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  MISKATONIC NIGHTMARES:

  More Tales from Miskatonic University

  edited by

  H. David Blalock

  and

  Herika H. Raymer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the authors and/or artists.

  Miskatonic Nightmares is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors' imaginations. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Story and illustration copyrights owned by the respective authors.

  Cover illustration “Death Over Innsmouth“ 2016

  Athens State Mental Hospital image (January 2009) provided by Mike Tewkesbury, available on Flickr and used under the terms of the Creative Commons: Attribution-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-ND 2.0). Original image can be seen at https://www.flickr.com/photos/7687126@N06/3196269910.

  Cover design by Alexander S. Brown

  First Printing, October 2016

  Alban Lake Publishing

  http://albanlake.com

  Visit http://albanlake.com for online science fiction, fantasy, horror, scifaiku, and more. Also visit the Alban Lake Publishing bookstore at http://albanlake.com/ for paperbacks, magazines, anthologies, and chapbooks. Support the small, independent press...

  FOREWORD

  Miskatonic University. The name conjures images of unearthly beings striding haunted halls, of a library replete with unholy tomes, and laboratories in which scientists tinker with the mechanics of life itself, usually with horrifying results. Like with many schools, there is always expansion. This one is no different. Welcome to yet more tales from the legendary university filled with such rich goings on that it could not all fit in one volume.

  In these pages you will find out more about that storied University, its denizens, its faculty, and its students. Some of the best writers in the horror genre have lent their talents to bringing you insight into the mysteries that reside within it. From the terrifying to the humorous, the stories in this volume reflect university life in all its variety. We're sure you will find something to your liking.

  We would like to thank all those authors who are returning from the previous anthology in our Lovecraftian series, The Idolaters of Cthulhu and Miskatonic Dreams, for lending their hands to making Miskatonic Nightmaress a reality. Welcome back!

  And welcome to you, gentle reader. May you find within the walls of Miskatonic University the answers you seek... and live to tell the tale.

  Herika R Raymer

  H. David Blalock

  21 July 2016

  Table of Contents

  Room 411

  The Judgment Chair

  Acquired Through Deaccession

  Beyond the Angles

  A Breath of Cold Air

  The Bard Visits Arkham

  The Vitruvian Man

  When You Wish Upon a Star

  The Miskatonic Cafeteria

  Miskatonic Darkness

  The Rat in the Library Walls

  She Who Walks in Darkness

  Cauldron at the Gate

  Room 411

  Robert J. Krog

  Henry Hogarth Jones was a mop pusher - a slow moving, after hours, talking to himself sort of fellow. He was allowed to turn on the radio in Prof. Regulo’s office when cleaning the sociology building, and he talked to it as well as to himself. He talked, but he did not sing along, nor did he hum. He liked talk radio more than music anyway, though the mood sometimes struck him to listen to symphony performances. He was not otherwise musically inclined. He did not, of his own accord, talk to any member of the faculty who were in their offices after hours. If they acknowledged him in any way, he responded politely enough, wishing them good night or assuring them that whatever it was they wanted cleaned or fixed would be accomplished promptly, no more.

  He wrote letters though, on his breaks or when not at work. He was - he prided himself on it – a correspondent. He corresponded weekly with one Dr. Andre Van Gelder on matters most secret. He received a monthly payment for this service. The stipend would, he hoped, allow him to retire in a fashion to which mere janitors were unaccustomed. The letters from Van Gelder were almost always businesslike.

  Hogarth: (Van Gelder, for some reason, always referred to him by his middle name.)

  The focus this week is still on smells. Last week you reported that the odors of lilacs, roses, ammonia, etc. had no noticeable effect. If neither floral aromas, nor those of cleaning agents, elicit any response from Room 411, perhaps something stronger might. Try sulfur. Please continue keeping notes on the state of the door. Has the temperature been consistent with the external temperature? Is the moisture the same? Has it altered size in any way? Be sure and take measurements. If feel is not enough, please obtain a thermometer of some kind and use it. Also, I may send you a barometer next week. Changes in air pressure might give us a clue.

  Andre Van Gelder, PhD

  Jones was scrupulous in his duties both as a janitor and (how the term pleased him) a covert agent. He burned all his letters from Dr. Van Gelder in the sociology building furnace.

  Dr. Van Gelder,

  No change in temperature this week. The smells are not strong this week either. There is a faint, musty odor, as always. I’ve tried sulfur as you suggested. I put it directly under the door on a sheet of plastic so that I could pull it out again, leaving no trace. It didn’t change color or react at all. Room 411 must be very sterile. That was Monday. On Tuesday, I tried rotten eggs. Same result. Once I removed them, nothing unusual had occurred. They were the same as the control sample. I tried charcoal again on Wednesday. No result. There was activity on the fourth floor on Thursday and Friday, but I did sneak a lemon solution into the mop water on Friday. No change. I may try pine next week. The door has remained the same size all week. Moisture is another matter. I noted condensation on the surface and the knob Thursday, but was unable to investigate due to activity directly across the hall in Room 414. Prof. Greeves had his door open until midnight. Mrs. Steward came and went between his office and that of the Chair’s most of the night. She tripped over my wet floor sign around eleven. I had to help her up. She lost a button off her blouse. The button went under the door to Room 411. We were not allowed by the Chair to retrieve it. He said Dr. Perfory or his assistant, Mr. Pitswale, would have to get it in the morning. However, I learned Friday that they claimed they could not find it. I had lain on the floor and looked under the door and seen it clearly though in my flashlight beam. Why would they lie about it? I’m not surprised we weren’t allowed to open the door. I’m sure that they are concerned about anyone seeing the sign on the inside of it. Dr. Perfory and Mr. Pitswale still switch the hall lights off before they open or close it, and only turn on the lights in 411 after the door is shut.

  I was able to use a thermometer several times during the week. The temperature was constant on those nights. However, I was not able to use it Thursday or Friday. The door and air coming from underneath it did feel cooler on Thursday. I’d have to guess it was ten degrees cooler, but that is only a guess.

  I’d love to try the barometer. Please do send it.

  H. H. Jones, covert agent.

  P.S. No change in the lighting. Room 411 continues to seem darker than it should, given the windows and the lights from the quad outside and other buildings. I saw nothing unusual when I shone the flashlight under the door on Thursday, but. per your instructions, I have not otherwise used a flashlight. No sounds of late. The scurrying may have just been mice. I did catc
h some on the third floor last week.

  It was Monday again, but the usual letter from Van Gelder had not arrived with new instructions. The weather conditions had been cold and icy, so Jones was not concerned about the delay. He stood at the end of the hall, looking down over the red-checkered tile at the light shining from under the door of Room 411. Dr. Perfory and Mr. Pitswale never worked late. They hadn’t done so in the two years that Jones had worked in the sociology building. He stared down the hall, seeing how the moonlight from the window over the stairway landing behind him was reflected in the red tiles. He was a little worried. If the Dr. and his assistant took to working nights, his investigations would likely come to halt. His payments from Van Gelder might as well.

  “Can’t have that,” he muttered.

  He sighed. It was time to use the dust mop before he wet mopped the fourth floor. Sticking to his usual routine, he began cleaning classrooms and offices, sweeping the debris out into the hall. He’d make one long push to get it all at the end. He gradually approached the door of Room 411 during the process. Each time he entered a room, the light was shining under the door. Each time he exited a room, the light was still shining under the door. However, he heard nothing from within. He thought about turning on Prof. Regulo’s radio, so as to cover up any noise he might make outside the door, but decided to leave it off. Maybe he’d hear something from within.

  He stuck to his routine so as not to arouse suspicion. The floor, indeed so far, the building, seemed otherwise deserted. When he was in Prof. Greeves’s office, he took a breather, lit a cigarette, and listened. There was no sound from inside Room 411. Surely if they were in there working, he’d hear something, the scrape of a chair, the scratching of a pen, the shuffling of paper, a clearing of the throat, something. He could only justify a few minutes for his breather, and went back to work.

  As he exited Greeves’s office, he saw a shadow block the light from under the door for a moment. He froze, shook himself, and moved on. There should have been a footstep, surely, but all had been silent from the inside. He went on to the next room. When he came out of it, he again saw something momentarily block the light from under the door. He pushed the little pile of dust and pencil shavings down to join with the little pile from Greeves’s office. An inspiration had struck him. He would pretend to be examining and oiling the bottom hinge to Prof. Greeves's door if anyone should suddenly exit 411. He leaned the dust mop against the wall and went downstairs to his closet to get his oilcan.

  The janitor’s closet was in the basement, of course, and it was several minutes later that he returned to the fourth floor. He thought as he came off the stairs, that he heard a loud scurrying from down the hall, but when he looked, he saw only his piles and broom, undisturbed. He shrugged and headed down to 414. He knelt there, oilcan in hand and proceeded to go through the motions of examining the bottom hinge. Hearing nothing from inside 411, he quickly got down on all fours and peeked under the door. No feet were in evidence, no mice to account for scurrying, only Mrs. Steward’s button, exactly where it had been that Thursday of the week before. Baffled, he stared at it, and, strangely, it gleamed. He moved closer, his face pressed to the cold, red floor tiles, looking carefully. The button was yellow and bright, like gold. Had it been gold before? Surely not. It had been brass perhaps, but not gold.

  He remembered clearly how he had looked up from his work to see the lovely young lady walking down the hall, intently regarding the papers in her hands. She hadn’t seen the wet floor sign he had put up. He had been glancing rather furtively at her blouse, or rather, how she filled her blouse so nicely and then looking guiltily away, when she had walked right into the sign. She’d fallen spectacularly, papers scattering wildly, glasses falling off her face, her hands spreading out to catch herself, her mouth opening in alarm, breathing sharply in, but making no other noise. She’d fallen full on the floor. Her hands had slid, of course, on the newly-mopped, red tile. He’d rushed to her aid, slipping himself but not quite falling, catching himself on the wall. She’d risen on her own before he’d recovered his balance.

  “I’m so sorry, Jones,” she had said, “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Oh, dear, my bosom has escaped.” She’d blushed and turned away, trying to restore her dignity. She’d noticed because his eyes had been drawn like magnets to her exposed undergarment and cleavage.

  “Sorry,” he’d stuttered. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Not to worry,” she said, flustered. “Oh, drat! I’ve lost a button.”

  They and Prof. Greeves, who’d witnessed the scene from his office, spent the next several minutes searching for the lost button, until Jones had used his flashlight to look under the door to Room 411.

  “Better not go in there, Jones,” said Prof. Greeves, “You know how it is with Dr. Perfory. His research is confidential, you understand. We can ask the chair for permission, Mrs. Steward. Maybe she’ll retrieve that button.”

  Jones didn’t volunteer the information that his key wouldn’t work on the door to 411. When the chair had said no, Prof. Greeves had first asked Jones if he ever found and kept spare buttons while sweeping.

  “Sorry, sir. Ma’am, but I just toss them unless someone has been asking. I’m so sorry.”

  Then, Prof. Greeves had gallantly torn a button of his coat and offered it to Mrs. Steward who, having a needle and thread in her purse, had been able to restore her modesty.

  The buttons on her blouse had been little brass things though, not gold. But there was a button that looked just like hers, only gold and somehow larger, lying right where hers had been. He thought about the price of gold per ounce, and figured out what the button might weigh, and realized that it was a pricey button sitting there on the floor.

  “She’d like to have that back, she would,” he muttered.

  Cold air wafted from under the door, blowing the dust from one of his piles into his face. He jerked back, inhaling stupidly. He was up on his knees and sneezing violently a moment later. After several sneezes, he was able to stop. He rubbed his eyes and saw, on his vision clearing, that the light was blocked. Quickly, he picked up the oilcan and returned to the hinge.

  From under the door, the light returned and he heard the scurrying sound. Mice? he wondered, and quickly lowered his head to look under again. He saw nothing but the button, that gleaming bit of gold. He was sure it was gold.

  “Maybe,” he said to himself, “they left the light on.”

  He got closer to the door. The cold draft was flowing out from under it, but he avoided the dust and put his eye to the crack. There was the button on the floor, perhaps just in reach of his dust mop handle. He could rescue it for Mrs. Steward. He raised his face to reflect on that. He really wanted to rescue that button.

  A whiff of something foul wafted out from under the door. He sniffed it and made a mental note to write all this down in the next letter to Dr. Van Gelder. He heard the scurrying sound and dropped to look again. He saw no mice, nor anything else but that button. It drew the eye in a rather compelling way. He thought about it. Maybe he could get it with the mop handle. The pretty Mrs. Steward would appreciate that. He set aside the oilcan, rose, and reached for the dust mop. He froze in the act when he saw that the knob was again covered in a light, gleaming layer of condensation.

  “Something’s going on,” he muttered. He grabbed the handle. More for the letter to Van Gelder! He got down on his knees again and detached the handle from the mop. With just the stick, he began to poke under the door. He wondered briefly what Van Gelder would say, but then figured it was in his job description as a janitor to do things like this, and that there was no way he would disturb Dr. Perfory’s work doing it. The dang handle was too thick, though, and wouldn’t fit.

  “Well, nuts,” he muttered, measuring the gap with his hand.

  A shadow fell across the light in the room.

  Swiftly, he scuttled away and grabbed the oilcan, turning toward the hinge of Dr. Greeves’s door. An odor, a foul,
fetid odor wafted out from under the door then. He gagged and backed away down the hall. The light was still blocked. He dropped the oilcan with a loud banging sound but it landed right side up and stood that way.

  "Dr. Perfory?” he called out, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose.

  There was the scurrying sound again, and the light returned under the door. It occurred to him that mice were not large enough to block all the light coming from under the door.

  “Dr. Perfory? Mr. Pitswale?” he called out again. “It’s Jones the janitor. Is everything alright in there?”

  The hall was silent. He walked up to the door. There had to be someone in there. He wondered, not for the first time, what a sociology teacher could be doing in his lab that would account for such strange occurrences. He knocked on the door.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Dr., but I wonder if everything is okay. There’s an odor out here.”

  There was still no response from within, but the odor grew stronger. He backed away down the hall, gagging again. A tremor, not a shiver but a tremor, went up his spine. His hair seemed to stand up. When he got to the stairs he stopped and looked back. There was ice forming on the outside of the door, and mist was pushing out from under it, but no light. Trembling, he ran for it.

  Dr. Van Gelder,

  Temperature of door was very cold tonight. The scurrying sounds returned. Light came from under the door as of electric light, but was periodically blocked by something larger than would account for the sounds. No sign of the Dr. or his assistant. The button lost by Mrs. Steward was there, or one like it. This one was gold. Hers was brass. Sure of it. Looked exactly the same, otherwise. Maybe a little larger. Terrible odor like something dead. Condensation was followed by ice on the door and mist from under it. Terrible feeling too. Ran for it. Had to tell my boss I was sick. Came home and wrote this letter. Posting it immediately. Will pay extra for quicker delivery. Feel like a fool for running. Hope I remembered everything. Looking forward to your instructions. Meaning to return to work tomorrow night.