrice and no more than thrice, heedful that no part bigger than a Costard doth fall, else all is ruined. This must thou do on a night of a waning Moon. If thou hearest the cry of an Owl, cease and flee; if thou hearest it not, all shall be well. Do as thou pleasest with the Body thereafter: it mattereth not, for it hath served.

  I closed the book, feeling I should wash my hands. Yes, that was one of Carson’s all right. He used to like reading me excerpts at Bowdoin, seeing if he could gross me out. He could, usually. Of course, Carson could pick up a newly purchased work and translate it on the fly – Latin, Greek, whatever. He could have been a tenured professor in any university in the world. Instead, he became a book dealer. Now that’s a great job for someone who loves books, but not for someone who loves them as much as Carson did. You see, it’s a high stakes game, book dealing at his level – he had to sell up to a dozen just to afford each of the ones he couldn’t bear to part with. He never got rich on it: all the money was locked into books he’d never sell. I guess that explained the apartment in Baltimore.

  Books he would never sell.

  My spirits started to rise again as I realized that Carson hadn’t just sent me the worst part of his collection, but the most valuable.

  I emptied the box completely. The only note was at the bottom, underneath the last book – that was like Carson, too! It was a typewritten list of the titles, together with all the details booksellers care about: quarto, octavo or folio, pagination, where and when it was published, type of binding, etc. It ran to a couple of sheets, ending halfway down one. Only then did I find a scribbled message:

  We both know the sort of people who want these books and that they MUST NOT have access to them. I know I can trust you to guard them well. Wish I had time to say more, but time is leaving me behind.

  Carson James

  I had to laugh. That was like Carson. To leave his most precious possessions to a friend who didn’t want them and couldn’t appreciate them, with the implication that he mustn’t sell them. But I understood the warning all right. Even at Bowdoin, when he was just edging his way into collecting, we had the conversation. About the people he was buying from, selling to and bidding against.

  “They don’t actually believe this shit, do they, Carson?”

  “Some do, definitely.”

  “And do they actually try and cast the spells and do the ceremonies?”

  “I imagine some do, now and then.”

  “But they’re horrible – and the things that are meant to happen if they work are even worse.”

  He laughed.

  “Well, I think we can rest assured that they don’t work. So it’s only the ceremonies you need worry about. They’re pretty demanding, all right. But I don’t think the alchemists and necromancers who wrote them down believed any of it either! They were making it up: charlatans preying on the gullibility of their peers and patrons. By concocting such bizarre and revolting ceremonies they were both deterring people from participating and building in a host of reasons why the magic wouldn’t work if anyone did try: the time was wrong, the light, the season, the ingredients. For the buyers, the books were aspirational: it gave them a sense of power to think they could do these terrible things, if they really had to.”

  “So,” I said. “Magic as a confidence trick? I’ll buy that. But what if you’re the guy some nut picks as his human sacrifice when he does try it out?”

  Carson just exhaled some cigar smoke and shrugged.

  “Best not to be around!”

  Three o’clock in the afternoon, the day after the books arrived, I got the first phone call.

  “Mr
Rayner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Curtis Rayner?”

  “Yes.” I could tell from his tone that he already knew who I was.

  “I understand you took delivery of a consignment of books yesterday?”

  “Yes. Is this Federal Express?”

  An amused chuckle.

  “No, Mr Rayner, this isn’t Federal Express. The books you received: they were owned by the late Carson James, yes? A great loss – my condolences.”

  “You seem to know a lot about Carson’s books.” Then, to draw a line in the sand, I added: “My books.”

  “Ah, well, yes, you see, Mr Rayner, that’s just it. I’m afraid they’re not your books. There seems to have been a mix-up. My client has received the books intended for you and you have received the books intended for my client. Naturally, my client wants to correct the error as swiftly as possible and see you get the books Mr James wanted you to have. I trust you are agreeable?”

  His old money, New England accent and lawyerly manner were already starting to grate.

  “Who did you say your client was? Or you are, for that matter?”

  “My name is Thomas Harington, of Harington, Neuberger, Harington. My client prefers to remain anonymous – I’m sure you understand.”

  “No. You’ll need to say a whole lot more before I understand. If you think you’ve got the wrong package, I suggest you contact Ms James – she sent them.”

  Another chuckle, slightly weary.

  “Ah, yes. Ms James. A very strong-willed young woman. I was on the telephone to her much of yesterday, and again today. I explained very clearly how the error must have occurred: Mr James had rather challenging handwriting and he used a European-style crossed 7 that Ms James seems to have confused with a 4. The result: box 4 intended for my client and box 7 intended for you became transposed. Sadly, Ms James has washed her hands of this and says I must deal with you directly.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t threaten to sue her.”

  “That remains an option, of course, Mr Rayner. And not just her. But my client is extremely desirous that this matter be resolved swiftly, amicably and discretely. I’m sure you understand.”

  “My friend’s just died. He left me some mementoes he cared about. So tell your client the swiftest and most amicable solution is for me to keep my box and for him to keep his.”

  I was putting down the phone when I heard him say: “You would be handsomely recompensed for the inconvenience, Mr Rayner. Very handsomely!”

  The phone was back at my ear.

  “How handsomely?”

  “Very!”

  “I hate to be crude, Mr Harington, but can you put a dollar value on ‘very’?”

  “One hundred thousand.” And that was his opening bid. I was silent – who wouldn’t be? He misinterpreted my silence. “One hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr Harington: you’re offering me…”

  “My client.”

  “…your client is offering me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a box of books he says is his anyway?”

  “Exactly. Very generous, you’ll agree. And all you have to do is say yes, Mr Rayner. We can collect the books this evening.”

  “I’ll need to think about it, Mr Harington.”

  “Or,” he said, “why don’t we forgo the delay caused by your thinking about it and settle on two hundred thousand, right now?”

  “No. I really need to think about it. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Will you have a definite answer for my client then, Mr Rayner?”

  “You’ll know when you call me.”

  “Very well, Mr Rayner, I’ll certainly call. But…” And now his voiced ratcheted up in severity. “My client has some conditions you must respect. You must not attempt to offer these books for sale, nor to have them valued. You must not acknowledge to anyone, either publicly or privately, that you are in possession of these books or have access to them. You must absolutely not allow anyone to see these books. You must, in short, deny all knowledge of these books if anyone other than me asks you about them. If you breach any of these terms, the deal is off. And, in the event that you receive a more lucrative offer from another party, I promise you that I shall not only injunct any sale you attempt, I shall drag you through every kind of slow and expensive litigation you can imagine until you are utterly destitute and wish you had simply given them away. I hope that is clear, Mr Rayner.”

  It was a serious threat, but I could sense desperation behind it. I took my chance.

  “Now they’ll cost you at least two hundred and fifty thousand. Good day, Mr Harington.” When I put down the phone, my hand was shaking. Goddamn! I sat – slumped – and looked at the books with a new-found respect. Goddamn, Carson!

  I know: some people would have been mindful of their late friend’s wishes, firmly resolved never to part with the books entrusted to their care. Indignant that anyone should even attempt to buy them. Me? I was thinking that I could get Harington up to at least three hundred grand next time we spoke. These books were getting sold. Sorry, Carson. I repacked them, trying not to mark the covers with my sweating hands. I was halfway through when it occurred to me that I ought to know who I was dealing with. I went to the laptop and Googled Harington, Neuberger, Harington. They existed all right – a mid-size Boston firm. They did the usual run of work, but specialized in high-value personal clients. I took that to mean that if you were rich you could get them to hide your assets and shield you from tax. Fair enough! All the partners and associates were profiled on their website. I figured that my Harington was the senior partner (the other Harington was his younger brother). He looked much as I’d imagined him: gray, fifties, a little more hatchet-faced. Whatever he was doing with his fees, he wasn’t spending them in restaurants.

  I found something else when I went back to the search results: Harington, Neuberger, Harington had a proven track record of injuncting book sales. Three cases in the past five years. They’d won two: proving that one book had been stolen from an old Kingsport family, and that another was burgled from an antique dealer in New Orleans. The third they lost – but they strung it out for years, at no doubt ruinous cost. These book dealers seemed to enjoy playing beggar-my-neighbor – only they knew which cards they all held. They knew what was in Carson’s collection, and that he was dead. Now they were circling, like vultures around a zebra carcass. Hell, I was smiling: far as I could see, I could raise my price to anything less than the cost of a year-long court case and Harington’s client would pay.

  But what were the books actually worth? A lot more than I’d been offered, that was obvious. I got the list of titles in front of me and started searching book-selling websites – the fancy ones. I didn’t learn much. Only that none of the books was for sale anywhere – not even in reprint or facsimile editions. Whoever had owned them in the past – Carson included – had guarded them jealously.

  Then I tried searching more widely. The results were better. Three types of website cropped up: museums and universities that held copies; occult sites, which discussed them at length – apparently based on sightings of the university editions; and auctioneers – who sometimes sold copies to museums and dealers like Carson. That was what I needed. Within an hour of concentrating on the auction sites I found I could backtrack through Carson’s own purchases of the books sitting in my house – what he’d paid for them three years ago, five, ten.

  “Holy shit!” I said it out loud. We were into millions. The Arabic book alone had cost him nearly nine hundred thousand. No wonder Harington had been so quick to fling a hundred k at me. Right now, he was looking cheap.

  That was about as much as I could handle for one day, so I went to bed. Eventually, I fell asleep. I woke at about a quarter to four in the morning, the red glow of the clock-radio in my eye, and faint mumbling and whooshing in my ear. Someone was outside. I ran to the window and looked down. He was just stepping back from the front door, dressed in black,
his face obscured by both a cap and a ski mask. He must have heard me move the curtains, because he looked up and we stared straight at each other for a moment. He had something in his right hand. I wasn’t sure what, but the moment I saw it I ducked back out of sight. When I heard thick-soled sneakers slapping against asphalt I went back to the window. By then, I couldn’t have caught him if I’d wanted to. I watched him run past my neighbor’s house, then disappear behind the trees screening the next property. A car door slammed and an engine revved immediately – someone had been waiting for him. There was a throaty roar and tires squealed. I could hear the engine for almost a minute, lingering in the pre-dawn air.

  A couple of minutes later I was outside, pepper-spray in hand, hoping the neighbors were all still asleep. I wished I had a nine-millimeter, like I considered buying a year ago, the day after I was robbed. Too late, now. I did a quick circuit of the yard, but nothing looked amiss. Until I turned round. Spray-painted above the front door was a sketch of an eye inside a five-pointed star. As occult symbols go, it was pretty on-the-nose. Presumably this was Harington’s way of saying he was watching me. Seems he – or his nameless client – was a player, rather than just a dealer. Or maybe they thought I was a believer and could be intimidated by trick-or-treat antics. But this symbol was exactly the sort of thing I’d seen in Carson’s books, so I wasn’t surprised. Pissed, obviously, but not surprised. With the money I was going to make, I could afford to clean up a hell of a lot of paint. I went back inside, knowing I’d raise the price another fifty k.

  I didn’t really sleep after that and was up a couple of hours later. The phone rang while I was eating breakfast. Harington. He got straight to the point.

  “I thought we agreed, Mr Rayner, that you would not attempt to value my client’s books.”

  “My books. They haven’t left the house – and no one’s been in. Not even that guy last night. Was he one of yours?”

  “Let me stop you there, Mr Rayner, before you make an unfounded and potentially actionable accusation. The books! My client tells me that someone told him – someone with access to sophisticated software for tracking search terms – that there was an alarming surge in references to titles in the late Mr James’s collection last night.”