During lunch that afternoon, I was finally approached by one of the other boarders. Throughout the past week, I had formed the distinct impression that the other men in the building were avoiding me purposely. That feeling was confirmed and clarified when Mr. Dunderhill first sat down beside me. The glare Mrs. Bettings gave him transformed into a smile the second she saw that I was watching her. I knew then that she, God bless her soul, must have ordered the other tenants to not pester me about Elizabeth’s death. In that building, her word was law. After a tentative start, Mr. Dunderhill and I ended up having a normal conversation about the weather, the neighborhood, the death of Mr. Hunt, and yes, Elizabeth. Though it was still difficult for me to speak of, it was a relief to have at least this small aspect of my life returning to normal, to once again feel part of society.
With Mr. Dunderhill having risked the wrath of our landlady and broken the ice, dinner that evening was a pleasant affair. When we were all sated, random bits of small talk turned into a debate on baseball. Most of the men were enthusiastic about it, and guessed at how long it would take the Red Sox to win another championship. As per usual, Mr. Dunderhill took the opportunity to complain about the Babe Ruth trade, and bitterly suggested, “A hundred years!”
Everyone laughed. Even I found the notion ludicrous.
“Mark my words,” he insisted. “It’ll be the next century before they win it again.”
At that, the conversation turned to batting, pitching, fielding. I knew statistics, of course, but not as applied to that game. There were too many names being discussed, and I recognized only a scant few. Losing interest, I turned to Mr. Pfenniger, a German immigrant who had lost his family in the War.
“I understand that game not,” he confided to me. “It is…”
He waved his hands, trying, and failing, to convey a concept to me.
“Langweilig,” he said finally, unable to find the English word.
I nodded sympathetically, pretending to know what he was getting at.
As we sat and listened to the others, he took out a cigar and a match. Even before he struck it, my gaze was focused on that tiny match, my heart pound with an unknown trepidation. Days before, I had proven to myself that a small flame can cause a burn if stupid, stubborn persistence is applied—but that burn would be nothing more than a red mark and some lingering pain. My fear of fire had been overcome.
What, then, was the problem?
The moment it flared, I knew. I tried to not appear alarmed, but excused myself and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I drank deeply, then allowed myself to consider the horrifying insight. It was simply this: I was terrified that, upon speaking with Elizabeth, she would accuse me of letting her burn to death.
I was afraid of discovering that she might hate me.
That night in bed, sleep did not come. Sick with worry, I turned on the light and pulled out the box of her letters stored beneath my bed. I picked out and re-read a few at random. Slowly, her words comforted me. It was plain that she had loved me. There could never be room for any hatred in her heart.
On and on I went, stopping when I found the one that she had written after our first night together. There was no postage on it. She had hand-delivered it to me, unable to trust the postman, or Mrs. Bettings, or anyone else who might come into contact with it. She seemed to be afraid that our new secret might be revealed just by touching the paper. I read it again and again, until the words were burned into my brain.
I fell asleep with it still in my hand.
Eight
Despite all that had happened, my world continued to spin—though not smoothly, to be sure. I lazed around the following morning, conflicting priorities pulling me in opposite directions: one being the burning curiosity regarding the bizarre mysteries confronting me, the other, the reality of a thesis that needed to be finished. For the latter, the aid of Professor Josephson was needed. It was time to meet with him as he had asked. Knowing that his usual schedule would keep him busy until about noon, I had some free time.
Still trying to decide upon the validity of Andrew Cooke, his recommendation, at least, seemed to be worth exploring. Late morning, I made my way to the university library. In a back corner of the first floor, hidden behind a maze of bookcases, were the history and archaeology sections. I had never had a need to visit this area of the building, and did not recognize the desk clerk; I hoped he would not know me either. He stood sorting books in a cart beside the counter. The subject matter and questionable reputation of the tomes made me wonder: If I were to simply ask, would I be told that I was mistaken, that no such books existed? I decided to bluff.
“Good morning, sir,” he said as I approached. “Can I help you with something?”
“You may be able to, yes,” I said quickly. “I am aware that the university has several ancient volumes stored here. I require access to one of them: The Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred.”
Arms folded, I stood there, awaiting an answer.
“That one…” He consulted a sheet of paper on the desk. “Yes, that one is on the list. Do you have written permission?”
“Permission? Why do I need anyone’s permission? This is a library.”
“It’s a relatively new policy. That particular volume can only be viewed with written permission from either the Director of the Library, Doctor Trautmann, or Doctor Gardiner of the Archaeology Department.”
I tried my best to not let my façade falter.
“I spoke with Doctor Gardiner only a week ago or so. I work with a collaborator of his. He has given me permission. For research purposes.”
“Be that as it may, I need to see it in writing.”
I allowed irritation to creep into my voice.
“At that point, nothing was actually written down. But I can go back to his office right now and bring that back for you.”
“Doctor Gardener was called away within the past few days and is traveling abroad at the moment,” he said.
That statement took the wind out of my sails. We stood in silence.
“Doctor Trautmann’s office is on the third floor of this building,” he offered, returning to his sorting. “You may schedule an appointment with his secretary.”
“Very well,” I replied, trying not to sound annoyed. “Thank you for your help.”
I walked away as casually as possible, stopping to grab a copy of the small university newspaper from a stack near the stairwell. There was a strong smell of ink; they had been newly printed. My eyes passed over the headlines, but nothing registered while I paused to think. Lying had never been my strong suit. I had heard of Doctor Trautmann, but could not recall what he looked like; we had certainly never been introduced. Was access to the books worth the effort?
I tucked the newspaper beneath my arm and climbed the two flights. Viewed from the outside, the topmost story of the building was significantly smaller than the other two, as if it had been added on as an afterthought. Inside, from the third-floor landing, the entire layout of this much smaller level was revealed. More than half of the available floor space was simply a large, open area with several desks, most of them unoccupied. The few people present were busy writing, typing, or filling out paperwork. Set into the far wall were two pairs of ornate double doors. The ones on the left were open, revealing a large, empty conference room. The ones on the right were closed.
I assumed that the woman seated at the largest desk in the open area was the secretary of Doctor Trautmann. She looked to be in her fifties, and her appearance—hair, nails, and clothing—was immaculate. I approached her, continuing to play the same character, but taking care to be more polite.
“Good morning,” I greeted her.
“Good morning,” she replied coolly. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I am aware that the university has a copy of an ancient volume—the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred—in this building. I was directed to obtain written permission from Doctor Trautmann in order to view it. I have already spoken with
Doctor Gardiner and he has given me verbal permission, but as he is currently abroad, he cannot provide it in writing. So, if Doctor Trautmann has a few minutes—”
“Doctor Trautmann is a very busy man.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to sound patient. “This is not an urgent request.”
She looked back at me, obviously irritated, then began paging through an appointment book spread before her.
“Next Wednesday at eleven o’clock is available.”
“Next Wednesday?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
I sighed.
“Be here promptly,” she said.
Professor Josephson was in his office when I arrived. The door was wide open.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” I said as I entered and seated myself. I placed my briefcase on the floor beside my chair, and set the folded newspaper on the professor’s desk.
“Hello, Robert,” he replied. “All went well in Boston, I hope?”
“As well as could be expected.”
“Good. I realize that you’re likely still reeling, and will be for some time, but I wanted to meet with you to ensure that you would have something upon which to focus.” He cleared his throat. “I know that I was able to distract myself and take some comfort in my work after my wife died some years ago.”
He handed me a sheet of paper.
“I drew up a list of classes you will be required to complete for your degree. As you can see, there are not many. I feel that your comprehension of the basic theoretical principles is superb. These final ones will fill in the few gaps in your knowledge.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at his praise.
“The reason why I am requiring the lesser course load is so that you have plenty of time to correctly apply those concepts in your thesis. After reviewing and evaluating your progress this past semester, I must also recommend that you dig deeper. Your current work, as it stands, is too broad. You must both narrow your scope, and create something that is uniquely your own.”
“I understand, Professor. I did think of a few approaches I can take. We can discuss the merits of each after I take some time to evaluate them better.”
“Good. Did you have any questions for me?”
The way he asked that—with an odd emphasis on the word questions—made me wonder if he meant my thesis, or my new extracurricular interest. With the subject at hand being my thesis, I saw no need to muddy the waters by bringing up anything else.
“Not right now, no.”
When I stood up to leave, he moved around to meet me. I grabbed at the newspaper I had left on the desk, but instead knocked it onto the floor. It opened up to display a headline that was impossible for either of us to ignore.
ARCHAEOLOGIST MISSING
Our very own Doctor Quentin Gardiner, head of the Department of Archaeology, has been officially declared missing. Doctor Gardiner traveled to Guyana last week to study a site that had just recently been uncovered due to a landslide induced by heavy rains. Those same rains also threatened to destroy the site, and so, with time of the essence, he departed posthaste. Unfortunately, the worst occurred shortly after his arrival there, the unstable area being struck by a second slide. The search for Doctor Gardiner’s group has begun.
The university would like to remind the entire Arkham community that missing is not the same as dead. As long as the search continues, please keep all involved in your thoughts and prayers.
In the silence that followed, the professor kept a hand on the desk as he slowly backed to his chair. We both sat down heavily. When he spoke, voice hollow, his mind was far away.
“He…We had a lunch appointment. He broke it on short notice. He tried to explain where and why, but I didn’t let him. It was his affair, and I sensed some…reticence from him. He said South America, and we left it at that.”
“Professor,” I said. “This can’t be a coincidence. Can it?”
“I’m sorry, I’m…I’m not following.”
“Do you think it possible this has something to do with the stars? The alignment?”
He was still in the grip of shock, face blank.
In a whisper, but with emphasis, I said, “The Ancient Ones.”
At those words, he blinked. The stupor was gone. I could see his mind whirling, considering the data, working through probabilities.
“It’s possible,” he said. “But you must realize that Quentin Gardiner was, first and foremost, a committed archaeologist. Any significant find would have demanded his presence.”
The professor sat silently. Able to offer nothing else, I was ready to leave him alone, when he spoke up once again.
“However, there are few true coincidences,” he said. “Things happen for a reason, whether caused by the hand of man, God, the Devil…or the Ancient Ones.”
I don’t know if he meant it so, but I took his words as a prompt.
“Professor, regarding your suggestion to me that I contact Bertram Hunt…”
“Yes?”
“That’s no longer possible. He died last week. While I was in Boston.”
He was clearly stunned by the news.
“This is a disturbing set of events.”
For me, it was disturbing in more ways than one, as I remembered Mr. Hunt’s final words to me.
“However, I did manage to contact his grandson who has inherited the bookstore. He is willing to provide some help, as you said Mr. Hunt might have.”
“That is…reassuring. I had hoped to rid myself of involvement in things of this nature, but I may have to contact Higgins.” He frowned. “Did you…Did you make any progress on those equations?”
“Nothing so far, no.”
“Of course. The past week has been awful for you. I think it would be unwise to spend too much time on them. But—” He paused. “But consider the time I first showed them to you. Those matrix transformations I employed to reduce the complexity?”
I nodded.
“That is an example of the application of principles I would like to see in your thesis. Yes. That is an excellent example.”
Surprised by his change of attitude, I readily agreed.
“I see. So…I should use them as a…mental exercise. To get me to think differently, and be creative. Then apply that creativity to my thesis.”
“Exactly.”
There was an unspoken finality in that word. I think he was embarrassed. He had just given me permission to do something contrary to his previous position—though, to be clear, by no means was it an enthusiastic endorsement to do so.
Our business concluded, I rose to leave.
“Professor, is next Wednesday a good day to have our review?”
“Yes, that should be fine,” he said distractedly. “At about this time. Good afternoon, Robert.”
Nine
I arrived at the front door of Hunt’s Fine Books that evening shortly after six o’clock, and knocked three times. The store was dark, and I could detect no movement. I had the opportunity to turn around, go back to the boarding house and forget all about this. I could review my thesis. I could do anything else. But I stayed. Then I saw a shadow approach the door from the far corner of the room. When Andrew Cooke opened the door, he wore a satisfied grin.
“Good evening, Robert,” he said “Please come in.”
He led me through the darkened store, pointing out obstructions over which I might stumble. We went through a doorway at the rear of the room, then up a flight of stairs to his living quarters on the second floor. From the stairs, we emerged into a sitting room, or den, or dining room—it had elements of all three. A very comfortable-looking, but well-worn leather couch was straight ahead. Against the wall on the right, a desk was positioned between two windows. In the center of the floor was a small round table of a dark red wood, just large enough to seat four people, and hold their plates of food for dinner—though not if Mrs. Bettings hosted it, I thought bemusedly. To the left were two doorways, the near one leading into a bed
room, the farther one into the kitchen.
And books. Did I mention the books? Every wall was filled with shelves, every shelf packed with books, standing vertically from one end to the other. Between the tops of the texts and the shelf above them, others had been inserted horizontally into every free space. I was flabbergasted by the amount. It seemed possible there were more books in that room than were for sale in the store below.
Andrew closed the door behind us, took my coat, and hung it on a hook on the door.
“What brings you here at this hour?”
As if he didn’t already know.
“As you saw from my reaction, your offer…shocked me. I think that shocked is the right word. It was both repulsive and tempting at the same time, but the temptation was itself repugnant.”
“Repugnant? That’s a strong term. In what way?”
“I have accepted the tenets of Christianity. My parents placed my feet on that path, and I walked it. When I came of age and was able to make a choice, I stayed on that path, and I remain on it to this day. I take comfort in it. But speaking with the dead…that flies in the face of all that I have learned. I also thought…”
I choked up, hesitant to actually speak the words. Andrew waited patiently. When I did speak, the syllables were vomited from my mouth.
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