by Dorian Dawes
"Do you know what you're looking at, young man?" she called, leaning on her cane.
He turned around to face her. "Oh, sorry. Are these - is this the actual ship manifest from the Twin Harvest?"
Gloria nodded. Her cane clicked heavily against the floor as she approached him, sizing him up. "Yes it is, the very first boat built out of Strathmore, construction paid for in part by the brothers Henry and Arthur Oakridge."
"There were two boats built." Dayabir turned back to the pages, his voice breathy with excitement. "Both were sent out to chart the island. Only one returned, with the claim that the other had been dashed against the rocks. Where did you get these?"
"People have been known to make donations of such items on occasion." She shrugged. "The University has also been known to donate a few items now and again. I'm Gloria. I run the joint."
They shook hands. She judged men by their handshake. Some would attempt to assert dominance by gripping too hard or forceful; his touch was gentle and considerate. The hands of a scholar, she thought. He reminded her of another; a former student who had that same burning, wide-eyed curiosity.
"Dayabir," he said. "Delighted to meet you."
"What brings you to Wakefield, kid?"
Dayabir's grin widened. "To study. I'm taking classes at the Stithyan."
"Thought as much. Major?"
"History and Folklore, the myths and legends of the island were a kind of obsession of mine as a kid," Dayabir blurted out quickly, his words running together in his excitement. "They still are, but I'm also into the lengthy history of the island. There's so many things we know, but also don't know, you know?"
Gloria threw up a hand to stop him, but she smiled. "Slow down, kid. Anyone ever tell you that you talk way too fast?"
He blushed. "My mom. All the time."
"Need a job?" Gloria gestured her cane at the sign in the window. "I can't pay too much, but you might enjoy it more than an emotionally draining grease-pit, and I can also get you access to the Restricted Reading Section in the Stithyan Library. It's normally forbidden to students, but I have some leeway with the school board."
Stars shone in Dayabir's eyes. He clasped his hands in front of him, likely in an attempt to prevent them from flailing wildly over his head in his exuberance. He grinned for several seconds while Gloria stared at him, brows raised high over her spectacles. She coughed to fill the awkward silence with … something.
"You can answer the question … at any time," she said.
Dayabir blushed. "Sorry, I was just - oh gosh, you have no idea how much that would mean to me. That'd be so completely perfect."
Gloria clicked her tongue in mock-disapproval. "We've gotta work on that talking-too-fast thing, otherwise welcome to the Wakefield Historical Society. Bring by your class schedule when you get it and we can discuss your hours; any questions?"
Dayabir had too many questions, but was interrupted by the sound of the bell over the door ringing. A bespectacled middle-aged man with a gaunt and haggard face stepped through the door. He had a frantic look to him and something wrapped in a parcel tucked beneath his arm. Gloria smiled as he approached.
"Professor Bartleby, you're just in time to meet my new employee. Reminds me a lot of you," she said.
"Greetings, Mrs. Padilla and young man," Bartleby said quickly. He practically shoved the parcel into Gloria's arms. "I need you to take this. There are a few collected artifacts, everything is allowed on display except for the candlestick. Don't let anyone touch it."
"What's happened?" Her voice fell low.
"The school board fired me. I've been outed. I think this was a warning."
"By who?"
"Not certain yet, but there are things in my possession that I would like to keep away from such figures. I'm in danger here. I have to go."
"Where?"
Bartleby shook his head. "Oakridge first, and then after that you're better not knowing. Ward the place, and trust no one."
"I'm never not warded against intruders. This is the safest place in Wakefield, if there ever were such a place," Gloria scoffed. "You ought to know that."
"Of course," Bartleby said quietly. "You taught me everything."
Dayabir looked concerned, darting eyes back and forth between them. "Should I call the police?"
"It'd do us little good." Bartleby shook his head. "I fear our adversaries may have infiltrated every aspect of government in this community. Even the Roasted Dog probably has managers in the Maleficarum, malevolence seeping its way into every greasy milkshake that leaves the drive-thru window."
"What?!" Dayabir yelped.
"Professor, are we in danger?" Gloria placed the parcel on the front desk. She turned back to them, eyes focused and narrowed. "Should I be leaving town as well?"
Bartleby exhaled. "I wish I could answer that with any degree of certainty. Really though, you're never safe. None of us are."
Something about the way he said that caused Dayabir's skin to prickle. The atmosphere had been tense and strange ever since the morbid professor walked through the door. Dayabir closed his eyes and tried to calm his heartbeat. He was already starting to feel the onset of anxiety. He couldn't remember if he'd taken his medication that morning or not. His fingers fidgeted without control, and he found himself desperately attempting to stem the tide of a rising panic attack.
"Young man." Bartleby's voice was quiet, soothing. "I know this may be sudden and frightening, but if it's any comfort, I've never seen an aura quite like yours. It's so pure and welcoming. I sense great kindness and empathy in you."
"I do my best," Dayabir said meekly. "It's the only way to live."
Gloria placed both hands on the top of her cane. "Take whatever steps are necessary to protect yourself, Bartleby. You know where I am if you need me."
Bartleby nodded, said his farewells and left. Dayabir watched the door for several moments. His heartbeat had calmed slightly, but he knew the threat of an attack could return at any second. It was hard to distinguish the anxiety from the swelling dread inside him.
Gloria noticed the boy's nervousness. She cut into his thoughts by snapping her fingers and pointing at the parcels. "Help me carry these to the back room and get them sorted, would ya?"
Dayabir closed his mouth and nodded. He followed her past the shelves lined with old books and preserved manuscripts, skulls with painted occult symbols, and other strange and disturbing relics of Wakefield's puzzling history. She opened a door into a darkened room, lingering for a moment with her finger on the light switch. Dayabir saw how she remained by the switch, shoulders hunched, eyes glassy.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"This room is full of memories," she whispered, voice hollow and full of pain. "None of them pleasant."
The lights gradually flickered on one by one, revealing a small storage room full of shelves lined with large boxes and some crates on the floor. Back in the furthest corner of the room lay a curiously empty area containing only a dust-covered stool beneath a ceiling fan. Both had the appearance of having not been approached in years. Its emptiness and dirtiness felt out-of-place in the otherwise crowded but clean and meticulously organized storage room. He stood transfixed as an overwhelming sadness threatened to overwhelm him. The hairs on the back of his neck gradually stood on end and he felt himself unable to tear away, like something was grabbing his eyes and forcing it to the spot. Something there wanted to be remembered.
"Don't look at it too long," Gloria said, breaking him from the spell. She snapped her fingers at him again. "I mentioned before, this room has memories. They'll bleed into you if you're not careful. Set the package down and let's see what's inside."
She gestured to a small table by the door. He broke his gaze away from the stool and set down Bartleby's parcel, waiting for her to open the box and begin sorting through the items. Gloria made a grimace as she unwrapped a dried-out hand with a wax candle jutting crudely out of its palm. She made a disapproving clicking noise with he
r tongue before moving on to retrieve a set of bone fragments in an elegant silk bag, each with Aklo runes carved into them.
"Really, Bartleby? You know just enough about the occult to be dangerous," she muttered under her breath. "But not enough to not be stupid."
Next was a candlestick holder, a strange thing carved out of limestone depicting a bulbous-headed figure with several tentacles covering its face; upon its back were looming bat-like wings. It had a bulging stomach and it perched with webbed feet upon an altar. Looking at it made Dayabir feel sick.
"I can't display any of this!" Gloria muttered to herself. "What is that fool thinking? Better they're here than left abandoned at his house, though."
"These aren't from the island," Dayabir said with a shudder. "I've been taught to see neither good nor evil, only to have empathy for others, but these things … why are they full of so much hate? What are they?"
Gloria followed his gaze. "While they aren't from the island, they wouldn't be out of place among the other objects in this room. It's the primary function of the Historical Society, keeping this stuff off the streets and out the hands of dumb assholes. You sure you're up for this, Dayabir? There's still time to walk away.
"If you take this job, you're opening yourself up to a weird world you didn't even know existed. I have a feeling you're like me, like Bartleby, the type who has to dig and uncover and learn. I have to warn you, not everything you find out is going to be pleasant. By the time you reach the truth, it'll be too late to turn back."
Dayabir stared at her, eyes wide and full of concern. "What happened to you?"
Gloria sighed, lowering her head. She turned and looked mournfully at the empty stool in the corner. "My husband Federico and my daughter Lavinia helped me run this place. On her 23rd birthday, she hung herself in this room, using that stool to do it. Six years later, my husband did the same thing. Same exact spot. I've been alone ever since.
"The things they saw and heard and felt preyed on their minds. Stuff they were exposed to that got hold and whispered in their ears at night until they couldn't sleep, eat, or do anything but bang their head against the wall in vain, praying for the whispers to go away. They came for my daughter first. She got ragged thin, her bones like twigs and her hair like straw.
"We thought it was stress from school, mental problems, and we tried getting her therapy, talking her into taking fewer classes or at least a break from the semester until she was feeling better. Her therapist was a useless, condescending hack. She only got worse. She had raving fits in the night and screams about things peering at her from beyond the veil.
"After her death, we blamed ourselves for not doing enough … but what could we have done? It wasn't until after Fernando stopped eating, after he started muttering under his breath and covering all the mirrors and windows, that we even had a clue what had happened. In the final months of his life, Fernando and I were able to track the source of the affliction to a curse someone had laid on our door.
"We unearthed a child's skull with arcane markings scratched onto its surface buried in the yard out front. The cops were later able to identify the bones as belonging to a sick little boy who had been snatched out of the hospital several months prior. There was an investigation, and for a brief while we were even harassed as suspects. Fernando didn't survive too long after the investigation. That's the kind of shit I'm talking about. My family looked into evil itself, and it bit us in the ass."
Dayabir was extremely quiet for several moments after that. Not a single sound could be heard aside from the ticking clock outside the room. He kept his hands folded in his lap, his face that of silent contemplation. An inaudible whisper escaped him, a prayer quickly uttered under his breath.
"This entire island is trapped by suffering," he said finally. "Do you think it's possible that through our investigations, by uncovering the past and looking at the worst part of it, we might alleviate it somehow?"
Gloria shrugged. "That was the original idea. Now I'm wondering if all I've done is made things worse."
"Then that means whatever you've done is working," Dayabir said. "You threatened it. I want to help."
"You will suffer, you know."
He smiled. "I have an anxiety disorder. I'm gay. People threaten me because I have brown skin and I wear a turban. They wish I were dead. I pray for them, that they turn away from such hate and bigotry. I approach them in kindness and they spit on me, and I smile, and suffer. I think I'm going to be okay."
Gloria looked sternly at him. "I'll see you in the morning then. We'll discuss your wages. Be here at six."
"Is there anything I can help you with today?"
"Yes, you can go to the library for me." Gloria said. "I've a friend who works there. His name is Leroy. I'll let him know you're coming. There's a book in the restricted section in regards to rural magic. He'll know the one I'm referring to. Browse through it if you like; just be sure to bring it with you tomorrow morning. We'll need it."
* * *
Leroy was a pale-skinned, freckled young man who clothed his petite form in a wrinkled sweater-vest and a white button-up shirt he left deliberately un-tucked. He greeted every person who came into the library with a quiet lisp, and prided himself on his knowledge of the many ancient texts housed within the Stithyan Library. Dean Stanton had once tried to have him fired on the grounds that having an openly gay librarian could sully the college's reputation. Fortunately, Leroy had long since proven indispensable.
The Stithyan Library was vast, boasting the largest collection of books this side of Maine, let alone on Harbinger Island. There were at least four floors that could be seen from the entrance behind elegantly-carved mahogany railings. The colonial building was itself a historical institution on the island, having survived three fires in its two-hundred year life span. Its arched windows had witnessed many more horrific murders along the campus grounds.
Leroy had been in the bathroom cleaning his glasses when Dayabir stepped through the double-oak doors. He emerged as Dayabir was approaching the circular wooden desk near the entrance, and Leroy was subconsciously happy for the chance to appraise him from behind. Leroy was a sucker for that adorably pudgy look on guys, and Dayabir was no exception. He had a pear-shaped body, where being slightly overweight had bestowed him with ample assets.
Leroy approached Dayabir from behind. "Hi, you must be Dayabir," he said, a smile brimming over with enthusiasm.
Dayabir turned around, startled. "You know my name?"
"I don't see any other attractive man in a blue turban so I'm assuming Gloria meant you," Leroy said, then grinned.
"Gosh," Dayabir whispered, blushing visibly.
Leroy winked. "This way. We keep the restricted books in the back."
"Why does the library have a restricted section?" Dayabir flicked an eyebrow as he followed Leroy past crowded shelves of leather-bound tomes.
Leroy shrugged. "The board is full of some kooky fuddy-duddies. Wakefield isn't exactly the most progressive; there's a lot of weird remnants of the religious right and other superstitions running rampant. The consensus is that these books are dangerous; stuff they don't want most students or the general public to have access to. I don't even have full clearance."
"What books do they keep you from?"
"Well, there's one in this glass case that's all locked up tight. Rumor has it that it's bound in human flesh and anyone who reads it goes insane."
Dayabir shook his head. "That's ableist. I don't like that rumor."
Leroy nodded. "Like I said, lots of superstitious nonsense."
He led Dayabir into a small corner in the back of the library sectioned off by a red velvet rope chained between two silver bases. A plastic 'RESTRICTED' sign hung at the center of the rope. Dayabir took a cautious look beyond, noting that back here even the lighting malfunctioned slightly: the fluorescent bulbs were dim and flickering. It was oddly enough the only section of the library where the thick heavy burgundy curtains had been drawn over the w
indows, preventing all sunlight from reaching inside.
A chill passed over him and he felt a malevolent presence watching him from the chained books. His skin began to crawl as he did his best to keep from shaking.
"Are you okay?" Leroy asked, noticing Dayabir's eyes glaze over.
Dayabir placed a hand over his forehead. "I'm having a very weird day."
"It happens … Now, rural magic was it? I think I know the book." Leroy began scanning the shelves.
Leroy unchained the rope and stepped through, disappearing around the corner behind the darkness of the shelves. Dayabir was left alone, staring at the thick, heavy books. Faint whispers rose, beckoning him closer. His will slipped from him as his feet stumbled over the rope, drawn deeper and deeper into the restricted section where nameless texts dwelt.
"Hail Carcosa …" One whisper rose, louder than the rest. "Where shadows lengthen, and black stars rise, and strange moons circle through the skies. Where flap the tatters OF OUR YELLOW KING. HAILA HASTUR. HAIL CARCOSA."
"Got it!" Leroy said excitedly cutting through the haze. "What'cha got there?"
"What?" Dayabir whipped his head forwards.
His fingers been enclosed around the spine of a yellowed book tightly, almost ready to rip it off the shelf. He released it quickly as if it'd burnt him. His heartbeat was racing, the same rising feeling just before a panic attack. He looked at Leroy with wide, frightened eyes. They began welling with tears. His fight-or-flight responses were going haywire. His reasoning slipped.
Don't hate me. Don't think I'm a freak. I can't help it.
"Are you all right?" Leroy approached him, eyes full of concern.
That look of pity was the exact thing Dayabir was afraid of.
"A-attack … panic attack … gotta go," Dayabir managed to mumble before dashing straight for the bathroom.
Once inside, he locked himself in the stall and crouched on top the toilet, pulling his knees up to his chest. He held himself like that for a minute, crying and shaking. His whole body felt like it was coming apart, like he could hardly breathe aside from sharp, quick gasps.
