The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

  When the hour had come and before stepping onto the bus, Marsh extended a hand and something glittered.

  “Here, you’ll need this,” he said. It was a key on a small gold chain.

  “It’s the key to the front door of the Library of Miskatonic University.”

  I did not ask how he came upon it but wondered why if it was going to be this easy that he and his men had not attempted the theft long before. I took the chain from him. I was wearing gloves. I put them on shortly after entering the fruit cellar as a precaution against any possible contact between their flesh and mine. Marsh’s eyes fell upon my gloved hand and then back up at me. His expression was of boredom, as if he was used to that kind of treatment. We said nothing more to one another and I boarded the bus.

  In a few minutes the small motor coach of extremely poor condition and the color of dirt rattled up State Street and out of town. We passed a number of crumbling, and probably empty houses along a country road and then finally emerging into a long, monotonous stretch of open shore country.

  As I looked ahead, I watched the driver’s bent rigid back and greasy head become more and more hateful to me. The back of his head, almost hairless had a few straggling yellow strands upon his grey scabby skin.

  Resting on the dashboard was a narrow faded paste board sign that normally would have faced the windshield but had been turned inward. The half legible lettering read; ARKHAM-INNSMOUTH-NEWB’PORT. The windows of the bus were heavily soiled and combined with the evening darkness; it was difficult to make out much of the landscape. For a moment I glimpsed the sandy line of an island as the road drew near the beach and later when our backs were to the sea and as the narrow road veered off from the main highway, I caught sight of dead stumps and a long line of cliffs that made me homesick for the Schwarzwald.

  After what seemed to be an eternity, we came upon the lights of a city, Arkham. I was surprised when we drove into that town. It, like Innsmouth, was of remarkable antiquity, but unlike that old fishing village, it was in a high state of preservation. Beautifully kept Georgian and Victorian buildings and houses intricately trimmed and laced with delicate ginger breading all taunted me with their beauty. It was like a painting. A lot like pictures I had seen in books on early American history. Unfortunately, I had to divert my attention from the sightseeing and keep my eyes on the street signs and the direction the driver was taking. I had spent most of the trip studying the map of Arkham, memorizing the major cross streets and thoroughfares that surrounded the University.

  We pulled to a stop in front of a drug store on Market Square. The driver without uttering a word caused the rear side door of the bus to slide open and I stepped out onto the empty street. It was a little after three in the morning and there was no one in sight. All the shops and businesses were closed for the evening while Arkham slept.

  I knew exactly where I was; in the center of the business district, less than a quarter of a mile from the University. I checked the map once more to be doubly sure of my position then hurried across Market Square, past the Providence Hotel, then around the corner and up Sentinel Avenue to the lights of Federal Walk and College Hill which led me to the campus grounds and eventually to the front steps of the library. A burglar alarm hung on the wall to the right of the fluted stone casing that surrounded the doorway. I was surprised at its simplicity. I had to fight down my amazement and keep from laughing out loud at the stupidity that had gone into designing the thing. The alarm, large and probably loud enough to wake up half of Arkham was within arms reach and it was a simple matter to remove the base of the housing and disconnect the two wires that activated the bell mechanism.

  Simpler still was the ease that I opened the door. The key that Marsh had given me fit perfectly and the lock gave no resistance. I stepped confidently across the marble vestibule and into the general area of the library. The floor plan had been accurate and I was able to find my way through the biology and reference sections to the anthropology section with only the occasional use of my flashlight.

  As I crossed the hall to the small genealogical reading room where the book was supposed to have been kept, I heard the savage barking of a dog behind me. The great watchdog flashed around the corner of some aisle shelves. I squeezed off a round and the dog fell on its side softly whimpering, coughing blood with a large tear in its chest made by my automatic.

  I had to move even faster after that, afraid that the gunshot would have attracted attention from the outside. A light from another building on College Hill streaked through an un-curtained window illuminating the body of the dog. I ran across the intervening darkness to the small reading room on the other side. Moving quickly I drew the shade on the one window in that room and turned on my flashlight. The beam leapt across the dark space and fell on a glass cabinet in the center of a table. The case was only a couple of feet across and resting on a pedestal inside it was an old leather bound book. The frame of the case had been bolted to the table top and glittering at its base was a brass plaque which read:

  NECRONOMICON

  ENGLISH TRANSLATION

  By

  FRANCIS DEE M.D.

  AQUIRED FROM THE WHATELY ESTATE

  The top had been hinged to form a lid that was locked. The butt of my automatic broke through the glass with one stroke and seconds later I had the book in my hands. A tingle of excitement ran through me when I touched the binding. It was not as thick as my Latin translation of the work. The pages although yellowed and brittle with age, were of a thicker and newer stock than my copy but still it was nowhere near its length. It had either been condensed or abridged in some way or there were pages missing. I hoped and prayed to the Old Ones that those pages did not include the passages I was searching for.

  Engrossed with my treasure and exhilarated with the power it would bring I carefully turned the first few leaves of written words forgetting for the moment where I was. My engrossed enthusiasm kept me from hearing the tottering footsteps that must have come down the hall. I did not realize that there was someone else in the library until the lights came on.

  I jumped dropping the book into the glass case. I had been discovered. A man stood at the threshold of the reading room. He was alone and unarmed. He was elderly, in his seventies I guessed, possibly older. He wore a tweed vested suit with shirt collar opened and a tie hung loosely around his neck. He must have been in another area of the library all the time. The old caretaker’s mouth continuously bobbed open and closed but I never heard his words. I was oblivious to his inquiries. He was the only thing that stood in my way of leaving. I had little more than a worthless contempt for him. My movements were quick, reflexive, I squeezed off a round from my Luger and a black dot appeared on his forehead. His head jerked and he fell backwards to the carpet.

  With the Necronomicon in hand again, and the flashlight tucked in my jacket pocket, I ran from the scene over turning a stack of books in the biology section as I fled. Briefly stopping at the front door, I peeked outside and finding the way clear I stretched my legs into a wide fierce gate and soon left the grounds of Miskatonic behind me.

  I had made the entire trip of a few blocks and back unseen and within the fifteen minutes that were allotted to me. The driver sat behind the wheel of the bus staring ahead, never turning to look when I approached. Inside the bus I shouted for him to drive off. His movements in getting the engine started and us on our way were languid and I felt deliberate. Perhaps he was unaware of my mission. I paced up and down the aisle between the seats. Forgetting myself I shouted orders in German to be quick but his actions remained the same as we crept away from the curb. Not until I pressed the barrel of my gun against his revolting face and screamed in his tiny ear did he increase the speed of the motor coach.

  I did not relax until we were in the countryside once again with the lights of Arkham out of sight. Not until I felt we were at a safe distance did I let the driver ease back on the accelerator and I sunk into a seat down the aisle from him. I did not like being
close to one that had the “Innsmouth look.” The thought of being around these horribly disgusting people for another day was unsettling. I was suspicious of them and their purpose. Was I just a pawn? I was still unsure if I was being used to fetch the book for them or if the motives they presented were genuine. What stopped them from obtaining the Necronomicon themselves? Maybe, I thought, they feared the people of Arkham. The “Innsmouth look” would surely cause them problems anywhere. Then there was that foul odor that preceded all of them, and that guard dog. The smell could easily instill savage excitement in any dumb beast.

  Another thing baffled me. If they were using me, then why the elaborate plan to bring me into the country if they were not sincere? They could have easily hired someone locally to do the job, or could they have? Quite possibly the reputation of their kind was wide spread and it might have been necessary for them to import an outsider.

  Things were moving too quickly and my mind raced. The course of my thoughts ran that way and parts of it still puzzle me today. Sitting in the bus, I gave up wondering, but not my hatred for them. If I was allowed to return home with the book then they were truly my benefactors but I could not suppress my racial disgust. My nerves were on edge and after the incident at Miskatonic and my run in with the driver I would have gladly murdered them all in their beds.

  At the Gilman House, a sullen looking night clerk let me have room 428 and after climbing three flights of stairs, exhausted with no sleep in over twenty-four hours, I threw myself on the cheap, iron framed bed. I lay there, tired and hungry, wishing I had taken Marsh’s advice and eaten something when I had the chance.

  The room was a dismal rear unit with two windows and bare cheap furnishings. The door to my room did not have a lock on it but there was a small bolt fitted to it, as there was with the two lateral doors to the connecting rooms. Relieved to be alone but still suspicious of my benefactors, I inspected the bolts and with all three found that the jambs were cracked in the area around them and nailed back together again as if they had been broken in at one time then repaired.

  Even if a man is hunted day and night, eventually he needs a place to sleep that is secure. I had known this before leaving home and recalling a trick taught to me by a friend in the Gestapo years ago, I had brought with me a dozen wood wedges about six inches long. After checking that all the bolts had been drawn tightly, I drove the wedges with the heel of my boot between the cracks at the bottoms and tops of the doors, securing them against entry.

  As dawn brightened I felt safer but did not undress. I laid down reading Dee’s copy of the Necronomicon until overcome by exhaustion, I fell asleep.

  I had a dark shadowy dream of dim mists clogged with fitful screaming. I was elevated somewhat as if standing on a hill and below me men and women cried out in agony. Then from out of the mists came monstrous black, rubbery things with wings and no face that snatched me up by the stomach and carried me off through infinite leagues of black air over towers of dead and horrible cities. Finally getting me into a grey void where I saw the needle like pinnacles of enormous mountains miles below, they let me drop.

  I awoke to darkness and the sound of pounding at my door. I had slept over twelve hours and Marsh had sent two men around to fetch me. My departure was taking place as planned.

  Later and after walking over some of the same deserted streets I had the night before, we came to a wharf that had a small boat moored to it. Marsh and two others accompanied me as we rowed out to meet a fishing trawler bound for Spain. It, like the freighter, had been hired to take me as passenger. I was impressed once again by the ingenuity of these Innsmouth people and wondered what connections in black marketing or smuggling they must have possessed in order to carry out my transportation so efficiently.

  I kept on guard all the way to the trawler, my hand never leaving my gun but there was never any indication of foul play amongst them. When climbing the ladder to board the trawler I stopped and looked down at Marsh who was at the bow of the rowboat attempting to give me a hand up. I drew my Luger and pointed it at the bridge of his almost non-existent nose. For an instant, I imagined his grey face splattered all over the small boat below, then feeling generous for all the good they had done me I smiled, holstered the weapon, and clamored up the side of the ship.

  ***

  In the years that followed I lived apart from the outside world but I did not dwell alone. In that now singularly evil looking wooded hollow that had at one time held for me the memories of a happy childhood, rested hundreds of unmarked graves bearing the last remaining vestiges of my regiment. If a human being lacks the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon the companionship of things that are not.

  For a while I went about naming them, and when weather permitted I would sit amongst them as I did years before at my lectern in Austria and discuss any current research problems I was experiencing at the time. Through the years we all became very close, they the classmates and I their instructor, so it was because of this friendship that I didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable in asking them to give up the only valued possession remaining to them. You see, it was about this time that I was experiencing one of my most difficult problems. I was attempting the construction of the machine which primarily consisted of gold, silver and several small mirrors.

  The mirrors were no problem for the walls of the schloss were practically adorned with them and I had years to fashion tools and learn to cut them to the exact specifications of the plan. Silver did not present a problem either for only a small quantity was needed and I owned an old silver tea pot which provided more than enough of the precious metal.

  The gold presented the problem. The entire machine was predominantly gold in its construction and there was none to be found anywhere on my estate. The thought of obtaining work of any kind to acquire the money needed to purchase the gold was distasteful to me. My solitude had become very dear through the years and any contact with the outside world, no matter how temporary, was an unbearable thought.

  It was at this moment of despair that I turned to my old regiment for help. I put the question to them and being as close as we were, I did not consider it rude to take something for which they had no further use. It took several months to extract all the gold from their teeth that I needed. Finally, I removed the gold bridgework from the right side of my mouth, both as an act of good faith to my friends from the grave and to acquire the last amount necessary to complete the task.

  Three years elapsed in the construction of the device. I cut and shaped hundreds of pieces of mirror glass to obtain the five pieces I finally used on the machine. My uncle’s kitchen stove would glow red hot, at times being used from sunup to sundown. I fashioned a small kiln within the oven and melted the silver and gold to construct the various components and many times I had to melt the articles down a second, third and even a fourth time until the proper molds could be achieved to perfection. Time meant very little as long as there was enough to complete the project because I knew the end result would make me immortal.

  Once the machine was completed, a wave of depression came over me unlike anything I had felt since the end of the war. Although my recreation of the ancient device was built to perfection, it still lacked two very important parts, the likes of which I could not decipher from the plans. I again turned to the Esoteric Order of Dagon for guidance. I had made an exact copy of the scroll containing the plan and I mailed it to my correspondents for advice.

  As the weeks passed, I began to question the wisdom of my actions. Any doubts I harbored about the act were soon alleviated when one morning, less than two months later, there came a knock on my door and I was greeted by Peter, my friend and confidant through years of letter writing, carrying a carved, wooden box under his arm. The carvings on the box were similar to those of ancient Hyperborean hieroglyphics I had seen in the Book of Eibon but the total combination of symbols was unfamiliar to me. You can imagine the wonder and utter amazement I felt when, after the brief conversatio
n with him and a quick scrutiny of the contents of the box, I found that he had produced the missing components that were lacking in the completion of the mechanism.

  I broke out an old bottle of brandy I had been saving since the war. After a few hours and several drinks I brought him up to date on my research and he informed me of his activities since our last correspondence the year before.

  Peter, his full name I have withheld for obvious reasons of secrecy, was the head of the council of the Unknown Nine, the governing body of the Order of Dagon. Although we never met when I was in Innsmouth, I was happy to see him, noticing with relief that he was physically normal, not like the others I had met there.

  It unfolded that he left the Esoteric Order of Dagon after a dispute over the course of his own studies. I was flattered to learn that his studies followed a similar path as mine and that since he had seen the copy of the machine diagram I had sent, he spent the next few weeks plotting to steal the two articles he knew would be impossible for me to fabricate. They had been kept as religious artifacts by the people of Innsmouth, kept in the very same church I had been in on that insane night in 1955. His office on the council gave him certain liberties that made the theft simple and his escape from the eastern seaboard all the more easy. Since the council had a copy of the diagram in their possession thanks to me, and the two necessary parts, they had decided to build the machine and attempt the crossing themselves. Except Peter disagreed with the place of the coming and that is when he decided to come to my aid instead.

  As the evening passed, I became careless with my emotions. So long had I been starved for human companionship that our relationship grew in one evening of drunken stupor. Soon I was eagerly agreeing to a part time association with him. We even went so far as to make a pact on paper decreeing our determination to resolve the mysteries of the universe. In the midst of our alcoholic stupor and enthusiasm, we carried the jest a little too far. Before parting for the evening Peter and I drew up a document in which we swore allegiance to the great and mighty Cthulhu and signed it in our own blood.