Read That Which Should Not Be Online
Authors: Brett J. Talley
The air was as crisp that day as any other in January, but there was an unnatural chill in the wind that portended the coming of a storm. The iron gray clouds that crept across the sky hung low, as if full to bursting with winter snow. I was perusing Cotton Mather’s
Wonders of the Invisible World
in front of the lighted hearth in my room quite contentedly when there was a sharp knock on my door. It was Henry.
“Sorry to bother you, Carter. I met Dr. Thayerson today, and he seemed rather anxious to see you.”
I remember placing a marker on my page. I did not return to that book for many years. I was confused. I had seen Thayerson only a day before, and he had seemed as relaxed and convivial as always. I could not imagine what could have provoked his anxiety to speak with me, yet again, so soon.
“Did he say if something was wrong?” I asked Henry as I slipped on my boots and heavy coat.
“He did not, just that I should find you and send you straightaway. He would say no more, and I admit I was concerned. I certainly hope nothing has happened.”
I could see the anxiety in Henry’s face. He did not, on that day, possess the iron temperament that time and bitter experience has gifted him with.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Armitage,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I fear Thayerson is getting a little senile in his old age. He probably just forgot I saw him only yesterday. Besides, what could have come about in a single day that is so important?”
I left Henry there. He did not seem convinced, but obviously there was no time to tend to his concerns. I made my way across Arkham Green to Putnam Hall. I found Dr. Thayerson pacing his office in what can only be described as a fevered state. Upon my arrival, though, his expression suddenly changed, as if he wished to present the impression to me that nothing of any terrible significance weighed on his mind.
“Ah, Mr. Weston. Do sit down.”
As I took the seat opposite him, Thayerson stretched his arms out across his desk and clasped his hands. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Weston, I have a favor to ask of you, and in the interest of complete honesty, it is no minor one.”
I listened intently as he spoke, and I had already decided that whatever he asked I would do.
“Are you familiar,” he said sternly, “with a book known as the
Incendium Maleficarum
?”
“The
Witch’s Fire
?” I responded with some surprise. “Well, yes, Professor, of course. It is a book of some legend, if I remember correctly. I never studied its history directly, but I was under the impression it was merely a legend. No such book ever really existed.”
“Oh, it exists,” he said in the way men do when they speak of what they are sure. “I would also take issue with your translation. It is better to say it is the
Inferno of the Witch
or the
Flame of the Witch.
”
As Thayerson spoke, the only fire was the one in his eyes.
“It means passion, total subjugation of oneself to the dark arts, to turn over body and soul to their devices. It is the most ancient of all books of witchcraft, the grimoire of grimoires.”
“But, sir,” I said, drawing on my limited knowledge of the subject, “what of the
Necronomicon
then?”
I watched as the color drained from Thayerson’s face at the mention of that dread tome, inked in blood and bound in human flesh. In my youth and foolishness, it meant nothing to me to speak of it, though now I would no doubt react in the same way.
“The
Necromonicon
,” he whispered, though with great effort, “is altogether different. It is no common spell book, or even an uncommon one. Its purpose is . . . how to say it . . . otherworldly.” Thayerson now paused. “The
Incendium Maleficarum,
on the other hand, deals squarely with the forces ruling this world. The two books are dualistic, you see, and it is impossible to understand the one without the other. And when the two are brought together, the properly initiated is said to wield untold power over this world and beyond.”
I watched as Thayerson spoke, and as he wove his tale I noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Well sir,” I said calmly, “then I suppose it’s good this book, even if it did exist as you have said, has now been consigned to the pages of history.”
Thayerson leaned back in his chair and sighed. He looked at me with his deeply hooded eyes and said, “It appears a copy has been found.”
I sat forward quickly in my seat. Even though this was not my area of interest, a find such as this would be an invaluable artifact, a glimpse into an ancient religion both long dead in its real form and deeply distorted by error and myth in the form it exists today.
“Where?” I exclaimed more than asked.
“Very near here,” Thayerson said solemnly, “in a port town called Anchorhead.”
I was shocked at this revelation. I had heard of the place. Its central point was a hill overlooking the port. The village cemetery had been placed on that hill. Death was ever-present there. That the markers of death could be seen by everyone from every part of the town at all times only helped to reinforce the knowledge of how dangerous living by the fruit of the sea could be. Then, Thayerson provided yet another shock.
“Carter,” he said in an unexpected breech of formality, “I need you to retrieve that book. I need you to go to Anchorhead, acquire it by whatever means necessary, and return it here, to Miskatonic.”
For a moment we sat in silence as I remained dumbfounded by this request. It was the last thing I had expected.
“It cannot remain out in the open,” Thayerson continued. “We must keep it here in our library, safe from those who would use it to do evil.”
“But, sir,” I said, leaning forward, “if I may ask, if this book is of such importance, shouldn’t you be the one to retrieve it?”
Thayerson visibly shuddered.
“I fear,” he began, “that word of the book’s existence is known outside these four walls, and not all that seek it do so for noble purpose. But I suspect, strongly, they do not yet know its location.”
Now he paused, and I watched as certain calculations were conducted in his mind. Then, he made a decision.
“I believe, Mr. Weston, I’m being watched. It is expected by certain parties that I will make an effort to retrieve the book. It is, therefore, imperative that I not attempt it.”
“I see,” I said, though in truth I felt even more mystified than before.
“Do we know where the book is located in Anchorhead?”
Thayerson sighed, showing me the palms of his hands in a sign of helplessness.
“I do not. I know only it is said a copy of the book has come to that town. By what means, I’m unaware.”
I glanced skeptically at Thayerson. He saw the doubt in my eyes.
“I assure you this intelligence comes from a most reliable source,” he said. “I would not send you if I doubted it. I know this is a difficult charge, Mr. Weston. But in truth you are the only one I trust. Not even Armitage. His heart is too close to the dark arts. You, and you alone, must go to Anchorhead and seek out the book. I would ask you to be discreet, to use the natural charm with which you have been gifted to your advantage. Spare no expense, and stay as long as it takes. I will deal with your affairs here. Good luck, Carter,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “I’ve already purchased you a ticket on a north-bound train. It leaves Arkham Station in a little over an hour.”
I took his hand and shook it firmly. He handed me a ticket, and I turned hurriedly to leave. As I did, Dr. Thayerson issued a final warning.
“Carter,” he said, “be careful. There is much in this world far beyond your present imagining. And not all of it is harmless.”
I simply nodded my understanding from the doorway and turned to go.
As I stepped out onto the Green, a fierce north wind met me. With it came a smattering of snow flurries, harbingers of more to come I had no doubt. I returned to my room to find Henry waiting. He rose quickly to meet me upon my entrance.
“Well, what did the old man say?”
I gave him a wary look as I unwound the scarf hanging tightly to my throat. I had never lied to Henry before, but it appeared now was the time for firsts.
“He needs me to collect something for him,” I said vaguely. Henry was my closest companion, and I trusted him completely, no matter what Thayerson said. But on the off chance Thayerson’s paranoia proved to possess a grain of truth, I thought the less Henry knew or suspected, the better for his sake, as well as mine.
I packed quickly and light. I could not know how long I would be away. I assumed it would take some time to locate those individuals most familiar with the object in question. But as I knew little of what I was about to begin, I thought it best to avoid burdening myself with too much baggage. As I walked to Arkham Station, I barely noticed the strengthening north wind or the snowflakes falling in greater and greater quantity.
I needed a story, a cover for my intentions. As I took my seat in the railway car, I realized the difficulty of my position. I was no detective, and nothing in my academic career had prepared me to imitate that profession. It struck me that the people of Anchorhead were perhaps, and even likely, unaware of the significance of what they possessed. In that event, it might be as simple as finding the local librarian and inquiring as to artifacts of interest.
Of course, that begged yet more questions. Was the book in the possession of an individual? Was it held by the town in some collective capacity? If Thayerson was aware of its existence, would there be others on the trail, seeking it out, as well? If so, was I in danger? The last question fell upon me with a particular violence; it was the first time I had considered the possibility this exercise could end badly for me. I didn’t think on it long, however, as the sudden jerk of the train’s hesitant first steps out of the station jolted me from my thoughts.
For the moment, I allowed myself to forget the challenges ahead as I gazed out of the car window. I could see very little. The snow was now falling in torrents, and I realized this was no ordinary storm. It had all the markings of a nor’easter. Now, I was traveling to a town with which I was practically unfamiliar, with night having already fallen, in the midst of a coming blizzard. It was as if dark forces were conspiring to defeat me already.
My mind drifted, and I found myself thinking back to the earliest days at Miskatonic to one of the nights that defined my relationship with Henry. Henry would occasionally host parties to which he would invite those fellow students with whom we were particularly close. He was always a charming fellow, and I often noted people were drawn to him like metal flakes to a magnet. But in him also was an eccentricity, a fire that burned for those un-nameable creatures from beyond. And I knew that many of our so-called friends appeared only in the hopes that Henry would broach his favorite topic. His eyes would sparkle with a peculiar flame. One never knew what tales he might conjure.
So it was that night. After much wine flowed and the conversation meandered from professors to classes to the young ladies of Hampstead that lies across the Miskatonic River, Henry spread his arms wide on the table, and I saw that particular light come into his eyes.
“Did anyone read the
Times
today?”
I glanced at the five men seated around the table. I saw in their faces the answer was no. I could not help but smile. I had read the
Times
, and I had no doubt of what Henry would speak.
“Then, I suppose,” he continued, “that you did not see the story regarding Dr. Charles Ashcroft?”
“I did not read the story,” said an unremarkable boy whose name has long since escaped me, “but all of New England knows he has gone mad.”
“Yes, yes,” Henry said, waving him off, “but let us not get ahead of ourselves. That Ashcroft is mad is beyond doubt, but does one not wonder how a man such as he could lose his mind?”
“Why don't you tell us, Henry,” I said.
“Oh, I shall, my good Carter, if only you will stop interrupting me.”
The other men at the table laughed, and Henry smiled wickedly at me. I could not help but grin.
“Four months ago,” Henry began, “Dr. Ashcroft left Boston, as I am sure you no doubt saw in the papers, on a scientific expedition for the ages.”
Henry removed a pipe from his jacket pocket and struck a match. We all watched as he lit the tobacco within, waiting patiently for him to continue.
“He arrived,” he said, extinguishing the match with a flick of his wrist, “on the northern shore of the continent of Antarctica with forty men, as many dogs, and a month’s worth of supplies and provisions.”
He then glanced up, looking at each man, starting with the one nearest him and moving down the table, as if to make sure we understood. He knew we were all well aware of Dr. Ashcroft's fate.
“Three months later,” he continued, “a British whaling ship came upon a man on the far western shore of the continent. The sailors on board described him as a wild savage. Alone. Starving. And no doubt completely mad. We were all horrified, of course, to learn this man was none other than Dr. Ashcroft himself.”
Henry paused and sipped his wine. The others looked around the table. They were anxious to hear the rest. Word of Ashcroft’s fate had reached Arkham, but not the details. Henry appeared to have them, and their curiosity was irrepressible.
“The British,” he continued, “passed Ashcroft off to an American clipper ship rounding the Horn from San Francisco en route to Boston. The ship’s doctor attempted, as best he could, to learn what had befallen Ashcroft and his men. To learn the fate of the thirty-nine who had set out across that ice-locked desert. But whatever ailed Ashcroft was beyond his feeble talents, and the words that streamed from his gibbering lips were as ineffable as the shroud of horror that hung like a mask upon his face.”
“Tell me Henry,” I said, interrupting, “how is it that you know of all this? I have followed the news of Ashcroft’s disappearance and rescue and learned no more than the barest details. Yet, you seem to know it all.”
“Yes, Henry,” said one of the others, “is this just one of your stories? An imagined tale for our amusement?”
Henry looked up at me as he held his pipe between his teeth and smiled.
“My dear Carter,” he said between puffs of smoke, “patience is indeed a virtue you lack. But if you will allow me a moment, I will explain. This is no idle talk, and if you open your mind you may yet learn much about the ageless and ancient worlds that predate our own.”
I merely nodded, and he continued.
“I know of what I speak, my good friends, because Dr. Ashcroft was moved from Boston to the Arkham Asylum two weeks ago. He lies not three miles from where we now sit. The learned men of Boston could make nothing of his ravings, but those doctors of Arkham, bred and trained at fairest Miskatonic, their minds are not closed to the sprawling mysteries that engulf us. From Dr. Ashcroft’s seemingly mad ramblings, they drew forth a story, one which I will now relay.
“Dr. Ashcroft and his men set forth across the wasteland of the Antarctic with more than sufficient supplies to reach their goal, the southern pole. They would attempt a more southerly route than the expeditions before them, bypassing the Dome Argus where so many men have lost their lives. It was in that uncharted, cold waste that Dr. Ashcroft met his destiny. He should have known, he said, to turn back when he and his men came upon a mountain range where no mountains should be. He should have seen that something had gone horribly wrong. That the expedition had stepped into a world that presented impossibilities that ours does not hold. But when he viewed those peaks whose crest would look down upon the mountains of the Kathmandu, he saw nothing but an obstacle to be conquered. So he began his ascent, and his men began to die.”
Henry paused then, for his pipe had extinguished. He struck a match, and as it flared, the light illuminated the room which had gone dark, casting for a brief moment furtive shadows that seemed to be watching us before darting back into the darkness.
“Every day they would climb, and each night they would make camp on the slopes of those fearful mountains. And then the light of the pallid sun would peak over the Antarctic horizon to show a camp of fewer men than when it had left them the night before. Some would simply disappear, perhaps stumbling off to their death in the cold waste, driven mad by the chill that could be beaten back but never defeated. Strange, then, that they left no footprints to mark their passing. Unusual that their tents were in perfect order.
“But not all the tragedy that befell Ashcroft’s men was unexplained. Any attempting such an ascent would face mortal dangers. And on an uncharted slope those dangers were compounded by the unknown. How many fell into a yawning abyss, crevices that would appear and then seal themselves in seconds, entombing the screaming man below in eternal silence? Only Ashcroft knows, I suppose. But what we know is this — within a week, Ashcroft was left alone with whatever infernal powers had sought and procured his men’s undoing and left him behind. As if they wanted him to seek. As if they wanted him to find.
“There could be no turning back. Ashcroft was high upon the mountainside and far from the eastern sea. He pressed on, though he couldn’t have done so with much hope. It was then that he came upon a cavern carved into the side of the mountain. He plunged into the Stygian blackness within, feeling his way as best he could. Stumbling often, he rose to his feet only because of the command he heard within his own mind to continue. So powerful it was that even though he wished death to come, he would not simply fall to the ground and let it take him. Then, a vision seemed to creep into his mind. One of light, just beyond his reach. He made his way towards it, sometimes on his feet, sometimes crawling on his hands and knees. It was no vision, but his salvation. An opening. He rushed towards it, but when he reached the precipice, he saw the thing that drove him mad.”
At that moment Henry fell silent, placing his once again extinguished pipe upon the table. My fellows sat leaning forward in their chairs, anxious to hear what maddening vistas opened up before Ashcroft. Only I remained relaxed, grinning smugly at Henry as he weaved what I assumed was an entirely manufactured tale. But then he continued.
“Who can describe properly what Ashcroft saw in the gray half-light in that valley? He could not. Not truly. Nor could his brain properly process it, as the very sight shattered his mind forever. What did he see? A citadel, nay, a city of unimaginable proportions and expanse, stretching forth in that hellish valley between the mountains. Cyclopean stone blocks of a hew and craftsmanship he could not know, cut from the earth eons before the Great Pharaoh raised his eyes to the plain of Giza and found it worthy of grandeur. Ruined towers and walled fortresses, dwellings of such size and dimension one might wonder if the mountains themselves did not call them home. All locked beneath solid sheets of ice. But it was not that which broke his mind. No, it was the thing that lurked in the titanic abyss, the infernal pit that lay in the center of that most ancient city. The thing that called to him in a voice that was not of man. The thing that, as he stood frozen in place from terror and wonder combined, began to rise.”
Once again Henry stopped. He sat quietly in his chair, as if he had relayed nothing more than a somewhat interesting anecdote from class.
“And?” I finally asked. Henry raised an open palm as if in apology.
“And, that is all,” he said. “Ashcroft remembers nothing from that moment until his arrival in Arkham. Whatever followed was too horrible, too monstrous for the mind, even one as strong as his. What he saw there . . .well, I pray to God we never know.”
I looked around at my compatriots, and I saw true fear in their ashen faces. I smiled and said, “Bravo, Henry, you have truly outdone yourself this time.”
“I’m not surprised, Carter, that you would disbelieve Ashcroft’s report. Disappointed perhaps, but not surprised.”
“Henry, please. It makes for a fantastic story and, from the looks on our friends’ faces here, one that no doubt has a great power to instill fear.” I saw the other men look down and blush. Fear was not an emotion to be lightly shown. “But what is more likely? That Dr. Ashcroft stumbled upon some Atlantis of antiquity only to witness a scene that drove him mad? Or that the expedition ran into great difficulty and when he was found, Ashcroft, half-starved and probably fully frozen, imagined a vast host of impossible visions?”
“Ah, but if that were true,” Henry said, gesturing to me with his pipe, “wouldn’t we expect that some of his men would have survived, as well? His dogs? His supplies? But it was only him. A man of some, though not exceeding, age, who managed to survive while all else perished?”
“Well, if you expect to bring logic into the discussion, how would that same man have made the trek from southern Antarctica to its western shore and survived? Surely such a thing is impossible.”