Read Online Cthulhu Lives!: An Eldritch Tribute to H. P. Lovecraft by Greg Stolze, Tim Dedopulos, John Reppion, Lynne Hardy, Gabor Csigas, Gethin A. Lynes - Free Book Online
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wallpaper?”
“So I can paint this wall. Then, while I watch it dry, I’ll get an insight into what you feel when you watch Arsenal.”
“Please yourself.” Ralph withdrew.
A little later there was another knock.
“Piss off if Ralph sent you.”
The door opened. “Ralph said you were redecorating.” Dave’s voice.
James didn’t turn round. He used his body as an extra barrier between his visitors and his wall.
“We were wondering if you needed psychiatric help.” That was Ron.
James turned his head. “Is Sam back yet?”
“No. Why?”
“Because if he is, invite him in for a gawp too. Get it over with.” He sighed, and relented. “If you must know, this wallpaper is driving me crazy. I never could stand this shade of green. Then the other day I spotted some mould, and decided that one of us would have to go.”
“Wilde, James?” asked Dave. “I’m impressed.” He didn’t sound it.
“You can re-decorate my room next, if you like,” said Ron. “I hate my wallpaper, too.”
“I hate the fact that you leave your bike in the hall where I keep tripping over it,” James said. He returned to his stripping. Ron and Dave took the hint.
♦
Two hours later, he’d cleared the entire wall. The floor was ankle-deep in fragments of soggy wallpaper mixed with powdered plaster. Beneath the strange design, the stone held two short lines of what was presumably writing, though in no script he’d ever seen. Other than that, it and the rest of the wall was bare. The remaining sections of plaster were pitted and cracked. If he’d been interested in decoration, it would have taken a lot of attention to ready it for new wallpaper. In other circumstances the job would have appealed, but his attention was drawn to the strange stone set into the brickwork. It was a dull grey, and smooth, almost silky, to the touch. A fair size too, about three feet tall, two feet wide and, if his estimate of the wall had been accurate, two and a bit feet from front to back.
James looked at the design and the inscription again. He traced some of the lines with his finger, and gasped. The incisions were deep, and their edges sharp – amazingly so, after so many years. He stared for a long time, wrapped up in the delicious mystery. There was no question of trying to forget about the stone.
He rummaged through what he optimistically referred to as his desk, and found paper and biro. Once he got the ink flowing, he copied the engravings as accurately as he could. He paid particular attention to the writing, if that was what it was. He made notes of the number of different characters, and which ones occurred more than once. There were no gaps to suggest breaks between words – wasn’t that a trick cryptographers used to defend against unfriendly decipherment? Perhaps it was some sort of code.
There was another knock on his door. He stood up, folded the paper and stuffed it in his back pocket, then opened the door.
It was Ralph. “Still stripping wallpaper?”
“Just about done. Nothing much to see.”
“No shit. Dave’s done a spag bol. Want some?”
It dawned on James that he was starving. Mel, though wonderful in many ways, watched her figure by pretending that breakfast was a myth. He’d been too busy with his wall to remember lunch. Dave liked to cook, and as long as his housemates slipped him a few quid for ingredients, was happy to rustle up something sustaining from time to time. His spaghetti bolognese was a favourite. It would have provoked a stream of obscenities from Gordon Ramsay, but it stuck to the ribs in a satisfying way.
“Sure,” James said, and was soon stuffing his face. Feeling the need for distraction, he asked Ralph about the previous night’s gig.
“Got thrown out,” Ralph said happily. He launched into a tale of ribald comments, thrown beermats, and a near-confrontation with the posh totty’s even posher boyfriend. “Who’s gay,” Ralph informed everyone.
“If he’s her
“So I can paint this wall. Then, while I watch it dry, I’ll get an insight into what you feel when you watch Arsenal.”
“Please yourself.” Ralph withdrew.
A little later there was another knock.
“Piss off if Ralph sent you.”
The door opened. “Ralph said you were redecorating.” Dave’s voice.
James didn’t turn round. He used his body as an extra barrier between his visitors and his wall.
“We were wondering if you needed psychiatric help.” That was Ron.
James turned his head. “Is Sam back yet?”
“No. Why?”
“Because if he is, invite him in for a gawp too. Get it over with.” He sighed, and relented. “If you must know, this wallpaper is driving me crazy. I never could stand this shade of green. Then the other day I spotted some mould, and decided that one of us would have to go.”
“Wilde, James?” asked Dave. “I’m impressed.” He didn’t sound it.
“You can re-decorate my room next, if you like,” said Ron. “I hate my wallpaper, too.”
“I hate the fact that you leave your bike in the hall where I keep tripping over it,” James said. He returned to his stripping. Ron and Dave took the hint.
♦
Two hours later, he’d cleared the entire wall. The floor was ankle-deep in fragments of soggy wallpaper mixed with powdered plaster. Beneath the strange design, the stone held two short lines of what was presumably writing, though in no script he’d ever seen. Other than that, it and the rest of the wall was bare. The remaining sections of plaster were pitted and cracked. If he’d been interested in decoration, it would have taken a lot of attention to ready it for new wallpaper. In other circumstances the job would have appealed, but his attention was drawn to the strange stone set into the brickwork. It was a dull grey, and smooth, almost silky, to the touch. A fair size too, about three feet tall, two feet wide and, if his estimate of the wall had been accurate, two and a bit feet from front to back.
James looked at the design and the inscription again. He traced some of the lines with his finger, and gasped. The incisions were deep, and their edges sharp – amazingly so, after so many years. He stared for a long time, wrapped up in the delicious mystery. There was no question of trying to forget about the stone.
He rummaged through what he optimistically referred to as his desk, and found paper and biro. Once he got the ink flowing, he copied the engravings as accurately as he could. He paid particular attention to the writing, if that was what it was. He made notes of the number of different characters, and which ones occurred more than once. There were no gaps to suggest breaks between words – wasn’t that a trick cryptographers used to defend against unfriendly decipherment? Perhaps it was some sort of code.
There was another knock on his door. He stood up, folded the paper and stuffed it in his back pocket, then opened the door.
It was Ralph. “Still stripping wallpaper?”
“Just about done. Nothing much to see.”
“No shit. Dave’s done a spag bol. Want some?”
It dawned on James that he was starving. Mel, though wonderful in many ways, watched her figure by pretending that breakfast was a myth. He’d been too busy with his wall to remember lunch. Dave liked to cook, and as long as his housemates slipped him a few quid for ingredients, was happy to rustle up something sustaining from time to time. His spaghetti bolognese was a favourite. It would have provoked a stream of obscenities from Gordon Ramsay, but it stuck to the ribs in a satisfying way.
“Sure,” James said, and was soon stuffing his face. Feeling the need for distraction, he asked Ralph about the previous night’s gig.
“Got thrown out,” Ralph said happily. He launched into a tale of ribald comments, thrown beermats, and a near-confrontation with the posh totty’s even posher boyfriend. “Who’s gay,” Ralph informed everyone.
“If he’s her
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