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

he was looking at wasn’t Amelia.  Amelia was in there somewhere, or so he’d thought earlier when she’d spoken, but this wasn’t Newt’s wife.  The thing talking to him didn’t stutter, but it was similar to Amelia in how it looked: black hair, fair skin, big dark eyes.  For a second, as with Capshaw, he thought the Mad Arab had possessed Amelia’s body.  That wasn’t the case.  This woman was in control of every word.  This was a different creature altogether.

“Tell me more, Amelia,” Macky said. He used the name to see how she’d respond.

Millie stared wide-eyed at the girl sitting in the wingback chair.  She was curled on it, feet under her bottom.  She had a blanket over her legs.  Mr. Kalabraise had gone from barking to growling to making little noises in her throat.  Macky gave her credit.  Armitage and Capshaw stood on each side of Millie.  The feeling in the bookstore wasn’t one he’d felt before.  Something was here.  A presence.  Invisible.  The orbs as well.  The place was glowing with blue/green light.

“My name is not . . . Amelia,” the thing said.  “She might be here somewhere.  But it isn’t now.  It’s too late.  Yog-Sothoth holds the key.  Yog-Sothoth is the key.”

“Why don’t you tell us your name?” Macky asked.

“Asenath Waite.  My husband should be home any minute.  I want to give him a close shave and a kiss.”

Macky had never been confronted with this kind of . . . thing.  He wasn’t sure what he was talking to.  Was it a demon, a woman, or a monster?  Was it even human?  He had no idea.

Asenath had a villainous look on her face.  She had solid black eyes under arching eyebrows.  The grin on her face never left, as if she were waiting for something to laugh at.

Knocking sounded at the front window.  Everyone whirled around.  There was a high pitched screech, a blur of something just moving out of sight.

“Amelia,” Macky said, turning back to the woman.  “What just banged on the window?”

“If you call me by my proper name, I’ll tell you,” the creature said.

“Asenath, please,” Macky said.

“I can almost hear you begging,” Asenath said.  “But not enough.”

Macky didn’t reply.  He waited for her to continue.

Asenath inspected her nails.  She smiled at Macky again.  “I changed my mind.  I don’t feel like answering your questions.”

“Come on, Dev,” Armitage said.  “There’s nothing here for us.”

“What about those books you brought?” Macky asked.  “Have you found anything yet?”

“Nothing that will help just yet.” Armitage said.  “I think we need The Necronomicon.  I know there’s something in there about rituals and incantations to close the gates.  I might have found something to help with the hound, though?”

“Really?” Macky said, turning toward him.

“It’s a long shot, but maybe.”

“Keep up the good work, doctor.”

“Of course.”

Capshaw wasn’t reading.  He was staring at the woman with something like revulsion.

Macky looked in his direction.  “Unless we find another copy of The Necronomicon, we might be on our own.”

“Ah, yes,” Asenath said.  “The Mad Arab himself.”

“Do you know where we can find the book?” Macky asked.

“A shame not to have one in this illustrious edifice,” Asenath said.  She looked around, as if one might materialize any moment.

“Do you know where we can find it?” Armitage asked. “Where we can find the Mad Arab?”

“Abdul, no.  You may not need it the way you think.  You seem like a smart bunch.  I’m sure you could figure out eventually.”

“What do you want?” Macky asked.

Asenath continued to grin.  “I’m not sure I like the way you’re asking.  Something always costs.  What do you have to sell?”

“What do you want?”

“For starters,” Asenath said, looking at her nails.  “My husband.  In pieces.”

—

“Dev, we’re wasting our time,” Millie said.  “We should find Duke and Newt.”

“Never fear, Millie, my sweet,” Macky said.  “The indelible private eye is hard at work with a promise of sobriety.  But first, a drink.”

“I’m starting to feel you, Dev,” Capshaw said.

“The art society disowned him,” Asenath said.

“The art society?” Macky said, looking up.  “Disowned who?”

“It’s all down in the basement,” Asenath said.  “The paintings of Richard Upton Pickman.  My husband.  The man I long to disembowel.”

—

Macky had no idea there was a basement.  Asenath pointed it out as clearly as if she’d lived here.  The door was on the other side of the room.  He had to pass a yellow couch, a coffee table, and a pillar of metaphysical books before he got there.  Amelia’s Used Books was large.  It was popular during the day when people could browse, recline, read, drink coffee, and nibble on the occasional pastry.  The door to the basement was plain, drab, and simple.

“Dev, I wouldn’t go down there,” Armitage said.

“Why not?”

“Robert Upton Pickman is part of the Lovecraft Mythos.  He was a madman.  A mad painter.  He . . . used monsters for his models.  Married to one Asenath Wait, who eventually murdered him.”

“Ah, the truth comes out,” Macky said.  “We’re in another story, in the middle, before the murder of Mr. Pickman?”

“It would seem.”

“My curiosity is burning like fire, doc,” Macky said.  “There may be something there that will lead us to Amelia.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Armitage said.

He opened the door.  Coldness crept up the stairs.  The darkness was as black as pitch.  He could barely see the bottom stairs.

Something else was noticeable—tangible negativity.

“Dev, please,” Armitage said.

Macky looked at him but didn’t say anything.  The man was sweating.

Mr. Kalabraise had been a good dog up to this point, but when Macky opened the door, she let out a series of rants and barks.

Macky peered over the steps.  Something moved into and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.