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 Page A
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boyfriend, how can he be gay?” Dave objected.
“They’re both from Surrey,” Ralph said, as if that explained everything. On Planet Ralph, it probably did.
They heard the sound of the front door opening – Sam returning from his monthly visit to his parents. He wandered into the kitchen and said hello. “There’s some spaghetti, if you want it,” Dave told him. He didn’t offer the bolognese. Sam was finicky about meat preparation.
“Thank you, no,” Sam said. “I have already eaten.”
Sam was the quiet one. The one whose parents had been born in Bangladesh, and who had dedicated their lives to launching their son towards a bright future. A law student, he was studious and devout, but wore his faith with quiet dignity. He dressed like any other student, tolerated the booze and the bacon sandwiches, and winced whenever the television showed images of the more militant face of Islam. His actual name was long and complicated, and ‘Sam’ was the first syllable. Only his mother ever used the full version.
“While you’re all here,” James said, so suddenly that he surprised himself, “can any of you make anything of this?” He fished the paper out of his pocket and smoothed it flat on the table.
The others stared at it.
“What is it?” Ron asked.
“That’s what I want to know,” James said.
Ron sighed. “OK, then where did you get it?”
“I found it carved into a wall out Limehouse way,” James improvised. “Hey, I’m an architect. I look at old buildings. And this is old.”
“How old?” asked Dave.
“Hard to say. Stones from old buildings often get re-used in newer ones. This could be medieval, or even older.” The lies came surprisingly easy. His housemates seemed to find them plausible.
“Looks like a seal,” Ron said.
“Or a device,” added Dave. The others looked at him. “You know, ‘A youth who bore, mid snow and ice, a banner with a strange device.’” There was a silence. “Longfellow,” Dave added. James and Ralph exchanged a look. Dave was studying English, and was given to peppering his conversation with quotations from an astonishingly wide-ranging selection of authors, most of whom they’d never heard of. “A device is a heraldic design,” he said, sounding slightly defeated.
“Helpful,” said James. “And what about this underneath. Runes, maybe? C’mon, Ralph, you’re into that Tolkien stuff.”
“It’s not runes,” Ralph said. “Not Tolkien’s, nor the Norse ones his were based on. Not Greek either, nor Arabic.”
“Nor Hebrew,” Dave added. “I had a Jewish mate back home, and his parents made him study Hebrew for his bar-mitzvah. He taught me to write my name.”
“What about you, Sam?” James asked. “Mean anything to you?”
Sam stared at the paper for a long time. “No, friend James,” he said at last. “I do not know what this script means, but I do not like it.”
“Why not? It’s not Bengali or Punjabi or anything?”
“No. I have never seen anything like it. But it troubles me. I do not know why, but it troubles me. It is haram . Not holy. I beg you, do not go back to the place where you found it. Please excuse me. I must go and pray.”
Sam really did pray five times a day, but he did so quietly in his room, and the other boys granted him both space and respect.
♦
James escaped to his room, pleading tiredness and disrupted sleep patterns. Rest proved elusive however, and he found himself sitting on the end of his bed, staring at the stone. His phone rang, but he ignored it.
How to approach the mystery? He could see two lines of attack. The first was the history of his house. As an architecture student with access to the University library, he felt that shouldn’t be too hard to uncover – in the morning, anyway. The other was the writing, if that was what it was.
He logged onto the net, and found a site that listed a surprising number of scripts, both historical and modern. Latin, Greek, Norse,
“They’re both from Surrey,” Ralph said, as if that explained everything. On Planet Ralph, it probably did.
They heard the sound of the front door opening – Sam returning from his monthly visit to his parents. He wandered into the kitchen and said hello. “There’s some spaghetti, if you want it,” Dave told him. He didn’t offer the bolognese. Sam was finicky about meat preparation.
“Thank you, no,” Sam said. “I have already eaten.”
Sam was the quiet one. The one whose parents had been born in Bangladesh, and who had dedicated their lives to launching their son towards a bright future. A law student, he was studious and devout, but wore his faith with quiet dignity. He dressed like any other student, tolerated the booze and the bacon sandwiches, and winced whenever the television showed images of the more militant face of Islam. His actual name was long and complicated, and ‘Sam’ was the first syllable. Only his mother ever used the full version.
“While you’re all here,” James said, so suddenly that he surprised himself, “can any of you make anything of this?” He fished the paper out of his pocket and smoothed it flat on the table.
The others stared at it.
“What is it?” Ron asked.
“That’s what I want to know,” James said.
Ron sighed. “OK, then where did you get it?”
“I found it carved into a wall out Limehouse way,” James improvised. “Hey, I’m an architect. I look at old buildings. And this is old.”
“How old?” asked Dave.
“Hard to say. Stones from old buildings often get re-used in newer ones. This could be medieval, or even older.” The lies came surprisingly easy. His housemates seemed to find them plausible.
“Looks like a seal,” Ron said.
“Or a device,” added Dave. The others looked at him. “You know, ‘A youth who bore, mid snow and ice, a banner with a strange device.’” There was a silence. “Longfellow,” Dave added. James and Ralph exchanged a look. Dave was studying English, and was given to peppering his conversation with quotations from an astonishingly wide-ranging selection of authors, most of whom they’d never heard of. “A device is a heraldic design,” he said, sounding slightly defeated.
“Helpful,” said James. “And what about this underneath. Runes, maybe? C’mon, Ralph, you’re into that Tolkien stuff.”
“It’s not runes,” Ralph said. “Not Tolkien’s, nor the Norse ones his were based on. Not Greek either, nor Arabic.”
“Nor Hebrew,” Dave added. “I had a Jewish mate back home, and his parents made him study Hebrew for his bar-mitzvah. He taught me to write my name.”
“What about you, Sam?” James asked. “Mean anything to you?”
Sam stared at the paper for a long time. “No, friend James,” he said at last. “I do not know what this script means, but I do not like it.”
“Why not? It’s not Bengali or Punjabi or anything?”
“No. I have never seen anything like it. But it troubles me. I do not know why, but it troubles me. It is haram . Not holy. I beg you, do not go back to the place where you found it. Please excuse me. I must go and pray.”
Sam really did pray five times a day, but he did so quietly in his room, and the other boys granted him both space and respect.
♦
James escaped to his room, pleading tiredness and disrupted sleep patterns. Rest proved elusive however, and he found himself sitting on the end of his bed, staring at the stone. His phone rang, but he ignored it.
How to approach the mystery? He could see two lines of attack. The first was the history of his house. As an architecture student with access to the University library, he felt that shouldn’t be too hard to uncover – in the morning, anyway. The other was the writing, if that was what it was.
He logged onto the net, and found a site that listed a surprising number of scripts, both historical and modern. Latin, Greek, Norse,
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