The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery by Brandon Berntson (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗

“This is madness,” he said to himself.

Something was out here with him.

Cold wind touched his face.  Laughter sounded in the fog—the Mad Arab taunting him.

The orbs were glowing.  More appeared.  One by one down the alley, he could see them.  The alley began to glow.

“You’ve done it to yourself now, Dev,” he said.

The hound bayed.

For the second night in a row, someone screamed.

Chapter 7

Pouring over the tome in his office at the Natural History Museum, Creighton Capshaw took careful deliberation with the symbols and sigils, some going back thousands of years.  The one on the right side of the page was a concentric, circular pattern with a half star in the middle and an arrow.  It was a symbol for the Ninth Gate, Sefora.  Whatever that meant.  Something strange came over him as he studied the text.  He found himself reaching for the pen on his desk and the notepad of paper.  He jotted things down he had no idea about, as if wanting to add more history to The Necronomicon, much like the Mad Arab himself.

Throughout the course of the evening, Creighton thought he heard the sound of laughter.  He stopped, frowned, and looked around his office.  Was that a figure standing in the shadows behind him?  It must be his imagination.

His eyes were burning red.  The coffee was making his stomach churn.  He had the pot on his desk, an electric metal pitcher.  He’d filled it with water from the nearest bathroom, which was around the corner.

The words, summaries of portals, descriptions of demons and places had a sing-song rhythm that put him in a trance.  The foreign hand that penned the words seemed like his own.  He’d read some of the history.  Some who studied the arcane knowledge of The Necronomicon not only went insane but had met with terrible, tragic deaths.

The warnings rang in his head like cannon fire.  It was a risk but one he had to take.

Capshaw leaned back, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes.  He yawned.  The sound of crickets started outside the window.  A common sound in any place, the country perhaps, but not the city.  He frowned and turned to the window.  It changed, rising in volume.  In seconds, it went from a single, rhythmic cadence to a perpetual whine.  It sounded like the cry of demons.  Cold sweat broke across his neck and cheeks.

He turned back to the volume on his desk.

The book of the black earth was a forbidden text.  For those experienced in dealing with the dark arts, it was almost necessary.  For museum curators, however . . .

He put his glasses back on and flipped to the back of the book.  Incantations filled the tome, rituals for opening gates, mention of animal sacrifices, even human beings.  The text, from what he could see, was written in the original hand of Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab.  He might be looking at the first copy of The Necronomicon.  Was that possible?  Would it have survived after all this time?

A noticeable presence made him turn and look behind him.  A blurred outline was standing in front of the filing cabinets.  It had illuminated eyes.  Just as quickly, it disappeared.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  A whisper sounded:

“Finish it.” 

He went back to where he’d left, flipping to the front of the book.  How mad did Abdul Alhazred have to be to find pleasure in this?  One line had caught his eye: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.

Capshaw shivered with a chill.  He wasn’t cut out for this.  He knew who was, though.  Who wasn’t afraid of it like he was.

He was dealing with forces beyond his knowledge.  He should’ve left the book with Macky.  He was feeling feverish and rubbed his head again.

He was filling the notepad:  13 gates, he’d written.  Yog-Sothoth.  Cthulhu.  Shub-Niggurath, Nyarlathotep.  He’d known about the book before, but its secrets were shrouded in mystery.

Sketches of monsters filled several pages.  The book was obviously unfinished.  That’s what the voice had been trying to tell him.  Not only was he worthy of its knowledge, it was meant for him—the reason it had been given to him in the first place . . . to continue the work Abdul had started.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said to himself.

But if so, why the cold shiver?  Why the voice?  The presence?

The idea appealed to him was the funny thing.  He could gain some insight into the Mad Arab’s passion.

The office faded, losing solidity.  The only things in existence were he and The Necronomicon.  He couldn’t explain it any more than he could explain why Macky had come into its possession.  Capshaw saw the Mad Arab leaning over him, his hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear:

“There’s more to discover.  So much more!  Together, we can please the Outer Gods, find favor, and be blessed by them!”

He had to get away from it.  It was playing tricks on his mind.  A fever burned his brain.  He closed the book. A bluish-green glow came from the window.

Things of the earth and things of the cosmos.  He’d written that down.

Another world came into focus.  The Necronomicon was the key, the gate to not one, but many—face to face with the Old Ones.

He treasured this ancient artifact, longed to keep it in his possession, but it could wait.  It was rare, yes, but quite possibly, dangerous.  It had to be studied.  It had to be understood.

Capshaw took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes again.  He got up, grabbed his jacket from the coatrack, and put the book in the bottom drawer of his desk.  He locked it and made sure he had his keys to