The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library

by Darrell Schweitzer

  Rebuilding was proceeding apace, but Dr. Pepperidge found he could get no straight answer from either the library’s board of directors or the University administration: what would the new space be used for? It must be fairly obvious to them that the rare tomes could not simply be replaced. So what need for a new Special Collections Room? Pepperidge had, or could have, other library duties. He had no fears of losing his position, especially not this close to retirement. But in the not too distant future he did have plans for a renewed collection, albeit not nearly the same size as the original.

  The day arrived, and he made his way to the tinker’s storefront early in the day. Gingerly carrying the strange-looking lattice of rods, cylinders, and mirrors back with the hired help of a student he had brought with him, Pepperidge set up the contraption on his desk, sat down before it, switched off the lights and pulled down the shades. As his anticipation turned into anxiety, he activated the device.

  He had never volunteered for hypnosis and had thought himself incapable of being put under. He didn’t think anything had happened at first, but after a few impatient minutes he thought to look away from the machine at the room surrounding him, and when he did, he was in for a surprise: not a stick of furniture was to be seen, not a familiar picture on the wall. Nothing but the hazy walls of a tunnel through which he seemed, without effort, to be passing. There was a light of a peculiar hue at the end, but he felt it was likely just visual distortion.

  As he was getting closer to the mouth of the tunnel, his scene abruptly changed. The old man’s accustomed aches had vanished. He felt hardier and sturdier than he had in many years. But in a second he noticed how strange his body felt. It could not even be his body. He glanced down at a rubbery cone where he expected to find his chest and legs. His first thought was that he had somehow been placed in a heavy sheath of some sort, but his visual perspective rolled and shifted in an almost floating manner. He heard sounds, clicks and pops, not words, yet he believed he could understand what these sounds meant!

  All right, then, it was another strange dream. The machine had only succeeded in putting him to sleep. This must be the same sort of dream the device had induced in Peaslee. Well, this realization extinguished any fear, and he ventured to scan his surroundings with amused interest. From the far corners of the vast chamber came several creatures (or machines?) that looked as he must look. They were huge cones, each with a set of limbs, like octopus arms, branching from the peak. At the end of one of them was a ball that looked like a mace covered with unblinking eyes instead of studs.

  None of this was as shocking and disorienting as it must have been to someone innocent of the esoteric lore with which Dr. Pepperidge had long found himself at home. No practitioner, he had nonetheless occupied the viewpoint of a participant observer and at this moment could not help feeling a certain thrill at seeing the reality of bizarre beings and alien locales that formerly had the color of myth and extravagance. The conical beings now encircled him as if welcoming a visitor. He had some idea of what was happening from reading Peaslee’s diary. How to convey to them what he sought here? Momentarily, he felt frustration at the inability of the form he inhabited to issue vocal speech. Gradually he sensed that, if he ceased to struggle and allowed himself to let the meaning of the cone-beings’ clattering to register on his mind, he should understand them, at least on some level. He had no idea, however, how to “speak” their peculiar language, but soon he realized they were able to understand his thoughts.

  The stranger was relieved when his hosts let him know they could accommodate his desire and turned, leading him to a vast bank of shelves and cupboards, containing an otherworldly counterpart of his own lost library of esoterica. (By this time, Dr. Pepperidge had altogether forgotten whether he might be dreaming, or whether the waking/dreaming distinction even had any meaning any more.)

  Seeing the newcomer’s clumsiness with the pincers on his serpentine arms, the others removed from its repository a large binder of some light metal and set it down on a high platform that reminded the soul of Pepperidge of a medieval scriptorium. The Pepperidge-thing paused to get the feel of his crab-like extremities before he attempted to turn the metal-tissue leaves and to transcribe their contents on another open codex provided for the purpose.

  It was the Book of Eibon. As with most of the more important of the books in his charge, Pepperidge was naturally familiar with the contents but not sufficiently so that he could have reproduced them from memory. How he had always envied those possessing the blessed gift of a photographic memory! This copy was not the Latin Liber Ivonis translated by Philppus Faber, nor the Norman French Livre d’ Eibon of Gaspar du Nord. Before him lay open the original text inscribed in Hyperborean glyphs! He did not know this language, nor did any man living. But he knew the Latin and French versions well enough that he would probably be able to venture a new English translation when back in his own time and place.

  It was hard to gauge the passage of time here, but it still seemed to a take a great many days to complete his task. And by now he had learned better to communicate with his new associates. He asked if what he suspected were true: had the Hyperborean text been recorded in this otherworldly library by the time-traveling shade of the mage Eibon himself? He was thrilled to find his guess confirmed, though greatly puzzled to hear that that philosopher had copied the infamous text from the boxed manuscript, just as Pepperidge had! Utterly nonplussed, Pepperidge next asked who had authored their version? The cones were surprised and amused at this. Of course, Eibon had copied from their volume which he himself had earlier written out on a different visit made from a later point in his life’s timeline. When the sorcerer copied the text, he did not know that the cone-entities had previously abducted an older Eibon who by then had already written his book.

  Dazed by this conundrum, Pepperidge felt himself fading, fainting. At some point he stirred and was relieved to find himself back in his familiar desk chair sitting before the machine as it had begun to slow its various rotations and gyrations. If it were all a dream, he must have taken to sleepwalking, since he was now fully dressed. And one more thing: at his feet lay the metal box containing the Book of Eibon.

  Dr. Pepperidge donned his heaviest overcoat and headed toward the Library. He thought he would see what preparatory restoration work the crews had accomplished since yesterday. Imagine his astonishment to see the task completed, the workmen gone! Then he looked down at his coat, then, for the first time, noticed there was no longer any snow on the ground! He was jolted out of his trance of disorientation when one of the University faculty, Professor Oldstone, brushed past him, commenting, “Good to have you back, Ezra! Good sabbatical?”

  “Sabbatical? Er, yes, I, uh, suppose so, thank you.”

  Oldstone, mildly puzzled at the librarian’s reply, kept going. Dr. Pepperidge stood where he was a moment, then about-faced and returned to his apartment. Shrugging off the heavy overcoat, he plopped down in his desk chair. It was then that he noticed something he had not before. There was, in his own handwriting, a set of papers with various instructions, directions, and addresses, together with surprising suggestions for the next steps on his quest. Of course, he had no memory of composing this material. But this made him realize what ought to have been obvious: he had not only sent himself back into the lost world of the alien archivists. They had taken advantage of his venture, sending one of their own discarnate voyagers to “sub-let” his dormant body. They must have looked with favor upon his project (perhaps just the empathy of fellow librarians!) and decided to help him make quicker work of it. His lined face smiled in gratitude. He only hoped his “tenant” had done nothing embarrassing that he would have to answer for!

  Ezra Pepperidge began making the necessary trip to Germany, where he should have to make certain dubious connections to advance further along the path to the obscure location where he might arrange an audience with an old recluse, an individual believed long dead. His name was Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt.
>
  His Sabbatical, which another had taken in his place!, was over, so he feared he would meet with difficulty asking for leave to take this new trip to Europe, but all he had to do was to tell the truth of the matter: that he was following up an unexpected opportunity to secure replacements for some of the precious volumes lost in the fire. To this none of the Library administrators could object.

  Well, the weary traveler reflected, he would never complain about American hotel accommodations again! His transatlantic flight had been uneventful and almost comfortable. He had rested up for a day in a hotel adjacent to the Berliner Flugzeug before his subsequent train trips brought him to dreary, dying hamlets, two of which did not even register on modern maps. Someone must have used considerable personal influence to keep rail connections to these places active.

  Finally he arrived at his destination, a town called Stregoicavar. He found that he had to ask almost every person in the once-picturesque village before he got a lead. It developed that the object of his search was not known by his real name. Someone finally suggested that he might want to seek out an aged scholar with the improbable name of “Fvindfuf” who might possibly know of this Von Junzt. Of course, the old fellow turned out to be Von Junzt.

  Pepperidge found himself even more excited to meet the mysterious author than he had been to interact with the conical aliens! How had Von Junzt so extended his life span? He was pretty sure the old man would not share his secret, but if there really was a Fountain of Youth, Von Junzt, indefatigable searcher-out of arcane and marvelous locales, would be the one to have found it.

  Just beyond the village proper lay a large baronial estate, blackened beams still shoring up the medieval stone walls, but showing numerous signs of decay and disrepair, as if intended to discourage visitors. But Ezra Pepperidge was not discouraged. He had to use both hands to lift and bring down the massive iron knocker, unleashing heavy, dull echoes within. After about ten minutes, the ponderous portal opened to reveal, barely distinguishable amid the shadows, a tall, thin man clad in black silken tunic and pants, rather like pajamas. This skeletal figure said not a word but turned and headed down a great, cobwebbed hall. He seemed to have been expected. Equally silently, Pepperidge followed. It was difficult to distinguish details in this dusk, but the librarian could swear he saw, mounted on the wall, a plaque from which sprouted a human head. As he got closer to it, he started at the sight of horns protruding from the forehead. Somehow he was sure this was no novelty of the taxidermist’s art.

  The visitor and the servant turned and went through an open door into a large, high-ceilinged chamber, lit only weakly by afternoon sunlight through a stained glass window. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old volumes which naturally aroused the librarian’s curiosity, but he also saw that the shelves bore statuettes and artifacts from which he quickly averted his eyes. He saw a recumbent human form in shadowy silhouette and wondered if it might be the superannuated Von Junzt confined to bed or couch. But it was not. A heavily accented Teutonic voice spoke from the opposite end of the room where a fragile old man sat slumped in a high-backed chair, ornately carved.

  “I see you have noticed the mummy of the Black Pharaoh. Let me introduce you to one another.” Reluctantly but full of wonder, Pepperidge stepped a bit closer to the rigid, gauze-wrapped form. He hoped he was imagining fear-born things when he thought he saw the ancient husk’s fingers twitch.

  “Mr. Pepperidge, meet His Majesty Nephren-Ka, Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, inheritor of the wisdom of Acheron and Stygia. Your Highness, I give you Ezra Pepperidge, delver where angels fear to tread. Mr. Pepperidge, do you know the system of hieroglyphics? If you do, you may wish to examine the writing on those gauze bands, as they record the destined future of all who read them. No? A shame.”

  Pepperidge turned from the mummy and approached the seated man, and took a chair opposite his host as silently indicated by the gaunt servant, who bore more than a passing likeness to a mummy himself.

  “Thank you, Surama,” said the surprisingly vigorous Germanic voice.

  “I confess I am amazed to meet you, sir! Forgive me, but I must ask: how is it possible that you remain among the living, Herr Professor? You flourished late in the nineteenth century, did you not?”

  He chuckled. “From your university affiliation, I feel sure you have heard of a man named Joseph Curwen, yes? Of course you have. This remarkable fellow shared the mystery of prolonged life in the body with two colleagues here on the European continent. Still, his very long life could not protect him from the violence of lesser men, to which he twice succumbed, perhaps more times than that, for all I know. A very clever man, he had devised a means of returning. He walks among men this very day. I met him a century and more ago, and I persuaded him, at a price I do not care to name, to share his secrets with me. Thus you and I sit pleasantly conversing today. But of that technique I fear I am sworn to silence. And I must warn you not to attempt to locate this Curwen as you have located me. I am sure you would not find him receptive to a visit.”

  “Thank you, sir. I shall heed your advice. But I must presume to ask your aid in a different matter. My institution’s copy of your magnum opus has been lost in a great fire, set by enemies of knowledge. I am seeking to make up that terrible loss.”

  “Oh yes, of that I have been informed.”

  Dr. Pepperidge’s rheumy eyes widened at this, but he felt he would be wiser not to ask. His host snapped his bony fingers to summon his factotum. The latter appeared quickly and held out an old and fragile book. Pepperidge knew at once what it was: another copy of the Nameless Cults in the original Black Letter edition. Dare he even touch the thing? He did not wish to presume.

  “Take it, my young colleague. I have no further need of it. What it says, I know too well. May it be of some use to you. Now let us talk.”

  Stupefied, overwhelmed, the visitor tried to think of polite comments to punctuate the astonishing remarks of this great man whose features remained invisible to him through the veil of shadows. All he could discern was a pair of pince-nez spectacles and a great, Nietzschean mustache which brushed the man’s words as he emitted them. As afternoon stretched on into evening, and then night-time, Pepperidge sat helplessly enthralled, struggling to mark and remember the wild revelations his mentor rattled off like idle conversation. He learned of the savage rites of the ash-coated Saivite ascetics of India, who dined in cemeteries and drank blood from human skulls. He was told of the real motivations of the infamous Gilles de Rais of “Bluebeard” fame. Von Junzt spoke of the dangers that awaited those scientists who were these days positing the existence of parallel universes. The mysteries of Chaos and Thelema remained allegorical no more. And, no longer surprisingly, the old mystagogue knew well the researches of the conical dwellers beneath the earth’s surface. At once the shell-shocked Pepperidge knew the source of the most outlandish-seeming information recorded in the Nameless Cults.

  The hour had grown very late indeed when his host summoned his black-clad assistant, who proceeded to show the guest to a room prepared for him. “I wish you Bon Voyage as you begin your return journey, young Ezra. Surama will see you off in the morning. You have not asked, but I fear I can contribute no more books to restore your library. The rest of what you saw on my shelves are mostly standard works of ethnology, psychology, and cryptozoology, not really what you are after, I think.”

  Back home in Arkham at last, Ezra Pepperidge devoted himself with renewed industry to his quest. He was relieved to find in the Nameless Cults certain formulae for the necromantic interrogation of the dead, to be pronounced over the “essential salts,” which he took to mean the decayed remains, however ancient, of the desired informant. He had once read this passage, of course, like all the rest, but he had no longer retained the details, and a general gist would hardly suffice for an incantation, where the nonsense syllables were strictly for the production of certain potent sounds and vibrations.

  But how was he to obtain the detritus of
old Ludvig Prinn? For it was he to whom the Miskatonic librarian must next speak.

  He half-expected that the instructions left by the sometime dweller in his vacated body might contain some relevant information. He must be subconsciously remembering some note which made no sense upon first perusal. Sure enough, there was contact information for some kind of very black market concern trading in forbidden relics of infamous villains and their victims. Once he obtained a catalog from this outfit, he was amazed and disgusted to behold for sale cans of oven ashes from Nazi concentration camps; charred bones stolen from the grave of Adolf Hitler, recovered from his secret burial in a Kremlin wall; the fetus carried by Sharon Tate when the Manson Family butchered her; jar-preserved tumors cut from the fresh corpse of Joseph Merrick, the Victorian “Elephant Man;” and the skull of the notorious Marquis de Sade. Each offering was more loathsome, more soul-upheaving, than the one before it. He wondered how these terrible items could be authenticated, or if they had been. But he had no choice but to trust his source, and so he contacted the dealer via specified clandestine channels.

  It turned out, as he knew it would, that Prinn’s ashes (he had been burnt at the stake in the Inquisition, after all) were available, having been stolen from a secret museum in Holland. The urn cost Pepperidge every cent of his savings and necessitated large loans, but he succeeded in gaining the item.

  The stipulations for the use of the stuff effectively were simple in principle but posed a significant challenge nonetheless. His apartment, with the furniture cleared away, ought to allow enough space, as well as privacy, for his planned operation. But he was going to require an assistant, and one of a particular kind. But, on second thought, Pepperidge thought he had that covered, too. Through his tedious obligations on certain administrative committees he knew of several students on academic probation, teetering on the brink of failing out of the University. He decided to approach one of these. He would offer to pay him for his help and to see to it that one of his professors granted him extra credit for his aid in Pepperidge’s project. The kind of incurious youth he sought would no doubt fail to wonder what sort of experiment a librarian would be carrying out.