Chapter Eleven

I opened my front door and came to a stop. Behind me, Flora gasped.

The front parlor lay in shambles. Furniture overturned, books and papers scattered on the floor, and shelves swept clean. Cushions ripped open and the stuffing torn out in clumps. Shattered glass from broken figurines and curios that had once belonged to my mother littered the floor. A rancid odor hung in the air, akin to decomposing fish.

Fear raced through me. Him! It was him!

On the heels of that, a second thought rose up.

The book.

“I take it you didn’t leave the house like this?” Flannery asked. I ignored him and rushed into the adjoining study, which had been my father’s examination room and office when his medical practice operated in good standing. Like the parlor, it showed obvious signs of vandalism. Desk drawers open, contents spilling out in haphazard fashion. Bookcases ransacked. Cabinets emptied. Liquor cart overturned, the sweet fragrance of brandy overpowering the lingering briny stench.

I crossed the room, stepping around broken glass and tacky, wet stains, and knelt by a plain-looking wooden cabinet set against the wall. The doors stood open and more papers were scattered in front of it.

Please no, don’t let him have—

I reached inside and relief surged through me. The would-be thief hadn’t found the hidden compartment I’d originally installed to store morphine and laudanum back when I intended to pursue a degree in medicine. With the rapid decline of the neighborhood, it wasn’t safe anymore to keep such things out in the open. After being forced to leave school, I’d begun using it as a place to hide my valuables.

“It’s here.” I pressed the tiny button that unlocked the panel. It swung open, revealing a square space in which sat the book I’d found in the alley. I lifted the heavy volume out, my skin crawling as my fingers touched the cover.

“This is what they were after.”

I set the book atop my desk. Flannery, Ben, and Flora gathered round.

“This?” Flannery placed his hand on the cover and pulled back with a start. “Bloody hell. It’s….”

His words trailed off and he frowned at the book while wiping his hand against his leg.

“Yes, it feels awful to the touch.” I looked at the others. “I need to tell you how I came by it. I haven’t been quite honest with any of you.”

This time I left nothing out, starting with being accosted in the alley and ending with the ghastly life-forms living inside the dead bodies at the morgue. When I finished, there was a moment where no one spoke.

Then Flora let out a cry.

“You bastard!” She flew at me, gloved hands clawing at my face. Ben and Flannery grabbed her, pulled her away. She didn’t fight them but she continued to shout.

“You should have told us! Bloody demons following you. My brother’s dead because of them! Why didn’t you—” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

“Might be best if you took her home,” Flannery said to Ben.

He nodded. “I’ll stay with her. Just to be safe.” Fire lit his eyes as he cast a glare in my direction.

“Flora, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” I took a step toward her but she turned away. I could only watch as Ben led her to the door. Neither of them looked back.

The sound of the front door closing stabbed cold ice through my heart. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape. Thanks to my own fear and stupidity I’d lost the woman I loved and my best friend, had brought ruin into their lives. Would they ever forgive me? What would I do if they turned their backs on me forever? How could I go on?

Flannery cleared his throat. “Worry about them later. Tell me why this thing is so blasted important.”

The damned book. If only I’d never found it.

“I don’t know,” I said, when Flannery made a point of harrumphing again. “I only opened it once, briefly, the night I found it. It’s gibberish. Not Greek nor Latin, nor anything I’ve seen. Definitely ancient. I was going to bring it to the college to get it translated, but with everything that happened….”

Flannery lifted a few of the stiff yellow pages with a fingertip, his scowl deepening from even that slight touch. They appeared to be made of leather or heavy parchment rather than paper. He peered at the unreadable symbols and letters covering them and let the cover drop down.

“You think someone there can read this shite?”

“I don’t know, but there may be someone in the administration department I can ask.” That is, if I could speak to Callie before Ben turned her against me as well.

Flannery stood up, his bulk towering over me.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?”

* * *

In the obscured light of another gray morning, Miskatonic University evoked comparisons to long-forgotten civilizations more than proud institutions of higher learning. Square buildings formed of carefully laid stone blocks loomed like half-finished pyramids and oversized crypts. Tall obelisks rose up menacingly from the fog, origins and purposes both unknown.

Cobbled pathways wound in mystifying patterns through the wide campus. As a freshman, I’d gotten lost more than once dashing from one class to the next, and even seniors and instructors had been known to get disoriented on the foggiest mornings. According to legend, there’d once been a student who’d ended up so off course during spring recess he’d stumbled through the mist for days, never realizing he’d ended up in the athletic fields. When school resumed a week later, they found him curled in a ball, spouting gibberish, his eyes wide, his skin covered in creeping mold.

He died not long after.

Many say his ghost still haunts the paths at night, forever seeking his dormitory.

I’d scoffed at the tale when I heard it, but on more than a few occasions it had brought a shiver to me when I had trouble locating a particular building in the murky haze.

A subtle taint hung in the air, an integral component of the mists that formed a constant blanket over the area. The metallic tang of wet, mineral-laden mud, redolent with the briny reek of seafood markets and stagnant waters from the nearby harbor, and something else, something darker and older than time, an unpleasant yet somehow familiar essence that induced thoughts of cold and gloom and infiltrated a person’s very body, as if carried through the lungs into blood and tissue.

Setting foot onto the campus brought back memories I preferred to keep locked away. Although more than a year had passed since I’d been unceremoniously cast out, I still couldn’t think of the place without tasting bitter resentment at the back of my mouth. I’d only been back a few times since then, once to help Callie move into her apartment near the campus and to see her office in the administration building, and the others when I required a book from the library or got paid to demonstrate embalming techniques for the medical students.

“Damned fog. Just as bad here as Innsmouth.” Flannery wore a navy peacoat over the clean suit he’d changed into. Silvery beads of moisture dotted his hat and shoulders and ran down the wool like spilled mercury. I pulled my sweater tighter but didn’t respond, my mood as bitter as the weather. There’d always been a particular chill to the Miskatonic campus, a damp, raw cold that gnawed at the bones. My physics teacher once gave a vague explanation involving localized depressions and sea caverns that made no sense. Everyone else I queried simply shrugged and said it was ‘one of those things’.

After a couple of wrong turns, I managed to find the administration building. It looked the same as the last time I’d visited, a two-story stone structure with the bare minimum of windows, as if the architects wanted to keep out the depressing view of the campus. Red and brown vines crawled across the outer walls in ominous patterns.

Despite the early hour, we found Callie at her desk, a steaming cup of tea and a pile of papers in front of her.

“Henry!” She stood, a broad smile lighting up her face. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Her greeting informed me that Ben hadn’t yet contacted her. All the better for us.

Dressed in a fashionable yet conservative blue skirt, white blouse, and black jacket, Callie brightened up the gloomy institutional gray office just by her presence. She wore two pieces of jewelry, a silver-rimmed cameo on her lapel and a small brooch of green stone over her left breast. My heart stuttered when I saw the design: a triangle with what appeared to be an octopus inside it. Then I remembered it was the university’s mascot, had been for decades. Several teachers had worn similar pieces when I’d attended. I calmed somewhat. Just a coincidence, although it still engendered a sensation of disquiet in my bowels.

Seeing Callie always put me in a reflective mood, and this time was no different. As always, I wondered what our lives might have been like if Flora had found a man and put an end to my besotted dreams. Most likely Callie and I would be married with several children, living in Arkham rather than Innsmouth. A part of me wished it had happened; that imaginary life had to be better than the situation I found myself in now.

But my feelings for Flora overwhelmed any regrets for the road not taken. Someday I would have both the girl and the life I desired. I felt it in my heart.

“Hello, Callie.” I kissed her chastely on her cheek and stepped back. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. Inspector Flannery and I are here on police business and we need your help.”

Her gaze shifted from me to my hulking companion and her eyes narrowed. “Mine?”

“Yes.” Flannery stepped forward. “We need a book translated. It’s in a language we’re not familiar with.”

“Something old,” I said. “Neither Latin nor Greek.”

“Really?” She glanced at me, her expression one of sudden interest. “Can I see it?”

I pulled it from my valise and held it up, but didn’t pass it to her. The feel of the cover no longer sent shivers down my back but knowing the effect it had on people, I spared Callie that discomfort. Her eyes went wide and she almost seemed disappointed when I returned it to my bag.

“That does look old,” she said.

“Henry believes there might be someone on the staff who could assist us, and he feels you could aim us in the right direction.”

“I see.” She stared at Flannery for a long moment, her expression no longer quite as friendly. Finally, she favored me with a smile. “Of course I’ll help. You probably want Professor George Angell.”

“Angell? He’s still around?”

“Some say he’s been here forever,” Callie said, and I didn’t doubt it. He’d certainly looked ancient when I’d last seen him.

“And where might we find him?” Flannery asked.

“The Morgan-Ashley building.” Callie’s face went hard again at his words. She took pen and paper from a drawer and jotted something down. “Here are the directions. The campus can be somewhat confusing if you haven’t spent much time here.”

Flannery let out a derisive snort. “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

Callie’s eyes narrowed at his words, then she handed the paper to me, her cool fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary against mine.

“I’m glad to see you’re recovered from that awful occurrence at the pub. Is everything all right in Innsmouth? How is Flora doing?”

“You can chat with your friend on your own time, Gilman,” Flannery interrupted. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Maybe you can tell me about your police work some day, Henry.” She ignored the inspector and stared up at me. I noticed that her eyes were the same exotic sea green as her pin. They’d always attracted me. “I could come up on Saturday.”

“Er, um, we’ll have to see. It all depends if I’m finished with our, er, project.” I motioned at Flannery.

“Soon, then,” she said. “We must catch up.” I nodded, and we bid our goodbyes.

“Seems the lass has an interest,” Flannery said, once we were outside. I glanced back at the building, saw Callie peering down at us from her second-floor window, her face nearly hidden by eons of grime.

“We need to turn left here.” I pointed at an intersection of paths, ignoring the inspector’s comment. He took the hint and we both remained silent as we made our way through the maze of buildings until we reached a massive oblong structure of ancient stone and brick that, according to Callie, housed the history and archeology departments.

Once inside, after we’d stomped and shaken off the worst of the dew clinging to shoes and clothes, I consulted Callie’s note.

“Professor Angell’s office is in the basement.”

“You know this fellow? Thought you studied to be a surgeon or something.”

“I did.” I was surprised Flannery knew anything about my background other than my father’s sordid past. “I’ve never met the man, but I saw him around campus a few times, and his picture’s been in the papers. He’s rather renowned in archeological circles. Specializes in Egyptian and Sumerian cultures or something. Spends much of his time traveling the world and digging up ruins. If he can’t translate this book, he’ll surely know who can.”

Our footsteps echoed off the smooth tile floor and stone walls as we descended the stairs. The air took on a decidedly dank chill and the walls held a dampness to them that made me think of ancient stone passageways covered in faraway lands.

We pushed through the doors at the bottom and entered a hallway that was more like a tunnel, illuminated poorly by a few widely spaced lights on the walls. We’d arrived well before first classes and had the place to ourselves, it seemed.

“Not what I’d call an atmosphere conducive to learning,” Flannery muttered, and I had to agree with him. The gloomy surroundings were anything but inviting. Even the air seemed wrong, tainted with hints of decomposing mushrooms and swamp mud.

Halfway down the corridor a door stood open, spilling weak yellow light into the hallway. As we drew closer, I saw the name George Gammell Angell stenciled on the frosted glass. Inside, a dour-faced woman sat at a simple wooden desk, sorting through a pile of folders. She wore a lapel pin identical to Callie’s.

I approached the desk and cleared my throat. “Excuse me. We need to speak to Professor Angell.”

The woman glanced up, her dark brows nearly meeting as her frown deepened.

“No, you’ll have to come back another time.” She returned to her filing.

Flannery strode forward.

“Madam, this is police business. We must speak to Professor Angell right away.”

The woman’s lips tightened and she exhaled slowly. My nose wrinkled as I caught a hint of foul breath, which brought to mind festering sores and gangrenous flesh. That, in turn, led to images of the corpses rising in the morgue and from there to the memories of my father, wrist deep in my mother’s body, a dead man’s organs in his hands.

Melancholy threatened to overwhelm me and I forced my attention back to Flannery, who was already losing patience with the woman’s silence. He leaned down and placed both hands on the woman’s desk, using his imposing presence to full effect.

“Ma’am, I shan’t ask again. Tell the professor we are here and need to speak to him on a most urgent matter.”

Another sigh, and this time the sickness emanating from her lungs forced me back a step. I gripped the heavy satchel holding the recovered book to my chest, half tempted to lift it up as a shield against the offensive odor. Even Flannery wrinkled his nose and turned his head.

Dull gray eyes stared at us from within dark caverns created by her overhanging brow and sharp cheekbones. A tiny hint of a smile twitched the corners of her colorless lips. It did nothing to improve her cheerless nature.

“Well, then, you’re welcome to wait. I hope it’s not too urgent, though. The professor isn’t here at the moment.” She turned back to her files. I glanced around the room. Other than her desk and a small wastebasket, it contained no other furniture and just one other door, which I assumed led to the professor’s private office. If we waited, we’d be expected to stand.

“When in blazes do you expect him back?” Flannery’s face had gone a deep red, a sure sign he was about to lose his temper. Had it been anyone other than a professional woman sitting across from him he’d like as not already have baton in hand.

“Oh, not for a while, I imagine. He’s in Antarctica.” Her smile widened another fraction of an inch for the joke she’d had at our expense.

“Antarct—? Why in the dickens didn’t you say that from the beginning?” Flannery thumped his hands on the desk.

I stepped forward before the inspector exploded into a tirade. The woman seemed hell-bent on being uncooperative and Flannery’s ire would only make her more so. “Who can we speak to in his stead?”

“Professor Gardiner is the department chairman for the semester.”

“That’s fine. Where can we find him?”

“Through there.” She pointed at the closed door and bent back to her papers.

Flannery’s mouth dropped open but I stopped his undoubtedly vehement retort with a touch to the arm. “Let’s see if Gardiner can help us.”

“Eh. I damn well hope so.”

The inspector rapped twice on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. He took two steps and then came to a stop so fast I would have walked into him had I not been frozen in place as well.

Rather than the studious office I expected, an enormous space spread out before us, so long and wide that at first it seemed impossible, as if we’d been taken by magics and transported to an ancient city.

Statues of black stone stood in long rows, their narrow, elongated faces staring into the distance. Twice my height, they glowered at unseen enemies, their mouths pressed into tight-lipped moues. Behind them, a series of columns and obelisks stood to either side of an archway, with curious figures carved across their glass-like surfaces.

Something moved between two of the columns, a glimpse of a pale figure seen and then gone, and my pulse speeded up.

The demon! He’s here. We have to—

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

The figure emerged again, walking toward us, and my legs went weak with relief. Only a man, dressed in faded khaki pants and shirt. Tall and aged, with short-cropped gray hair so lacking in color it blended together with his sallow face.

“Are you Professor Gardiner?” Flannery strode forward.

“I am.”

The spell broken, everything became clear to me. The vast expanse of the ancient city revealed itself as a huge storage area. The gray, alien sky nothing but a tall ceiling lit by a scattering of electric light bulbs. The statues and pillars stood on a tile floor coated with unswept dust and grime rather than the sands of ages. Archeological tools – picks, hammers, drop cloths, brushes – lay strewn about, alongside camera equipment and drawing tablets.

Gardiner held out a pallid, liver-spotted hand. Unlike Callie or the sullen woman who’d given us such a hard time, he wore no pin on his shirt. For some odd reason, that comforted me. “Owen Gardiner, at your service. And you are?”

“Inspector Patrick Flannery. And this is Henry Gilman. We’re hoping you can help us translate some kind of ancient book Henry found.”

“A book.” The professor’s dark blue, rather rheumy eyes sparked with excitement. “What kind of book? Where did you find it?”

“Near the Innsmouth waterfront,” Flannery answered before I could say anything. “We believe it was dropped by the man responsible for the murders down there.”

“Oh dear. Please, follow me. My desk is in the back.”

“Just what is all this?” Flannery asked, as the professor led us on a winding route through the towering artifacts.

“Professor Angell and his team made an astounding discovery in Antarctica. A previously unknown civilization, possibly older than the Egyptians or Sumerians. He shipped these back and we turned this entire floor into a storage area to study them. I’ve been working on deciphering the writing. An odd mixture of Ugantic cuneiform and proto-Sumerian pictographs the likes of which neither of us has ever seen. If I were twenty years younger, I’d be there with him. Instead, I have to make do with whatever he sends back.”

I glanced at one of the obelisks and a cold dread gnawed at my belly. Mixed among the lines and shapes were vile depictions of hideous creatures. Insects with the faces of men. Crawling things with eyes all over their bodies.

Squid-like beasts with mouths on their tentacles.

I stopped. The repulsive drawings covered all the pillars, winding around from top to bottom. I had the distinct impression they told a story – no, a warning! – that some primitive part of my brain somehow understood. A tale of death and destruction, of evil and hatred.

A shiver ran up my back. These were no mere imaginings carved by primitive people. They were depictions of actual demons, appalling monsters from the depths of hell. I sensed the truth of it in my very soul.

As I continued to stare, the vile depictions came to life on the stone, the etched lines squirming and wriggling. Claws and pincers opened and closed. Mouths snapped. Obscene bodies heaved and humped and swam. Eyes turned toward me, filled with malevolent intelligence. Tentacles reached out to snare unsuspecting victims, eager to rend bodies and limbs. Twisted parodies of human faces grinned madly as beasts mounted each other with suddenly tumescent genitalia. A loathsome odor filled my nose, ripe with corruption and degradation somehow made palpable to the senses.

Henry.

They knew my name! I wanted to scream, to flee, but fear held me firmly in place. A chorus of voices, evil incarnate yet somehow familiar, echoed around me.

Henry.

Not around me. Inside my head! I was going mad, none of this was possible. I had to—

“Henry!”

The grisly display froze at Flannery’s voice. I blinked and the violent scenes were gone, the horrible etchings returned to their original places. All that remained of my vision was a pounding ache in my head and a feeling of nausea in my stomach.

“Stop dawdling, man.” The inspector scowled at me from several yards ahead, where he and Gardiner had stopped. The stench of rotting fish still poisoned my nose, but neither Flannery nor the professor seemed to notice anything amiss.

“Coming.” I barely managed to make myself heard. My lungs seemed devoid of air. I hurried to catch up, keeping my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the depraved artwork.

“The book. Come on, we haven’t got all day.” Flannery stood by a large wooden desk covered in mounds of papers. To my despair, I saw that many of them contained sketches and rubbings of the very things I hoped to never gaze upon again.

“Here it is.” I drew the tome from his satchel, all the hairs on my arms rising up as I touched it. I placed it on the desk and backed away so that I couldn’t see the awful pictures.

Gardiner’s eyes went wide.

“I don’t believe it.” He opened the book, seemingly unaffected by whatever ability it had to produce revulsion when handled. “When you told me…. I hoped, but I never….”

“Never what?” Flannery’s impatience surfaced again.

“This is the Pnakotica. You’ve found it.”

“The Nakota-what?” A deep frown creased Flannery’s brow.

“The Pnakotica. An ancient book of spells dating back to the earliest days of civilization. Legend has it they were transcribed from gods that visited the Earth. Previously they only existed as a series of scrolls, which disappeared long ago. But Professor Angell learned of this copy a few months ago from a source in Persia. He had it sent here but the very night the ship docked in Innsmouth, the book was stolen. I reported it to the police.” Gardiner frowned at them. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“I don’t know anything about a theft. We’re here to find out what the damn book is, and why some lunatic was running around with it.”

“When was it stolen?” I asked.

Gardiner scratched at this chin. “A week ago, perhaps? Five days? What day is it? I’ve been so busy here I’ve rather lost track of time.”

While Gardiner spoke, the cold chill in my belly spread to the rest of my body. Five days. Everything seemed so clear now. Just more of my damned rotten luck. My decision to take a shortcut to the pub had landed me right in the middle of the theft, most likely interrupting the demon-man as he took possession of the book from whatever poor sod he’d paid to steal it. He’d killed the thief to leave no witnesses, and then….

And then I buggered everything and now it wants me dead as well.

The timing wasn’t lost on Flannery, who shot a knowing glance my way before addressing Gardiner again.

“Well, you’ve got your book back. Although I’d be careful, if I were you. Several men have died because of it. However, if you don’t mind, we still need your help. Can you translate it for us?”

One of Gardiner’s bushy eyebrows rose up and he gave a short laugh.

“Translate it for you? It’s yet to be translated for anyone. That’s why Professor Angell sent it to me. He believes the glyphs on the obelisks and the writings in the book are both the work of the Yithians.”

“Yithians?” Flannery looked like he’d swallowed sour milk as he pronounced the word.

“That’s one of a handful of words he managed to decipher before shipping everything here. The word Yith occurs in several places, always in context with the persons who dwelled in the city. Angell believes the obelisks are a dictionary of sorts, but that they also tell the history of the city. As time went on, more of them were added.”

“And the book?”

“The added content should be invaluable in decoding their alphabet.”

I pulled my sweater tighter against the chill sinking farther into my bones the longer I stood in the midst of all that horror. I could think of nothing worse than spending day after day studying the revolting depictions.

“Well, this was a damned waste of time.” Flannery slapped his hat against the desk.

“Professor Gardiner, isn’t there anything you can tell us about the Pnakotica? You said it was a book of spells.”

Flannery shot me a narrow-eyed glare. I wasn’t sure if the inspector’s anger stemmed from the topic of the question or that I had usurped his role by asking a question in the first place.

“Yes, yes, it is.” Gardiner carefully turned several of the brittle pages. “I suppose I’m as acquainted with the history of the Pnakotica as anyone, save Professor Angell. He’s really the one who—”

“Just get on with it, man. We don’t have all day.”

“Ah, of course, Inspector. My apologies. I tend to…never mind. The Pnakotica is indeed a book of spells, more ancient than any others. You’ve heard of the Necronomicon? The Codex of Djer? No? Suffice to say, the Pnakotica predates them all. Rumors of its existence can be found in the writings of most ancient civilizations, such as the Sumerians and the Egyptians of the First Dynasty. It was long believed to have originated in Atlantis, but Professor Angell has a theory—”

“I don’t give a strumpet’s purse about history or ancient civilizations,” Flannery interrupted. “Just tell us why someone would want the blasted thing.”

“Why? Well, really, there’s only one reason.” Gardiner closed the book and placed his hand on the cover. Despite the abhorrent drawings visible on the desk, I found myself leaning closer.

“To bring the dead to life.”