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 B
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Cyrillic, Arabic, Phoenician, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Babylonian cuneiform, various oriental characters, ideograms, pictograms, ancient inscriptions from Africa that defied interpretation. None of them matched the stone in his wall.
“My wall,” he muttered, under his breath. “My stone.” He continued staring at it. He got the strangest feeling that it was staring back, mocking him, defying him to penetrate its mystery. Various solutions – each more fantastical than the last – presented themselves to his whirling imagination. By midnight, he was prepared to believe it was the work of Zillons from the planet Thark.
Desperate for sleep, he lay down on his bed. Each time he closed his eyes however, he felt compelled to open them and gaze at the stone again. That was when he noticed its strangest characteristic that he’d yet discovered. It glowed.
James’s room never grew fully dark. He was not a big fan of curtains, and although Harstow Road was neglected, it did have street lights. So it took him a long time to notice the stone’s faint luminosity. It had been totally undetectable in daylight, and even past midnight, it took James a while to convince himself that he wasn’t imagining things. He closed his curtains, and laid his pillow against the bottom of his door to block any light from the hall. He even turned off his laptop. Then he sat cross-legged in front of the stone.
There was no doubt about it. A very faint bluish glow emanated from the stone. James racked his brains – were there any naturally luminous rocks? He couldn’t remember hearing about any. Unless it was radioactive.
The thought made him leap back in alarm, but he kept his eyes on the stone. Then he noticed the craziest thing of all. The glow, weak as it was, was strongest around the device and the inscription.
“No,” he said aloud. “That’s just too weird. I’m tired and I’m seeing things. I need some sleep.”
Still he sat and stared, however. He just couldn’t take his eyes off the glowing stone. Finally, deep into the small hours, oblivion finally overwhelmed him. With it came troubled dreams. He woke early, unable to remember any details, save that someone had been calling to him from a very long way away.
♦
The University’s head librarian seemed surprised to find James waiting outside when she arrived at eight forty-five the next morning. She looked at him doubtfully, which seemed fair enough, given that he was bleary-eyed and unshaven, and had slept in his clothes.
“Are you all right, young man?” she asked him.
“Er, yes, sorry,” he mumbled. “Bad night. But there’s something I’ve just got to look up. Archives. Historical maps. London Borough of –”
The librarian held up her hand. She did not look unsympathetic. “That’s all very well,” she told him, “but we don’t open to students until half past nine, as you can see.” She gestured at the sign on the door, and James nodded in acknowledgement. Three or four other library staff arrived as she spoke, including the large security guard who’d once caught Ron trying to make an unauthorised withdrawal. “In the meantime,” the head librarian continued, “I suggest you get yourself a cup of coffee.” And a shower , her expression seemed to say.
James took her advice, and had a coffee. He also visited a washroom, where he splashed his face with water and regarded his reflection critically. He’d seen worse. He’d felt worse. Then he headed back to the library.
The library was well-stocked with historical maps of London. Whilst they were reluctant to let just anyone get their dirty hands on them, the maps had all been scanned, and were available electronically. James worked backwards through time. Harstow Road had existed in its present form in 1936, which meant it had survived the Blitz. A map from 1912 showed each house individually, including his own, and another from 1880 agreed with it. The street had certainly existed in 1832, as
“My wall,” he muttered, under his breath. “My stone.” He continued staring at it. He got the strangest feeling that it was staring back, mocking him, defying him to penetrate its mystery. Various solutions – each more fantastical than the last – presented themselves to his whirling imagination. By midnight, he was prepared to believe it was the work of Zillons from the planet Thark.
Desperate for sleep, he lay down on his bed. Each time he closed his eyes however, he felt compelled to open them and gaze at the stone again. That was when he noticed its strangest characteristic that he’d yet discovered. It glowed.
James’s room never grew fully dark. He was not a big fan of curtains, and although Harstow Road was neglected, it did have street lights. So it took him a long time to notice the stone’s faint luminosity. It had been totally undetectable in daylight, and even past midnight, it took James a while to convince himself that he wasn’t imagining things. He closed his curtains, and laid his pillow against the bottom of his door to block any light from the hall. He even turned off his laptop. Then he sat cross-legged in front of the stone.
There was no doubt about it. A very faint bluish glow emanated from the stone. James racked his brains – were there any naturally luminous rocks? He couldn’t remember hearing about any. Unless it was radioactive.
The thought made him leap back in alarm, but he kept his eyes on the stone. Then he noticed the craziest thing of all. The glow, weak as it was, was strongest around the device and the inscription.
“No,” he said aloud. “That’s just too weird. I’m tired and I’m seeing things. I need some sleep.”
Still he sat and stared, however. He just couldn’t take his eyes off the glowing stone. Finally, deep into the small hours, oblivion finally overwhelmed him. With it came troubled dreams. He woke early, unable to remember any details, save that someone had been calling to him from a very long way away.
♦
The University’s head librarian seemed surprised to find James waiting outside when she arrived at eight forty-five the next morning. She looked at him doubtfully, which seemed fair enough, given that he was bleary-eyed and unshaven, and had slept in his clothes.
“Are you all right, young man?” she asked him.
“Er, yes, sorry,” he mumbled. “Bad night. But there’s something I’ve just got to look up. Archives. Historical maps. London Borough of –”
The librarian held up her hand. She did not look unsympathetic. “That’s all very well,” she told him, “but we don’t open to students until half past nine, as you can see.” She gestured at the sign on the door, and James nodded in acknowledgement. Three or four other library staff arrived as she spoke, including the large security guard who’d once caught Ron trying to make an unauthorised withdrawal. “In the meantime,” the head librarian continued, “I suggest you get yourself a cup of coffee.” And a shower , her expression seemed to say.
James took her advice, and had a coffee. He also visited a washroom, where he splashed his face with water and regarded his reflection critically. He’d seen worse. He’d felt worse. Then he headed back to the library.
The library was well-stocked with historical maps of London. Whilst they were reluctant to let just anyone get their dirty hands on them, the maps had all been scanned, and were available electronically. James worked backwards through time. Harstow Road had existed in its present form in 1936, which meant it had survived the Blitz. A map from 1912 showed each house individually, including his own, and another from 1880 agreed with it. The street had certainly existed in 1832, as
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