Read That Which Should Not Be Online
Authors: Brett J. Talley
That Which Should Not Be (28 page)
It was when the great, leathery wings spread wide to the ceiling that I ran. I ran down out the great doors, past the kneeling statues. I ran down the causeway, with no concern for what I might encounter. I ran, but I still heard the chant of the Captain behind me. Then I heard him pause. After that pause, I heard a word. What was that word? I cannot say, and I know if I could, I would not have lived to see the sunset. But I do know what I heard was as fire, a fire so hot it seemed to burn my ears. And, as one would expect from a fire, there was a burst of light. Had I been facing it, I have no doubt my eyes would have been roasted from my skull.
As bizarre as it may sound, I felt in that fire, in that heat, in that light, and in that pain, an overwhelming sense of joy, of happiness, as if I was standing in the presence of the Lord Himself. But that moment was short-lived — the island began to sink.
I ran faster now, so fast I almost stumbled over the body of one of Thayerson's sailors. Even with the Earth sinking below me, I took the moment to survey a scene as macabre as any I have ever come upon. Thayerson's crew was all dead, each of them lying where they fell. But there were no bodies, not really. Instead there were only masses of flesh. It was as if they had been dead for some months, moldering in the open sun. I didn't look long, as another quake woke me from my amazement.
I could barely stand, as the shaking beneath me grew so violent I didn't know where my foot would land from one step to the next. It seemed an eternity before I reached the sea. My prayers were answered — one boat still waited. The men within — Drake, Henry, Jack, William, and Daniel — were yelling for me to run. This I did, veritably leaping into the boat as I reached it.
“Captain Gray?” Drake yelled. It was all I could do to shake my head. Drake had expected it. He screamed orders to the others, and before I knew it, we were moving away from the island. I looked down at Henry. He was clutching a bloody cloth against his side.
“A flesh wound,” he said with a weak smile.
I watched as R’lyeh disappeared again beneath the waves, watched as it sank back to the depths. And I prayed neither I nor any man would ever see the likes of it again.
We did not speak as we rowed away, back to
The Kadath
. We did not speak as we reached the ship. We didn't even speak as Drake pointed to the object that floated with unnatural speed toward us. Nobody said a word as we lifted it into the longboat, placing it into the center of us all. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. It spoke for us . . . though there was only one of us who heard its song.
Forty-five years it has been. Forty-five years since I heard the Book's song once more, the song that told me I had been chosen yet again. From that moment, somewhere in the unknown seas of the South Pacific, I knew the day would come when the Book would sing no more. I knew when that day came, it would mean the end of me. For I would never relinquish that dark tome, not again. The Book seeks its own. It seeks those through which it can do the most evil. And in me, it expected to find an owner who could return it once more to R’lyeh. It had been so close before.
I have dedicated these past forty-five years to understanding the evil that lies beyond man's imagining, that lurks in the crevices between space, that haunts man's dreams. There have been times when Henry and I have suspected the Rising was upon us, that evil was poised to return. But the stars have never been quite right, not as they were that day, four decades ago. And despite the events of Dunwich and Innsmouth and the insane ravings of a certain Norwegian sailor, the danger has never risen to such a fever pitch again. But then, three days ago, the Book ceased to sing.
I knew it was coming. I felt it. I can't say how, but I did. It was a warm December day, incredibly unusual for Arkham. I was sitting in my office, reading Mather's
Wonders of the Invisible World
for the first time in a long time, when there was a knock on my door.
A young man in an expensive suit entered. He wore a hat and small, wire-rimmed glasses, a leather briefcase in his hands.
“Dr. Weston,” he said in a thick German accent, bowing slightly. “I am Dr. Erich Zann of the University of Berlin. We understand you may be in possession of an artifact of some antiquity. We would like to have access to that object.” Then, he smiled. “We are, of course, willing to make a substantial donation to the University in exchange for borrowing it.”
I had kept the Book with me every moment of every day for the last four decades. Its song had become so ever-present I barely noticed it. And so, in that moment, when that song finally ceased, the silence was deafening.
“I must say, Dr. Zann,” I replied, “I have no idea what you may be speaking of. I assure you our library has many interesting objects, and I am sure you can work out an arrangement to share some of those artifacts with your University.”
Zann smiled, but it covered a snarl.
“No, Dr. Weston. I do not believe your library can help me here. I believe you have a tome in your possession. It is bound in crimson leather. It is a spell-book, as ancient as it is valuable. The people I represent,” he said, pausing. He had said more than he intended. “They would appreciate having access to this artifact. We would return it post-haste, of course.”
“Dr. Zann,” I said sharply, “I assure you I have no such artifact. I am afraid you have been misled. If you have no other requests, I am sorry to say that I have work to do, and I will have to ask you to leave.”
This time Zann didn't smile. He simply said, “I am staying at the Miskatonic Inn. I will be there for the next seven days. I suggest you re-examine your collection. If you should locate the object I seek, you know where to find me. Seven days, Dr. Weston.”
As the door closed behind him, and as silence surrounded me for the first time in decades, I knew I must write this testament. Dark forces are moving in the world again. I will do my best to protect the Book. I shall give my very life to do so. But in the end, I fear the fate of the world will be in others' hands. How many will suffer to save it? How many will die? I cannot say. But if men are not so willing to sacrifice for the truth, then that which should not be, which must not be, which cannot be,
shall be
again. But it is my faith that, in the end, good will defeat evil, light will outshine the darkness, and justice will prevail. God let it be so.
January 31, 1933
Mr. Ashton,
You have our utmost thanks for your discretion in relation to what is apparently the final testament of Dr. Weston. We fear you are correct — Dr. Weston's advancing age had apparently robbed him of his sanity.
In an abundance of caution, we have endeavored to investigate the events described by Dr. Weston. While most of the names and incredible happenings described within the testament appear to have been fabricated, we have discovered a Dr. Zann, though his position as Reich Minister of Cultural History in the newly formed German government casts serious doubt on Dr. Weston's characterization of him as a vicious person.
We have determined your initial assessment is correct. This document is dangerous both to Dr. Weston's legacy and to his heirs. We have, therefore, determined we will destroy the copy of the testament you have provided us. We suggest you do the same. We are convinced Dr. Weston, in his more lucid days, would have been most appreciative.
Sincerely,
Stansbury Charles
Charles & Frankfurt
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