The Lurker at the Threshold
The Lovecraft Mysteries Book 3
Brandon Berntson
Copyright 2021 by Brandon Berntson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or sold.
Cover art by www.derangeddoctordesings.com
This is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
“Dev, what is that?”
“What do you think, Mill? I got it at Rhode Island Books. That bookshop on a hundred and twelfth and Lincoln. I think they just opened up.”
“You went to Rhode Island for a book?”
“No. It was right here in the city.”
“Why would a bookstore in Innsport be called Rhode Island Books? Shouldn’t it be in Rhode Island?”
“Mill, you’re missing the point. Look how old this thing is. It’s ancient.”
“But you don’t read,” Millie said.
Macky looked up. “Ha ha. I get it. You’re making a joke. It’s a good joke, Mill. I just don’t find it all that funny.”
“You’re laughing on the inside. You just don’t know it.” Millie stepped over to the desk, reached out, and—upon looking more closely at the volume—pulled her hand back. She frowned. “Dev, that thing looks creepy.”
“I thought you would like it. That’s why I bought it.”
“You thought I would like it?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “What on earth makes you think I would like a vile thing like that? It looks horrid.”
“It’s an ancient tome, Mill. You’re sapping the joy right out of this moment, you know that? I thought you’d like it because it’s so rare. I got it for a really good price. The guy practically gave it to me. He said something about the cost of my soul, but who takes these things seriously?”
Millie Von Clydesburgh raised her eyebrows. Her red hair was done up in a vintage Victoria roll. She was wearing white, high-waisted sailor pants, a dark green, long-sleeved blouse, and patchwork, low-cut, high heels with bowties.
The book was sitting on the desk, and she was right. It was grisly in its charming, antediluvian way, but she didn’t like it. It was made of imitation red leather, or she thought. It had large black metal clasps. The pages were brittle, some falling out, torn, even burned. The longer she looked at it, the more disturbed she became.
“Good Lord, Dev! That thing looks like it belongs to an evil sorcerer.”
“Mill, you’re overreacting. Something you do quite well, I might add.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Look. Do you want to take a look at this thing or not? I thought we could make a drink and read from it. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
“Well, I don’t. That thing looks like it’s made from the skin of a dead animal. Or maybe a dead human. Who sold it to you anyway?”
“A creepy, evil sorcerer.”
“From Rhode Island Books?”
“Correct.”
“And how much did you pay for it?”
“I told you, my soul.”
“Dev, can you be serious for two seconds?”
“I don’t like to haggle finances with employees.”
“Fine. I’m not sure I want to know anyway.”
They were in the office at 179th and Lexington. Devlin Macky, Private Investigator, was stenciled on the frosted glass door. The desk the book was sitting on was an Executive made of Poplar and Ash but stained a pretty walnut. The Queen Anne vinyl chair was dark red. Millie had been dusting, making the office look nice, watering the plants as the bright, open windows overlooked Innsport on a cool, October day at 2:17 p.m. on Tuesday the 21st. The Vectra 2 radio on the stand was playing Duke Ellington.
Millie looked at the book for a couple of seconds and frowned. The place seemed to darken with its presence.
“I thought we could read some,” Macky said. “Maybe cast some ancient spell. Put on some soft music. I mean, if that doesn’t sound like fun, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“You take too long to sound out the words.”
“Another bulls-eye, Mill.”
“I don’t want to read that thing, Dev. I’m going home to play with Mr. Kalabraise.”
Macky frowned.
“My cocker spaniel.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. The female cocker spaniel with a male name. I’m sure she appreciated that.”
“She doesn’t mind,” Millie said and paused for a second. “Dev?”
“Yeah?” he said, opening the cover of the book.
“What’s it supposed to be exactly?”
He shrugged. “Something about the black earth. I can’t remember exactly what the guy told me. I was in a sort of fog.”
“What kind of fog?”
“The kind that—”
“—comes in a bottle,” Millie said. “Yeah. I know. Is that all the man said?”
Macky was still looking at the book. “Uh, something about portals. Gates. Doorways. Things like that. It’s supposed to be magic.”
Millie let out a long sigh. “Dev, haven’t you learned anything in the time we’ve been together?”
“In what context?”
“Describe the guy who sold it to you.”
“Well, oh my gosh,” Dev said, mockingly. He raised his voice to sound like a high school girl. “He was soooo cute, Millie. You should’ve seen him—”
“That’s enough, Dev.”
“Come on, Mill. I’m just trying to have a little fun.”
“What did you say it as called again?”
“The Necro-something-philiac-o-con-o-micon. Or something. I can’t remember.”
“You bought a copy of The Necronomicon?”
“You’ve heard of it? See, I knew it was a good idea buying this thing.”
“Tell me you’re joking, Dev. Tell me that’s not what it is.”
“No, I think you nailed it. That’s the name. The Necrono-mancipation-ocon . . . icon. Did I get it right?”
Millie put a hand to her head and let out a sigh. “It’s a book about the black earth. Dev, how can you be so infantile?”
“I refuse to grow up.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Take it back where you found it. I’ll even give you what you paid for it.”
“I never take money from women,” he said.
“You . . .” She paused and frowned. “You take money from me all the time!”
“Dinners don’t count. That’s your choice. You don’t have any money anyway.”
“I would if I got paid once in a while.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m still working on that.”
“Not very hard.”
“Here we go,” he said, and rolled his eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Millie asked.
“Nothing. Look, Mill, you want to hang out and read this thing or not? I bet it’s got some good spook stories in it. Halloween month and all!”
“No, and I don’t want you to read from it, either. Get rid of that thing, Dev. Please.”
“How come you know so much about it?”
“I heard about it in college. It’s supposed to be evil. It opens doorways, portals. Rituals in black magic. Things like that. It was written by what’s his name . . . Abdul Alhazred, I think. People called him the Mad Arab. He worshipped monsters from outer sp
ace.”
“You remember a lot about it, it sounds like.”
“It left an impression.”
“Come on, Mill. It’ll be fun. We’ll light some candles, get the atmosphere all spooky.”
“No!”
“Mill, you’re overreacting.”
“I’m going home to Mr. Kalabraise.”
“What?”
“My cocker spaniel.”
“Oh. Well, suit yourself. This thing looks creepy. I thought a good spook tale before bed would be fun. I should’ve known it would be a stinker in your keister.”
“Ugh! You make me so mad sometimes!” Millie grabbed her jacket, purse, and twirled out of the office. She opened the door.
“Mill, please don’t slam the—”
She slammed the door as hard as she could.
—
He’d been taking a stroll on Lincoln Avenue the day before in mid-afternoon. He wanted to get out of the office because it had been a boring day. Some fresh air would do him good. He rolled a cigarette along the way and puffed at it. He didn’t notice the bookstore until he was right in front, seeing it out of the corner of his eye. Rhode Island Books, it read in elegant script on the small window. Buy, Sell, and Trade. A small sign underneath this said, Open.
The illumination coming from inside was the glow of a dozen candles. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. He looked at the building, then up and down the street. He was the only one on the block, which was odd for mid-afternoon.
The door creaked open. He looked down the street again. Fog misted into the city like a barely discernible ghost. He shivered with a chill, and the world darkened.
Several blocks away, a dog howled. Macky looked behind him. He couldn’t see anything. The silence was eerie. He couldn’t hear any traffic.
Macky pulled the cigarette from his mouth, smoke curling into his face.
“Hello?”
His heart was beating fast. Why was he so nervous?
He lifted the cigarette, took a puff, and blew out smoke. The shadows at the edges of his vision lengthened.
The dog howled again—a lone cry in an empty city. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“Hello?” he said, again.
The dog, or whatever it was, didn’t sound like a normal dog.
It sounded . . . bigger.
The door to the bookshop creaked again like a tiny, drawn-out eek.
He looked both ways down the street and stepped toward it.
—
Macky furrowed his brows and walked inside Rhode Island Books. He had the oddest sensation he was trapped in a dream. He was foggy headed from the bourbon he’d been drinking, though he’d only had a little. Something was watching him. Long, purple fingers curled around one the bookshelves. Eyes with thick, black eyebrows stared at him. Macky looked at the thing for a second, blinked, and it was gone.
“Imagining things, Dev,” he said, and managed to smile.
He felt good, supernaturally good, if that made any sense. He blamed it on the bourbon and the cool, October evening.
The interior didn’t make sense, though. It was an old shop. Antiquated. The books were a dead giveaway. He’d never seen anything like them. Amelia’s Used Books, on the other side of town, didn’t look anything like this. The spines didn’t have any names or titles. The colors had faded, and they all looked the same, sitting on the shelves in no particular order he could see. Dust and age made his nose itch. Heavy, aged, brittle, thick leaflets, vellum, and very old ink.
That feeling was here again, as if he’d been kidnapped from Innsport and transported here. He felt like he was halfway across the globe.
“Come on, Dev,” he told himself. “You’re letting your imagination get the best of you, buddy.”
The door shut behind him. The wolf howl sounded again before being cut off by the door. Mist gathered outside, a thick fog enveloping the street. He couldn’t see anything beyond the windows.
He turned back to the interior of the store, trying not to think about it.
Millie would love this place. He would remember to bring her, maybe get her a gift. The dustiness made his nose itch again, and Macky sneezed loudly.
“Good evening, sir.”
The voice was in front of him. A dark-skinned man stood behind the counter wearing a white turban, nicely wrapped. A pentagram symbol with various lines and configurations was carved on a medallion fixed to the turban on his forehead. His hair was long, thick, and black. A gold, hooped earring adorned each ear. He had a small tuft of black hair on his chin and a long, curling mustache. He was thin, not too tall, wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt. His accent was Middle Eastern.
Macky thought he’d gone back in time. The place was lit with candles and lantern light. There wasn’t a modern convenience anywhere. The walls, he noticed, were decorated with symbols and sigils, vases, glassware, sculptures of all kinds, none of which he recognized. The wind was howling outside, or was that the dog again?
“Pardon me,” he said, in reference to his sneeze.
“No need to apologize,” the man said. “Anything here interest you?”
“I was just curious,” Macky said. “Did you hear the dog?”
“The hound?” the man said, as if correcting him. He smiled. It gave Macky the creeps.
“Never mind.” Macky looked around the bookstore. “Old shop. Been here for a while?”
“Many, many years. Too many to count. Lots of ancient wisdom. Knowledge beyond the gates.”
“I see.” Macky turned back to the window. “It doesn’t look like you carry the latest Rex Stout. Or am I mistaken?”
The man smiled benignly. “I’m afraid not, sir. Something much more interesting than that.”
Macky cocked his head and frowned. A small, dusty window was behind the man that should’ve looked out onto the alley behind the store, but Macky thought he saw dunes. The sliver of the moon illuminated a star-filled sky over a vast desert.
Yes, he must be dreaming. He was having vivid hallucinations in the office while sipping bourbon. It happened. Or he was taking a snooze and having a little dream. It was the only thing that made sense.
“Something to pique your interest more than the latest murder mystery?”
Macky chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader. Unless you have Weird Tales Magazine.”
The man smiled. “My name is Abdul,” he said.
“A pleasure. Devlin Macky.” He put his hand out, and the man shook it. His hand was cold, like ice. His eyes were dark. They dragged him in.
“Looking for a gift?” Abdul said. “I have rare, collector’s editions. A young lady in your life who is a book lover, perhaps?”
“Funny you mention that.”
“This is a very rare find,” Abdul said. He reached down into the glass case that made the counter and pulled out a large book. “Very antique. You may find it interesting. Enlightening, even.”
It was a large volume bound in red leather with metal clasps. For a man who didn’t like books, it was still beautiful. Curious might be a better word. A similar symbol was on the cover, matching the medallion on the man’s turban.
Macky wanted to pick it up, feel the weight of it in his hands. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t a bibliophile, but this thing held a certain charm. He wanted to feel the clasps between his fingers, run his hands across the leather, take a whiff of its pages. A book like this had to be worth a lot.
“Wow,” Macky said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s an old one, isn’t it?”
“Many years of research have gone into this volume. Things of the cosmos. Things eternal. Things dead . . . but living.” The man smiled. “Perhaps you are open to the power of their suggestion? And, I am proud to say, it was penned by my very own hand.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do. Help yourself.”
“Ah, the timeless art of shameless self-promotion,” Macky said. “You wove that spell pretty well, Abdul.”
/> The bookstore owner smiled.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t afford it, though,” Macky said. “It looks . . . priceless.”
“Nonsense. It is for you, sir. A gift, sir.”
Macky raised his eyebrows. A thought entertained his brain. He didn’t believe this was happening. Not one bit. If anything, it would be funny, amusing to Millie.
He looked up. A whisper touched his thoughts. Gooseflesh stood on his neck, the patter of a thousand cold feet. The man was smiling.
It had to be a gag if it wasn’t a dream. And like most dreams, when you knew you were dreaming, it was fun to play along.
A glowing orb was visible beyond the window.
The hound bayed again.
The longer he was in the store, the more defined the shelves became. The books as well. Abdul seemed more real, as if he were gaining solidity the longer Macky stayed. He noticed the pores on the man’s dark skin, the shimmer of black hair. Or was that the fog lifting?
“What are these symbols?” Macky asked, indicating the symbols throughout the store.
The Arab nodded. “They go with the tomes. Some are portals. Gateways. Sigils to other worlds.”
Macky looked around, nodded, and smiled. “So, what’s the gag?”
“Gag, sir?”
“Sure, you know. Gag. What’s the catch, the gimmick, the trick?”
The man frowned. “There is no . . . trick, sir.”
Macky shrugged. “Have it your way. What’s the book, exactly?”
“It is called The Necronomicon. A book of the black earth. Ancient knowledge.”
“Enlightenment, you say?”
The Arab smiled wide. “You could say that.”
“Ought to be good for a few laughs at least,” Macky said.
“The roads weren’t easily traversed,” the Arab said, caressing the cover of the book with a fondness Macky found disturbing. “These dominions are far from Earth. I’ve scoured the globe for this ancient knowledge, darker dominions of the world, Outer Darkness, and worlds beyond the Outer Darkness. I have stared into the eyes of ancient gods, the Old Ones, Outer Gods, and learned their history. I have walked the paths—”
Macky held up his hand to cut him off. “Sure. Sure. I get it. It’s a great sales pitch, mister. You’ve sold me.”
The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery Page 1
