THE CURSED SCROLLS OF R'LYEH

 By Arthur Wilcox Hodgkins

I don't know how I escaped from Dunhill. Did I escape, or was I freed by the high priests of Zoth-Ommog, so I can serve their razor-fanged master? I can't remember. Everything is confusion. The visions, the dreams, the horrors that won't go away, no matter how I try. Everything merges and swirls together like the mists of the Abyss of H'San; ever moving, ever growing, ever living and breathing in the fires of the night.

I do know where I must go, however. Dr. Blaine repeatedly told me that someone needed to go to the Sanbourne Institute of Pacific Antiquities and remove certain manuscripts from the vault – manuscripts which both describe nameless horrors buried beneath the frozen wastes of Innsmouth, Massachusetts, and which rightly belong to the Cyclopian and many-columned undersea city of Y'ha-nthlei. Dr. Blaine said that the manuscripts contained spells and chants that have never been uttered since the dawn of time in the hideous city of R'lyeh buried beneath the deep Pacific Ocean near the western shores of Chile, north of Antarctica.

In order to make this manuscript understandable to any who would read it after I am gone, I feel a need to introduce myself. My name is Arthur Wilcox Hodgkins, and I was an aide to Dr. Henry Stephenson Blaine. After his confinement, I was named temporary Curator of Manuscripts at the Sanbourne Institute of Pacific Antiquities. Before the reader dismisses this manuscript as the mad ravings of a killer, I need to declare that I did not kill the night watchman, and I am not incurably insane as the authorities declared. For those unaware of what happened on March 29, 1929, let me explain.

Zoth-Ommog, one of three spawned on a planet near the double star Xoth, progeny of Cthulhu and the quasi female entity Idh-yaa, who inhabited the jade statue the press dubbed the "Ponape Figurine", has the ability to enter a person's dreams and cause them to go mad if they are near enough to the figurine. One such figurine was recovered from the sea floor of Ponape and was brought to Professor Harold Hadley Copeland, who was researching the Xothic Legend Cycle at the time. I remember reading Dr. Blaine's notes describing the statue: "Rising from overlapping folds at the base of the image's neck, four bluntly tapering limbs or appendages rise. . . . They are flat and resemble the arms of the common echinoderm of the class asteroidea - the familiar starfish of our California beaches - with the rather peculiar exception that the underside of these broad, flat, narrowing limbs bear row upon row of disc-like suckers . . . the unknown artist has combined suggestions of starfish and squid or octopi in his central conception."

When Professor Copeland went insane and died in the psychiatric hospital, the statue was taken to Sanbourne to be displayed. Dr. Blaine, at the time, was unaware that the statue was sentient, and was soon driven insane. A Deep One, disguised as a sailor, broke into Sanbourne to steal the figurine. After he killed the night watchman, he was about to take the statue when I walked in.

Seeing what was happening, I picked up an Elder Sign "star stone" and flung it at the accursed statue. The statue exploded, destroying it and killing the Deep One. The Deep One dissolved into a pool of slime and evaporated, and all that was left for the authorities to discover was the watchman's badly charred clothing and my seemingly incoherent explanation. Judged incurably insane, I was confined to the Dunhill Institute, along with my incarcerated mentor and close friend, Dr. Blaine. As a final twist, the local press dubbed me the "last victim [of the] Curse of the Ponape Figurine."

It was during this incarceration that Dr. Blaine told me of the manuscripts at Sanbourne, Institute and how they must not be allowed to be released to the people. The manuscripts, fragments of the Scrolls of R'lyeh that Professor Copeland had obtained through convoluted and secret negotiations with unnamed covens dwelling by the banks of the Miskatonic River near Arkham, Massachusetts, told of unutterable spells and unnamable horrors that have been hidden from mankind since Cthulhu brought them to earth from the accursed planet near the dim green double star Xoth.

The scrolls, and the spells they contain, were used over 80,000 years ago to construct the undersea city of Y'ha-nthlei with its phosphorescent palaces of many terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and grotesque brachiate efflorescence. Spells which, it is believed, summon the three demons of Qliphoth: Qemetial, Belial, and Othiel, and other unimaginable horrors. Scrolls that teach how to make the Sign of the Old Ones to keep away the terrors of the darkness. Scrolls that, it is believed, tell of loathsome places and seals and curves and angles. I am reminded of the quote that Professor Copeland once told me. He said it came from an old book called Necronomicon written by the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred:"The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraven, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles?" (NEC. VII. xvii.)

Now, I must use all the cunning and skill of my brief 33 years of life to keep from being discovered until I can remove the scrolls from the institute. "Some things we were not meant to know. Some things it is . . . dangerous to learn." Dr. Blaine had discovered that, and after reading his notes and talking to him, I believed it also. I must succeed.

I felt like the early Acagchemem must have felt: hiding by day in the dense oaks, sycamores, ash, and pines by Santiago California. Constantly watching to make sure that Sheriff Watkins, or one of his deputies, didn’t discover me and send me back to Dunhill. Soon, the sun would set in the western sky and I could continue my task. But for now, I am safe in these woods and I must sleep.

* * *

Darkness crept quietly over the California hills and the advancing night brought me quickly awake. That, or the sound.From off to the north of my position, I heard the faint rumblings of a group of people somewhere among the dark trees. There was talking, no, chanting that I heard, and the chanting brought a deathly cold chill to my heart and brain. "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." Over and over again through the gloom of the trees.

I recognized the chant! –

I had read about it in an excerpt of Richard Turner’s annotated translation of the R’lyeh Text. The phrase is from the original R’lyehian tongue and is in the section marked, "Of He Who Sleeps." Translated it means, "In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming!"

I don’t know if from curiosity or some blasphemous control of my will, but I found myself crawling through the trees to get a glimpse of those who were uttering that demonic chant. When I got closer, I noticed that there were thirteen of them – human, thankfully, but with an aura of indescribable evil about their personas that made them almost appear – the only word that comes to mind is, subhuman. Twelve of them surrounded the one in their midst, their high priest, I would venture. He was elevating a vessel of green glass that was sealed with a brazen stopper. The stopper was inscribed with the characters of Mars and Saturn. Having read of this in the Necronomicon, I cringed, knowing what was to come next.

He faced the North and they all shouted, "Zijmuorsobet, Noijm, Zavaxo!" Then to the East: "Quehaij, Abawo, Noquetonaiji!" To the South: "Oasaij, Wuram, Thefotoson!" To the West: "Zijoronaifwetho, Mugelthor, Mugelthor-Yzxe!" Then they covered the vessel with a cloth of black velvet and set it aside.

I remembered reading the words that came next, "For each of seven nights thou shalt bathe the vessel in Moonlight for the space of one hour - keeping it concealed beneath the cloth from cock-crow till sunset.

All this being accomplished the incense shall be ready for use and possessed of such vertue that he that useth it with knowledge shall have power to call forth and command the Infernal Legions."

I knew what they were doing. They were compounding the Incense Of Zkauba. I remembered reading, "In the day and hour of Mercury with the Moon in her increase, thou shalt take equal parts of Myrrh, Civet, Storax, Wormwood, Assafoetida, Galbanum and Musk, mix well together and reduce all to the finest powder." What I didn’t know, and what filled me with the most terror, was the answer to the question, "Is this the first – or seventh night that they had done this?" I wanted to leave but was transfixed by the curiosity and horror of watching that of which I had only read about. Suddenly, six of the men left the circle and came back bearing what seemed to be a brazen three-sided pyramid with curious symbols and carvings on the three sides. There was, of course, the symbols for Mars and Saturn like on the brass stopper, but the center symbol on each side was a cat-like winged being with a twisted horn protruding from its forehead. On top of the pyramid was a brass chalice - except that it was of a diabolical twist and distortion, like some anamorphic Kleinsche Fläche.

I recognized that cat-like symbol!

I had seen the glyph in Frederick Catherwood’s scholarly Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatán where it was reproduced from shards of pottery attributed to the Ancient Mayan civilization. I had also read about the glyph in the highly controversial Henotheism in Ancient Kemet by the British Anthropologist Vrooman Linwood, having read both tomes while at the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, four and a half years ago. Linwood’s book had been banned and burned along with Linwood himself who was burned on a stake, by the Church of England on February 7, 1688, and only three known copies existed, Miskatonic University having one of the three. It was the glyph of Sha’agsh B’st, the cat-like god of tyranny and gluttony, daughter of he, who the ancient Egyptians called Ra, and mother of Shub-Niggurath, The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young! Linwood had written about how Nyarlathotep had introduced Sha’agsh B’st to those in ancient Kemet, who began worshiping her under a number of names including Bast.

Linwood had written: "The worship of Bast in Egypt began about 2890 B.C. (if not earlier) and lasted for about 3000 years. Bast is one of several names known as the "Eye of Ra", this title denotes a protector, destroyer or avenger. She was a daughter of the sun god Ra and her initial role as the king's protector eventually spread to include children and pregnant women. She then became a symbol of maternity and fertility.

Early Egyptians worshiped the lion headed goddess Bast. It was not until about 1000 BC that she was represented with a cat's head and the domestic cat also became an object of reverence. Nyarlathotep, after overseeing the worship of Bast (Sha’agsh B’st) by those in ancient Egypt (Kemet), brought the Bast worship to the Mayan culture."

I had read about her blasphemous existence in An Investigation into Myth-Patterns of Latter-Day Primitives with Especial Reference to the "R'lyeh Text" by Professor Laban Shrewsbury, an anthropologist and professor of philosophy at Miskatonic University, who mysteriously disappeared in 1915. Shortly thereafter, a posthumous collection of his writings, titled Cthulhu Among the Victorians, saw publication.

***

This must be the seventh night! The person I identified as the high priest poured the incense into the Kleinsche Fläche-like chalice, and the coven began chanting "Ch’ung Sha’agsh B’st! Ygan Qotimh M’go Faghn’li. Ch’ung Sha’agsh B’st! Ygan Qotimh M’go Faghn’li." While they were chanting, the high priest lit the incense, and the putrid odor filled the clearing they were in.

What I saw next sent shivers down my spine! From the smoking incense a light began to glow, opening wider and wider like a door where existed strange correlations of angles and curves, so as to allow the passage from one dimension to the next. In it I saw a city, like R’lyeh has been described, where the geometry was wrong— abnormal, non-Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions not of our own! From out of that city and through the door came a great winged cat-like being covered in slimy scales with a twisted horn protruding from the middle of its forehead. The odor of it was overpowering and reminded me of Limburger cheese and rotting flesh. It stood about 15 feet tall, and the sound it made reminded me of a child running their fingernails over a chalk board.

I must’ve gasped out loud, for suddenly it turned its ghoulish head toward me and gazed on me with red, fiery eyes that seemed to penetrate to the core of my being. It shrieked something, and the coven – and the "thing" began to run my way! I jumped up and ran as if my life depended on it! It most likely did! I crashed through tree branches that tore at my flesh, I stumbled over rocks and ruts that threw me to the ground, but still I got back up and ran some more! The air was burning in my lungs. My heart was pounding. I ran harder.

I soon came to the end of the woods and ran down the first street I came to. I was running away from the Institute, but all I cared about was my escape, not the scrolls!

After twisting and turning through the various streets of Santiago, I ended up on Church Street, where I took refuge behind a dry goods shop. I was totally winded and could run no further. From my advantage point, I could see some of the coven members searching, but thankfully, Sha’agsh B’st was not with them. I supposed that her presence near downtown Santiago would possibly catch the attention of someone and could expose her worshipers to harm. A group of people running through the streets searching for something could be explained as the quest for a lost dog or cat, and not bring undue attention to the coven.

I stayed hidden for what seemed to be hours, and since it would soon be dawn, I hurried away from my sanctuary and cautiously went to the Institute. The police had taken my keys from me when I was arrested, but fortunately the locks hadn’t been changed, and the emergency key hidden in the base of the statue of Carlton Sanbourne II, founder of the Institute was still there. I let myself in through a back door that was hidden from the view of the street behind the Institute.

I moved quietly so as to escape detection. As I had surmised, the night watchman was a young gentleman I didn’t know, and who wouldn’t know me either. From my hiding place I watched as he made his rounds. When he was out of sight, I snuck to the door of the Curator of Manuscripts and let myself in, locking the door behind me. I had noticed that the watchman merely tested the locked doors to make sure they were secure, but didn’t enter the locked offices. As long as I was quiet and kept the lights off, I should be safe.

I went to the bookcase and rotated the finial on the top left side. There was a muted click, and I quickly removed the first six volumes of Bibliotheca abs Adytum Antiquities, the famed twenty-nine volume "Library of Ancient Writings," and quietly set them on the desk. I found it mildly interesting that the new Curator, whoever he may be, had not taken it upon himself to rearrange the books on the shelves. The hidden vault was still there behind the same books and the scrolls were still in it! Evidently, the secret container had not been discovered.

I had the scrolls. Now I had to deliver them. Dr. Blaine and I had decided that they should be taken to the Miskatonic University in Arkham for safe keeping, and to make the scrolls available only to those scholarly enough to safely view them.

* * *

I had safely removed the scrolls and boarded a train for my cross-country journey to Arkham, Massachusetts. As far as I could tell, I had not been followed and was safe from harm. I relaxed and rested from my last few days of excitement and horror. It wasn’t long until we were only a few hours away from Arkham.

I had gone to the Dining Car for a late dinner, and had ordered a roast beef dish with boiled potatoes and buttered broccoli. It soon arrived and, being quite famished, I tore into it with relish. It was very well prepared and was served with style on a platter presented with a garnish of lettuce and tomato slices. I was enjoying it immensely. As I was consuming my last few bites, I noticed a black gentleman sitting across from me, staring at me quite intently.

I glanced back. He was a tall, lean man of dead black coloration without the slightest sign of Negroid features, wholly devoid of either hair or beard, and wearing as his only garment a shapeless robe of some heavy black fabric. He reminded me of the statues of the Pharaohs that one sees in museums. I glanced at him and smiled. He glanced back — I can only describe it as somewhat menacingly. I had the strangest idea that I had seen, or read a description, of this man before.

He spoke. "Are you enjoying your journey, Mr. Hodgkins?" I was shocked to discover he knew my name.

"Who are you?" I responded. "How do you know me and what do you want?"

"I know many things and have seen many places and times," he responded, "You might say that I am quite old and informed." He smiled slightly and continued. "I know who you are, where you are going, and what you are carrying."

I shuddered. Recognition came suddenly! "You’re Nyarlathotep! I read . . ."

"Silence," he commanded. "You know only what you read in books. You are young and inexperienced and are dabbling in things you can never begin to fathom. What do you know of Azathoth or R’lyeh? When have you spoken to Nephren-Ka, or instructed him in the black arts? When have you walked the streets of Mu or Ponape, or sung out on the streets of Y'ha-nthlei?" He gazed at me fiercely. "No, Mr. Hodgkins, you are nothing. Just someone to trifle with, to amuse oneself with."

He stood face-to-face with me, now. "You will give the scrolls to me. They do not belong to you, nor your kind. I will be back to retrieve them."

My mind clouded over for a moment, and when the moment passed, he was gone.

Quite shaken, I left the Dining Car and returned to my berth. I asked the conductor if he had seen the man leave (I was almost afraid to speak his name), and the conductor asked me who I was referring to. That as far as he knew I had been in the Dining Car alone. I quickly dismissed it with some comment about being overwrought, and the conductor seemingly accepted my explanation. I asked him what the next stop was, that I was thinking of getting off before Arkham and seeing some of the countryside."

Well, the next stop is Innsmouth, but I wouldn’t recommend getting off there. The people in that town are weird —they seem to have large, staring, unblinking eyes; queer, narrow heads; flat noses; and skin which isn’t quite right. I’d stay away from that place!" He looked at me conspiratorially. "Those folk give me nightmares," he confided.

I asked him when we would arrive there and he resignedly told me "in fifteen minutes." I hurried and got my bags assembled and waited by the exit.

* * *

Innsmouth is a seaport village founded in 1643 and located on the coast of Massachusetts between Newburyport and Arkham at the mouth of the Manuxet River. Innsmouth was a bustling port during the War of 1812, though prosperity soon faltered after the end of the war. If it were not for a prominent sea captain named Captain Obed Marsh, Innsmouth may have died off altogether. Through trade contacts in the South Seas, Captain Marsh was able to open the Marsh Gold Refinery which remained operational until February, 1928. Other businesses such as the railroad and numerous mills also opened their doors in Innsmouth, but none remained successful. Near its closure, the refinery was reported to run on lean times, itself. Fish remains plentiful in the area, though the locals do not take advantage of the trade. Devil’s Reef lays a mile-and-a-half to the east of Innsmouth Harbor.

In 1846, an epidemic was reported to have taken over half the population of Innsmouth, and riots and other ghastly doings were reported as well. The epidemic occurred only a scant few weeks after Captain Marsh and thirty-two others were arrested for unspecified charges on Devil’s Reef one evening. Though never actually charged, it is recorded that the group was detained for human sacrifices and devil-worship. In actuality, the epidemic was a cover-up for an attack by the Deep Ones on Innsmouth after going too long without human sacrifices.

A winter-long investigation prompted by the reports of an unidentified male of horrible doings during the summer of 1927 led to numerous arrests during February, 1928. An enormous number of buildings were burned down or dynamited, and a submarine sent torpedoes down the abyss at the base of Devil’s Reef. At that time, the town population stood at from 300-400 people.

* * *

The train station is near the intersection of River Road and Adams on the west side of the city, right by the Manuxit River. It was late evening when I arrived. I walked until I spotted a large semicircular square across the river and drew up on the right-hand side in front of a tall, cupola crowned building with remnants of yellow paint and with a half-effaced sign proclaiming it to be the Gilman House.

The sullen queer-looking night clerk told me I could have Room 428 on next the top floor--large, but without running water--for a dollar. I gave him the dollar and followed the sour, solitary attendant up three creaking flights of stairs past dusty corridors which seemed wholly devoid of life. My room was a dismal rear one with two windows and bare, cheap furnishings, overlooked a dingy court-yard otherwise hemmed in by low, deserted brick blocks, and commanded a view of decrepit westward-stretching roofs with a marshy countryside beyond. At the end of the corridor was a bathroom--a discouraging relic with ancient marble bowl, tin tub, faint electric light, and musty wooded paneling around all the plumbing fixtures. I had a fairly sleepless night as I kept hearing murmuring voices and sounds from the other rooms, though I could’ve sworn the rooms were empty. I impatiently awaited the dawn.

After a quick breakfast, I found a bus station and booked a ticket to Arkham. The bus ride was hot and muggy and I couldn’t wait to finally arrive.

Fortunately, the bus dropped me off at the corner of Church Street and West Street, which is right where the Muskatonic University is located. I quickly entered the campus and went to the library which is a large red-brick building at the southeast corner of the campus, by the intersection of Garrison and College Streets. Dr. Armitage was still there (I had met him during my visit over four years ago). After exchanging pleasantries, we mounted a curving stair with a gleaming mahogany banister and superb 18th-century posts and entered the librarian’s office which was crowded with filing cabinets and stacks of papers. He cleared off a space for us and we sat down to talk. I told him that I was pleasantly surprised to see that Cereberus, the bull mastiff, was still guarding the library entrance. He laughed and told me that he supposed Cereberus would outlive him at the university!

"You didn’t come here to talk about Cereberus. Why have you come to visit us, Mr. Hodgkins?"

I brought out the scrolls and related the events of the past few days. He looked at me quite concerned, but immediately went to studying the scrolls. "Hmmm." "Yes." "Interesting." And other grunts of approval were all I heard for about ten minutes. Then he looked up at me."We will be honored to add these scrolls to our collection. I will have to bring in Dr. Lapham, who you met the last time you were here, in order to have him help me authenticate the scrolls, but I doubt if there is any problem in that regard. I do urge you to exercise caution, though. Your meeting with Nyarlathotep concerns me greatly."

I told him I was also concerned, but felt that now that I no longer had the scrolls I would be safe. He wished me Godspeed and I left the University. Once again, Dr. Armitage had made arrangements for me to stay at the Athen um Club which was two blocks away and, since the weather was mild and pleasant, I decided to walk instead of taking a cab. As I remembered from last time, the rooms were spacious and elegant and I decided to take a nap before dining.

It was slightly after six when I went to the club dining parlor, and I was famished. Being that I was in New England, I ordered the Boiled Lobster tail with drawn garlic butter and Maine corn and Red Potatoes. I gave thanks again that the hidden vault in Sanbourne also had a stack of money in it set aside to be used for emergency purchases (without getting governing board approval). When I had escaped Dunhill, I had been penniless. I could’ve never crossed the continent without cash.When I returned to my room I noticed that my things had been moved, like someone — or something — had searched my meager belongings. I was both angry and apprehensive at the same time. A thorough search of my rooms convinced me that who or what had been there was now gone. I slept, albeit fitfully.

I rose early the next day and, after paying my respects to Dr. Armitage, headed off to the train station to begin my journey back to Santiago, California. By the time we reached Nevada, I had almost forgotten about the horrifying experiences that had brought me on this journey. I almost felt like a person on holiday, not a deliverer of demonic writings. I would joyfully sit for hours watching the vast countryside go by my window.

We crossed over into Nevada. I was almost home! I began to think about where I would go to live. My constitution wasn’t strong enough for New England winters after all those years in California, so I didn’t want to stay in Arkham. The thought of bitter cold Massachusetts winters gave me a chill even though it was late August and the temperature in the train was quite warm. I couldn’t stay in Santiago, even though I had lived there all my life, as I was still an escapee from a mental Asylum. If I were discovered, they’d lock me up again. Another concern was employment. I really couldn’t just go up to a museum and tell them I was an experienced Curator of Manuscripts, now could I?

Actually, up until this moment, I hadn’t really given it any thought, and now, as my journey was about to end, I really had no place to go. I had bought a ticket back to Santiago simply because I considered it "home." Once I got off the train, I was once again Arthur Hodgkins, lunatic, and escaped lunatic at that!

After a few hours, while I was thus engaged in debate with myself, I began to sense that I was being watched! The car I was in was about half-full of people now, many of them having boarded on our last stop in Sierra Martis, Nevada, north of Reno. Perhaps I should’ve left the train there. Studying the petroglyphs of the Martis Indians would certainly be an interesting occupation. Down the road, I might even be able to redeem myself somewhat by publishing a scholarly work on their interpretation!

As I said, I had a feeling that I was being watched. I began to feel uneasy, almost like a trapped-animal feeling. Many of the passengers looked like they were Spanish, or American Indian, or a mixture of the two. They were of pale skin with long, narrow faces; their complexion didn’t have the swarthy appearance of sun-dried parchment like so many people in the area had, however. It was almost pastry and moist, like a grub when it is removed from a rotting log. I noticed that they all had a tattoo on their right wrist, or back of their right hand. I froze. —

The tattoo was of a cat, a winged cat with a twisted horn!It was a tattoo of the glyph of Sha’agsh B’st! I began to sweat and shake. I knew that they had not all chosen to ride that train by coincidence. And, with the train racing through California, there was no place to run, to hide! Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me.

"Azathoth brings greetings, Mr. Hodgkins!" I spun around. It was Nylarhotep! I cringed. "You went and gave my scrolls to the Miskatonic, didn’t you? You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Hodgkins. They weren’t yours to give." He stepped forward and grabbed my arm. I stood up, shrieking!

At that moment, the train began to stop, and the jerking of the car allowed me to break free from his obscene grasp. I ran for the door, and on to the platform screaming, "No! No! No!" over and over again. The followers of Sha’agsh B’st exited the train and cautiously moved in my direction, careful not to draw attention to themselves. Everyone at the station had their eyes on me!

Suddenly, someone grabbed my arms and wrestled me to the ground. By this time my shrieks were barely human. I was squalling unintelligible sounds. I may even have been drooling and blubbering. At that moment I would’ve gladly allowed myself to be cast into Hades, just to escape that nameless horror!

I glanced sideways at my captor, squirming and twisting to try to escape. It wasn’t Nylarhotep! It was Wilbur J. Barlow, the deputy who had questioned me back in 1929!

"Now, now, Mr. Hodgkins! Calm down. You’re going to be alright." He looked up at the Station Master who had come to the platform to see what all the noise and confusion was about.

"Silas, go call Sheriff Watkins. Tell him to send a wagon down here. Tell him we’ve got Art Hodgkins in custody." The Station Master hurried back into his office to make the call.

Then I saw Nylarhotep walk past. "We’ll be seeing you," he commented, amusedly. I screamed again.

***

I’m back at Dunhill. I told Dr. Blaine what had happened and he was glad the scrolls are safe, but sorry that I was caught. In a way, it’s better this way. I feel somewhat safe in here. There is only one thing that makes me uneasy at times. The new nurse, Uther Pendragon, has a very long face with pale skin.

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Copyright 2008, Randolph A. Wood