Journal of Adam Warwick

On sabbatical, an advanced mathematics professor journeys to New York city to find solace, only to find horrors.

Journal of Adam Warwick

 

            December 16, 1936

         

          Mathematics has been my passion for many years and this shall be my record. If my findings prove to be true, perhaps this journal will be published as a documentary. I shall provide reference:

 

          I am Adam Warwick, currently the advanced mathematics professor at Miskatonic University in Arkham. Currently, I am on sabbatical in New York to work on a mathematical theorem that I intend to publish if my findings are correct. I could very well change the mathematical world.

 

          However, this is not to say that this plan has come off without a hitch. My original intent was to stay in my Summer home in Boston where I thought I could work in peace. Suffice to say, it could not work. The gales coming in from the Atlantic were jarring, causing the whole house to creak and shift, breaking my clear, concise thoughts and frustrating me beyond belief. The cold too reinforced my position for relocation. As a native of New England, I perceived that I could bear the harsh tidings of Winter and indeed, I could, but for the life of me, my mind could not focus on the task at hand and my work suffered for it. At least two days’ work had to be thrown away due to calculation errors and illegible notations. At this, I saw few ways out.

 

          For my escape, I looked to New York. In the beginning, I dreaded the relocation. Large cities produce nauseous amounts of noise and I feared the trip was doomed the second I was to step out of the bus. And yet, that was as far as my pocket book could take me without leaving myself in squalor. When I arrived, I needed to find accommodations. I found my solace in the Avery Boarding House on Westing Ave.

 

          At first sight, one would be justified to have apprehensions about staying at the Avery. There is an unnatural pallor hanging over the place, causing one to fear that the color is being sucked out of them as they cross the threshold into the parlor. The man at the desk introduced himself as Harry Tremain, the proprietor of Avery Boarding House. From the instant I saw him, I knew that I didn’t like this man. He had a ruffled beard and wore an old, cheap suit, mended with patches. He wore a battered hat that I assumed covered a bald head. His teeth were a sickly yellow and his breath smelled of alcohol. After our introduction, he led me around the boardinghouse with a walking stick, undoubtedly stolen. None of the rooms he showed me were satisfactory. From each one, I could hear the raucous activities of the boardinghouse, all of which would disrupt my work. Finally, I entreated with him “Do you have any quiet rooms?” A fair question, I thought. Honest and straightforward. Apparently, Tremain thought so too. He replied that he had one room that would fit my needs.

 

          Tremain led me to a doorway behind his desk in the parlor, fitted with a padlock, which deeply troubled me. He produced a key and removed the lock, handing it to me. In my hands, it felt as if it had weighed ten pounds. He took a lantern from underneath his desk, lit it, and took me downward. Each wooden step creaked out a harsh note of despair. A full twenty steps we descended until we hit a landing and began to descend once more, but for only ten steps and our feet touched earth. I had reached my destination.

         

          The room was predominantly bare, apart from a few support beams that lined the walls. The accommodations were sparse: only a bed, writing desk and a chair, but it was exactly what I needed. The room was relatively dark, yet had warmth and quiet. As shabby as the conditions were, I’m almost afraid to say that it was perfection. Tremain took a sip from a hip flask, also presumably stolen due to the quality, and spoke: “The fee is one dollar a night. Meals are at 8 o’clock, 12 o’clock and 6 o’clock every day and they are included with the price.” Tremain pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and coughed wickedly into it. He shoved it back in and carried on. “You will have a supply of candles for when you’re down here.” I was now standing in the middle of the room. I was certainly pleased. I said that I would take the room. I handed Tremain $30, as I had planned on staying at the very least a month, and set my suitcase on the desk. Tremain left me the lantern and the padlock, bade me farewell and walked up the creaking stair.

 

          And now, here I sit, writing by candle light. I plan on using the lantern when I need illumination to move around the room. Luckily, there is good ventilation down here. I can write and smoke my pipe with relative ease. The quiet continues to surprise me, but no matter. My work shall be done.

 

          December 18, 1936

 

          After reviewing my previous entry I am curiously surprised by how calm I sound. After I had set my pen down, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I had an almost petrifying fear that the moment I dozed off, the floor would slide out from underneath me and I would be killed by some horrific device and my belongings would be taken by Tremain. I remained awake in the chair for the entire evening. I left my suitcase on the bed in case the device was triggered by an increase in pressure. When the morning came, my suitcase was unharmed, so I concluded that sleep was safe. I took a nap until breakfast.

 

          The Mentaculus, as I have named it, shall be my claim to fame and notoriety. The original concept for the Mentaculus began in Greece before the Christian Expansion. It was intended to be the Magnum Opus for a little known Greek mathematician named Periteus. Periteus didn’t get very far in his writings. History attributes his death to the Persians when they sacked Athens. It was a miracle that his papers weren’t destroyed. A Persian probably found the scrolls and took them back with him. Sadly, no one has added to the Mentaculus in the centuries, nay, millennia that passed since Periteus’s time. I’m not even sure how the scrolls found their way to Miskatonic, but here they are now, in my possession.

 

          The whole basis for the Mentaculus is fate. Does fate have a mathematical formula? I intend to find out. According to the Mentaculus, life can be broken down into a basic mathematical way. In the end, or at least, what the Mentaculus seems to point to, is that the human mind gives us our free will and we have the ability to go through our lives un-dictated. However, certain interactions of live can be orchestrated like fate.

 

          I will be honest, when I first read the papers, I was skeptical. However, it was until I read the papers a second time and looked over the first equations and formulas, everything checked out soundly. Yet, there wasn’t enough data given to prove the Mentaculus. Now, I am nearly there in proving it. More than half of the work is finished.  If I had assistance, work would progress faster, but I cannot allow anyone to plagiarize it. I’ve come too far to have my work ruined now.

 

          December 19, 1936

 

          Mrs. Essex, one of the boarders, asked me what I’ve been doing down in the cellar. I was honest and told her I was working on a mathematical theory and the cellar was the only quiet place in the boarding house. She responded with a smile and went back to eating.

 

          I was lucky that she didn’t pry. I don’t have to worry about the boarders stealing the Mentaculus, yet I was much more worried that if I told them what the Mentaculus entailed, they would laugh me out of the room. In a serious field, I probably would be applauded. At any rate, I hope I’ll be applauded.

 

          I advanced a few more pages in the Mentaculus. Work seems to be a bit slower since yesterday. Much of the work I’m doing now is physics, which isn’t a quick process to translate into the written form.

 

          I was dismayed when I found that I had melted down my first candle. I know Tremain said that I could always ask for more, but I don’t like him. He stares at me with cold eyes, as if he’s sizing me up. I try to avoid him as much as possible.

 

          After lunch I had to go out for a newspaper. There were newspapers at the Avery, yes, but most of them were ripped, stained, and missing pages. I preferred my paper to be a bit fresher. When I got back, I heard some good news- the weather is warming up a bit.

 

          December 22, 1936

 

          I awoke this morning to water dripping on my face. As I dreamt, this was shown as a great, beastly dog drooling on my face. Happily, it was not the case. I concluded that because of the rise in temperature, the snow outside is melting and is seeping through the ground and flowing down into my cellar. No matter. It’s not too bothering.

 

          Breakfast this morning was heavenly: sausage gravy and biscuits. It reminded me of home.

 

          My childhood home is in Concord, Connecticut. I grew up on my family’s hog farm. Sausage was indeed a familiar taste. I remember my father was a tall, thin man, yet strong. He worked hard for my family, slaving away in the barn with hogs, or mending parts of the house that had fallen into disrepair. I don’t believe he enjoyed working as a farmer; it was plainly seen in his face. He always pushed me away from the farm and toward an urban life and education. I remember, with great fondness and clarity, the day I graduated from Miskatonic. He gave me a great, long hug with tears in his eyes. It was the first, nay only time I have seen him in such a state. He was proud, so very, very proud.

 

          My mother was a sweet woman who, along with father, pushed me into my studies. I owe my love and skill with math to her. She was a math teacher years before she met my father. Her skills were adept. I remember in my early years of school I struggled with math. When I implored, she came to my aid. She gave me extra lessons that explained the math to me in ways far greater than my educator had. Soon, I was at the level of my classmates and soon after I was excelling far beyond them and even my teacher. When I announced that I intended to teach advanced mathematics at Miskatonic, she too became proud.

 

          I loved both my parents dearly. I owe who I am today to both of them. I was their only child. No one else in my life has done so much for me than they had.

 

          I received a letter from my contemporary John Keegan at the university. His reports of the students are, by all accounts, good. He also requested to know how my finalizing of the Mentaculus has come. This question troubled me somewhat. I still have until mid-January, but the work is almost weighing down on upon me, like a rock upon my back. Therefore, I have no idea on how I shall respond to his correspondence. Ethics and moral responsibilities tell me to answer truthfully. However, lying wouldn’t cause any distress to the poor man. If he got word of my struggles, he’d try to get involved, which I most certainly do not want.

 

          Damned If I do, damned if I don’t.

 

          I am going to go to sleep. Hopefully, I will have a suitable answer for Keegan.

 

          December 23, 1936

 

          I must start at the beginning:

 

          When I finished my writings of the previous evening, I sought my bed, only to find it horrendously damp from the day’s dripping. I tried to make the best of the situation, but for all of me, it was too much. I rose up and with a great thrust, I pushed the bed to the wall opposite. After my outburst I found the ground beneath me to be unfamiliar from the packed dirt. I looked to my feet and saw that I was no longer on the ground, but rather on wooden boards. Also on the boards lay a hatchet.

 

          The sight of the hatchet frightened me so! I leapt from the boards and back onto the solid earth, landing on my knees. My fears of being killed by Tremain were only heightened, but soon after subsided. I reasoned that if he was going to kill me, I would have died my first night in the basement. I crawled over to the boards. From the way they sagged when I stood on them, I was certain that something was under the wood. There was a gap sufficient enough between one board where I could get a grip, but pulling was useless. I gave up and over the next hour I smoked my pipe and contemplated my options. At the end, I came to two conclusions that I could logically pursue: I could either ignore the boards altogether, or I could attempt to remove them and discover what they were covering up. Alas, my curiosity would not be abated.

         

I set down my pipe and approached the boards with a sense of apprehension. I attempted to pull up the boards again through my own strength and again they wouldn’t move. I resolved to use the hatchet. The hatchet itself felt strange in my hands, only then did I realize that instead of a wooden handle, it was made of cold steel. The handle, I fell, gave the hatchet extra heft. When I brought it down on one of the boards, the board cut in two. Yet, the board did not fall. It stayed in place, although I could clearly see that there was depth beneath the boards.

         

With one board cut in two, I was finally able to move it. I could see why I was unable to force the boards out of place. They were dug into the dirt and set in. The dirt acted like a crude form of mortar, cementing the boards in place. However now, with only one end in the dirt, I could pull the boards free and remove them. I continued doing this for 30 minutes until all the boards were cleared away. In total, there were seven.

          Now, instead of a floored surface in my room, there was a hole. I estimated the hole to be 5 feet by 5 feet. When I brought the lantern over it, the bottom could clearly be seen. With this discorvery made, I put all my wishes for sleep aside. I put on a shirt and pants and stepped into the hole. The hole served as a passage way of sorts, connecting to a low tunnel carved through the dirt. It was wide enough for me to enter on my hands and knees. With hatchet in one hand and lantern in the other, I began to crawl my way through the tunnel. While I moved through the tunnel, I felt like a worm, slowly sifting my way through the soil. When I made the comparison to myself, I discovered a disturbing reality of this tunnel. Its walls were perfectly smooth. I felt around for signs of imperfection, but found none. No sign of tool marks, or anything of the sort. All of the sudden, the tunnel became inhuman to me. Nevertheless, I crawled onward.

         

I estimate I had crawled at least 200 feet. When I reached that distance, the tunnel began to slope downward. My descent was not rapid, only mere inches at a time, until there was a particularly large curve that dropped at least three feet. The tunnel continued on, as far as my lantern could tell. I would have gone further, but my foot struck something at the bottom of the slope. Something hard.

         

I showed my lantern over what I had struck. A small corner of that I assumed was a chest protruded from the dirt. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to free it with my bare hands, I began to dig around it with the hatchet. It was not a brilliant spade, but it served me well enough. The dirt was much firmer down here, making my job difficult. I toiled with the whole process for near on an hour and I had strongly considered leaving the damned thing behind. This was not the case. By then, I had enough of the dirt cleared away that I could pry the box out using the hatchet as a lever. This worked brilliantly. The box was freed from its earthen prison and into my dutiful hands.

         

I examined the box. Many layers of dirt had been caked on it, preventing me from finding any identifying marks. From what I could see- and feel- the box was padlocked and there was most certainly something inside it. Now with this box in my possession, I decided that I should start on my way back. I was able to continue backward at a great pace, even with the box. The instant I got back to my room, I set the box and hatchet on my desk, set the lantern in the corner to add illumination to the room and lit a few candles to increase visibility on the desk. When my room was all set, I checked my pocket watch: 2:10 AM. I’d been gone for at nearly three hours. With that revelation, I lit my pipe and began my work to clean off and open the box.

         

I was able to accomplish this task though hard work and a good handkerchief. Despite how it sounds, this was not a feat achieved easily. The sheer layers of dirt on the box were staggering. The whole process took 45 minutes and left my previously pristine, white handkerchief a sullen, dark brown. When it was all finished, I began my search and found one identifying mark. Even as I write with the knowledge of what was inside burned onto my brain, I am unsure of what symbol is what it means. It is, or at least it appears to be a star, almost oblong in shape and asymmetrical. In the center of the star is a shape bearing resemblance to that of an eye. The mark itself was carved into the center of the box.

         

After examination of the box and the marking, I sought to open it. While I surely could have broken through the wood with the hatchet, I didn’t want to damage what lay inside. I set it on its side, padlock facing outward and aimed for the lock. The blade connected with the padlock and bright sparks cascaded off it in a shimmering display. The padlock was removed and the box’s contents were mine for the taking.

          Inside the box was a book, a single volume. It was leatherbound, with an almost purple hue to it. There was no discernible text applied to it, nor any symbols or figures. Carefully, I lifted the book from its case and set it down with the utmost gentleness.

         

Upon opening the book, I, at first, thought it was a science text, finding the opening page to be written in Latin. I didn’t realize exactly what it was until I fully grasped the title. As an old student of Latin, I read it in my head in my native English. It sounded odd, until I spoke it aloud. Then, and I assure you only then, did I realize what I had just spoke. The Book of the Dead. Although, perhaps it is better known in its Latin- The Necronomicon.

         

Of course I am aware of The Necronomicon, written by the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Perhaps the reason Miskatonic is so well known is because of its possession of a copy. Holding it in my hands, even the simple act of being near it, is blasphemous.

         

Currently, as I write, it’s sitting on my desk in its box. I have no idea what I shall do with it.  I’m thinking that I should burn it. That sounds like the right thing to do now, but is it? IS IT?

         

It’s early morning now, my hands are tired and I need to stop, but first, I must pose a question: the person, or I shudder to think, being who buried the volume, put effort into its concealment by burying it. The tunnel looks to have been dug recently, within the past twenty years, judging the wood. Of it all, I must ask why? Why?

 

          December 24, 1936

 

          Since writing my last entry, I still have not slept. I spent the majority of my time sitting on my bed staring over at The Necronomicon sitting on my desk. Most of the candles in here are still lit. I had to put the lantern out to save the oil.

          I should work on the Mentaculus. It is why I’m here. Yet now I sit in this cellar and no work is being accomplished. I’m fearful of my desk with it laying there. I’m now writing with my journal on my knee. I cannot work. I cannot sleep.

 

          December 25, 1936

 

          Another sleepless night in the basement. However, I am now back at my desk. I was able move The Necronomicon aside. My fears of it are, for the time being, alleviated. And yet, its very presence in my room is concerning. Even more concerning, to me, is that I have let precious days slip through my fingers. I am now tremendously behind in my work on the Mentaculus.

         

          After I was able to work up my courage and move The Necronomicon to the other side of my desk, I found myself ravenous. I ventured up the stairs, each creaking from my weight. Some how, though, they sounded weaker, less strained. This realization only came to me when I began my way back down. As I reached the first floor, I heard the clattering of silverware and raucous laughter. And then I realized what day it was. It was Christmas, a day of joyous celebration, mirth and merriment. I assumed everyone was enjoying a lively brunch. With this information in hand, I entered the dining room. That is when all the laughter ceased.

 

          Mrs. Essex and her husband saw me first. She gasped within the second I came into sight. They both stared, mouths agape. Tremain looked thoroughly surprised, not to mention shocked.  The other boarders, which I am not acquainted with, looked horrified. I wasn’t aware why. I turned around, expecting the cause of their shock to be behind me. Alas, this wasn’t the case. However, I did then see why they were in a mortified state. In the mirror I saw my face, but it wasn’t instantly recognizable. I looked pale, almost white. My face was gaunt, lined with a layer of black stubble, my eyes carried backs and were beginning to turn red. I looked down at my clothes, which I had not changed out of since my exploration. They were stained brown and sallow yellow from the dirt and sweat. My knees and elbows were layered with grime. I inhaled and smelled my stench. Their shock, I deemed, was not unreasonable. They had not seen me for at least two days. With due haste, I grabbed a plate from the table, a set of silverware, packed my plate with food and rushed back into the basement.  With the plate in hand and with my feet hitting the stairs, the normal creaking of strain returned. I suddenly knew why: I had lost weight since the 22^nd. My clothes now seemed much, much looser. I was filled with fear. My knees wobbled, my stomach churned and my hands trembled. I had to take the steps down slowly. I nearly fell down when I made it to the landing. Some food fell off my plate, but not much. Even when I got the basement floor, my knees continued to quake from fear. I set my plate on the desk and collapsed in my chair, but not for long. I sat up and consumed the food in a frenzy. Within minutes, my plate was empty. Yet, I was still not satisfied. I brought the plate up to my mouth and began to lick the plate clean, like a lion would lick his paws after killing and eating a gazelle.

 

          My door opened and the stairs creaked. Quick footsteps began to travel down into my room. I flung the plate back on the desk, miraculously not breaking, and tossed The Necronomicon under my bed. I hadn’t moved my bed back into position, and if I had tried to do it then, the noise would certainly have made the approaching feet suspicious. The hatchet was still in plain sight.

 

          Tremain made his way down into my room and looked disturbed. The bed not being in position was damnably obvious, along with the hole, the old board covering, and the hatchet. He saw it all. Under his breath he muttered “Blessed Christ!” He didn’t stay long. He pulled an envelope from his coat and tried to set it on the desk, but missed. The envelope fell to the floor and Tremain hurried back up the stairs.

 

          I picked the envelope up from the floor and opened it. It was a letter from Keegan, who was curious as to why I didn’t respond to his earlier letter. I set the letter aside. I was frustrated at myself. His letter was a reminder to me that I had not worked at all on the Mentaculus. It also reminded me of why, of what was now sitting under my bed. I fear that I will be unable to keep myself silent. I will need to consult Keegan.

 

          December 27, 1936

 

          I’ve mailed out my letter to Keegan. I certainly hope he can help me. My situation here at the Avery is becoming rather grim. When I come up the stairs, I find no one moving about the boarding house. I assume it’s because they can hear my steps creaking on the stairs, sending them running to hide in their rooms, like roaches retreating from light. When, on the rare instance, I do see someone, they make no eye contact with me. It seems that they are repulsed by the very sight of me.

 

          Since the incident, I have bathed and shaved, yet for my pale complexion, there isn’t much that I can do. The sun is never shining here in New York. I’ve tried to address my weight loss by eating more. My appetite, however, has become uncooperative. I feel as if my own body is now rebelling against me. At least I am now free to eat in peace. My food is now being set by my door. They’ll alert me by knocking on it violently. I may soon have to take to the streets; my supply of tobacco has dwindled.

 

          Now I sit in my cellar and try not to work on the Mentaculus. I have advanced, but not very far. I worked for nearly an hour, but my head began to throb in pain. It was too much for me: I swept all my materials off the desk and wept like a child. Uncontrollably. Inconsolable. I beat my hands against the desk, but that was not enough. I took the hatchet and hacked into it. The desk is mostly intact now, but I suppose whatever worth it had before is gone. I have calmed down since, but I am disturbed by this outburst. Never once have I struck anything- inanimate or otherwise- in a fit of rage. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

 

          December 28, 1936

 

          why why why why why

 

          I shall try to remain calm while writing, but my hands are not steady. They have touched blasphemy, you see.

 

          I must admit, I was so curious, even when I realized what it was. I didn’t see the harm in taking a look. However, I did take precaution. I waited until dark, when most of the boarders slept. Tremain was likely to still be up, but I knew he wouldn’t bother me. It was, at the very least, unlikely.

 

          I took the book from its hiding place and placed it on the desk. From there, I took it out of its box and held it up. The purple leather binding was almost…mesmerizing. I set it down with great care and began to read. I read page after page of that grim Latin. The Mad Arab was a grotesque man, speaking of wretched things that lurk in this world, things that should not exist. I read of Shub-Niggurath- The Black Goat of the Forest with A Thousand Young, Nyarlahotep- the Crawling Chaos, Yog-Sothoth, Azathoth, Father Dagon and Mother Hydra- both said to dwell in the black depths of the oceans.

 

          Perhaps what frightens me most is the way all these denizens are described. The book itself is organized like a textbook, I’ve found, yet instead of describing the creatures as specimens, they are described as gods, with extreme reverence. Also, the are described with enough detail to suggest he was looking at them as he wrote. There are also bizarre incantations and rituals that even the most terrible nightmares wouldn’t be able to conjure. Blood rituals, decapitations, disembowelments, and blasphemous acts between men and women.

 

          It was here where the real terrors began: I read one incantation near page 329, all in my head, but nevertheless, something happened. My vision became black. I first thought my candle had gone out, yet when I reached for it, I felt its fire.

 

          From the darkness of my vision, small pinpricks of light emerged. They became brighter, and within seconds, they were the stars of a nighttime sky. Then, a slim, crescent moon began to shine, and I saw it reflecting in the water. Waves sloshed onto the coastline where I was standing. The scene was beautiful, until I heard a low growl, almost a roar, behind me. It was a wet, liquid sound. I turned and saw what created it: a gigantic beast with mottled brown skin, and a pale face with numerous stalks emerging from it. At least, I believe it was its face. I cannot describe exactly what I saw. I didn’t want to linger. From the glimpse I received, I could feel my stomach turn. Tears streamed down my face. It growled again, with some unknowable liquid dripping from the stalks. I watched the liquid splash onto the ground and saw the creatures massive claws, and beneath them were the remains of people, all torn apart with rivers of blood flowing forth. I turned away and looked back at the sea, which began to bubble. Dark shapes rose up and broke the surface of the water. They are coming to claim us all, I heard someone say. The voice was harsh and incredibly inhuman. Yet, it was my voice!

 

          The next instant I was released from the vision. I was on the floor, gasping for breath. I tried to stand, but I only got to my knees and then I vomited. The floor became sticky with the foul stuff. I crawled away from the puddle into a corner and sat hugging my knees to my chest. Time seemed to slow down. Then, the most unsettling thing occurred.

 

          A noise emitted from the tunnel.  It was a small skittering noise, at first, evolving into a scuttle. I thought it was an uncommonly large rat, but, help me, it wasn’t. God help me, it wasn’t. I heard a grunt come from the tunnel, low and thick. More scuttling followed it. Whatever was down there, it was moving closer.

 

          Cold sweat dripped down my face and neck. I began to shake with fear. I got on my feet and dove for the hatchet on the desk. Now armed, I stood up once more, prepared to meet the creature head on. It drew nearer. I gripped the hatchet tightly, my knuckles turning white as bone. “Come at me!” I shouted. “Come at me, damn you!”

 

          Yet it came not. I stood there, waiting for its ugly shape to protrude from the hole in the floor, but it didn’t. The scuttling sound stopped for a moment, and when it began, it became quieter, moving away from my room. Deeper into the tunnel. God only knows what lurks down there. And I’m certain he intended it to be that way.

 

          January 1, 1937

 

          A new dawn shines upon the New Year. Since the 28^th, there are no new developments with the tunnel. I’ve moved the boards back over the hole for safe measure. I now keep the hatchet within arm’s reach at all times down in my room.

 

          Keegan replied to my letter and I received it this morning. I shall transcribe it in its entirety here:

 

          Dear Adam,

 

Thank God you have responded. I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to work on your thesis, but is what you are saying true? You have found a Necronomicon? My my, what luck you have! I must take a look at it. And you said that you’re still in New York? All the better! If it is a genuine copy, I have a friend who would certainly have a great deal of interest in looking at it. And, in regards to the Mentaculus, if you do not object, may I offer my own expertise, seeing that you are having difficulty? I do not wish to insult, please tell me if I am, and do respond with HASTE!

 

J.K.

 

P.S. Sorry for the briefness of my letter. Perhaps the next one will be lengthier.

 

          Somehow, I find this letter unsettling.  Keegan is showing what can be described as an almost unhealthy enthusiasm about The Necronomicon. If he really wanted to read it, why not read the copy that is kept at the University. It would be in English, too.

 

          Despite any of my misgivings, I’ll let him look at the book with this friend of his. I have no use for the book, and if they’re interested enough to take it- and especially after what happened- fine by me. Good riddance to the thing.

 

          January 2, 1937

 

          I’ve sent out my letter to Keegan. I hope he will come out soon so I can get rid of this damn book and get as far away from here as possible. I suppose I could have just mailed it to him, but he was rather adamant on coming out to see it. I’ve heard more scuttling sounds from the tunnel. I was smoking my pipe and was fairly relaxed at the time, so the sounds startled me greatly. I grabbed the hatchet and stood ready.

 

          Whatever is lurking down there didn’t come as close as it had a few days ago, but it made an approach nonetheless. It didn’t stay long. I waited at the hole for a minute before it turned away. It sensed me, I think. I believe I heard it growl, like a frightened dog, but it was a deeper growl, dripping with ferocity.

 

          But now, there’s something else I’m much more worried about. I have a rather disturbing habit forming. I’m not consciously aware when I’m doing this- in fact, I’m not sure that I am doing this, but the alternative is too unbearable to grasp- but it now seems that I am carving symbols into  my body. I first discovered them when I was undressing for the shower. I was absolutely terrified when I noticed them. I screamed. Any boarders who might have heard me won’t pry and I’m rather thankful.

 

          These symbols are all too familiar. One is that star symbol I say on the chest I found the book in, carved right in the middle of my chest. On my arms and legs are…I want to say that they are words, but they aren’t. They can’t be. They follow no grammatical pattern that I can discern, but by God, they look like words. This is an example from my left arm:

 

Yzsweih’g dhonelm Whzr lth’ie Rwaset’nyie

 

I dare not look in The Necronomicon to see if there is any meaning to all this.

 

          I examined my fingernails to see if I had clawed the markings into my skin, but there was no trace of blood under them. When I showered, the answer came to me. I finished and rushed down into my cellar room. The stairs leading down barely creaked when I walked on them. I found the hatchet on the floor and brought it up to the lantern’s illumination. Across the blade were dark streaks of maroon. Nausea set in and I fell onto my knees. I didn’t vomit, but I was ill at ease. I cannot find any comfort at this moment. I’m going to stay up tonight and perhaps I can catch what is happening. If this new development is really a habit or... God help me.

 

          January 3, 1937

 

          I wrote that this occurrence was a habit, and it is. I don’t know if I should be thankful by this or horrified. I know I feel sick. I have added two more symbols into my abdominal region. I watched myself do it.

 

          I lied down in bed, waiting, the hatchet lying next to me, in case it wasn’t me doing this. I waited for nearly an hour, and then it happened. I heard the scuttling sound again and I tried to grab the hatchet, but I couldn’t move my arm. In fact, nothing below my neck was moving when I tried. And then my arm began to move involuntarily. I thought it was myself at first, but it didn’t respond. My arm rose and grabbed the hatchet. I tried to stop my arm but it didn’t work. It dropped the hatchet down on my chest and carved into me. I cried out, loudly, but there wasn’t any pain. It was mostly the sight of what was happening. I was astonished by how little blood there was from this. My other arm held my handkerchief and caught most of it.

 

          Now, there are three grim tattoos upon my chest, and even more upon my arms and some on my legs. I haven’t even dared to look on my back.

 

          My God, my God, what is happening to me?

 

          January 5, 1937

 

          Early this morning, I received a telegram from Keegan saying that he and a Mr. Larous will be arriving tomorrow. I can breathe a small sigh of relief. I have no idea what to expect from this Larous, but if he is a friend of Keegan’s, then I am certain he can be trusted. John Keegan has never let me down yet.

 

          I’ve now found more markings, this time on my palms. I must be doing these in the nighttime and only then. That is the only logical conclusion. Although, unlike the previous markings on my chest, they aren’t star-like. These are triangular, with a tentacle shape underneath and an eye in the center. I’m now starting to wear gloves when I make trips upstairs, which have become less common. I do most of my grooming down here in the dark, and looking rather respectable. I have a small water basin which I can use with my shaving kit and that should last be for almost a week. Food is no longer a great issue, as I have been eating much less now. A lunch sized meal can last me most of a day, if eaten sparingly.

 

          I haven’t heard any new scuttles from below. I hope whatever is living down in that hellhole will stay down there. At least, until I can leave.

 

          I pulled the Mentaculus from the desk, hoping to get back to work on it. Seeking normalcy. That’s only natural. Yet, nature can be cruel. I tried to pour myself into the Mentaculus, but nothing came out. I moved my pencil, but it wasn’t words forming on the page, nor formulas, but scribbles, shapeless drawings. I cursed- loudly. I shouted like a beast. I tossed the notebook against the wall. I grabbed the hatchet off the floor and plunged it into the Mentaculus. I struck the wall with my fists. I tried to put my wisdom onto the page, yet anger was all that flowed forth. I lost all control of my senses.

 

          Am I proud? No. I am ashamed. I, a civilized man, acted like an animal. When my fit was over, I broke down and began to weep. My hands wiped my face and I felt my scarred palms. I wept harder.

 

          For the first time in my life, I contemplated suicide. As a rational man, why would I have considered it? But this was not a time of rationality. I felt I could just cut my throat with the hatchet and end all my troubles. The grip was warm when I picked it up, but the blade’s touch was incredibly cold against my neck. The feeling was vastly different when my self-mutilations took place.

 

          Those reading must know that I did not follow through. I set the hatchet down and now here I am. Keegan and Larous will be here tomorrow. Things will be better when they leave. That’s all I can hope for now.

 

          January 6, 1937

 

          More carvings done in the night, this time on the soles of my feet. They have the same design as the ones on my palms. I shudder to think at what they could mean. I heard more growling from the tunnel. It’s not close, but it still sounds angry, as if I’m intruding upon it. I could care less about its feelings.

 

          Keegan arrived promptly at 3:00 p.m. He was tremendously surprised by my gaunt appearance. Keegan is not a sizable man, but when he embraced me, his arms seemed to envelop me. We exchanged pleasantries and I invited him into the Avery. He informed me, as he was wiping his feet, that Mr. Larous would be arriving at 9:00. Tremain overheard this and was outraged. He fumed at us, shouting “You can’t just let people into my establishment without clearing them through me!” I was about to retort when Keegan stepped in front of me. I would have shouted right back at Tremain, but Keegan spoke calmly. “Sir, my name is John Keegan, Associate Professor of Advanced Mathematics at Miskatonic University up in Arkham. Mr. Warwick and I are awaiting the arrival of a very influential man, and what we plan on doing here has been prophesized in the stars and I strongly suggest you don’t interfere, or…” Keegan leaned in closely to Tremain and whispered in his ear. I couldn’t rightly hear what Keegan said, but I saw the look on Tremain’s face. It was an expression of absolute horror. Keegan backed away, looking as calm as ever, smiling even. Tremain retreated upstairs, calling us “sick b******s.” Now, I was very concerned. “Keegan, what did you say to him?” I asked. Tremain called back out at us, saying “Rot in hell!” Keegan raised his hand and said that it was better that I didn’t know. Alas, we moved into the parlor to talk. A boarder I was unfamiliar with took one look at me, stood up, and left in a hurry. We had the room to ourselves. I smoked my pipe, he a cigar, and we both were able to talk freely. To an onlooker, we must have looked strange sitting together. Keegan is a young, and if I may say, a handsome man, clean shaven with trim, jet black hair. His eyes in particular are a striking blue. He is the very model of human perfection, especially when compared to me: a graying, gaunt man of 46. I looked strange and he looked ever so normal, but when I began to talk about The Necronomicon, something about him changed. He listened with great intent. There was something about his eyes that frightened me. The change was subtle, but there. They seemed ageless, staring in an unblinking gaze, fixed as if in a trance.

 

          I told him of the incident in full. The dripping ceiling, the hatchet, the tunnel…all of it. There was only one omission: my carvings. I felt that delving into that subject would have been too grim. He didn’t notice or make comment on my gloves. If he did see them, he probably thought I was a bit cold. I licked my lips during the conversation and discovered one more carving- on my tongue. I masked my horror by having a coughing fit.

 

          Our conversation finished when dinner was served. Keegan and I took our plates to the parlor. If I had a choice in the matter, I would keep my guest upstairs and away from my room. I ate my fill while Keegan was able to clear his plate. I daresay that he even had a second helping. When we finished eating it was 7:40 p.m. All that was left to do was to wait for Larous. I read a newspaper by the fire and Keegan kept an eye at the window in case Larous arrived early. He did not.

 

          When I first laid eyes on Larous, I felt an instant dislike for the man. He arrived wearing a set of purple robes with a dark blue, conical hat bearing a rather familiar symbol in the center. Around his neck was a gold medallion bearing the same symbol. It was that star with the eye in the center. Rings were placed on every finger. His eyes were a pale blue, almost gray, unlike Keegan’s. His face was deeply lined with age. I would guess that he was in his late 60s, perhaps even his early 70s. He looked at us as if we were inferior to him.

 

          “John,” he spoke, his tone was one of dissatisfaction. “And you must be Warwick.” Keegan bowed his head and kept it low with reverence. I kept mine in its natural place. “Yes, I am,” I replied. He looked me over. His expression was also one of dissatisfaction. He stepped through the threshold, his rotund shape barely making it in. Keegan spoke up: “How was the cab ride in, sir?” Larous gave a snort. “Dreadful. The driver was a bloody half-caste who couldn’t drive worth a damn.” He turned to me. “Warwick, Keegan tells me that you have a Necronomicon?” “Yes,” I answered. “In Latin?” he asked. I nodded. Larous raised a pale eyebrow. “Bring me to it.”

 

          I lead them to the basement. The creaking from the steps became quite jarring when Larous stepped on them, his weight giving enormous stress upon the boards. We entered my room, The Necronomicon lying in plain sight upon my desk. Keegan gasped faintly when he saw it. Larous made his slow approach, arms outstretched. “Oh my,” he said. He lightly touched the front cover and opened the book. “Oh my,” he repeated. He thumbed through it with slow, deliberate page turns, barely folding the paper. “Is it genuine, sir?” Keegan inquired, clearly worried. Larous turned to him and said “Yes, it is.” Keegan let out a sigh of delighted relief. “Azathoth, y’ni whie,” he replied. Or, that’s what I believe he said. It was most definitely not English.

 

          Larous motioned to Keegan. “Indeed, he finally smiles upon us. We must begin. Quick! Bring me the orb!” he commanded. Keegan pulled a glass sphere from his pocket and handed it to Larous. It was the size of an apricot pit and a deep blue, almost black color, as if the sphere was made of obsidian. Larous held it in both hands, balancing it in the middle, trembling slightly. Keegan moved toward The Necronomicon and turned to a page specified by Larous, who began to chant in some black tongue. The speech was very unnatural, almost as if liquid was pouring out of his mouth. “Hwhr tni, enly’I thni! Ywn’gni nenq hwiyn rtrze zntr y’thie pl’euat.”

 

          I reached out to Larous, earnestly trying to stop this bizarre ritual, only to be stopped myself by Keegan. He grabbed my arm and forced me to the back of the room. “Do not interrupt what cannot be stopped!” he growled at me. His voice was raw, like a savage beast. Larous continued his blasphemous chant. “Ieilieln btzy’nt Yog-Sothoth! Xiltyn ythie nwyeh!” The blue obsidian began to glow, overpowering the light of the candles in the room. It rose from Larous’s hands, floating to the room’s center. Larous’s chanting never ceased, but I cannot recall what was said, as I was entranced by the orb’s bathing light. The orb was now directly over the pit. It dropped sharply, smashing its way through the boards and leaving a pale, blue trail. “We must follow,” said Larous, ending his chant.

 

          I could not hold my tongue any longer and I shouted for them to stop, yet they both moved towards the pit. Keegan rushed ahead and began to rip away the boards, tossing them behind him with maddening speed. Force, I deemed, was needed. I moved behind Keegan, grasped his shoulder and yanked him back from the pit. Larous raised his voice “You would dare to impede us?” Keegan rose to his feet and raised his hand. “I’m fine, sir,” he said. “He hasn’t been instructed of our ways.”

 

          A chilling howl came from the tunnel. It was the creature residing down there, but this howl was different from the low growls in the night. There was pain in this howl, like when a man screams. Its sound sent my skin to break out into goosebumps. I was shocked by the sound, yet the other men looked…amused. Larous walked to the pit and lowered himself in with Keegan’s help. Keegan then turned to me. “Let us go, Adam,” he said, his hand slowly producing a revolver from his pocket. The motion was very deliberate. He wanted me to see it, to know it was there. And know, I must ask, how else was I to respond?

 

          I made no further attempt to stop them. Larous got onto his hands and knees and moved first into the tunnel. Keegan tucked the revolver back into his pocket and followed him. It has been three hours since I have last seen them. I assume whatever creature that was down there is dead now. I only say so because I cannot hear their screaming.

 

          January 7, 1937

 

          I awoke in the night thinking I’d heard gunshots. Three deep banging sounds. When I was on my feet, I heard four more bangs. I realized that it was not gunfire, but a knocking upon my door. It was Tremain, inquiring about “the two gentlemen who didn’t come up from my room last night.” I lied and said that they left in the night. Tremain held a suspicious gaze upon me for some time. Without another word, he walked away. He suspects something. I am sure of it.

 

          Keegan and Larous have not returned. I am truly becoming worried. They didn’t leave with any supplies that I know of. I spend damn near all day watching the pit, smoking my pipe. I heard no sounds coming from it. Hours of silence and smoke.

 

          I thought about eating upstairs with the other boarders, yet decided against it. My time here is almost at an end and I know my presence disturbed them then and it is sure to do it now. I’ll leave them in peace.

 

          Perhaps what disturbs me most in this whole even is how Keegan acted. Everything about his manner and speech was completely uncharacteristic of him. “Prophesized in the stars?” The Keegan I knew at Miskatonic was a man of reason, not held over by petty astrology. He did not believe in fate or prophecy. He wanted facts and evidence in claims. And for him to pull a revolver on me?

 

          If they haven’t returned by tomorrow, I might have to venture down there and look for them.

 

          Jaunuary 8, 1937

 

          They have not come back and I have heard nothing from the tunnel. Damn them. Damn them damn them damn them damn them. I will have to go and look for them down there.

 

          Damn.

 

          January 9, 1937

 

          I left this morning at 9:00 a.m. No one is going to notice if I go missing in the boarding house, but at Miskatonic? Surely someone will come to inquire about both Keegan and I going missing. Maybe by chance they will find this tunnel. I spent most of yesterday preparing my pack. I have, at best, enough rations to last me a trip of three days down here. It’s a bit heavier than I’m used to, probably because the weight I’ve lost. The muscles have not been exempt. I also bought a wool jacket and a pair of boots. I would have bought a gun, but I still haven’t heard Keegan’s gun fire, so I didn’t think I’d need one. Still, I brought the hatchet just in case.

 

          It’s about noon now and I’m near the point where I found The Necronomicon. There are no signs of Keegan and Larous. Better yet, no sign of that thing I heard crawling down here.

 

          I haven’t made any new markings on my skin. I’m still wearing my gloves though. The mere sight of them makes me very uneasy. The carvings on my tongue are easy to ignore now that they’ve been there for a while. I still don’t understand their purpose. Perhaps the answer lies in The Necronomicon, but I dare not look. I’d rather die before I subject myself to that again.

 

          I’ll continue later. It’s time to get moving again.

 

*   *   * 

 

          How long is this damn tunnel? It’s been twelve hours since I’ve disembarked and I’m still crawling my way through and no further to finding Keegan and Larous. Damn! At length, I must have covered ten miles. I must have. If I don’t see them by noon tomorrow, I’m turning back. No way in hell could they have survived that long without supplies.

 

          God damn them.

 

          January 10, 1937

         

          My following writings shall become more sporadic now that my search has made some developments. The current time is 8:28 a.m.

 

          I have found some stone doorway of sorts. Chiseled into its frame are crude symbols, eerily similar to the form of…tentacles and eyes. The door was open when I discovered it. Keegan and Larous must have gone into it. The door opens into a wide space. How wide, I am unsure. My lantern is unable to effectively shine through this pitch darkness, yet my path is clear. I shall trudge onward.

 

*   *   *

 

          8:40 a.m.

 

          I’ve passed through the doorway and I’m not into an atrium of some kind. Its size is almost improbable. The lantern’s light doesn’t even reveal the ceiling. I was aware that my crawl took me constantly downward, yet I had not anticipated to have reached such a depth.

 

          I have called out for Keegan and I have not heard any response, apart from some cold echoes. This particular soundlessness has brought an inevitable word to mind: death. I have stumbled into a dead land.

 

*   *   *

 

          8:45 a.m.

 

          I am still in the atrium, but now there is a light! This ceiling above me as taken on a blue glow, not unlike the glow from Larous’s orb, adding an illumination to the room. I don’t need the lantern now, but I will have to keep it with me in case.

 

          While I am unaware of this construct’s purpose, there’s a sense of reverence in this atrium, suggesting that it’s the entrance to a temple of some kind.  Like the doorway, this is all made of stone, perhaps even bedrock. I can’t imagine where else the stone needed to create this structure came from.

 

          In any case, I see another doorway up ahead.

 

*   *   *

 

          9:25 a.m.

 

          Indeed, it was a doorway, leading into some form of archive room. There are crude hieroglyphs carved into the walls. Upon inspection, these were not carved with a hammer and chisel, or even a knife. They look to me as if someone had carved them in with their fingernails, or some animal carving with their claws. I touched my finger into one of the glyphs and it swallowed up my finger. I felt no end in it. The claws that carved into this were longer than three inches at least.

 

          These hieroglyphic images tell a story in a language I cannot decipher. There is one image that I can understand: most obviously an icon of a god, especially revered and undeniably grotesque, bearing a tentacle head and dragon’s wings. Around it are humanoid worshipers with fishlike heads committing atrocities to normal looking humans, ripping them apart and eating them. Yet, there is another creature among them: a small, squat, gaunt quadroped with a jaw that looks as if it had been split down the middle and no discernible eyes. Further down the wall there is another icon different from this tentacle god. This one was carved with dimension to it, as if the engraver had seen it in person. There was a familiarity to it- the creature from that foul vision! I recognize it now.

 

*   *   *

 

          I am not alone. When I was writing last, I heard a scuttling noise. Whatever was in the tunnels is here with me now. It isn’t close, yet I can hear it well enough. I need to get out of here. To hell with Keegan and Larous. If they aren’t dead now, they soon will be.

 

*   *   *

 

          I am through the door. As soon as I finished writing, I tucked my journal down my shirt and ran. Blindly, yet fast. I lost my footing at least once, nearly cutting my hands on the rock floor. The skittering beast has not followed me as far as I know. When I ran, I heard it make a hooting sound. I have never run as hard as I did then. My throat is ragged and burning. I----

 

*   *   *

 

          4:30 p.m.

 

          I so tired myself in that hard run that I had collapsed mid-sentence. I must leave this god-forsaken place. When I get back to my room, I’m leaving the Avery. New York as well. I don’t feel regret for giving up my search for Keegan and Larous. Some things are not meant to be seen by man.

 

          January 12, 1937

 

          I have limited time, so I will try to be brief:

 

          I spent all of yesterday and most of this morning crawling my way back to my room, arriving at 6:00. I could not believe what I saw when I pulled myself from the pit. The whole room had been ransacked. All of my belongings were tossed onto the dirt floor and my pipe had been crushed under foot. One dire thing was missing- the Necronomicon. Fear shot down my spine. I ran up the stairs, wanting to get as far as humanly possible from that place. I made it to the top and threw open the door, and found a whole squad of policemen staring at me. Tremain was with them and his eyes widened at the sight of me. “That’s him!” he yelled. “He’s with those devil-worshippers!” Two of the policemen pulled their pistols on me while another put me in handcuffs. I fought them off as best I could, but they had forced me to the ground and took me to the station house. Soon I was thrown into a cold interrogation room. The investigator in charge of my case entered a few minutes later, carrying a file folder and introducing himself as Norman Burnett. Even when he sat down across from me, he towered over me. I kept my hands clenched to hide my scarred hands. Luckily, I hadn’t been printed since I wasn’t formally charged with a crime. Burnett was very calm and reserved. He placed the folder on the table and produced two pictures on the desk. “Can you identify these two men?” he asked. I examined the pictures, both of John Keegan and Larous.

 

          I spoke honestly and told him that I knew Keegan professionally from Miskatonic and he introduced me to Larous a few days ago. “Otherwise,” I told him, “I have no other affiliation with them.” “What about the Necronomicon copy found in your room? Is that yours, or theirs?” he asked. “That is neither mine nor theirs,” I said, then explaining how I had found it in the tunnel beneath my room, telling him about the journey into that temple. I told him it all, convinced that I would be deemed insane and locked away, but Burnett listened to every word.

 

          When I finished talking, I was out of breath. Burnett then pushed the file folder over to me. Inside was a whole file on Keegan and I read through it shocked. Keegan had been under surveillance of the FBI for nearly ten years. He, along with many other associates, have been involved in crude worship practices: animal sacrifices, grim orgies and generally bizarre rituals. Burnett spoke “We first began to observe John Keegan when he attempted to acquire a Latin text copy of The Necronomicon, a rare item these days.” He lit himself a cigarette and continued on. “While he resides in Arkham, nearly all of his arrests have been in this area of New York. His associate- Larous, you called him- is a complete unknown to us. Apart from Larous, we have no name, place of residence, or family records. The man is a damn ghost. The only photograph we have of him came from an informant we placed in Keegan’s social circle. We later found him an unintelligible mess in an alley after some sort of crazed ritual. He later killed a fellow agent and then slit is own throat. A real mess.” I then asked about the Necronomicon that I found. “Ah, that,” he said. “The police officers that raided your room reported of the tunnel and your disappearance. I believe that you’re telling the truth, Mr. Warwick, I really do. It’s not illegal to possess a Necronomicon, only to print it.” He blew out a large puff of smoke and set down his cigarette. “Now, Keegan has been after a Latin copy of the Necronomicon for years. We were able to arrest on of his acolytes and interrogate him. Much of the information we have on Keegan came from him and our informant. Apparently, the rituals they performed were to… summon something or some such. Yet every time they tried to perform it, nothing happened. And in all these rituals, they used English translations. This shouldn’t be a problem for them, but there’s something missing in the English. Some sort of essence, he said. When you gave word to Keegan about your text, he must have been ecstatic.” I interrupted. “Couldn’t they have borrowed a copy?” Burnett sighed and brought the cigarette to his mouth. “Collectors who have a Latin text are extremely protective of them due to their rarity. Many of the collectors are reasonable men. Rational. They would never deal with these people.”

 

          Burnett snuffed out his cigarette and tossed it in the waste bin. “Now, Mr. Warwick, you said that they went down this tunnel, and you went down to find them?” I nodded. “And you saw no sign of them?” I nodded again. Burnett expelled a breath and wiped his brow. “How far did you get in that tunnel? The very end?” he asked. “I reached the end of the tunnel, but there was more past the room that I did not get to,” I replied. Burnett stood up and spoke again. “However far you got, Mr. Warwick, you’re of use to me. I’m not prepared to lose Larous and Keegan. I need you to come with us. You’ll at least be able to identify their bodies if it comes to that. Will you?” I had to consider this for a long time. Whatever that Temple was, it wasn’t natural. Venturing there again seemed foolish, nay, insane. Yet I had seen what Keegan and Larous were capable of and I saw the dedication that Keegan had when searching for a Necronomicon. There was a sense of…duty to stop them.

 

          And here I am now, waiting. Burnett and a few more agents are preparing to descend into that nightmare tunnel. I insisted that they brought weaponry along. There is still something of utmost foulness down there, lurking in the darkness. Burnett has not let me down: they have brought along shotguns. They supplied me with a pistol, but I’ll still bring the hatchet, in case of emergency.

          We leave now.

 

          January 13, 1937

         

The first leg of this trek into hell has passed. We’re close to the doorway, but now we’re resting for the night. Burnett has brought along quite a party, which I have learned about.

 

          Charles Palace is Burnett’s right hand man. Relatively quiet, but forceful. There’s a commanding quality about him. Frank Louis is a vulgar, brutish man. John Dewey is very similar. Both I find rather unlikeable, but they are part of Burnett’s party, so I shall deal with them. Sam Nichols is the last man of the group and much more tasteful. He is a man of genuine character, married with two children.

 

          We began our descent late last evening after I finished my journal entry. Most of the day was spent getting the supplies and firearms. The team gathered in my room and was briefed on the task at hand- the capture or kill of Larous and John Keegan.

 

          The agents all seemed very excited by the whole proposition. Understandable, seeing as they have been after Keegan for years now. If we do find them down here, I don’t think they will be coming up here in irons. If they don’t kill him, I will.

 

          As of this writing, it is 12:00 a.m. Our crawl through this tunnel was an efficient and fast one. We covered much more ground than I had done in my solo excursion. We have more than enough food and water to last us for four days, and perhaps, enough shotgun ammunition to wipe out Rhode Island.

 

          For myself, I brought along The Necronomicon. I’m not sure why. I thought it might prove of some use down here, but what? I have been reading it, and am thankful that I have not slipped into another vision. Sleep has not come easy to me. The text itself is repulsive and vicious. Louis saw me reading it before he fell to sleep, dismissing the whole thing as, forgive me, “supernatural fuckery.” Crude language from a crude man, I suppose.

 

          I advanced further than I had in my previous reading. I desperately tried to find what ritual Keegan and Larous performed. I found one that seemed similar, but ultimately if it was done, the Avery Boarding House would be gone. Immolated, in fact. Another detailed the summoning of a Shoggoth, which was not summoned, thank God.

 

          I had to put the Necronomicon down because I began to feel ill. The frightful descriptions made my skin crawl. My hands remain gloved. I those agents saw them…I would surely be dead. Executed with Keegan and my body left here to rot with his.

 

          I have cornered the page that I had left on. The Mad Arab was talking about the Greeks. I’m morbidly curious on what he means to talk about.

 

          Mnrz Rlie

 

Dead! Y’v nygwr, they’re all dead! Wza’thie yngwr tsa! Prvein lkg’rg ynanr sssa n’tfye log-sűa. Ah’nigle yeb ilyaa nglotha wzta! Hlirgh yz’wie f’ztheiana ehye. Nws’hunh vulgtm wgah’n. Nnnaug’n!

 

          Cthulhu Ftghan!

 

          February 16, 1937

 

          I am alive, but I am not myself. Not anymore. All those agents, they’re dead.

 

          We started to move further down the tunnel at 7:00 a.m. The agents moved with determination, focusing their sight on what was ahead. I could barely keep up, but I knew better. I looked ahead, as they did, but I did make a cursory glance at the ground. There were deep imprints in the dirt, like claw marks. Long, vicious claws. If only I spoke up. If only they had been warned.

 

          We found the open door and made our way into the temple atrium. The strange, bioluminescent light shone down, illuminating the room as it had before. Palace marveled at the room’s size. “It’s built like a cathedral.” Dewey agreed, but added “Cathedrals don’t smell like s**t.” The agents then too noted the smell. I didn’t until I inhaled deeply. The air was acrid and rotten, much different from what I had smelled on my first excursion. Burnett spoke up. “Something is rotting down here. Keep your guns up, gentlemen.” If only it had mattered.

 

          We passed through the atrium and into the hieroglyph room. The air inside was thick with the acrid smell, likely because of the closed space. Nichols examined the large, tentacle god in the mural. “Cthulhu,” he said. We all looked at him. “The Cthulhu cult. This is their god, diety I guess.” I knew Cthulhu from the Necronomicon, but I did not dwell on the thought. Louis took the butt end of his shotgun and smashed the mural. “Good riddance,” quipped Nichols. “What do all these markings mean?” asked Burnett. I answered “I am not sure. The only thing I can understand is that this Cthulhu is being worshipped by these monstrosities.” Nichols offered his own interpretation. “Maybe these creatures are how the cult members view themselves. As monstrous children of Cthulhu?” Burnett was unimpressed. “We should keep moving.” The decision was carried out unanimously.

 

          We passed through the hieroglyph room and onward through the temple. The smell grew stronger and stronger. The halls were long and dark, save for our lanterns. We moved on through an entry way curved off from the hieroglyph room. It was not long before a shape moved into our path.

 

          I didn’t see it, but Dewey did. He fired his shotgun first. I was deafened by the blast. The shape he fired at was clearly hit as it let out a howling, piercing scream, laced with pain. From what I saw in the flash from the shotgun, the thing was not far from us. The shape was utterly in-human. It tried to run away, moving on all fours in a beastly manner, the claws on its paws made a sound akin to knives cutting into rock. Dewey fired again with Louis joining in the cacophony. The creature let out one last scream and perished with a death rattle.

 

          Louis ran ahead to the dead thing first and Nichols followed with his lantern light. Nichols cried out “Jesus!” and looked away. Louis shot the corpse again, dark read blood spraying onto his shirt. I approached with caution to get a glimpse of it. My nights forever remain sleepless.

 

          The creature’s skin was dark and dirty. In clear light, its shape was vaguely humanoid, but most definitely quadrapedal with long, thin arms and legs, bent into awkward positions. The head was blatantly abnormal, its jaws split down the middle with long teeth, fangs even, matched only by its claws. The rest of them came up. Burnett exclaimed “Christ God and all His angels!” “This is not from God, I’m afraid,” said Palace. I crouched down to examine the creature. I grasped one of the impossibly sharp claws. It nearly cut right through my clove. One of the claws had a peculiar growth on it, what I first thought to be a fungus, until I saw it glimmer in the lantern light. I pulled the hatchet from my belt and cut the claw off. “What are you doing, Warwick?” asked Nichols. His voice was shaky, and fearful. I didn’t answer him. I pulled the growth off and saw what it really was: a ring. I then looked closer at the butchered body of the creature. Its distorted face was revealed to me. “Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Larous.”

 

          Burnett was incredulous. “Are you sure, Warwick? My God, this thing isn’t human!” I handed him the ring. “I am certain,” I told him. Next to me, Nichols began to cry. “Christ…oh Christ…” I looked to him. “Nichols?” Burnett stepped it. “Nichols, snap out of it.” He began to shout. “Nichols!” It was no use. Nichols went mad. Dewey tried to calm him down, but Nichols forced him away. Rivers of tears poured down his face and he ran out of our sight and further into the temple. Palace called out to him, but Nichols didn’t call back and he was out of our sight. “Damn it,” said Burnett. “We have to go after him.” “F**k that!” cried Louis. “What if there are more of those things?” “That’s why we’re not leaving him,” replied Burnett.

 

          And so our fates were sealed.

 

          We ran off further into the temple and that’s when I noticed the true geography of the place. There was nothing natural to it. It was crude, carven, not following any mathematical basis and it certainly was not of Euclid. There was no pattern to it. Corners ran off into straight lines, the walls seemed to bulge and swirl, almost twisting itself into the rock. There was a complete and utter lack of symmetry throughout the place. I should have left. We all should have left. We should have sealed that damn tunnel with concrete, yet we didn’t. It is a purely human trait to relive our mistakes. To reassess them. It is because we are imperfect. We wish ourselves to be the masters of this realm, but we’re not. We’re miniscule. Vermin.

 

          Our chase for Nichols ended when we entered into a large, domed room. In the middle of the room lay a severed arm, The fabric surrounding it was the same as the kind on Nichols’s coat. Blood pooled out from it, and that was the last we saw of him. The agents called for him. Low growls answered. From crevices near the floor, an immense sound of legs approached, and then hundreds of those black creatures poured out. They swarmed upon us like ants. The agents fired their shotguns- and I my pistol- but it was futile. There were far too many of them. Any of the beasts that were killed were trampled over by the oncoming wave. Burnett was killed first, literally ripped apart. God the blood! So much blood. Louis went next with one creature digging its claws into his chest and tearing him open. Palace nearly met a similar fate. A creature jumped for him and jammed a claw into his gut and sliced him open. Before it could do any more damage, I shot it in the head, watching it cave in and the blood gushing out. I ran to Palace and pulled him away. He screamed, calling out to God. Curiously, the beasts had left me alone. They ignored me outright, deliberately moving past and around me. I thought I had a chance. With Palace in my hands, I began to drag him away to what I thought would be safety. Dewey I left to die. He was out of my sight when he died. I cannot imagine what happened to him, but when his screaming started, I heard the sounds of bones breaking and skin being torn. He did not die quickly.

 

          I tried to get Palace out. I tried, God help me. I made it to the atrium, miraculously, but Palace was losing too much blood. He pleaded for me to set him down and I did. “Don’t let me die here, Warwick. Don’t let me die, please,” he begged. I tried to stop the bleeding, by applying pressure to the wound, but he cried loudly with pain. Behind me, I heard that damnably familiar scuttling sound. They were coming. Palace cried out again. Those monsters were sure to find us because of him. I thought of running, but I didn’t want to leave Palace to that fate. I couldn’t. I had no bullets left for my pistol and Palace had dropped his shotgun in the attack. I had no other option. I pulled the hatchet from my belt. I slid the blade underneath his chin and cut his throat. Hot blood sprayed onto my face, like a warm shower. He screamed. I cupped my hand over his mouth, but the scream was just as loud to me. The scream turned into a gargle of blood as the tears streamed down his face. He tried to cover his neck, but it was over for him. I assume he died in under a minute, but for me, the time was endless.

 

          I felt no emotion when I did it and I still feel none. I don’t think I ever will feel sorry for him and I don’t care. Not anymore.

 

          Palace’s body was limp in my lap. The creatures poured through the doors from the temple and in moments I was surrounded by the horrible things. This time, however, I was not ignored. Two of the beasts dragged away Palace’s corpse and pulled it apart, unraveling him before my eyes. While I watched in a daze, one creature jumped onto me and pinned me to the floor. A long, dripping tongue licked my face, trailing saliva. It ripped open my shirt, revealing a map of deep scars on my chest. My gloves were pulled off as well. Before I could assess what was happening, I was being carried away deep into the temple. I didn’t see much because I didn’t have a lantern. I only remember seeing where we were ambushed. One of our lanterns was left on, and in the illumination, I saw one of the creatures with Burnett’s lacerated head in its mouth.

 

          The travel was a long and agonizing half an hour, as I estimated. We soon entered an amphitheater of sorts. Thousands of creatures were huddled in there, all surrounding a glowing, luminescent form in the middle. The creatures took me to this form and at its base, I saw a man. Keegan. He stood holding the blue orb, fully naked. He turned and addressed me, bowing low. The creatures tore off the rest of my clothing, showing my scarred, gaunt body to all. Keegan bowed lower. “Welcome, honored guest,” he said. “You are the reason why we shall live on.” He spoke wildly in the undecipherable language. I don’t remember it all, but I remember mention of Yog-Sothoth. Then, he stood up and changed. Under skin, his interior structure was being altered. His skin rippled. He raised his head and looked up. Blood leaked, then sprayed from his mouth. His skin began to peel off and from underneath, new structures burst through the skin. He began to vomit out blood and part of his intestine. Before my eyes, he transformed into one of these creatures. His eyes, his ageless eyes rolled out of their sockets. His jaw split and the remains of his teeth dropped to the ground. The metamorphosis was complete and the human guise of John Keegan lay spread on the floor.

 

          The creatures turned on me, and forced me into the glowing light. It enveloped me, and new visions began. I saw the truth behind these creatures

 

          In a time before man, our planet was theirs. We are not life evolved from the oceans. We are their servants. Cattle for the slaughter. We only exist today because they found use in new creatures: the shoggoths. Soon, they left our planet, yet one remained here. Cthulhu, a great old one sleeps in his oceans with his children, waiting to rise. He sleeps and his dreams call out to our race, seeking us to join him. Yet under our very feet another beast rules. Eliyheneurää, a servant of Cthulhu, a great leviathan in the water. She came upon this spot through an underwater cave and developed from then on. She had a legion of loathsome fishmen that followed her up. They took early men from the surface and began to breed them into the eyeless creatures they are now. They built this temple for her and bred wildly. Keegan and Larous were two lost creatures that masqueraded as humans on the surface, to establish their cult and to find the weaknesses in our society. Thousands of them now inhabit this temple, and millions more have tunneled through the Earth, waiting to rise.  

`       

          We are vermin, nothing more. It’s troubling for a human mind to comprehend. We want to think we are the masters of our domain, but are not. A harsh truth I have now grasped. I used to think that we, as people, were created by the love of a kind god, but no. We created God, and they created us.

 

          I awoke from my visions back in my room. I became insane, killing everyone in the Avery. I walked up from the basement and stole a knife from the kitchen. Some of the residents I stabbed to death, and the others I cut their throats. Tremain was the only one who put up resistance. All of the others cowered and ran. Tremain tried to overpower me, even succeeded in taking away the knife, but it was for naught. I was able to force him off the second floor, over the railing and incapacitated him on the floor. I took back the knife and cut him open, pulling the folds of his chest into a star. Then I cut off his hands, and finally, his head, which finally killed him. I left the body in the foyer in plain sight. His hands and head were rolled down the tunnel. My pack had also been deposited in my room. I took a set of clothes and the Necronomicon with me. I broke my lantern open and set my room alight. I ran back up the stairs and placed the padlock back on the door.  I thought if I was lucky enough, the police would think I was dead, consumed in the blaze.

 

          If the authorities are to find me, they shall find me dead. I have come to grips with my fate and perhaps that shall be some consolation to me. I am in my Boston summer home. I’m amazed that the FBI has not tossed this place yet, but they shall soon. The main report for the incident at the Avery is that a band of Negroes came and slaughtered everyone, but I know better. They assume it was me, nay, they know it with absolute certainty. When I am finished with this entry, I shall put a bullet in my head. This is the last writing of Adam Warwick.

 

         One final note: the Mentaculus has been finished, but not by my hand. In the Necronomicon, it appears it was completed by a Persian who was in the invading force that killed Peritus. It’s funny to see it in its completed form. And yes, it works. I was able to use the formula and calculate the events of the past two months. Everything- from the cold Boston winter, finding the Avery, the Necronomicon- all destiny. My fate was written in the stars.

 

          We have no freedom. We have no choice. We simply are.

 

-Adam Warwick

 

 

 

 

         

 

          

Author's Note

This draft is fairly rough and will probably have some errors. Also, this work is intentionally trying to imitate the style of HP Lovecraft.

Link to Afterword: http://www.writerscafe.org/The_J_Hat/blogs/The-Journal-of-Adam-Warwick%3A-An-Afterword/31877/