That Ain't Right: Historical Accounts of the Miskatonic Valley (Mad Scientist Journal Presents Book 1)

by Emily C. Skaftun

  In Defense of Professor Falcrovet

  An account by Professor Halwarth Stephen Falcrovet, edited and presented by Darin M. Bush

  * * *

  The following are excerpts from the personal journal of my dear friend, Professor Halwarth Stephen Falcrovet. Hal--he refused to let anyone call him Halwarth if he could help it--was a great help to me many times personally, and in my trials as an aspiring writer. He was a boon to his students, and to the faculty of Miskatonic. I cannot find a way to say that he will be missed without slipping into trope. He was a sharp contrast of a man; his reputation for delving into the occult and collecting bizarre artifacts from all around the globe was sharply contradicted as cliché by his constant presence in the life of the campus. He delighted in his students and his lectures more than his clay tablets, horrid tomes, and grotesque statuary. He presided over many social activities, both for faculty and body. He seemed hardly to differ in physiognomy or aura between preparing students for the exam on voodoo cults of the Caribbean, and opening the spring formal by dancing with his facetious nemesis, Professor Lauren Hubberd of the Comparative Theology department.

  Some of you will recognize most of the above paragraph from the exordium of my eulogy for Hal. I repeat it here to set the proper tone for what is to follow. I am not alone in refuting the hypothesis that Hal's death was a suicide. I reject this notion--utterly. His investment in life, not just his but others, was obvious to all. It has been said, with humor, that Hal lived to know death and foresee the end of the world, and his studies sometimes did leave me nauseated or disturbed, but these horrors were "abstractions entire" to him. He took them no more literally than he took my science fiction short stories. While neither the Essex County authorities nor the attorney general of Massachusetts will return my interrogatives, I continue to work to find some physical evidence--the so-called "soft" sciences being of no use in this case to the forensic practitioners--that Hal could not have taken his own life.

  Having consulted with an attorney, I find no reason not to publicize the following excerpts from Hal's private journals. He leaves neither widow nor children from whom to gain consent. I have avoided any possible personal embarrassments for his peers or students. His professional journals have been discussed and pored over, both in and out of the halls of justice, but I think they only distract us from the real solution: something terrible happened to my friend, something inexplicable.

  If he had died of coronary failure or a stroke, those of us who loved him could put his spirit to rest. I have no sense of accomplishment with these feeble paragraphs, only outrage and frustration. I must believe that Hal was exactly who he showed to the world, and I must provide that world with the evidence, no matter how subjective or bizarre. My only consolation is in the sure knowledge that if Hal himself could comment, he would immediately, affectionately, deride this quasi-hysterical fable as unworthy of my efforts, and beneath even vanity publication.

  #

  Here begin the excerpts from the personal journal of Professor Falcrovet.

  #

  30 November

  Thanksgiving is over, thank goodness. I shall not desire turkey for weeks. I cannot even see myself eating it so soon as the time of Yule, but I seem to recover that appetite every year, so I shall bow to history. What was Franklin thinking, asking us to embrace this bizarre monster of a bird as the national metaphor? What are we: weak, stupid, food for the slaughter?

  Oh! It must be said before I forget--speaking of slaughter--I have received word just today that the expeditions in the East are fruitful! I am the owner--well, the curator--of the Necronomicon! Not the original, thank goodness, as even I cannot think to stomach such a horrid tome. Insanity surrounds its mere conceptualization: bound in skin, written in blood. (Note to self: Add sanguinography and anthrosanguinography to future vocabulary tests.) To make a book in such an inefficient and fragile manner, to risk its obliteration merely by travelling through destructive years, is madness. However, it appears that some long-dead maniac or genius--or both, why not?--copied the cryptic inscriptions so as to disseminate its apocalyptic directives to all corners of this real estate investment of the Elder Gods, that we call Earth. (Note to self: Get the geography kids to give me a word to replace "corner"--that euphemism should have been crushed under the pressure of spherical evidence by now.)

  Kids. Why would I have my own children, when I am flooded with the delights of near-parenthood, without the burden of wiping their noses? For example, I have all the freedom of pedagogical discourse with my good friend, Darin, and I usurp mentorship over him and his artistry. (Note to self: I must remember to tell him his work currently reads as if he slept with an H. G. Wells book on his face, and it poisoned his mind.) And then, at the end of the day, I am able to expunge him from my home, with all the good will in the world, and return to my solitude, knowing he and others will return in time. I cannot possibly be any luckier, and perhaps I celebrate Thanksgiving heartily not so much for its version of history, as for my personal interpretation. I am getting a bit emotional in my age, apparently.

  #

  13 December

  One of my students, possibly intoxicated by exams and the following winter furlough, asked in class if she could qualify for extra credit by completing an audio-only version of the Necronomicon text, possibly for use by blind students. I do not know if this was her idea, or if she was put up to it, but she was so earnest that I did not recognize the prank for what it was until a few young ladies in her row began to titter or bite down on their lips. I have a reputation to maintain, and so therefore I rewarded the charlatan with praise, but the explanation of the witticism to the majority of the class created quite a distraction. Some of my less serious students seemed to see this as justification for their opinion of my field: hokum.

  I would not have it generally known, but my greatest concern was in the fact that the students somehow knew I was going to have one of these texts in my possession. Only two or three people on staff knew I had acquired it, and only recently. Why would they discuss it with students, or discuss it at all? And why does it send a shudder through me to think of this horrendous tome as a topic of general conversation or humorous inspiration? The idea of reading the Necronomicon aloud to blind students: I laugh to injury, but cannot avoid dread, too. I must separate these thoughts, and understand the latter better, and soon. The book itself arrives any day now.

  #

  22 December

  Delays! Delays! Where is my package? Promised a week ago, and no sign of it. I am told by letter that the book arrives on time, but then where is it? My frustration knows no bounds, is cyclopean in scope!

  #

  25 December

  What a strange occurrence. The Necronomicon arrived on my doorstep on the 24th--Christmas Eve to some--and I did not hear the knock on the door nor see the package on my step. So, there I was, on Christmas morning, confronted with the strangest Christmas gift ever. What would Jesus of Nazareth or Saint Nicholas say about my opening the box with all the thrill and expectation of a small child opening an air-rifle-shaped package, or the sarcophagus-like box of a new doll? How would they react if they could see what my Christmas blessing contained?

  The book is not at all what I expected. It is huge, a true tome in all senses, and it is made of some material foreign to my experience. The pages are thick and inconsistent in texture. The ink is dark, not black, but very dark. I made myself dig around in the workshop for gloves. Some subconscious part of me yelled in concern for myself, and the book. It certainly looks like it is bound in skin, written in blood. But I know for a FACT that it can't be the original. It is too small, and too young. It looks old, make no doubt, but not centuries upon centuries old, unless I am deceived. My only hypothesis is a very clever--or mad--imitation of the original. Perhaps the copiers assumed the book's authenticity, and allowed the requirement of skin and blood as spell components.

  And that brings me to the largest fright of my professional car
eer. Despite all the care of the graduate students who packaged the book--not knowing what they held, only that I valued it greatly--the box on my doorstep was open to the elements, even if only a sliver. I'm no expert on shipping containers or vermin, but it almost looked like it was set upon by a dog, torn at the corner. If a carrion eater smelled the book and thought it a hearty meal, it stopped short of actually touching the book itself. Perhaps I have just averted disaster. It could certainly have been worse. It was not snowing, today or yesterday. In fact, the winter weather is incredibly dry, perfectly dry, although bitterly cold.

  #

  26 December

  Obviously I was exhausted. I awoke late this morning. My eyes opened to the N lying in my lap, my hands upon a page of visceral turmoil and alien diagrams. I am not squeamish, nor easily startled, but I could not help myself. I cried aloud on waking, shocked by the sight of human suffering so eloquently illuminated. I cannot remember turning to this page last night.

  Cold, shivering, I tried to set my mind to the delights of a Boxing Day consumed by my new research. Several puzzles distracted me, and I cannot make sense of them. I had forgotten that I had dragged mud in the house with me the previous day, during the excitement of the unpacking. Not terrible in itself, but so much wasted time cleaning the rugs. On impulse, I threw the muddy wash water into my garden. The horrors of N are so vivid to me now, no wonder that I overreacted to the sight of a dead raccoon in the wood just beyond my fence. Some large predator, maybe one of the dogs that go unleashed in my community, had killed it and made a mess of it. The pictures of the N came instantly to mind, or I would not have even made note of it.

  #

  27 December

  I hope this is not going to become a habit. I awoke again, N in lap, in my favorite chair. At least this time I have the comfort of not being caught in a moment of pique. I did not cry out. I merely chastised myself aloud. My voice sounded dry and hoarse, weak, squeaky almost. I pride myself on a professor's voice. Hot tea and honey will answer, and that will be that.

  But first, I must comment on the page: I see a winged daemon of hideous proportions and distorted limbs, apparently peeling the skin off living human victims. My goodness, how melodramatic can you get? I am sure that if I took the time to read the corresponding script, it would delight in the screams of the innocent souls rent asunder, yada, yada, yada. I laugh, and feel myself a wit today, but sometimes I see the page out of the corner of my eye, and wonder if that daemon is not putting the skins on something, instead of taking them off?

  Why would I allow such grotesquery to haunt my vision? The simplest of answers: the pages are dry, the cover brittle. I will not touch the N, nor turn the pages, disturbing or no, until I have purpose to do so. I risk damaging what cannot be repaired: my reputation and career. Again, I cannot contain my own wit. I laugh in the face of evil.

  #

  [DMB: The following line of script is written in a shaky, erratic hand, in large, blocky characters, indistinguishable from Hal's own handwriting.]

  #

  Fhtagn! Fhtagn!!

  #

  28 December

  I am singularly lucky. During another night of obvious mental wandering, as evidenced by my habit of sleeping with the N in my lap, open like a gaping yet ponderous mouth, almost beckoning me to fall into it, I seem to have scribbled words in my journal that were part of my studies. How devastating if I had written in the N during my half-doze! The damage I would have done, to the priceless book, to my reputation, to the school's!

  In my weakened state, exhausted with study, isolation, and cold, is it any wonder I would write such words? My subconscious calls out to me to sleep, and maybe I should. These words could easily be a cry of, "Sleep! Sleep!" but maybe the script suggests an instruction or even command, "To sleep! To sleep!" What is the Cthuvian for, "Perchance to dream"? And what of dreaming? I expect my nights to flow with horrid nightmares, residue of these studies, but no! I have not dreamt for days. If I sleep so deep, why so tired?

  And I am not just tired; I am exhausted, devastated. I can barely catch my breath this morning, despite taking my ease, doing what I want when I want--which is to crack this ancient cypher. It is no situation to tax the strength of a man such as me: not yet old, not young, but not yet too old. However, the "not old" man that looks out at me from the mirror is pale, paler than I ever thought possible. I yearn for the sun to stop his frolic in the Indian Ocean, and return to New England.

  #

  29 December

  Again, awaking to find I slept where I worked. My armchair is very comfortable, of course. I did not buy it for mere decoration.

  The N lay in my lap, open again to a page I don't understand, and have exerted no effort upon. Some creature, winged, horned, three-toed and three-clawed, swipes at a human-like figure, spills the poor victim's blood upon a symbol or ideograph that appears to be a scroll or perhaps a shroud. The diagram is disgusting but not surprising, as many primitive cultures believed, including some in Europe not so long ago, that the blood was the conduit or source of power of the human spirit, or perhaps even the spirit itself. This ritual seems only to feed an artifact for another purpose, or perhaps to prepare the blood for use in an unholy recipe.

  Speaking of bodily fluids, I seem to be having trouble with, well; I am embarrassed to write, even to myself, about having trouble with excretion. Urination. The exhaustion I have been experiencing for weeks has finally settled on my digestive systems. I drink water as normal, but my body seems to refuse to process it or expunge it. I sense no bloating, no water retention, no kidney pressure or pain. The lack of a second symptom concerns me more than anything. I am resolved to go to the Miskatonic medical school their first day back after the holiday, to let them practice upon me, and see if their teachers are as good as they claim to be.

  #

  30 December

  That figure: it's not a scroll as I thought. It is the symbolic language of the N, referencing itself! The blood is pouring INTO the N!

  I found the answer to the riddle, finally searching for that same symbol. It was as I feared, as I knew in my subconscious. Every ritual in the book shows a figure, man or beast, holding that symbol in its hand or claw.

  The book names itself by that image! Necronomicon is not just the lexicon or cookbook of evil; it is the focus, the lens, perhaps even the "demon egg"!

  #

  [DMB: What follows are several pages of indecipherable script--I dare not call these words--and diagrams that are unreadable even to Hal's contemporaries in the field. It is unfortunate that they are smeared with small marks of Hal's blood--macabre support of the state's suicide theory.]

  #

  31 December

  I see the crazed writing of this early, early morning of the eve of the New Year, and I begin to despair. A week ago I would have laughed at any suggestion of the validity of these topics, these studies, these magics. Now, seeing the forms my subconscious mind drew on paper, I know not what to believe any more. I fear my soul and my body are already lost. I feel a presence sitting on my shoulder, and it is not an angel. It is only known to the west as a devil, but what it may really be, who can tell? Will I discover it? See it in a sideways glance at a mirror? Or do I merely delude myself due to illness unexplained, untreated.

  #

  1 January

  Today my vague fears coalesce into concrete, undeniable madness. I now doubt my every sense, my every waking thought and memory. I record here, in the haze of confusion, hoping pen and ink will bring sanity back to me in some future moment, or at least show to posterity my horror, my humanity, and my reluctance to be dragged down into this hell of self.

  So, perhaps I should explain, knowing the agony it causes me to write this, even the same amount as when I look around my besieged abode. Enough stalling!

  I awoke not in my armchair, not even with the N on my lap, as has somehow become my unfortunate habit of late. I awoke naked and prone on the floor, on my carpeted living ro
om floor. Somehow, in my sleep, I have contrived (and my aching body attests to the evidence which my rational mind rails against, perhaps in futility, perhaps in pure stubbornness) to move all my furniture to the walls, clearing the center of the room, without order or sense, even blocking all the doorways out of the room.

  In that central space, madness. Deliberate, competent, practiced madness. A circle of power, a diagram of evil magic, a gateway or portal, lay on my carpet, seven feet in diameter, with my body as centerpiece, sprawled like Da Vinci's Vitruvian, with my hand amongst the pages of the cursed N.

  Circles, figures, lines, around and centered on my body, flowed out in all directions. They must have come from within the instructions of the N. I am sure of it, but cannot yet bring myself to search that tome to discover which ritual has been invoked in my home. I say ritual because it is not a study or a theoretical analysis. The candles are in place. I don't remember owning tapers of that size.

  And why would a diagram drawn on my floor disrupt my sanity, make me doubt myself, question aloud my long-held skepticism against the supernatural? The diagram is sanguinography! I fear it may even be anthrosanguinography! No, no, no--

  #

  [DMB: This page is smeared with blood and what I assume are tears. Hal leaves most of this leaf blank, and skips to the next.]

  #

  I must not obfuscate. I must not hide myself, from myself, behind a wall of words. The marks on the floor are blood. I have no idea from where the blood came. I cannot find a dead animal anywhere. Most of my brain (and soul) is locked off from the certain knowledge that the lesser spells allow for the blood of any warm-blooded creature, even one dead, even one killed for food days before, while the great spells, the true evil, require blood from a living PERSON--blood collected while the sacrifice is still breathing!