The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library
Page 18
When it was over, Eleanor closed the book and lifted it to her. It had grown a bit heavier and a bit warmer and when she held it to her heart she felt a faint and echoing pulse radiate through the cover.
After disposing of the notebook and pen in the room’s waste paper basket, Eleanor carried the book into Ms. Dickson’s office, where she caught the younger woman giggling into her cell phone.
Obviously not a business call.
Ms. Dickson looked at her in wide-eyed wonder. For Eleanor to walk into any room without waiting for an invitation was unusual, and for her to walk into a superior’s office was unheard of.
It was a small change, but it was enough.
“Oh, Elly—Eleanor…You surprised me. Um…yes?”
Eleanor set the book down on the desk that should, by rights and seniority, have been hers.
“I’ve been asked to return this to the Miskatonic Library. I need to borrow your car.”
“My car?” A V like a formation of miniature geese appeared in the smooth, unmarked flesh between the sea-blue eyes. “You want to borrow my car?”
“Yes.”
“Can you even drive a car?”
Eleanor smiled. “I’m sure that if an over-educated, under-experienced cultural lemming like yourself can do it, it can’t be all that difficult.”
“What?”
Eleanor opened the book. “But before I go, I’d like you to look at something.”
The book rested on the seat next to her, comfy and warm within the folds of the ex-Ms. Dickson’s expensive cashmere coat, digesting its entrée and dessert as a flock of northbound geese flew overhead.
Content, Eleanor turned the sporty little car south, toward Arkham.
And a new life.
RECALL NOTICE
ALEX SHVARTSMAN
Mr. H. W. P. Lovecraft III
Freshman Dorm
65 Prospect Street
Arkham, MA 01914
February 12, 2016
Dr. Blaine Armitage
Office 512
The Orne Library
Miskatonic University
Arkham, MA 01914
Mr. Howard Walker Phillips Lovecraft III,
It has come to our attention that you’ve been perusing the university library under false pretenses.
The Miskatonic University library prides itself on housing one of the greatest collections of rare volumes in the world. We must take necessary precautions in protecting and preserving these books; only staff and select visiting scholars are granted access to the Special Collections department. Graduate students may occasionally request limited access under strict supervision of their professors, but as a freshman, you’re only entitled to study reference materials housed on the first floor.
According to Assistant Librarian Marcie Kramer, you’ve been using your great-great-grandfather’s library card to browse and even check out books you have no authority to examine. This is an egregious breach of protocol, unbecoming of your status as a Miskatonic man.
Certainly, the blame is not yours alone. The junior library staff should have known better than to accept the nearly-century-old artifact possessing neither a magnetic security strip nor barcode as valid credentials. They will be appropriately reprimanded.
Their shortcomings do not entirely absolve you of responsibility, however. Rest assured there will be further inquiry. Your wisest course of action is to co-operate fully with this investigation, and also to immediately return the following materials you’ve checked out under Mr. H. P. Lovecraft’s superannuated account:
• Necronomicon, 2nd edition (Expanded and Annotated)
• Miriam-Webster’s R’lyehian-English Dictionary
• Preparing an Occult Ritual in Ten Easy Steps
• Sports Illustrated: The Swimsuit Issue
• Properly Pronouncing Your Invocations: Audio book on CD
• Cliffs Notes: Necronomicon
• Necronomicon for Dummies
• How to Win Friends and Influence People
• Surviving In the Post-Apocalyptic World: A Practical Guide
I appreciate your cooperation in this matter and look forward to your prompt response.
Respectfully,
Dr. Blaine Armitage, A.M, Ph.D., Litt.D, M.L.S.
Chief Librarian, The Orne Library
Miskatonic University
Mr. H. W. P. Lovecraft III
Freshman Dorm
65 Prospect Street
Arkham, MA 01914
February 18, 2016
Dr. Blaine Armitage
Office 512
The Orne Library
Miskatonic Univesity
Arkham, MA 01914
Dear Mr. Lovecraft,
Thank you for your note.
I’m distressed to learn the details of Assistant Librarian Marcie Kramer’s involvement in this unfortunate situation. Your report is in line with what our own investigation has revealed. It appears Ms. Kramer has become unhinged, though our legal department insists I indicate that her mental state has nothing whatsoever to do with the rare books she has been handling at work.
Ms. Kramer should have never accepted your treasured memento of the notable ancestor as a valid credential, let alone encouraged and nourished your following in the footsteps of his research. I must warn you that a great deal of experience is required to handle the source material with appropriate care, and once again encourage you to return the books at your earliest convenience.
I’m aware of the several disturbances that occurred on campus this week and understand your reluctance to visit the library in person. However, the alleged appearance of shoggoths during these instances is in dispute. In any case, campus security assures us that these were isolated incidents and that it is perfectly safe to venture outside, at least in daylight.
Sincerely,
Dr. Blaine Armitage, A.M, Ph.D., Litt.D, M.L.S.
Chief Librarian, The Orne Library
Miskatonic University
Mr. H. W. P. Lovecraft III
Freshman Dorm65 Prospect Street
Arkham, MA 01914
February 24, 2016
Dr. Blaine Armitage
Office 512
The Orne Library
Miskatonic Univesity
Arkham, MA 01914
Lovecraft, you damned fool, do you realize what you’ve done?
I was in my office when the news broke. TV networks and Internet outlets reported on the appearance of otherworldly horrors around the world even as their news feeds blinked out of existence one after another. The event we’ve feared for centuries was coming to pass. But who could’ve been foolish enough to wake the ancient beings that rested at the bottom of oceans since before the first primate learned to walk upright?
It was then that everything connected in a terrible flash of insight: the list of books you procured, the lesser horrors appearing in the Miskatonic Valley for the first time in nearly a century…You’re to blame for the imminent demise of our world!
I could hardly believe this. Only a madman would pursue such a terrible goal, and this madman would have to be a practitioner of great skill. Surely a freshman who struggled to pass even the basic courses could not possess the wherewithal to open the gate between the spheres…It had dawned upon me that you were merely a puppet, an unwitting instrument of some reprobate mastermind, chosen as much for your dim wit as your surname.
Whether through naiveté or design, you’re guilty of setting in motion the chain of events that will result in nothing less than extinguishing the very light of humanity.
I cursed your name and made up my mind that, were I to perish first, my ghost would haunt you for the rest of your undoubtedly brief and miserable existence. And as I contemplated what to do next, a dreadful crashing noise overwhelmed all other sounds coming from outside. I rushed to the window, in time to catch a glimpse of a tangled mess of tentacles rising from the depths of the Miskatonic River, water mixed with slime cascading fro
m those ghastly appendages.
It was painful to watch, but I stood there transfixed, unable to turn away. The great monster rose above the surface, its form incomprehensible to the human mind. A terrible pain reverberated through my skull, like the sum of all headaches I’ve experienced in my lifetime. Then my vision blurred, the sight of the creature literally melting away my eyeballs. My eyeballs, Lovecraft!
As I await the end, robbed of my sight and my very reason, I forever curse your name.
Dictated but not read,
Armitage.
Mr. H. W. P. Lovecraft III
Freshman Dorm
65 Prospect Street
Arkham, MA 01914
March 3, 2016
Mr. Ian Whateley
Office 512
The Orne Library
Miskatonic Univesity Arkham, MA 01914
Dear Mr. Howard Walker Phillips Lovecraft III,
I sincerely apologize for the harassing and increasingly disturbing notes sent to you by the emeritus chief librarian, Mr. Armitage. It seems that Blaine has not been well for some time (though our lawyers urge that I specify his condition was not the result of rare volumes he read while in the employ of Miskatonic U). Once his condition became apparent, the university took immediate action. We hope he will receive much-needed psychiatric help.
We also hope that you will be amenable to signing the enclosed waivers holding the university harmless of any claims arising from Mr. Armitage’s actions. In return we will gladly grant you whatever access and assistance you might require in the course of your research. In fact, may I recommend you review the following volumes:
• Seven Practical Tips for Dark Summoning Rituals
• On the Proper Use of Cattle in Witchcraft
• How Not to Give Up: A Motivational & Inspirational Guide to Goal Setting and Achieving your Dreams
Under my stewardship, I intend for the library staff to do everything possible to assist bright young students in conducting independent research in their chosen fields of study instead of wasting our energy acting as gatekeepers and obfuscators of the knowledge we curate. As such, please do not hesitate to reach out to me directly with any questions you might have. I can assist you with such matters as the proper and safe methodology for mixing alchemical ingredients, locating and procuring the finest sacrificial cattle, and obtaining extra credit for your applied research with the Chemistry department.
Best of luck with your scholarly endeavors. I very much look forward to the outcome.
Sincerely,
Ian Whateley
Chief Librarian, The Orne Library
Miskatonic University
THE CHILDREN’S COLLECTION
JAMES VAN PELT
Nothing pleased me more than Essex County putting me in charge of the children’s collection at Kingsport Public Library as my first job after grad school. Most of my classmates at the University of Arizona hadn’t found positions, but I could have lucked out because I’m male. I’m an oddity. Several times I was the only man in my classes. It didn’t matter to me. I believed what the university said, that my job was to “empower and motivate young people.” Librarians have missions to fulfill.
I exited Route 128 and then lost time deciphering the confusing road signs and shoulderless two-lane blacktop that took me toward Kingsport before parking my over-packed Volvo on a scenic overlook that encompassed both the Atlantic, a gray seething mass that matched the clouds overhead, and the town itself that spread across the Miskatonic River valley. What a glorious view, so different from Tucson’s bare mountains and cactus-strewn desert: high pitched colonial houses, steep narrow streets, dispirited trees that should have been brilliant with late fall colors but instead had turned blotchy brown, long wharves lined with boats, their bare masts gently swaying in the bay’s swell; and on top a low hill that rose over the rest, a church and steeple that seemed like a land-locked ship with its own mast pointing skyward. Seagulls floated on a breeze that swept up the cliff. Their lonely, repeated cries played counterpoint to the ocean’s sad lapping against the rocks below.
My GPS lost its signal before I crossed the city limit. Fortunately, I had printed a map to the cottage I had arranged to rent. The landlord wasn’t there, but he’d left the key in the mailbox. The living room was small, and the bedroom not much bigger than a walk-in closet. I didn’t care. It was my first home of my own after years in dorms. Painters had left masking tape on the trim, but acrylic couldn’t cover the ocean’s smell. I threw open the bedroom window that looked into a tiny, weedy yard. On the other side of the fence, twenty feet away, two little dark-haired girls played in a sandbox, one child with her hair cut short, and the other wearing it long. Both wore short-sleeve shirts despite a steady, cold wind. Beyond them, their huge house cast a long shadow. I suspected my cottage might have once been its servants’ quarters.
Maybe the girls would come to the library, and I could show them the picture books. Children were were my clientele. Through them I would advance my mission to “promote and nurture the habit of reading.”
The short haired one piled sand in a mound with a plastic, yellow shovel. They giggled when they sat back and watched. The sand moved, then slowly, painfully, a bedraggled animal dug its way free. It might have been a hamster. The long-haired girl grabbed it, shook sand from its fur, then held it down. They both dug a new hole to bury it in.
I turned away, sickened by the children’s casual cruelty.
“We are really a branch for the Miskatonic University Library upriver in Arkham,” said Delilah Mason, the head librarian. I’d talked to her on the phone about the position, and imagined her as tall, severe and dressed in black, but she was petite and wore a brightly colored print blouse and blue jeans. “We get quite a few calls for books from their collection, mostly genealogy and local history, while their students ask for whatever bestsellers we’ve added. They don’t have a popular fiction section at MU. Sometimes they’ll request work from the children’s collection. Picture books for faculty with families, mostly.”
We sat in the children’s section in child-sized chairs with our knees above our hips. The previous librarian had covered the walls with framed elementary school artwork. Book bins at kids’ height filled the floor’s middle. One wall devoted itself to chapter books, and another to Young Adult. A separate room labeled “Teens Only” held beanbag chairs and computers in a row. The entire library, a new building surrounded by a rundown neighborhood of 17th and 18th Century houses, shone like a glass and steel beacon in a wilderness.
“We have Saturday story hour with adult volunteer readers, and I expect you’ll work closely with the elementary school teachers. They don’t have a library at the school since the budget cuts.” I smiled.
Collaborating with educators was on my list from the university. Delilah handed me the November activities calendar. They’d scheduled presentations and clubs most week days too: Preschool Story Time, Kids Game Club, Infant and Toddler Story Time, Little Artist Café, Puppet Show Thursday, Jr. Scientist Science Entertainment Night, Charlotte’s Web Tea Time, and several others. I’d written a paper on children’s library interactive learning, and had ideas that I was eager to implement. Every library had a unique population with unique needs. I wondered what Kingsport’s unique needs would turn out to be.
Delilah left me with a large key ring, library procedures in two binders, and a tutorial for inventory and reordering.
Holding the material under one arm, I surveyed the children’s collection. Ten o’clock on a Thursday. A mom pushed a baby in a stroller while showing books to her three-year old son. A ten-year old wearing wire-rim glasses took notes from a history text open on his lap. At the computers, two boys played games. One of our missions was to “introduce children to electronic resources.” It would take a while to wean them off the games. I wandered the stacks, familiarizing myself with the organization. The first time I’d come to a library, the librarian had been so helpful. She issued me my first
library card—made a bit of a production of it, really—and I felt as if I’d been given the keys to a castle.
A door by my office said, “Local and Regional Authors’ Special Children’s Collection.” Underneath that a small typed notice said, “See the main desk for access.” None of my keys fit the lock.
It was good to see my old friends, Dr. Seuss, Susan Cooper, Madeleine L’Engle, J.K. Rowling and the books on dinosaurs and spaceships and deep sea creatures. I met several children during the day, pointed adults toward leveled readers, collaborated with a team leader for a home-school community, and read an Amelia Bedelia story to a preschooler whose mother was in the adult section looking for books on home canning.
After closing, I surveyed my domain. My first library! I didn’t realize how keyed up I’d been until the last patron left and I breathed easily. The windows were dark. Lights switched off in the main library. For the first time, I really looked at the art my predecessor left on the walls. Little kids’ drawing. Lots of crayon and colored pencil. Mostly trees, boats and stick figures, not all that different from Arizona in style, although desert kids drew mountains and cactus for their stick figures to live in.
A more sophisticated picture drew my attention. A forest on one side crept down to the sea on the other. The child used black crayon and purple, a bilious combination that made the forest a brooding presence. In the forest, the outlines of a house peeked out, also in black and purple so as to be nearly invisible except for a tinge of light seeping from a single window. The child’s boldness in strokes struck me, as if she’d drawn the scene quickly with a strong hand. A single figure, also in black, stood near the ocean, looking into it. The ocean seethed, not like a wave, but as if something was about to emerge. I stepped back. It was repugnant. The repulsive power of it startled me, the ichor of its imagination. A child with nightmares might draw such a picture, if she could render her nightmares so vividly.