Miskatonic Nightmares Read online

  He felt around and finally found a door handle. He realized that the doors slid on tracks like the doors at Murphy’s Garage in Arkham. He yanked on the handle and the door slid easily to the side. A large chamber that went further than he could see was dimly lit with lights hanging overhead above shelves of miscellaneous items, all manner of statues standing here and there, suits of armor, and more.

  He pulled the platform back up the shaft, finding an anticipatory audience.

  “This looks like where they store everything. There’s a little light down there. I’m sure once we get in there and close the doors we can find more light.”

  “That’s pretty good thinking, Lance,” said Gordon as he clapped his friend on the back.

  Arthur was impatient and his mood was worsening by the minute. He scowled as he said, “Yeah, Lance is an amazing genius. Now, everyone onto the platform. Gordon and Claudius, grab those straps on the inside of the doors so we can pull them closed behind us.”

  It was slow going, stopping to close the heavy doors and to safely descend with the bulk of the five men, but the platform was sturdy and built to hold a lot of weight. Once at the bottom, they entered the chamber and slid the doors closed. A search along the wall on either side of the door revealed breaker switches. Arthur flipped the first switch, then a second, illuminating the vast space.

  The quintet looked in amazement. The space was huge and the treasure vast.

  “I wonder how much dough we can make on this caper?” Claudius asked, rubbing his hands together in greedy anticipation.

  Arthur turned on him, his face hard as the Greek statue that loomed from the shadows nearby. “Let’s get this straight—find the skeleton chair, touch nothing else, and make sure you don’t break anything. We don’t have much time.”

  Claudius smiled and said, “I was just jo…”

  “I don’t care what you were just. Find that damn chair and that’s it.”

  The four stared at Arthur and nodded in agreement.

  “Now spread out, you bunch of flat tires,” Arthur ordered, waiting for them all to go their own way before he chose his path.

  It was nearly a half-hour later when Devon called out to them from a far wall. When they arrived, they found him pulling back an immense canvas curtain supported by thick chains mounted to pulleys on a track hanging from the ceiling. Within sat the skeletal chair, its ancient bones irradiating with an otherworldly glow. The headrest, not including the skull mounted on top, rose nearly six feet from the floor. It was almost wide enough that two of them could sit side by side on the chair, but no one offered. The bones appeared real and the leather-covered seat was the same tone as Gordon’s huge belly.

  “Is that human skin?” Lance asked.

  “No,” Arthur answered, not wanting to think about it.

  “Are you…”

  “I said it isn’t,” Arthur answered hastily. “Now shut it.”

  Arthur cautiously reached out and grasped the arm of the chair, just above the wrist. He placed a foot on the runner to hold the chair down as he forced the arm with all his strength, attempting to break it loose. It didn’t budge.

  “Lance and Devon, grab on to this side with me. You guys grab the other side,” he said, motioning to Gordon and Claudius. After they each had a grip he ordered them to pull. The chair didn’t even squeak, much less crack or break loose. It only began to glow brighter and a deep droning buzz emanated from it.

  Electricity suddenly filled the air and crackled, raising the hair along each man’s entire body. Before they could back away, a pair of dragon claws and demon claws grabbed the legs of everyone but Arthur, holding them fast. The skeletal hand near Arthur lashed out and snatched his wrist, crushing it so tightly he could feel the bones snap. They all screamed as they yanked and twisted in failed endeavors to break free of the Judgment Chair.

  The hand pulled Arthur closer, spinning him with force and grasping his other arm with its second bony claw. The hands pulled quickly, yanking both of Arthur’s arms behind him and out of their sockets as he was slammed down onto the seat. Every other rib opened wide and wrapped in front of Arthur, locking him in its deadly embrace. The ribs in front of him pressed into Arthur’s skin and against his own ribs as the ribs from behind did the same, making it difficult for him to breathe.

  The electrical bolts crackled through the air and whipped the canvas along its pulleys, the loud clanking of chains and the metal wheels rolling heavily on the tracks as the dark curtain enclosed them. The charged air made their bodies tingle as the light spiked and tendrils coursed through the air from chain to chain and across the grid above. Horrified, they watched the arcs of electricity slowly descend like a spider’s web, closing down on them. So intent was their gaze looking upward, they didn’t realize that a portal had silently opened in the floor before them, not until they felt the burning cold blasting them, freezing their skin. Before them stood a massive creature, almost like a human covered in stringy white hair mottled with streaks of red, the color of blood, on its misshapen head. The body was matted with white tufts of fur splotched with more red. Its feet were webbed with long claws protruding from its toes, much like the claws of the powerful hands raised before them on tree trunk sized arms. The web of electricity halted just above the being’s head.

  “Ithaqua,” Arthur said, resigning to his fate.

  Ithaqua roared, the resonation of the Elder god’s voice nearly shattering their eardrums. Yet each of them could still hear a silent voice, like no voice they had ever heard before, questioning them. It probed their minds for answers, not only of the previous night, but also throughout their entire lives. No matter how much they refused to answer as tears streamed down their face and piss ran down their legs, the voice pulled the secrets from them. It was if the voice had a huge set of pliers and was reaching deep within and yanking the answers free, leaving a gaping wound that burned with heat and ice at the same time.

  The questions finally came to an end. The gang was exhausted, aching in places they had never ached before, blood dripping in rivulets from every orifice in their bodies. Ithaqua roared once again and the web moved downward, coming to rest on the crest of the skull attached to the chair. The energy flowed through the chair and burned its way through each of their bodies. They could smell themselves being cooked from the inside. They could see the smoke and light coming out where blood had flowed freely only moments before, but now the gore was caked and dried by the intense heat. Then their eyes burst from their skulls and their bodies shriveled into cinder husks, leaving only a shell of what they had been. Ithaqua reached forward and plucked Arthur’s head from his blackened corpse and swallowed the morsel.

  It roared once more and a massive gale of bitter cold wind circled the chair and sucked all the remains down into the portal. Ithaqua’s bitter laugh was the last thing heard as all evidence of the five men vanished into another realm.

  Still, they were alive. Another much more malevolent voice entered into their heads and let them know that this wasn’t the world they knew. This was the world of the Eldritch and that they would feel the pain for as long as the gods wanted them to.

  There, in a different dimension, the distorted bodies of the men were thrust through with thorns and shards of rock while all manner of strange creatures--those that slithered, those that flew, and those that crawled—pecked, pulled and gnawed at them. Arthur knew that their punishment was only just beginning.

  Acquired through Deaccession

  Lee Clark Zumpe

  “Will you be working late tonight, Mr. Palmer?” Despite his diminutive build and his good-natured demeanor, Edwin Curley, M.A., Ph.D., Litt.D., startled graduate student Lawrence Palmer when he tapped on the young man’s shoulder and repeated his question. “If you will be here after midnight, I will let the desk clerk know.”

  The short old man, slight and frail, stood in the dim glow of failing light fixtures dangling from a ceiling shrouded in darkness. His long, wild, white hair seemed to s
tretch toward the shadows and his narrow, pallid face terminated in a gray, pointed beard.

  “Yes, sir,” Palmer finally answered after his heart stopped racing from the sudden shock. He popped the ear bud headphones out of his skull, unleashing the muffled melodic sounds of the Dead Can Dance album Spiritchaser. “I am going to keep at it until I can’t keep my eyes open.” Palmer had been working diligently in a far-flung corner of the building. “The new specialist asked me to get through this section as quickly as possible.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Curley, former chief librarian at Miskatonic University, remained on the institution’s payroll some 25 years after his mandated retirement. He had been tasked with overseeing one small subdivision of the vast collection – and he regarded his assignment with the earnestness it demanded. He worried that a recent change in university personnel might interfere with a vow he made to his old mentor, the late Dr. Henry Armitage. “I haven’t even met the fellow. Some faculty members are meeting with him at this hour. Upstairs, I am told. I hope that they will impress upon him the significance of this collection.”

  “Yes sir, of course.” Palmer nodded and acknowledged Curley’s concern, though he did not grasp every notion he uttered. The graduate student admired Curley’s diligence and meticulousness. He also shared his respect for and obsession with the mysteries interred within the shadowed aisles and secreted within the all-but-forgotten antiquarian tomes lining the shelves. For the good of civilization, such things must be kept under lock and key. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

  Curley respected the young man’s optimism – but he did not share it. He maintained a healthy skepticism about the ever-changing face of the Miskatonic bureaucracy and its ability to preserve the university’s legacy. As always, steps had to be taken to protect fools from accidentally unleashing corporeal nightmares.

  “I hope you are correct,” the old man said as he turned and plunged back into the labyrinthine complex. Shadows rallied upon his departure, encroaching upon every source of radiance in the section.

  Had Palmer not busied himself with the task at hand, he might have caught a glimpse of curious outlines and blurry figures congregating in natural alcoves found within this restricted quarter. Those blasphemous entities, with their quiet malevolence, might have been liberated from some ancient sepulcher – or summoned from an abhorrent dimension outside the material universe.

  *

  A dozen or so men and women gathered in the dim, musty meeting room on the third floor of the building – the one beyond the long, narrow hall embellished by portraits of former custodians of the prestigious library. The wave of renovations that revitalized the unrestricted areas in the last two decades of the 20th century did not extend to these remote alcoves.

  The 8 pm. meeting started an hour late and, due to the complex issues being discussed, seemed predisposed to run well beyond midnight. Attendees chose between quaint, uncomfortable chairs and a number of long wooden benches allegedly removed from the long-abandoned Bayfriar’s Church atop French Hill. Otherwise, the chamber contained nothing more than a podium, a small antique desk, and a rough table.

  “Yesterday’s penny-pincher is today’s fiscal conservative,” Norton Schubert began, leaning on the podium as he spoke. “Frugality is the mother of prosperity. The prevailing trend in collections management is aggressive culling. Removing and liquidating outdated materials allows us to purchase new items and provides financial stability for the university.”

  Schubert nodded emphatically as he delivered his introductory sermon to the group of concerned Miskatonic University academics, confident his reasoning and enthusiasm would convince his audience to embrace his proposals. The veteran, tenured scholars had requested this emergency meeting with the school’s new collections specialist when word got out that he planned to begin selling off 'nonviable' artifacts long ago entrusted to the institution.

  “I don’t recall anyone saying Miskatonic was facing a budget shortfall, Mr. Schubert.” Cordelia Olinger, professor of religious studies at the university, spoke in a slow soft drawl that did not fully suppress her agitation. “Admission rates have been increasing steadily. We’ve seen an increase in donations from some very generous benefactors. The school is the largest employer in Arkham, and it is the main reason the community didn’t suffer more during the recent recession.”

  “True enough, true enough,” Schubert said. “But, as I understand it, it is my responsibility to anticipate economic downturns and prepare for lean years. That is why I have come up with these guidelines for the reappraisal and deaccessioning of unnecessary and obsolete inventory items. Now, I have no doubt we all seek what is best for Miskatonic University,” he continued, his tone of self-importance growing more audacious with each compulsory smile. “I assure you that this policy is a necessary and healthy part of inventory management and it will allow us to refine and improve the quality of the collection at this institution.”

  “Sounds like a polite way of saying you plan to weed out all the tattered, threadbare tomes in the stacks not meant for public consumption. That is exactly why we insisted on this meeting.” For Daniel Strange, professor of English and chair of the humanities, Schubert’s appointment as collections specialist appeared shady from the beginning. Academically speaking, the slim, agile young man possessed suitable credentials but lacked experience. The hiring process had been a closed-door affair, and several members of the board of trustees had expressed displeasure at being excluded from the decision-making process. “This library contains a number of extremely old, rare, and significant works – incunabula, paleotypes, early printed Cyrillic books and historic manuscripts. Access to many of these items is restricted to select faculty members. My greatest fear is one of these treasures will end up in an online auction – or worse, thrown on a bargain table at a library fund-raising event.”

  “I assure you, Professor Strange, that will not happen,” Schubert said. “First, selections will be made strictly from materials designated for public circulation. Second, all materials will be reviewed by a collections committee. Finally, all materials chosen for deaccession will be made available to Miskatonic University faculty members for bidding prior to being offered for sale to the general public.”

  “Just remember we aren’t talking about duplicate copies of J.K. Rowling or ratty classroom editions of Shakespeare’s plays,” said Adriana Langford. Langford, associate professor and undergraduate coordinator, had only recently transferred to Miskatonic from a poorly-funded private school in the mountains of northern Georgia. “If that was the case, I think we’d all agree that a bit of purging couldn’t hurt. When you start liquidating books from the university’s core collection, you are treading on hallowed ground, sir. When I visited this school for the first time, I made a bee-line for this library. For many researchers, it is a place of legend and mystery.”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Langford, I don’t think we need to romanticize the stacks.” Graydon Decker, professor and associate chair of Byzantine archaeology, summoned a keen, disapproving glance to stifle further debate. “I have spent more than half my lifetime strolling through these corridors, navigating the impossible and seemingly endless maze of bookshelves on all levels of this building. To be blunt, this library needs a makeover. It reeks of antiquity.”

  “That, Professor Decker, is precisely correct,” Schubert said, galvanized by the prospect of finding a possible ally. “May I point out that one of the goals of this project is to search out and identify materials that are in need of restoration and to pinpoint detrimental elements that exist in the building, such as sources of water damage and various animal and insect infestations.”

  “Unlike some of my colleagues, I did not come here to crucify you, Mr. Schubert,” Decker continued. “I am well aware that the decision has been made to proceed with the purge. I am similarly aware that there are sections of this library teeming with shriveled parchments and tattered tomes, long neg
lected upon musty shelves. You have convinced me that you are the man to reanimate those deathless volumes and liberate them from the oblivion of obscurity in which they now reside. If the rest of you have not been likewise persuaded, I am certain Mr. Schubert would agree to appoint you to the collections committee.”

  Over the next few hours, the dissenting MU academics practiced the fine art of backroom diplomacy in crafting a tolerable compromise, negotiating for specific concessions, and surrendering certain prerequisites. Schubert reluctantly expanded both the size and the authority of the collections committee, accepting the demand that rare materials in a number of unconventional fields be excluded from the review process. The professors eventually yielded to the specialist’s insistence that he be allowed to continue an assessment and appraisal operation in the library’s restricted areas – though he assured everyone in the room this exercise was strictly “standard inventory control protocol” and “not a single item will be scrapped.”

  Arbitration continued late into the night virtually uninterrupted. Only Professor Decker – who seemed sympathetic to Schubert’s position – slipped out for a brief interval after receiving an urgent message.

  *

  Lawrence Palmer sat in the farthest reaches of the stacks. His desk was beyond the perimeter of velvet rope which served as an affable border limiting the ability of the undergraduates to explore the library’s extensive holdings, past the oddly slanting double doors beneath receding arches, and within the labyrinthine network of lofty bookshelves crafted from walnut.