“Don’t be silly,” she told herself and kept working.
The next volume on her list was the Krypticon of Silander, a real rarity. Very few copies survived in anywhere near a complete and readable state. There had been one in England that made the news. The owner had been involved in a murder-suicide and nobody seemed to know what had happened to the book or the scans he’d purportedly made. Another was supposedly circulating in Eastern Europe but it was little more than rumour. Which left the one here. It was a primary reason why she’d transferred to Miskatonic. Where else could you find so many rarities in one place?
Actually reading it would be a challenge. She knew Latin, but not Greek. She’d have to photograph the entire thing and get someone else to do it for her.
“At least I can’t accidentally summon a demon by reading from it,” she chuckled, trying to improve her spirits. She still felt nervous.
Theo reached up for it. The Krypticon was on a higher shelf and she couldn’t quite reach it. Then, she withdrew her hand. She’d just noticed the sign above the shelf. She read it again. It had to be a joke, surely:
Danger: Authorised Librarians Only.
And, below that: Danger of Death.
She chewed her lip. It had to be a joke, she decided, like the comic shop in town which had a sign proclaiming: Thieves will be persecuted.
Theo reached out again and really stretched. Her finger nearly hooked the spine but slipped away. Finally, she managed to hook it and began to jiggle out from where it sat. She felt a little guilty. It wasn’t good for the book, weakening and breaking the spine, and it was so old... But, she had to examine it, so...
It dropped down into her lap and a moment later a strange and violent noise like a loud wind seemed to envelop her.
What’s that? she tapped on her phone.
What’s what?
The sound was growing in intensity.
That noise.
What noise?
It was almost deafening. If Zane didn’t know about it, it couldn’t be an alarm. And if it wasn’t an alarm, what the hell was it? Theo looked up in confusion. She’d never been around a tornado but she imagined this was what one sounded like.
Ahead of her was a strange swirling vortex of what looked like ash, like a mini-tornado. Could you get a twister indoors? As she stared at it, a tall, thin figure seemed to appear within the swirl of dust. Something not quite human.
“This can’t be real!” she exclaimed.
She barely registered her phone beep as Zane sent another message, didn’t bother to check. She was scared.
Theo threw the Krypticon to the floor and shouted: “Take it!”
There was a sudden silence as the swirl vanished to fully reveal a figure as tall as the ceiling – nine or ten feet – stick thin with skin reminiscent of blackened bark. There were no facial or other features she could see, only the striations of its strange, charred-black skin. A palpable sense of menace seemed to emanate from it, or so Theo imagined. In her terrified state, objective fact hardly mattered. Despite the lack of eyes, she was certain it was staring at her.
She looked over her shoulder, planning her retreat. There was a man standing at the end of the gangway. Theo couldn’t see him clearly. He was shadowed in the half-light but she thought he seemed old, bent. He seemed to be bearded. She thought he was staring at her, or perhaps past her, at the... thing. He was clearly one of the librarians, although she didn’t recognise him. Was he responsible for the thing that had appeared or was he as surprised to see it as she? She couldn’t tell.
Theo turned her gaze back. The figure was advancing towards her. There was no sound. It moved noiselessly. In the brief moment she looked at it, she was struck by the way in which ash seemed to fall from it with every swift yet silent step.
Then, the man was right behind her, grabbing her chair, turning it, pulling her away from the thing she could now do nothing but stare at. Normally, Theo would’ve thrown abuse at someone grabbing her chair without permission, but this situation was nothing like normal. If he got her out alive, she’d forgive the breach of etiquette.
He swung her about at the end of the gangway and pushed her towards the entrance to the restricted section. Her phone bleeped but she was too terrified to care. No longer being able to see the horrific figure was scarier than actually seeing it. She just hoped the old man could outrun it. He was certainly going fast.
The security door was before them. He didn’t pause, just swung her sideways and slammed her chair into the door. Theo swore as the door burst open and she went flying through it, tumbling to the floor, her chair landing on its side some distance away.
She looked up with a groan and saw the man standing in the open doorway. For a moment, she thought he looked like the painting of Professor Armitage that hung in the entrance hall. Then he was gone and the charred figure was standing in his place.
Theo swore again. There was no way she could crawl to her chair and get it upright before it reached her.
Then, as it advanced on her, hands reaching out for her, she heard footsteps.
“Zane?” she called. “Get away!”
Someone spoke a series of strange, guttural vowels and the figure halted, then vanished in a swirl of dust and a roar of white noise.
Theo looked up in confusion. It was the librarian who’d booked her the study room.
“You silly girl,” she said. “It’s not safe to handle certain books. They are old and dangerous, full of mould spores that can cause confusion and hallucinations. Didn’t you see the signs? Authorised librarians only. Well, let’s get you to the campus doctor, dear.” She righted her chair and brought it over.
Theo stared at her. It had been real, she was certain.
“What happened?” she asked, as she climbed into her chair.
“As I said, mould spores. Now, dear, let’s get you to the doctor.” The librarian reached out for the handles.
“No, please, I can do it myself.”
“Alright.”
“It was real,” she said.
“Nobody would believe you and if you were to persist in the notion, you may find yourself adversely affected. Better to accept you had an adverse reaction to mould spores.”
Theo heard her phone beep. Where was it?
The librarian had it. “Who’s Zane?” she asked. “I take it he helped you break in. Unfortunately, not all our security is computerised. Is he another student?”
Theo nodded. “Yes.”
“We’ll need to have a word with him, as well. I hope we can persuade him not to leak anything online. I would hate to see you both expelled, charges brought, a lawsuit...”
Theo could see where it was going. Miskatonic University would go as far as was necessary to protect its secrets.
“I think I can persuade Zane to keep quiet.”
“Good.”
“Who was that man?” she asked.
“What man?”
“The man who got me out of there, who saved me. He looked rather like that painting of Professor Armitage.”
“Armitage?” The librarian paused and looked at her.
“Yes.”
“You were lucky. Only two other people have managed to reach those books without permission, and both of them are dead. Ashes to ashes...” She started to walk again. “I think someone was watching over you. You were very lucky, very lucky indeed...”
They Come Crawling
Logan Noble
From the private journal of Doctor Bruce Allen
My academic quest has come to an end. I believe I’ve found it. The Alkanas Tamsiai. A tome that I have hunted for decades. I’ve been discounted. Mocked by my peers. I’m tired. But I’m exhilarated. The Hungry Dark. A book that holds secrets of darkness untethered to our world. I’ve gone through great lengths to secure this. I am ready to see the words that lay inside.
***
The clouds swirled. Black and pregnant with rain, swollen with thunder. Donald, from the dark of his
car, frowned up at the storm. He’d listened to the radio on his ride over, the weather forecaster’s voices drifting in and out in sporadic waves of crackling static. The forecaster, in a level voice, spoke of storms all week. Donald shivered. Though his car’s heater was churning out warmth, he felt cold. He could feel it in his bones. He reached into his coat and fished out his flask, cursing the night he had already had. Donald took a swig. The whiskey scalded his throat and sent a rolling surge of warmth through his rib cage. It didn’t do much to improve his mood. It’s going to take a lot more than this flask for that. He turned his gaze to his rear view mirror. Headlights enveloped his car. Filthy bastards.
The men had come this afternoon. He’d been at his desk grading papers when the knocks came. Three hard knocks. When he’d answered the door, two men dressed in black trench coats and dark fedoras greeted him. One of them, sporting a cleanly trimmed mustache, produced a badge.
“Hello. Are you Professor Donald Moore?” As the man with the mustache spoke, the badge vanished back into his pocket. The move was fluid, practiced.
“I am. But –”
“May we come in?” The second man spoke. He was short and stocky, his eyes dark and hooded. He flashed a false-looking smile. Yellow teeth hunched crookedly behind his pale lips. He reminded Donald of an esurient bulldog.
“I suppose so. Please.”
Donald led them into his office where he spent his time between his courses. It was cramped and poorly lit, his old wooden desk dominating the room. It was covered in stacks of ungraded papers and dusty textbooks. Donald offered the men seats. They didn’t take them.
They introduced themselves. The tall one with a mustache stated his name as Agent Dagle. He introduced his partner, the bulldog, as Agent Salazar.
“I’m sorry to arrive this late in the afternoon. Especially unannounced. I hope you understand that our business is urgent.” Dagle spoke quickly, his diction clean and particular.
Donald sat at his desk, nervously looking at the two men before him. They seemed so solemn. He wondered, briefly, if they were armed.
“That’s quite all right, agents. I don’t mean to pry,” Donald said, attempting to conjure up an image of the badge in his mind, “but what organization are you from? Are you federal agents?”
The agents exchanged a quick look. Dagle spoke again. “You could say that.” His voice remained level but with a tinge of impatience creeping in. “I would like to cut to the chase, Professor. Do you know a man by the name of Bruce Allen?”
“Of course. Professor Allen. He and I were colleagues at Miskatonic University. Did something happen to Professor Allen? He’s a good friend.”
While Donald spoke, Salazar produced a small notepad. He scribbled quickly, his ham sized fist gripping the worn pencil.
“Professor Allen is currently a suspect in an investigation.”
Donald raised an eyebrow. Professor Allen, a man nearly fifty years old, was balding, short in stature, with thick, always smudged spectacles. He wasn’t a criminal. He tried to imagine the man committing a crime. He found that he couldn’t.
“An investigation? For what?”
Salazar spoke again. His voice was like gravel. “That’s classified.”
Dagle glared at his partner. “He’s right. Though I can share some facts. The professor is being investigated for theft. A valuable item has gone missing from his university. As has Professor Allen.”
“Missing?”
“Correct.”
Donald sat for a moment, processing what he’d been told. Bruce. A thief. He remembered the first time he’d met the professor. At a conference in Portland. Many experts on obscure literature spoke. Bruce had sat in the back, giddy to hear what they had to say. When he’d shaken Bruce’s hand, it had been slick with sweat.
“What did he steal?”
Another look between the two men. Salazar frowned. Dagle turned his head and gave Donald a smile. It seemed forced. From far off, muffled, thunder rumbled. “We aren’t supposed to tell you anything else. However, I would like to make an exception for you. You are the utmost expert of obscure literatures. Your knowledge of the stolen item may be helpful.” Salazar grunted, a look of disgust rolling through his cramped features. “The item in question is a piece of Lithuanian literature known as the Alkanas Tamsiai.”
Donald looked back and forth between the agents. Their faces were grave. Lips pursed. They looked tired. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
Salazar looked offended.
“You think something’s funny, Professor?”
“No, Agent Salazar. You two are chasing an urban legend. The Alkanas Tamsiai doesn’t exist.”
“Our employers say differently.”
“I’m telling you,” Donald said, still smiling, “this book isn’t real.” He reached into his desk drawer, scanning quickly before moving to the next one. After a couple of drawers, he found it. It was a book he’d written in his youth called The Guide to Occult Literatures of the World. Though the binding was falling apart and the pages were worn, it was a book he consulted often. As he grew older, his memory had begun to fail him. The book could be helpful when the correct situations arose. He flipped it open, turning the pages until he found it. The two agents watched him quietly, looking interested and offended at the same time. When he found it, Donald grinned.
“Here it is. When I wrote this guide, I used many of my colleagues at Miskatonic. Professor Rice. Professor Wilmarth. But Bruce was the most helpful. Though his job title says Economy professor, he holds a certain love for rare tomes. The Alkanas Tamsiai is the one he obsessed over the most. It was published in the 16th century by Aleksandra Dalia, a scholar of the time. He published many works in Latin. Mostly religious texts. After many years of constant publications, Dalia vanished. Many claimed he was dead. Then, seemingly out of the blue, the Alkanas Tamsiai appeared. The book was supposedly authored by the man. Take that with a grain of salt, though. The work was unlike anything the country had seen. It spoke of black masses held for creatures beyond our reality. The words were foul. The church claimed the work to be some kind of dark magic and condemned Dalia. It’s too bad the man was nowhere to be found. The police searched and searched. Meanwhile, the book was passed between religious figures, hidden from the prying eyes of the people. Many of the priests and professors who had the book spoke of terrible nightmares. Some committed suicide in violent fashions. One priest slit his throat midway through mass.”
Dagle whistled.
“Several men, after finding the book, fled their position. No one ever saw them again. That’s when the book vanished from existence. No one can seem to agree what happened to it. Every once in a blue moon, a collector will claim to have a copy. They are always discounted as fakes.”
Donald leaned back in his chair. The agents stared at him. “Doesn’t exist. Professor Allen is being charged for a crime he couldn’t have committed.”
“Thank you for the history lesson.” Salazar stepped forward, tucking the pad into his jacket pocket. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “However, that’s not what we came here for. There’s something we need from you.” Salazar leaned on Donald’s desk, the wood groaning under the man’s massive weight. His breath smelled of tobacco. His eyes were grey and cold. Donald suddenly realized how alone he was on the campus. Two men. From an undisclosed organization. They could cart him away. Murder him.
“I’m sorry, I –” Donald rose quickly. Salazar gripped his shoulder, shoving him back down into the seat. “Hey!”
“Listen, Professor. Allen has the book. We know he does. The question is, where? Now, his office at the Miskatonic. Have you been inside?”
Donald looked to Dagle for support. The tall man only stared back impassively. Donald was sweating now. Beads rolled down his forehead. And Salazar only stared.
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
“I-I-I have. Once. He sits in the big building on the west side of campus.”
“Can you get inside?�
�
“Huh?”
“Can you get inside his office?”
“I have a master key for the campus. I think I still have it somewhere.”
Salazar leaned back and grinned. The motion looked unnatural on his squat head.
“Excellent. Grab your coat, Professor. I think it’s time you lead us there.”
***
I’ve made a grave mistake. The words. Inside. They are in a language never spoken by man. As I attempted to decipher them, they began to make sense. Then the visions came. Of the great God Gilzahep. Of a thousand heads. He resides in the hungry dark. Watching… waiting. His messengers are legion. Everywhere I look, I see them. They live in the shadows. Gilzahep wants me for his own. The way he claimed hundreds of men before me.
How much longer can I withstand the tide…
***
Behind him, the agents blared on their car horn. Donald glanced over his shoulder. Their headlights cut through the darkness, blinding him. This isn’t good. Who are these men? He had begun to suspect that they weren’t government agents. They technically never said they were. Above him, the sky rumbled. A single drop struck his windshield. It rolled down the glass slowly, expanding as it moved. Several more came after. Then it began to pour.
Over the sound of the rain, Donald heard a car door slam. A quick glance to the mirror confirmed what he knew. The stout silhouette of Salazar. With a heavy sigh, he turned off his car and stepped out into the rain.
It assaulted him. It soaked through his light coat and his shoes. Salazar, face hidden under the shadow of his hat, grabbed his upper arm viciously. “Let’s move it, Professor. The sooner we do this, the sooner you never have to see us again.”
Allen’s building rose tall and dark through the rain. They hustled quickly to the door. When they got to it, Salazar tore at the handle. It didn’t budge. Locked.
Miskatonic Dreams Page 16