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

the drawer and the office.  He put his jacket on, the bowler hat, and locked the door on his way out.  He was breathing easier.  Things were clearer all of a sudden.  He took a deep breath.  It felt good to get away.

He made his way down the hall, the stairs, and into the lobby of the museum. A security guard was at work.  It was Mike Petrie.  Creighton should have gone home a long time ago, but he wanted to study the book.  He would look at it tomorrow.

“To please the Old Ones, you must follow the rules.  They will be pleased with you after the second gate is open.  Zagon awaits.”

A shift in the atmosphere moved Capshaw from one place to another.  He heard the words clearly, spoken in the Mad Arab’s voice.

The foyer was changing, as if the museum were undergoing a transformation.  The ground turned to dirt under his feet.  He stepped on weeds and grass.  A farmhouse was in the distance.  A man in coveralls and a straw hat, carrying a pitchfork, looked at him.  His eyes were evil.  The wind was blowing.  The man narrowed his eyes.  The trees in the area had been felled, as though some giant force had bulldozed through the countryside.  Lightning struck.  A fresh ooze hovered over everything—a pungent, powerful aroma Macky would’ve called ‘tarry stickiness.’

Just as quickly, he was back into the museum.  The image of the farmhouse disappeared, the man with the pitchfork.  He looked around.  He swayed on his feet.  Had that just happened?

“Mr. Capshaw?  Sir, are you all right?”

Capshaw blinked and saw Mike Petrie, the security guard, standing in front of him.  He was a tall, dark-haired man with brown eyes.  He had a friendly smile.

“Sorry?” Capshaw said, and blinked.

“Are you all right?” Mike asked.  “You looked confused for a second, sir.  Are you okay?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Yeah.  Sure.”  Capshaw looked around, trying to get his bearings.  He could feel the wind from the countryside, smell the tarry stickiness.  A greenish-blue glow was coming from outside.  Or was he imagining that?

“I’m . . . okay, Mike.  Thanks.  Working too hard.  I just need some fresh air.  Guess I hung out too long, huh?”

Mike smiled and nodded.  “You work very hard, sir.  Maybe a nightcap before bed, huh?”

Capshaw nodded.  “That sounds like a good idea.”

“You have a good night, Mr. Capshaw,” Mike said.  “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Thanks,” Capshaw said.  He stepped outside and waved at Mike through the window.  Mike smiled and waved in return.

Capshaw shivered in his woolen suit as an October gale blew down the street.  He’d stop at the nearest dive for a nightcap.

—

Durson Bar and Cocktail Lounge was on the next block at Lexington and 181st Street.  When Capshaw walked inside, the sound of a languid piano drifted as lazily as the smoke.  The singer was an exotic blonde wearing a black cocktail dress, diamond rings, and moving as slowly as a cobra.  A black man in a white jacket and bowtie was bent over the piano.  His eyes were closed.  Another black man, wearing the same outfit, plucked at a large cello bass.  A third was seated over a bass drum and snare.

Capshaw took a seat at the bar.  A clean-shaven man in a white shirt and vest, a bowtie, and a pencil-thin mustache, nodded in his direction.

“Evening, Mac, what can I get for ya?” he said.  He had a benign face.

Capshaw smiled and asked for a scotch and soda.  The man nodded, went to work, and procured his drink.  Creighton reached into his wallet and put a few singles on the counter.  He turned to watch the singer, sipped his drink, and listened to the band.  He took in the surroundings.  The tables were full, conversation idle and quiet, the atmosphere hazy, smelling of rich tobacco.

“Finish it.”

The book . . . sitting in the bottom drawer of his desk at the museum.  He continued to sip his drink.  The edges of his vision blurred.  He shook his head, closing his eyes.

“Doing okay?” the bartender asked.

Capshaw opened his eyes.  He turned to face the bartender.  It wasn’t the man with the benign face.  It was the Mad Arab, dark skin camouflaged with the atmosphere.  The smile was bright and wide.  Too bright for Capshaw’s taste, like two dim lights shining from a dark tunnel.

“That which eternal lies . . .” the man said.

“Excuse me?” Capshaw asked.

A feeling of cold dread moved up his arms and into the back of his head.  Alarm bells sounded.  He did his best to ignore them.

“The second gate is open already,” the Mad Arab said.  “Yog-Sothoth is proud of you.  Harken to the spells of the cosmos, Mr. Capshaw.”  Abdul Alhazred smiled wider.  “Such sights and sounds await this world. Look around.  We can accomplish a lot together, you and me.  Hasten the process, so to speak.  The Outer Gods are anxious to get through.  It’s taken a long time to get them this far, but there’s plenty to do.  I need you to help me, jot it down.  Record it.  Immortalize it.  There is much to document.  Information we don’t want to lose.  Will you help me?”

This wasn’t happening.  He was experiencing a fantasy from the book.  The thing was more powerful than he’d thought.  He was feeling feverish again.  He put the glass, still cold with ice, to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, under a spell.  “I understand.”

Just as quickly, he snapped out of it.  He opened his eyes.

“I mean . . . no,” he said.  “I don’t understand.”

“No matter, Mr. Capshaw.  Your services will be required whether you like it or not.  Enjoy yourself.  Have another drink.”

He’d been trying to do that.  The periphery of his vision was bending.  The floor was moving in