As I scanned through the crowd I recognized several of the more troublesome members of the staff, ones who were not going to take kindly to what I had to say, or what was going to have to be done. Anthony Alwyn and David Sandwin were in the back smoking. They were odd birds, younger than most of the others, more talented, more curious, excluding Stanley. Llanfer was right; she was a prodigy, just as talented and curious as any, but quite a bit more cautious. I thought that made her less dangerous, Megan thought the exact opposite.
Llanfer took the makeshift podium and tried to quiet his subordinates, but no matter what he did the uncontrolled conversation continued. It wasn’t until Armitage rose and tapped the floor with his cane that the normally quiet caretakers of the Miskatonic University Library ceased their babble and gave me their attention. Llanfer fumbled through an introduction and then sheepishly left me to do the talking.
“Gentlemen, and lady, thank you all for coming. Doctors Armitage and Llanfer have asked me to come speak to you today concerning some changes I’ve recommended concerning access to some of the library’s holdings.” A murmur went through the crowd. “I understand that this may be antithetical to your work, to the philosophy behind your profession, but I think most of you might have a clue why these changes are necessary.”
There was a voice from the back, “I don’t, why don’t you stop being all mysterious and explain what is going on. There has been too much rumor and gossip of late. We deserve some explanations.” It was Scott David, a junior reference librarian who specialized in geography and genealogy.
“I don’t disagree,” I responded. “It would take more time than I have to cover things in depth, so I’ll just go over the highlights.” I took a deep breath. “Back in January, graduate student Walter Gilman and Wilbur Whateley of Dunwich both consulted the Necronomicon, or at least we think they did. In March, Amos Tuttle died, and as part of his bequest to the library, his lawyer dropped off the real Necronomicon. Turns out, the one in the case was a very clever copy. In May, a rat ate out Gilman’s heart, and three months later Whateley was killed by one of the library dogs. Dr. Armitage will attest that the events in Dunwich were related to that dread book. Shortly afterwards, Dr. Llanfer informed me that he had discovered that someone had broken in and again stolen the Necronomicon, or at least so they thought. Dr. Armitage had taken certain precautions and replaced the real book with the copy. The fire down at the Tuttle place may have been because the wrong book had been stolen. Also, some of you might remember Seth Bishop of Aylesbury, he visited quite often from 1919 through 1923. Late last month he killed Amos Bowden.” There was an overwhelming silence in the room, but I had to drive it home. “Some of you worked with Bryant Hoskins, one of the junior librarians under Dr. Llanfer. He was assigned to work on the Tuttle Bequest. Hoskins was unsupervised and used his access to read portions of the Necronomicon. He stole two books, the R’lyeh Text and the Celeano Fragments. They found him up in his cabin, he’s been confined to the county asylum at Sefton. The books he stole have been placed on the restricted shelves. We are going to place more books in that room.”
Scott David was outraged. “Why? What gives you the right?”
Dr Cyrus Llanfer rose in defiant response, “There are some things man is not meant to know, and some books man is not meant to read.”
A dull roar filled the room, but once again Armitage rose to quell the disruption. This time he spoke and his voice was filled with emotion. “This is not open to debate. Detective Peaslee has outlined a set of procedures and measures that we are going to begin instituting immediately. If you are unhappy with this decision the University will provide you with a month’s severance and a letter of recommendation.”
As Armitage sat back down the crowd settled and I was finally allowed to begin discussing how I was going to make sure that the collection was more secure both from the public and unauthorized staff. Faculty and student use would be limited, controlled by a committee of four with two members each from the faculty and the senior library staff. Locks would be installed on doors and new cabinets, also with locks, would be used. They would have separate keys, which would be assigned to specific curators. The keys would be of a proprietary design, duplication privileges would be limited to the committee of four. The collection rooms themselves would be redesigned. The books would not be allowed to leave dedicated reading rooms. Books would be viewed by appointment only, and only for limited periods of time. Curating staff would not leave the room while a book was out of a cabinet. The transfer of books from a cabinet to the table and back again would be handled by the curators. No one else was to have access to the storage cabinets. Emergency switches for alarms were to be installed in every room.
It took an hour to go through my designs and recommendations, and to answer a handful of questions. The obligatory handshaking and thanks came from Llanfer and Armitage, as well as Harper. A scowl of disapproval was directed my way from Scott David, and another from Anthony Alwyn. Miss Stanley went out of her way to catch my attention, but then changed her mind and shuffled awkwardly away. By the time I made my way out of the room Megan had been free to do whatever she wanted for more than an hour.
She took my hand and as the hall emptied, expertly helped guide me through the crowd of slightly stunned and annoyed library staff. We said nothing and as the herd left the Tabularium and headed back to the Library we turned the opposite direction and headed off campus. It was only then that my fiancée Megan Halsey began to smile.
“They really are just a hypocritical lot of pompous old fools aren’t they?” She pondered out loud. “There are things man was not meant to know. What they mean is they want to be able to control the information. They want access to it, and to keep it away from everyone else. My father would have slapped the man.”
“It’s what they believe.” I told her. “At least it’s what Llanfer believes, probably Armitage too. They truly think that they are incorruptible, that their education and position as librarians sets them above everyone else. They’ve set themselves at the top and by controlling the information they make sure to keep themselves there.”
“Until somebody like us sneaks in and takes it away from them.”
I smiled back. “How much were you able to destroy?”
“Everything that we were looking for, say what you want about librarians but they are very well organized. Everything was filed exactly where it was supposed to be: West’s thesis, the file on the Whateleys, what they found in the ashes of Hartwell’s house, your father’s papers, Tillinghast’s designs, even the journals of the 1902 Hawks Expedition. All of it went into the furnace.”
“Well done, you’re still comfortable doing this?”
“It has to be done.” There was a kind of lament in her voice.
The clock tower chimed and I turned round to look at it. The smoke from the stack above the Tabularium had changed from white to black. I thought about how much we had just destroyed, just a few boxes of papers, and yet so very dangerous. Changes needed to be made. The thought was sobering. Llanfer and Armitage were going to follow my directions. The new security would be put in place. Only a few people would have keys, including myself. Things were going to be different. I would make sure of it. I wouldn’t be able to touch the ancient books; they were too high profile, too noticeable. The other things, journals, accounts, notebooks, things that were just piled up waiting to be properly catalogued, these things could be destroyed quite easily.
Let the old men have their black lettered grimoires and illuminated manuscripts full of legends and ridiculous spells which only hint at what might be. It’s the more recent documents that actually tell the truth. This is a new age, with new ideas, and a new morality. Someone must make sure that we don’t end up destroying ourselves. There are things man was not meant to know, but is it really up to a bunch of old librarians to control? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is time for someone else to take a turn. Why not Detective Robert Peaslee and Megan Halsey? Why not two people who had suffered as a
result of that information and those who had used it?
I can think of no one better.
The Murder at the Motel
By Brian M. Sammons
Dennis pulled his rusting Ford Ranger into the parking lot and killed the engine. The all-day downpour had, at last, slowed to a sprinkle as evening gave way to night, which was a blessing, as the Ranger’s cracked wiper blades had made a streaked mess out of the windshield. The motor in the old pickup truck pinged as it cooled and inside the cab, Dennis – AKA the Amazing Kraygen, AKA the world’s biggest loser – sighed and looked out his window. The Sunshine Harvest Motel, a flickering neon sign brightly proclaimed. Next to the words was a painting of a dew-beaded orange doubling for a smiling sun, looking down at a grove of orange trees. Below the sign sputtered a flashing word: Vacancy. Dennis had driven an extra hour up I-75 looking for a place to stay that he could afford. Sadly, this looked like it.
Come on now, it’s not that bad. It’s even kind of quaint, a small voice perked up in the back of Dennis’ mind. It was the voice that had first gotten him interested in magic as a child. It was the voice that had told him to quit his job as an accountant to become a full-time magician six years ago. And it was the same damn voice that had told him last year to walk away from his home before the bank took it from him and try his act out on the open road. Dennis guessed that the voice was his ‘inner child’, or whatever shrinks were calling it these days, and that it represented his optimism and wonder at the world.
Whatever it was, Dennis hated that damn voice.
He slid out of his Ranger and stretched, causing joints to pop. He’d driven eighteen hours straight to make it to Miami and this year’s MagiCon. Once there, he’d spent two hectic days trying to rub elbows with his peers, make connections, trade hot leads, and perhaps even pick up a new trick or two. All he got for his troubles was two days of cold shoulders, phony smiles, the opportunity to marvel at some overinflated egos, and snickers at his humble credentials. Now, in the middle of a twelve hour drive to his next booked gig, Dennis was in a bitter mood that would not leave him. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and sure of only three things at the moment. One, he hated that little voice in his head that kept pushing him along in this magic business. Two, this motel was a cheap sty he was going to hate. Three, all magicians were assholes, and this went double for himself.
Pulling his tattered leather suitcase from the passenger seat, he began to trudge through the cold night drizzle toward the motel’s office, so lost in self-loathing that he didn’t even notice the black Mercedes gliding into the parking lot and pulling into the space next to his battered truck. He didn’t notice the car’s cracked windshield that still had blood and black feathers sticking to it, nor the shadowy figure behind the wheel that stared at him.
Upon reaching the entrance of the Sunshine Harvest, Dennis did notice something out of the ordinary: the distant cawing of crows. In the back of his mind the little voice wondered That’s weird. Do crows fly at night? But as was frequently the case these days, he chose to ignore it.
Dennis grabbed the door handle and looked at a paper jack ‘o lantern grinning up at him from the door’s window.
“Oh yeah,” he muttered to himself, “happy fucking Halloween.”
See? It’s not that bad, the little voice said, and Dennis had to agree with it this time. Although the motel would never be called luxurious, with its faded green carpet, cheap brass fixtures, and well-worn furniture at least two decades out of date, it was, at least, clean and dry.
Everything inside was awash in a sea of orange and black for Halloween. Rolls of Halloween crepe paper ran across the borders of the walls and ceiling, joining with jack o’ lanterns, both real and decorative, to set the color palette. Plastic skeletons, rubber bats on strings, and fake spiders on webs of stretched cotton added to the celebration Halloween.
Dennis, despite his mood, smiled. Halloween had always been his favorite time of the year. It’s what sparked his interest in all things spooky and mysterious, which had initially fostered his love for magic. He knew he should hate the holiday, just for that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
His brief feeling of joy vanished in an instant when he saw that the motel was full of people Dennis recognized from MagiCon.
He sighed. I should have known as much. Magicians are the cheapest bastards in the world, so of course they’d all flock here on their way home, he thought. He then had his own train of scornful speculation derailed when the little voice in his head added, Isn’t that exactly why you stopped here?
He shook his head and marched up to the registration counter. A candle inside a carved jack o’ lantern flickered to his left, and next to it sat a plastic bowl filled with Dum Dum suckers. The guy behind the counter was in his mid-twenties and still had his boyish looks, though they were starting to mature. Despite that, the clerk looked all the more childish because he was drinking chocolate milk from a bright yellow carton with a rabbit’s cartoon face on it. The cowboy costume he wore might have had something to do with the air of immaturity, too. The nametag on the man-child’s chest read Jim Stutton.
Jim put the carton down and licked his lips clean. “Hey there, happy Halloween, can I help you?” he picked up the bowl of sweets and offered them.
Dennis debated for a moment, then thought, what the hell, and plucked a cherry sucker from the pile.
“Yes, I need a room for the night,” Dennis said, putting his suitcase down and digging out his emaciated wallet.
“The Amazing Kraygen, huh?”
“What?” Dennis asked, then followed Jim’s stare to his own chest where he was still wearing his MagiCon “hi my name is” sticker.
Oh that’s just great, he thought as he reached up to rip off the tag. “Yeah, I’m a professional magician and I uhm…” he stammered as his face turned red and his normally dexterous fingers fumbled to find an edge of the sticker to peel it off.
“I thought so,” Jim said, paying no attention to Dennis’ embarrassment. “Got a lot of you magicians in tonight after that convention you guys had down south. So, Mr. Kraygen, a room for one, then?”
“Yes, and it is Dennis. Amazing Kraygen is just a stage name I use.”
Not to mention a stupid name I took from an old Dungeons and Dragons character
I played once upon a time. “How much will it be?”
“Seventy-five bucks, and you’re in luck, only two rooms left,” Jim said as he turned around and reached toward the key rack. Indeed, two old fashioned metal keys, not the plastic key cared you usually got in hotels these days, were all that were left on the rack. One was numbered three and the other nine. Without hesitation, Jim reached for room key number three.
“Well then it appears that we’re both lucky,” a cheerful voice called out from behind him. Dennis turned around to look at a man with long gray hair tied in a ponytail, a wisp of a soul patch beard, a gold Egyptian ankh dangling from one earlobe and eyes of undetermined color as they were behind honest-to-god, rose-colored glasses. Dennis pegged the newcomer as another magician, as only someone in showbiz could get away with dressing like that. The only thing that threw him off was the suit; it looked to be authentic Armani. No one in the trade who didn’t have his own television specials or a gig in Vegas could afford that, and this guy was neither Penn nor Teller.
“Well I guess you are,” Jim said and then added, “just a sec, let me get the vacancy sign.” He then turned around to flip a switch on the wall. The stranger took the opportunity to smile at Dennis.
“Looks like fate, you and I arriving when we did.”
“Yeah sure,” was all that Dennis could think of as a reply. The stranger was starting to give him the creeps for some unknown reason. An air of oddness seemed to all but waft off of him, so Dennis turned back towards the reception desk.
“Where do I sign?”
ID was checked, a registration form signed, and crumpled bills changed hands before Dennis collected hi
s room key and asked, “Does the motel have anywhere to eat?”
“Sure does. Just around the corner there,” Jim pointed, “is the diner. It should still be serving.”
“Thanks.” Dennis turned to pick up the suitcase and saw Mr. Rose-Colored Glasses staring a hole into the back of his head. Caught in the act, the odd character smiled again, this time revealing a gold-capped incisor. Dennis nodded, collected his bag, and then headed to his room to drop off his suitcase before getting a bite to eat.
Dennis put the fork down and wiped his mouth. There were still three bites of pie left – pumpkin, in keeping with the Halloween theme – but after his big and surprisingly good dinner, there was no way he was going to finish it. For the tenth or so time since coming in, he looked around the diner at his fellow customers. At a guess, he would say that three-quarters of them were in the trade, and of them, fully half of the pretentious asses still wore either some part of their costumes or had their ‘look’ going in full effect.
Maybe they’re just having fun for Halloween, his inner voice suggested. You remember fun, don’t you?
Once more, Dennis’ eyes searched out the good-looking woman with the spiky green hair. She was wearing a leather skirt, a studded belt, and a barely-buttoned tuxedo jacket with nothing on underneath it.
If you like her, you should go over and say hi. She’s obviously in the business, so you can start out talking about that, the little voice began, but was cut off when someone at a booth near the diner’s windows shouted; “Would you look at that shit?”
The man’s three friends, one of whom wore a purple cape and another a black domino mask, were just as drunk as the astonished shouter, so all their slurred voices carried far.
The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Page 6