Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1

by Price, Robert M.

  “Well…” I was playing it cool. “I guess word’s got around that they’re on the market. And they are on the market, Mr Harington, unless you want them for, let’s say, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” That figure just came to me, but I meant to stick to it.

  “Now you look here, Mr Rayner. That is a quite outrageous sum. I think you are abusing my client’s generosity – of both money and goodwill. Neither of which is boundless.”

  “What can I say? It’s a seller’s market. Anyway…” I deployed some of my research. “… a copy of the Grammateous Codex alone sold for nearly six hundred thousand at Sotheby’s in 2008. I dare say it’ll go for a lot more today. Your client can make back his money soon enough, if he wants to. Imagine what it’d cost him to buy them all separately? Or what he’d have to pay you to stop me selling them? Seven hundred and fifty k and you’ve got a deal. Have we got a deal, Mr Harington?”

  He managed to convey a great deal of annoyance in the silence that followed.

  “I’ll have a word with my client, Mr Rayner.”

  It was a pretty quick word. Harington was back on the line in three minutes.

  “It seems you have a deal, Mr Rayner. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars it is.”

  “I want half transferred to my bank account and half in cash.” He’d as good as told me his client could hack computers – I wasn’t about to trust it all to virtual money.

  “Cash might be a problem, Mr Rayner. My client cannot possibly access such a large sum before tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? For a second you had me worried, Mr Harington. I don’t mind waiting till tomorrow. You take your time.”

  “I’m afraid time is a factor, Mr Rayner. One that is against us. My client is keen to secure the books before hostile parties take an interest. If you were to be robbed before the books could be collected… well, that wouldn’t benefit you or my client. Not at all.”

  “I think I can take care of myself for one night, Mr Harington.”

  “But this will be the third night you’ve had the books in your home, Mr Rayner. Some might consider you lucky not to have attracted unwanted attention already.”

  “The guy who sprayed my house was unwanted. Was he with you, Mr Harington?”

  “Let us not obsess about that, Mr Rayner. I’m starting to think you do not fully appreciate the interest these books have generated. Or the sort of people who want them.”

  “Oh, I’ve a pretty good idea, Mr Harington.” Nuts with money, that was who. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to check my bank account is three hundred and seventy-five k heavier. If it is, call round at three in the afternoon – with the rest in cash. It’s meant to be a nice day. Maybe I’ll wait outside watching all the moms pass by as they collect their kids from school – the road’s good and busy that time of day.”

  Harington sighed, but he accepted it all the same and we ironed out the details. Before hanging up, he said: “See you tomorrow, Mr Rayner. If you’re still around tomorrow.” It seemed an odd point in the conversation at which to threaten me, but the jerk with the spraycan showed Harington (or his client) wasn’t averse to applying a little pressure. I think he’d just told me I’d pushed them as far as was wise. I could live with that. I hunkered down and waited.

  I don’t know when I fell asleep at the kitchen table, but I sure as hell know when I woke. There was a thunderous roar that just kept growing and the house shook as if sideswiped by an eighteen-wheeler. Crockery was tumbling inside cupboards, glasses shattering, the room filling with a fine, dry mist as the ceiling cracked and plaster crumbled. Then the screeching began: a painful, high-pitched metal-on-metal grating. I tried to stand but the floor undulated beneath me. The screeching rose in pitch even as the roaring grew deeper. My ears popped like I was in an express elevator and the windows cracked, every one turning in an instant to frosted glass as a thousand fractures snaked across them. Yet not one shard fell from the frames – the shattered panes just gazed blankly, each a milky cataract. A second later, a wave of silence crashed upon me, reverberating until the ambient sound level returned to normal. Outside, my car alarm yelped.

  I staggered to the front door, vaguely aware of the ozone smell of subway rails. I had to wrench the door, the frame was so distorted – and went outside. The stench was worse in the drive. Much worse. I fell to my knees, retching onto the tarmac. After a minute of dry heaving, I managed to stand. Everything was still, except for my car and a dog barking frantically somewhere. I saw a couple of curtains twitch, but that was it: the power was on everywhere – streetlights and houses both – and no sign of damage anywhere other than my property. A couple of dozen slates had left my roof and shattered across the drive. Had I been pipe bombed? I fetched a flashlight and checked under the car, then studied the locks until I was sure they hadn’t been tampered with. Then I shut off the alarm. I spent several minutes scouting the yard – bushes, flowerbeds, trashcans, everything – till I was sure nothing had been planted. There was no new graffiti, but the old symbol looked pale and obvious in the light of the lopsided moon directly above. I was keen to be rid of it – but there was no time to worry about that now.

  When I went back inside and forced the door shut, a couple of the shattered window panes finally slumped from their frames, avalanching countless tiny fragments across sills and floor. I knew how they felt. I had a couple of coffee-and-whiskies and stayed awake till dawn. What I didn’t do was call the cops. I didn’t want anything getting in the way of the deal.

  At six, tired, angry and more than a little scared, I started sweeping up broken glass and cautiously pushing out the remaining windows before they fell. I didn’t feel better till a few minutes after nine, when I checked my bank account and found three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars that hadn’t been there last night. I felt good enough to eat some breakfast. I needed a shower, but I didn’t want to be caught with my pants down if anyone turned up unexpectedly, so I settled for a change of shirt. I made sure it was a loose one to cover the pepper-spray, tucked into the waist at the small of my back. Then I went downstairs to wait.

  Just before three, I heard an engine approaching – an engine loud enough to dominate the rest of the afternoon traffic. It pulled into the driveway a minute later: black 1973 Mustang, good restoration job. There were three men inside – two young ones in the front, an older guy in the back. I watched them from the doorway as they parked and got out, my right hand resting behind my back.

  The older man was in his sixties, gray-bearded and grizzled, with lines etched into his forehead above his wire-framed glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and jeans that didn’t suit him. The younger men were dressed like any kids you might meet on a campus or in a mall: one was pale, the other a shade more athletic, almost muscular. I couldn’t help glancing at his sneakers and thinking they would sound familiar if he ran down the street. The younger pair walked to the back of the Mustang and popped the trunk. The old guy came toward me.

  “Mr Rayner? You’ve had a visitor, I see.”

  “Where’s Harington?”

  “He should be here any minute. He was caught at the last stoplight. We don’t really need him to conclude our deal, Mr Rayner – but that’s what you wanted.” He had a dry, weary tone. He offered me his hand. I took it reluctantly and he held tight, staring me in the eye. “You don’t seem to realize how lucky you are, Mr Rayner – and I don’t just mean this money you don’t deserve. That could have been better spent elsewhere. You realize we’re paying you to save your life? If it were just your life, I’d leave you to it… but it isn’t, of course.”

  He slackened his grip and I dragged my hand free. He didn’t have the manner of a crazy old man, but he definitely had the eyes. I didn’t want to get into a debate with him and, anyway, I was focusing on the two young men, returning from the back of the Mustang. One was carrying a box – same size and style as mine. Scrawled on the side, in Carson’s writing, was a 7 that could easily have been a 4. The jock set it down
a couple of yards behind the old guy. While he did that, a silver Mercedes pulled up, Harington at the wheel. As he got out, my eyes slid from him to the briefcase he carried.

  “Mr Rayner.” His handshake was brief and formal – for him, this was just business. “Your money.”

  “Show me.” Maybe I was getting paranoid, but I wanted that case opened while they were beside it – to be sure there were no nasty surprises inside. Harington braced it against his body and raised the lid. So that’s what three hundred and seventy-five k looks like. It really didn’t need a whole briefcase – the money looked lost in there, diminished. I dismissed the thought.

  “Thank you, Mr Harington. Now open the box, please.”

  One of the kids looked to the old guy for a nod of assent before stripping back a length of duct tape. I stepped closer and peered inside before cautiously pawing through the contents. Mad Princes of Renaissance Germany. The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals. The Encyclopedia of Heresies and Heretics. Carson’s usual light reading. All modern books – the sort of thing he’d had on his shelves at Bowdoin. In fact, I realized, these were the very books he’d had at Bowdoin. That’s why he wanted me to have them – so I could relive those days of fun and hope and friendship. I felt something hard in my throat but swallowed it down – I wasn’t going to tear-up in front of those four creeps.

  “They’re all there, Mr Rayner.” The old guy edged nearer and tapped the side of the box with his foot. “We put them back exactly as they were, as soon as we realized Mr James intended that you have them. Not for a moment did we think of attempting to profit from them.”

  “Good for you.” I straightened up. “Are they worth as much as the ones I’ve got?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not.”

  He gave me an irritated smile to match his glare.

  “Charming though this is, Mr Rayner, we have a long drive ahead of us. So may we now, please, have our books?”

  “They’re inside.”

  I stepped toward the house and they all moved as if to go with me.

  “Whoa!” My hand was at the small of my back. “You! Spraycan guy.” I pointed at the jock. “You can fetch them. The rest of you wait out here.”

  I made sure the jock walked ahead of me going inside, and followed him as he struggled back out with the box. He took it straight to the back of the Mustang and opened it up as the old guy and the nerd peered over his shoulder. I could hear them checking off the titles against the list. Harington remained by the doorway, near me.

  “What did you say you do for a living, Mr Rayner?”

  “Based on percentage of income, I guess you’d have to say I’m a book dealer.”

  “Quite so!” He produced a pen and papers from his jacket. “Please sign here, here and here. Just to acknowledge your receipt of the money and to renounce any claim of ownership on the items listed.”

  I wasn’t about to get stiffed at the last minute, so I made them wait while I read it through: Harington patiently; the old guy – not so much, pacing the drive.

  I signed the papers and gave them to Harington.

  “Thank you, Mr Rayner. Well played… I hope.” He walked back to his Mercedes.

  Before returning to the already-revving Mustang, the old guy paused long enough to thrust an envelope at me.

  “Here! It was in the box.” I saw my name in Carson’s handwriting. I stared at the letter for a moment before turning it over. It hadn’t been opened.

  The Mustang’s door slammed and I looked up in time to see it reverse into the street at speed and muscle its way out of town. I took the briefcase inside, then the new box of books, and shut the door. After counting the money again, I slit open the envelope and took out the single, closely scrawled, cigar-scented sheet.

  Dear Curtis,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be dead.

  I always wanted to start a letter like that, although I had hoped to put it off another thirty years or so.

  I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch more – I got too wrapped up in the books. And it’s the books I need to talk to you about – you know the ones I mean. As soon as I’m dead, there’ll be a lot of interest in my collection. A lot!

  That’s not as good as it sounds. It’s only recently that I began to appreciate just how determined, just how ruthless, some occultists can be. THEY REALLY BELIEVE THIS STUFF! They would certainly attempt some of the foulest spells, given the chance – and you heard enough at Bowdoin to know what components and sacrifices that might entail. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I should burn them, of course, but that would be going against everything I value in life. I have therefore decided to take them out of circulation by bequeathing every volume that might be of interest to ‘the nuts’ (as you rightly called them) to the library of Miskatonic University. They have an excellent collection of restricted material and are well used to keeping it under lock and key. If anything, they take an even dimmer view of the people who seek out this knowledge than we do – they even maintain a fund specifically for buying up this sort of thing whenever it comes onto the market. It’s a good thing they have some well-heeled patrons! I won’t put them to that trouble or expense, of course – it’ll be a weight off my mind to know they’ll take care of things. I’ve already sounded them out – they were horrified to hear just what I’ve got!

  It’s a shame my friends and family can’t benefit from these books – they’re worth a hell of a lot – but it just wouldn’t be right to release them into the world to cause havoc. In any case, my more mainstream collection has grown like Topsy and I am dividing this pretty widely. In your box, you will find a lot of things I hope you will enjoy reading, plus something rather special tucked away among them: a medieval book of hours. French, fourteenth century. It’s probably worth nearly $200,000 – maybe a quarter of a million, if you can find a Russian oligarch in a good mood. It really is quite beautiful. I know you always wanted to make it big, and things didn’t quite work out – I hope this will help you.

  But going back to the other books…

  Some people might think they have gone to you rather than Miskatonic. Dangerous people. I apologize if any of them end up on your doorstep. But there is one way you can protect yourself: by using their own mad credulity against them. There is a symbol they consider possessed of great power. I strongly advise you to follow the directions on the reverse of this note and paint it prominently on your house. Several, ideally, but one, at the very least, above the main entrance. If they see that, they’ll take you seriously and – hopefully – back off. (I don’t expect you to recite the incantations, of course, but I include them for your amusement.)

  Well, I guess that’s it, old sport!

  Carson

  That final Fitzgeraldian flourish – that was very Carson. I turned over the sheet and wasn’t surprised to see the symbol that stared from the front of my house, complete with notes on the correct proportions, ideal ink, time of night to make the sign, outlandish words to recite – the whole nine yards. There was even a list of the demons against which it would be proof: every name unpronounceable. Carson had clearly enjoyed himself. I guess Harington’s client, thinking along the same lines, thought it would scare off a rival. (Although it hadn’t stopped whoever came round to screw with me last night, of course.)

  It was a long note. I felt touched that Carson had taken the time and trouble to write it in his last days before that final trip to the hospital. As farewells go, it was brave, moving, decent, sincere – and kind of cool. Well, that’s Carson! I snapped out of it then, had another coffee-and-whiskey, and called a glazier.

  That was almost a month ago. I haven’t heard from Harington, Miskatonic or anyone else – so I seem to have come out of it pretty well. It was unsettling, though. Stressful. So I guess the bad dreams aren’t surprising – I’ll be glad when they stop. Can’t be long now. Then I can start enjoying the good things in life. That little book of hours Carson left me
is definitely one of those. I take it off the shelf sometimes and just study the pictures of castles and peasants and knights and their ladies – the colors as sharp as the day they were drawn. And the pin-sharp calligraphy, the illuminated capitals, and the flowers and swashes and strange beasts decorating every page, dancing through the text. Now that really is a thing of beauty. It’s a great temptation, too, knowing it’s worth a quarter of a million – I do like money, there’s no denying it. It’s a very great temptation. But every now and then, as I turn those pages, I catch the smell of cigars. And I smile.

  Steven Prizeman is a freelance writer, graphic designer and copy editor – working mostly on corporate publications, rather than fun stuff, and mainly in the charming world of print, rather than the newfangled online one, which confuses and frightens him. He lives in the small town of Amersham, Buckinghamshire, southern England – the last home and final resting place of Arthur Machen, who, like HP Lovecraft, is a strong influence on his work.

  He has published three novels, all available from Amazon.

  1. Arise, Black Vengeance: a blood-soaked Renaissance-set Young Adult epic.

  2. Huck: a reworking of the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, based on the premise that all the ghosts and superstitions they believed in were true.

  3. Nietzsche Against Dracula: this delivers exactly what the title promises.

  Follow him online at stevenprizeman.com, where sample chapters and several Arthur Machen-inspired short stories may be downloaded free of charge.

  Story illustration by Nikos Alteri.

  Return to the table of contents

  The Story of Herr Hackenschmidt

  by Benjamin Welton