“The history of New Hope? We’ve got plenty of books on that subject. Follow me, Mr. Black.”
Eleanor Watkins, head librarian of New Hope Library, slid past the long, wooden counter and motioned for me to follow her across the wide expanse of the main reading room. As usual, all the tables were empty; for the most part, New Hope’s citizens preferred sitcoms and Jeopardy! to academic pursuits. I trailed behind Miss Watkins’ skeletally thin frame, the click-clock of our footsteps the only sound in the cavernous room. The towering ceiling and faraway walls paradoxically amplified and muted all noise at the same time, creating a muffling effect that made it difficult to judge where any particular sound came from.
I expected her to stop at one of the many rows of books that formed three sides of the reading room, the fourth taken up by a series of wide windows that looked out over the ocean. Instead, she led me past the thousands of tomes gathering dust in New Hope’s least utilized building and into a smaller room filled with cubicles where computers had taken the place of the outdated microfilm machines.
“Where are we going?” I stage-whispered to her, as we continued into a dimly lit hallway I’d never been down before.
“The books you want are in a special section,” Miss Watkins responded, her white hair a beacon in the murky light.
At the end of a hall was a single door, marked Authorized Personnel Only. “Go down two flights of stairs,” she told me. “The room you want is the first door to the left.” She handed me an old-fashioned skeleton key, apparently oblivious to my mutated condition. “You’ll need this down below. Take as much time as you want.”
She squeezed her small, bony frame past me in the narrow hall and returned the way we’d come, leaving me alone in the gloom.
I thought about turning around and following her. The idea of going into a musty basement and perusing mildewed treatises on colonial history suddenly seemed a poor way to spend a summer afternoon. Besides, what could ancient history possibly tell me about the strange turn my life had taken over the past twenty-four hours? If anything, I needed to be studying science fiction.
But something about Melissa’s tone, as if she knew something I didn’t, forced me to move forward. I reached out and slowly grasped the doorknob, overcome by a sudden hope it would be locked. If it was, I could go home and forget about whatever was waiting for me downstairs.
However, it turned easily in my inhuman hand and I pushed the door open, accepting that fate had something other than hot chocolate and television in store for me.
A single lightbulb, covered in dust and dead insects, cast a dim yellow glow over the landing. I could just make out a similar light one floor below me. Everything in between was so dark as to be almost in twilight. I carefully made my way down the stairs, gripping the handrail in case I missed a step.
When I’d descended two levels, I exited the stairwell and located the first door to the left. Inside, I found myself in a darkened room. I felt along the wall until I touched a light switch. The room was long, almost as long as the reading room far above me, with rows of books to both sides. With only one direction available to me, I started forward, trailing one hand along the dusty shelves as I walked.
Most of the books rested beneath too many layers of cobwebs and dust for me to read the titles, but occasionally I came across one whose spine bore legible letters. Cantus Circaeus. De daemonialitate et incubus et succubus. De occulta philosophia. Magia Mathematica. De Vermis Mysteriis.
My knowledge of Latin was limited to the little I’d picked up in order to understand etymology and taxonomy, but I quickly grasped that I wasn’t in the history section.
Incubus and Succubus. The Philosophy of the Occult. Magic and Mathematics. The Mysteries of the Worm.
The room seemed to grow warmer around me, and I remembered the stentorian voice bellowing in my nightmare. Azathoth! Tulzscha! Cthulhu! Yog-Sothoth! Shub-Niggurath!
Down in the dark, creepy basement of the library, those words—names?—no longer seemed so imaginary, as if in this room it would be acceptable, even expected, to speak them. I passed another book whose cover was dust free, and considered drawing it from its place on the shelf and perusing the contents. Malleus Maleficarum. However, when I reached out for the leather-clad tome, I felt an immediate repulsion to it and quickly pulled my hand away. Continuing forward, I wondered who had been down there recently and what their business with the arcane volumes had been.
Satanists in New Hope? Cultists? A coven of witches? It didn’t seem possible. Our town was too small, too familiar with each other’s business for anyone to hide that kind of secret.
Then again, the impossible seemed to be happening on a regular basis the past couple of days, especially to me, a thought that gave me no measure of comfort. Suddenly the shadows across the room took on a more sinister quality. Whoever or whatever had been reading down there might very well still be around. I picked up my pace, and it wasn’t long before I came upon the cage.
Four walls, each made from a crosshatching of vertical and horizontal iron bars. It appeared to be about fifteen feet in each direction. The nearest wall was in actuality a door, with a metal lock panel very similar to those portrayed in movie dungeons. I pulled on the door, but it didn’t budge. For one brief second I felt frustration at having come all this way for nothing, and then I remembered the key Miss Watkins had given me.
The old-fashioned key fit perfectly. The lock made no sound when I turned it, again causing me to wonder how regularly people visited these archives, and for what possible reasons. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, afraid something would leap out at me the moment I crossed the threshold despite the fact that I could see there was no one inside. When my first step brought on no attack, I gingerly entered the tiny space.
One bookshelf occupied the back wall, with perhaps fifty volumes lining its shelves. Other than that, the only objects in the room were a table and a chair. A small desk lamp sat on the table. All the surfaces were dust free, as neat and tidy as the shelves and tables in the main room.
A quick shudder ran through me. Someone cleaned the room on an almost daily basis.
Why?
I could almost hear Melissa’s answer in my head. Only one way to find out, Sean. Start reading.
I approached the bookshelf. With each step, a sense of loathing built inside me, a distinct desire to be as far away as possible from those books with their black, featureless covers and untitled spines. But apparently my feet didn’t feel the same trepidation; they kept moving me inexorably forward. A sensation of otherness came over me, as if I no longer controlled my body, was instead merely a passenger on a preprogrammed ride.
I reached out and withdrew the first volume from the top shelf. Its cover, some type of dyed parchment or leather, felt greasy and unwholesome in my hands.
Turning on the light, I sat down and opened the book, positioning it under the lamp’s cone of illumination.
I opened the book with a shaking hand.
The True History of New Hope
Vol. I
The Beast Arrives
I began to read.