When he finished speaking, he put down the letter, picked up the beaker of oil, and poured less than a teaspoon onto the center of the mirror. The oil spread itself in a thin layer over the entire surface, and in an instant, the scene shifted from the ceiling of our room to the office of the Director of the Miskatonic University Library. Doctor Trautmann was prominently in the foreground, sitting behind his desk. I hardly had time to adjust my eyes to it before the view retreated to the furthest corner of the room.
“That is the difficult part,” Vincent sighed. “When that spell is used to shift the focus of the mirror to a distant location, the subject is shown, close-up and centered. It is at that point we are most susceptible to detection. Immediately after casting that spell, you must shift the focus at least twelve feet away. Understand?”
I nodded.
“As for manipulating the mirror,” he said, “it is quite easy. Just concentrate.”
He said nothing while he shifted the scene displayed by the mirror: up, down, left, right.
“You have been meditating nightly, and you were able to sense the true nature of the shard when you handled it, so I trust that you shall have no problems mastering the mirror.”
That was all the explanation he felt was needed, and we watched our subject. It was fascinating—for all of five minutes. After another five, it had degenerated to boring. In that time, Doctor Trautmann had done nothing but sit at his desk and read some sort of memorandum. The process of scrying was far less exciting than I had imagined it to be. It was also silent. Though we could see the office plainly, there was no sound.
Vincent apparently had also had his fill.
“That’s enough for today,” he said, leaning back. “I only wanted show you how the process works. Now, only the person who pours the oil onto it can control it. You must learn to do what I have just done. Then we can set up a surveillance schedule.”
He spoke a single word in Latin, and Doctor Trautmann’s office vanished. The mirror once again reflected the ceiling.
“There is a very good method of practicing with the spell used to shift the focus of the mirror. Walk several blocks away and remove a small limb from a tree. It can be substituted for the letter from Doctor Trautmann. When you practice the spell using the twig, the tree from which it came will be displayed by the mirror.”
“Amazing.”
“No, not really,” he replied, smiling. “It’s magic, after all.”
“Yes,” I said, laughing. “I suppose it is.”
We began the process of extinguishing our lamps and locking up the room. I briefly wondered whether or not I should broach the subject of the tattoo I had seen. In the end, my curiosity won out.
“Vincent, did I notice a tattoo on your left arm?” In the half-light, I thought I saw him clutch at the stump of his left forearm.
There was a pause before he cleared his throat.
“It’s embarrassing, actually. When I was still young and foolish, I succumbed to a whim, but midway through the process changed my mind. Very childish, really.”
He snickered nervously.
“Sometimes I wish that that wolf had taken off my arm at the elbow. Then I would have been rid of it forever. But I suppose that we must live with our mistakes.”
“Yes,” I replied. “As best as we can, anyway.”
Eighteen
Before long, it was evident that Vincent’s teaching methods were indeed quite effective. I mastered the mirror within days, using his suggestion of scrying on trees in the surrounding area. I became adept at shifting the focus of the mirror by practicing on unsuspecting people who happened to wander into my field of vision. Once, instead of a tree limb, I substituted a scarf that Mrs. Bettings had knitted for me. For about ten minutes, I watched her go pottering about the boarding house, washing dishes, dusting—but I grew ashamed of my actions. Shifting the focus out into the neighborhoods of Arkham, I wandered those streets, searching for any changes that may have occurred in my absence. But it was just the same as I had left it. After only a short time, I began to notice an uncharacteristic anxiety growing within me. When I ended my session, however, my anxiety ceased. It was foolish, but I think I had been afraid of being seen in Arkham by someone who might recognize me—something plainly impossible through the mirror.
By the end of the week, Vincent and I had settled into a schedule for spying upon Doctor Trautmann. We alternated in four-hour shifts. I would stay at the mirror from six until ten in the morning, and from two until six in the afternoon. Vincent would relieve me at the end of those shifts, staying awake until Doctor Trautmann went to bed. Our subject lived only a few blocks from the university, so it was easy to follow him as he walked to the library in the morning, and then back home in the evening. Thankfully, he rarely rode in a motorcar, as it would speed away faster than we could follow. But except for those occasions, we observed him constantly.
On our side of the mirror, however, the atmosphere grew strained. We held to the schedule for a week, then switched places: Vincent taking the first shift of the day, while I stayed awake until Doctor Trautmann went to bed. After the second week ended, we switched back. It was during the third week that my patience began to wear thin. It became obvious to me that our strategy was for naught. The man apparently had no vices, no secrets. He rarely drank alcohol, and then it would be precisely one glass of wine. He was even-tempered with his wife and three children. He didn’t have a wandering eye for any woman. He didn’t gamble. And when in his office, he worked constantly and reliably for the entire day. In short, there was nothing we could use. He may have had a skeleton or two hidden in his closet, but they were not the sorts of things revealed by our monitoring.
By that time, Vincent and I had both begun to show signs of frustration. We mostly saw each other only during shift changes, and when we did, we snapped at each other. I wondered more than once if he would simply announce our venture to be a failure, and throw me out on the street. After spending weeks in his home, I had not only come to enjoy his luxurious hospitality, but had grown dependent upon it. Bearing that in mind, whenever we started to argue, it was usually I who acquiesced.
At the end of that third week, we were nearly at our wits’ end, when we had an unexpected breakthrough. Vincent had just shown up to begin his shift when Doctor Trautmann’s secretary delivered his daily mail. Along with the usual assortment of letters and memorandums, there was a package. The doctor paid no attention to it in her presence. After she had left the room, however, we watched him grab it and eagerly rip away the wrapping to reveal a small, tin container. Within it was an envelope and an even smaller, ornate wooden box. As he opened the envelope and read the letter inside, I tried to maneuver the perspective to allow us to read it as well, but it was a very short note. He finished, folded it and put it back into the envelope before I got close enough.
Hands trembling, Doctor Trautmann carefully opened the smaller box to reveal a palm-sized, five-pointed stone. Its deep green surface was irregularly peppered with small black spots. It reminded me of something Professor Josephson had described.
“Is that…”
“It’s an Elder Sign,” whispered Vincent. He let out a sigh heavy with defeat.
“What does it matter?” I asked, confused. “Will it interfere with the scrying?”
“No, but if he has an Elder Sign, that means he must feel himself to be in danger,” he explained. “Have you been careful? I trusted you not to reveal us. Has he shown any signs of detecting us? Staring off into space? Listening for sounds that can’t be heard?”
It was difficult for me to not react to his tone, but I merely bit my lip and shook my head. He stared at the image of the green stone in the mirror, seemingly unable to look away. But when he spoke next, his anger seemed to have morphed into pensive thought.
“I didn’t consider that ours might not be the only request turned down,” he said. “There may be several people who would like to have access to these books. Perhaps some more
powerful than I, or more short-tempered, or both. Maybe the good doctor has received threats.”
Still transfixed by the sight of the Elder Sign, he lapsed into silence. He remained unmoving for a minute. He did not even blink. After another minute, I reached out and touched his arm. He jerked visibly and looked at me.
“He may even have anticipated attempts at scrying and changed his habits accordingly,” he said. Though a substantial pause had occurred, he spoke smoothly, completing his thought as if no time had passed. “It may become more difficult now, but our plan, however ill-conceived, must continue.”
“Continue?”
“Yes,” he replied simply, as if daring me to disagree. Unfortunately, I couldn’t contain my frustration longer.
“But we have nothing! In three weeks, we have gained nothing! Can you not see how ridiculous this has become? We watch him read, write, eat, brush his teeth. This is futile! There is nothing to see!”
Vincent closed his eyes, as if he viewed me as an impetuous child, one for whom a great deal of patience was needed.
“Robert…” Eyes still closed, he paused and licked his lips.
I waited for him to speak. The thought crossed my mind that my outburst may have been my final one. Had our relationship grown so strained that he had decided to dissolve it?
Whatever he had planned on saying remained unspoken, for when he opened his eyes, his gaze immediately shifted to the mirror.
“Look!” he said, pointing.
I glanced down in time to see Doctor Trautmann hurriedly open the top drawer of his desk, and sweep the contents of the package into it. The drawer was slammed shut as he forced a grin. Though I kept the mirror focused on the doctor, it was clear that someone else had arrived. His expression spoke volumes. Whoever approached was certainly unexpected, and someone to either be loathed or feared. It didn’t take long for his unforeseen guest to wander into view of the mirror. For some reason I was not surprised in the least by who it was.
“Higgins,” I said bitterly, trying and failing to control the irritation I felt.
“You know him?”
“All too well. He’s the one who convinced Doctor Trautmann to restrict my access to the books in the first place.”
We watched intently as the two men exchanged pleasantries, and then started talking business. Higgins seemed to be trying to persuade Doctor Trautmann to do something. The doctor resisted several attempts, becoming more and more adamant with his refusal each time. Higgins maintained the same pleasant attitude with each rejection, until suddenly, he snapped. He stood up, leaned over the front of the desk, and began a tirade. During our weeks of scrying, my lip-reading skills had not improved as much as I had hoped. I could not make out much of what either man said during this exchange—not until the end. Higgins concluded with “on your head.” At this, it seemed as if the doctor had accepted defeat.
Higgins said something else at that point—a cheery “Good-day,” perhaps—before he turned, and left. The doctor was left reeling as if he had just been beaten to a pulp. It was incredible to see the effect that Jebediah Higgins had on people. I had never known anyone who could induce so much misery with just an arrogant word or a condescending glance as he. A kernel of an idea formed in my mind as, once again alone in his office, Doctor Trautmann struggled to keep himself from weeping.
I spoke the word to stop the mirror’s scrying, and my idea blossomed into a full plan.
“I believe that I have something,” I said, a small amount of satisfaction in my voice.
Vincent smiled faintly.
“Oh? Out with it, then.”
“I believe that your suggestion that the doctor has anticipated attempts at scrying and changed his habits is…wrong.” I pushed straight on, not allowing time for Vincent to react. “I think we were unsuccessful discovering any of his vices because he truly has nothing to hide. He is an average man with a normal family. His job is his life. He is a bureaucrat. He gets pleasure from the fact that he wields some amount of power in his position as Director of the Library. For years, he has been living comfortably, not knowing any kind of fear. Now, possibly for the first time in his life, there is an obstacle: Jebediah Higgins.”
He nodded.
“What we need to do is to confront him, and tell him that we know he is trying to keep something secret. We can threaten to inform Higgins of his plans. If he denies it, we can supply him with details, starting with the Elder Sign.”
“And ending there, as well,” he said, shaking his head. “We have no actual knowledge of his plans.”
“No, we do not,” I agreed. “We shall have to bluff if necessary.”
“Can he be bluffed? Is the name of Higgins enough?”
“From the reaction we just witnessed, I would think so. But there’s only one way to know for sure.”
“There may be two,” said Vincent. “We can try to get more information.”
“From his dreaming mind?”
“Exactly so.”
In order to perform the ceremony for communicating with Doctor Trautmann’s dream self, we would have to sacrifice the letter we had been using for scrying. Because of that, we decided to spend one final day at the mirror to learn all that we possibly could. Vincent volunteered to watch our subject while I used the time to study, and prepare for the ceremony. The only useful bits of information he learned during his long day at the mirror were that the package came from London, and that Doctor Trautmann carried the Elder Sign home with him that evening. I asked him if the presence of that item would affect the spell I was preparing to cast. He replied that it should not.
When midnight at last arrived—and we were reasonably sure that the Doctor would be fast asleep—we returned to the laboratory. After we cleared the table and rehung the mirror on the wall, Vincent poured some of that familiar, near-invisible liquid into a glass container in the center of the table. Recalling that Andrew had conducted the ceremony from within a magical circle carved on the floor, I asked Vincent about needing some sort of similar protection. He told me that the means he had used to protect the room from scrying also served to provide the appropriate amount of protection for the ceremony. Reassured, I twisted the letter from Doctor Trautmann into a wick and placed it into the container. After calming my nerves, I began.
The first two phases proceeded smoothly. Feeling confident, I struck a match and lit the letter. Almost instantly, a wind sprang up, and what I could only assume was the dream-self of Doctor Trautmann joined us at the table. But the gusts that blew around us were not cold, as they had been in the times Andrew had cast the spell. They were instead slightly warm.
When the air settled, Vincent remained silent while I led the way.
“Is Doctor Trautmann present with us in this room?” I asked.
Yes, came the response in my head. Soundless, I still imagined it to match the voice I had heard from my one brief meeting with the man.
“Did you receive a package from London today?”
Yes.
“Who, specifically, sent it to you?”
I cannot say, came the response after a pause.
“Did you request that the object be sent to you?”
Yes.
“Why?”
I cannot say.
“Did someone threaten you?”
For that question and all of the others on our list, the response was invariably, I cannot say. I grew tired of hearing it. With the paper yet burning, I looked at Vincent. He looked as disappointed as I felt, but pointed at the list and made a circle in the air with his finger. I nodded and ran through the list again, trying variations on the wording. Some small part of me hoped that we could learn something—some tiny fact, or a confirmation of any of our suspicions. But there was nothing.
With time running out, I tried in vain to think of a new approach. I shook my head and shrugged. Vincent finished writing something on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. Just before the burning letter was completely consumed by flame,
I read aloud the words he had written.
“Doctor Trautmann, there is more to fear than you can possibly know.”
It was not phrased as a question, so there was no answer. The flame extinguished itself, and the dream-spirit exited with the winds.
After concluding the ceremony, we sat for a moment in the silence of the laboratory.
“You’ve managed to flummox me,” I said. “What did you hope to gain with that?” I pointed at the paper.
“Perhaps something, perhaps nothing,” he said cryptically. “I’ll know better once we get to Arkham.”
Resigned to the fact that it was his nature to be secretive, I only nodded. However, one word of Vincent’s reply—Arkham—reverberated through my mind. As deeply immersed as we were in our spying over the past weeks, I had given little thought to the past. Despite the fact that I was actually watching the town and the university in which I had spent the past years of my life, those places viewed through the mirror somehow seemed distant and illusory. Realizing that I would actually be going back, the town became much more concrete—with respect to both the living and the dead that I had left behind. There was also the matter of the police, and any possible investigation concerning Andrew’s death. For the past month, I had felt secure staying with Vincent in Boston. Holed up in a house so large, all of my needs provided for, it was impossible not to feel safe. Arkham, though, was another matter. That small town had been transformed in my mind, the years of positive recollections overshadowed by death. I dreaded a return there. But the reward of eldritch knowledge was too great! I thought only of my mission: Revenge upon Sothoth Pnath. There could be nothing else.
“To Arkham, then,” I said.
Nineteen
Though it was well after midnight when we concluded the ceremony, Vincent insisted that time was of the essence, and that we should depart for Arkham as soon as possible. Fatigued by the ceremony and the late hour, I convinced him to wait until morning. Due to my previous encounter with Doctor Trautmann, I told him that merely meeting with the man would be difficult in itself. It would serve no purpose to show up on his doorstep unannounced, as he would require us to have an appointment. Vincent, however, did not seem to be the least bit concerned with that trivial detail, as he called it. Too tired to debate with him, I dragged myself up the stairs, and collapsed onto the bed.
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