Acolytes of Cthulhu

NECROTIC KNOWLEDGE

BY DIRK W. MOSIG

“MAY I HELP YOU, SIR?”—THE LITTLE OLD MAN WITH THE gray beard leaned solicitously over the counter.

Rashd hesitated momentarily, then walked past him without uttering a sound. Moving toward one of the many tall shelves filled with musty volumes, he stared at them for a few seconds, and then wandered down one of the poorly lit aisles of Ye Olde Occulte Book-shoppe. He silently scanned row after row of the brittle, brownish and grayish spines, occasionally touching one of the mouldy books. Removing a tome lacking any visible lettering on the spine, he replaced it after discovering that the silverfish had not been merciful.

The little man sporting the beard that gave him an uncanny resemblance to Sigmund Freud shrugged, accustomed to being ignored by some of the rather unconventional types that frequented the ill-kept dump. With a grunt he returned to the copy of Anal Lovers he had picked up a few minutes ago to combat the early afternoon boredom. The heat was sweltering, and the tall and wiry stranger with the aquiline nose was the only customer—or potential customer—he had seen in the past two hours.

“Kitb… you have kitb… book… kitb-ul… nekrut?”

“What?” The dealer lifted his graying eyebrows.

“The book. Nekrut. Al-nekrutic. Nekrotico? Sati’ said you had kith, kitb-ul-majnn…”

The little man gasped, and his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned forward.

“Satih sent you? That bastard! Ibn-Sharmtah! Son of a bitch! You know…”

Rashd paled considerably, and his long fingers reached under his ill-fitting coat, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“No, no, I didn’t mean you! Satih… Sati’?…”—the smallish man pronounced the ‘ain’ sound only with great difficulty.

Rashd stared blankly for a moment, then insisted:

“Necrotic? Kitb-ul-majnn… kitb-ul-necrotic-ul-majnn?”

“All right, dammit!”—said the little Freud look-alike. “Wait a minute.” He walked nervously around the counter to the door of the shabby shop, pulled down the shades, and quickly flipped over the OPEN sign, securely fastening the door. Turning around, he rapidly walked past Rashd, who had observed the proceedings with a curious lack of interest.

“Come with me.”

The gaunt Arab followed him silently to the back of the shop.

“JACK DAVIS—PRIVATE—KEEP OUT” read the stained yellowish sign discernible on the padlocked door. The little man, apparently Jack Davis himself, reached inside his trouser pocket and produced an odd-looking key, while his customer pressed closer.

“Hold your horses”—he grunted while fumbling with the lock.

A gratifying “click” rewarded his efforts. Removing the padlock, he pushed the door open, reached for an invisible light switch inside the dark room beyond, and gestured to his unusual client to enter the smallish enclosure revealed by the single lightbulb.

As soon as Rashd penetrated the crowded room—all four walls were lined with ancient-looking books, and a large desk, covered with papers, occupied most of the remaining space—Jack Davis followed him, carefully closing the door and padlocking it from the inside.

A musty odor of rotting paper seemed to float thickly in the cramped quarters, mixed with other, more disturbing scents of decay, but Rashd didn’t seem to notice, nor did he object to the almost unbearable heat in the poorly ventilated room. Davis, on the other hand, perspired profusely as he slipped around the desk to drop his body on the single chair behind it.

“The Necrotic Book, huh? Do you have any idea what you are getting into?” The diminutive dealer seemed genuinely concerned.

“N’am… yes, yes, of course”—uttered his interlocutor, impatiently—“and I have the price—you give me the book…”

“Let’s see what you got, first.” Davis’s voice revealed a touch of irritation.

The tall cadaveric Arab quickly unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside, producing in rapid succession five elongated plastic bags, which he deposited carefully on the desk, facing the sweaty and now slightly agitated dealer.

“Here… hashish”—he said, matter-of-factly. “Pure… good quality… khirun… hashish of the best… wal-lh!”

Davis carefully opened each of the bags, touched with his index finger the darkish substance within, then the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, it seems to be all right—awfully good stuff—where the hell did you get it? Never mind. But are you really aware of what you are trying to buy with it? How about settling for some other book of equal value—look, I have here an original of the Book of Eibon, no less, and…”

Rashd snarled and his right hand darted out with incredible speed, fastening itself on Davis’s windpipe. Jack Davis’s mouth opened soundlessly, and for an instant he stared right into the cold eyes of death incarnated.

“Give me the nekrutic book!” The words of the Arab cut through the thick air like knives.

“O.K.”—Davis choked, struggling to free himself from the painful hold. “All right. Let me go, dammit! There—let me warn you, although I’m tempted not to… that Necrotic Book is too dangerous! I saw what it did to the guy who had it before. Gawd, I can’t even think about it without my stomach turning over. A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy—and believe me, I have several! An end that was just not human—or perhaps all too human, but not like that… Damn, if the boss hadn’t insisted that I keep the blasted thing again, I would’ve…”

“Nekrutic KITB! Where?!” interrupted the Arab, his patience obviously exhausted.

“I don’t think you realize…” Jack Davis made a last, desperate effort. “The accursed book, scroll, or parchment—I’ve been spared actually seeing the damned thing—really has necrotic powers! Do you know what that means?…”

For the first time a faint smile appeared in the olivaceous face of Rashd Abdul Wahb Al-’Iraqui.

“Yes, I know—we know. Kitb of Thumarn Al-Miit-ui-Majnn has the power not of other books, not even of Kitb-ul-Azif. My master knows, too—him great collector of forbidden—he knows—he ’lim-ul-kitb! Yes, Thumarn… Tomeron?… found something other men and djinni have never found. Book necrotic can make flesh rot—rotting in life—like spider venom that my master study… Loxosceles… ah, laeta… necrotic toxin… must be careful when handling. We also very careful when dealing with necrotic kitb of Thumarn. See, we never touch, work from space away… ah, distance… very safe, see, and besides al-duktr… ah, al-master, master collector, he many other books—we protection of other books, no? We with many forbidden books, many powerful kitb, strong protection against… outside. Now, where is the book? Which is kitb?”

“You people are nuts! Stark-raving lunatics! I don’t see how you think you can…”

“KITB!” Rashd’s tone had changed again. A thin dagger appeared in his left hand. “Enough games, kfir! The book!” he demanded imperiously. “O.K., crap, it’s your life, and that of the nut who hired you! I tried to warn you… here… here…”

With quivering hands Davis removed four thick volumes from one of the musty shelves that covered the wall to his right, revealing a strangely sealed and decorated box behind. Pointing, he whispered:

“Here, take the damn box, take it… the book or whatever the damn hell it is, is in there…”

In an instant Rashd moved around the desk. His arms darted out and without hesitation greedily removed the closed box from its hidden niche, turning it around in the air while fingering the large wax seals and the thin greenish chain wrapped around it.

“Ah, seal of Ar-Rajm, as promised… but must open and check…”

Jack Davis jumped up, livid, and pointed a small bluish revolver that appeared to have materialized miraculously in his hand.

“The hell you are going to open that thing in here!”—he shrieked, his sweaty face contorted with a curious mixture of anger and fear. The gun pointed straight at Rashd’s head, as he continued, practically out of breath. “I told you I saw what happened to the last idiot who fooled around with that crazy thing, and I’m not about to take any chances with you opening that damn box while I’m around—you touch one of those seals again, and I swear I’ll blow your brains out—hell, I would be doing you a favor! Take the damn thing and get the hell out of here!”

Rashd’s features contorted into a grin, and he seemed to be strangely amused.

“Wal-lh! No need to threaten me, kfir! I’m going… I’m going! I’m sure you realize that if you have betrayed us and the book of Tomeron is not in the box you will die a death worse than… than… a thousand hells…wa la’nnat-ul-’alamn ’aleikum!”

The Arab burst into insane laughter, then pointed at the padlocked door:

“Open it!”

The agitated dealer hastened to the door, keeping his gun pointed at his visitor. Removing the padlock, he threw the door open in an instant, getting out of the way to allow his client to march past him. Rashd walked out of the bookshop without glancing back.

* * *

Carlo Corelli looked up from the newspaper spread out on his ornate desk, as the diminutive man with the gray beard was ushered into the office by one of his bodyguards.

“Hi, Jack, caro amico, how are you? Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable. Hey, did you see the paper this morning? Quite a mess, no?… Awful, the things that happen in this town, tsk, tsk.”

“Damn, Mr. Corelli, how can you take it all so calmly?” Davis seemed to be tied in knots.

“Oh, c’mon, Jack! You are not only getting old—you’re getting soft! I think those kooks were actually funny! Imagine, all the trouble they took… They get la cosa from you and place the crazy thing under a glass bowl, and use remote control and mechanical arms to open the box from another room, for goodness sake, as if they expected the thing to go boom! Giuseppe got there later, posing as a reporter, and swears they had also drawn pentagrams, had a bunch of candles burning, and books on funny pedestals in front of their observation window. C’mon, Jack, loosen up! We have been together in this for quite some time…”

“Not in that kind of thing, Mr. Corelli. Junk is one thing, but this…”

“Aw, Jack, c’mon, can’t you see the humor of this whole situation?”—laughed the heavy-set man behind the luxurious desk, puffing at his cigar. “I can see the poor nuts… surrounded by all their occult garbage, reading from their useless books, that crazy Arab no doubt reciting the Necronomicon or some such crap! Ha! And no doubt encouraged because nothing happened when their instruments succeeded in opening the box, that lunatic collector, Dr. Carl Ericson, had the Iraqui creep read from the Arabic text of the Necrotic Book as soon as they got the thing open. Jeez, they even had three rats in cages around the book, as if the book could have affected them! The idiots never realized that the necrotic powers of the book composed by Tomeron, that renegade priest of the corpse-eating cult of Leng, do not act upon him who touches it, or on those around it! Hey, Jack, you look pale… I bet you yourself do not know how the thing acts!”

“Mr. Corelli, do you know what powers are behind that demon book? Do you understand what makes it work?”—the smaller man shuddered.

“No, Jack, not precisely—but then, I don’t know exactly how this watch works”—Corelli pointed at his expensive digital wristwatch—“or what makes a jet fly, or how acid consumes a man’s head. And I don’t know how the H-bomb works, either—but let me assure you, old boy, I wouldn’t hesitate using any of those things if necessary, available, and convenient… You don’t have to be a mechanic to drive an automobile. It was fortunate that the old chink told us all we needed to know about that crazy book before he died—he must have really hated the guy that did him in. Those collectors are something else! No, Jack, I don’t understand the damn book, and I’m no mechanic… but I know how to drive a car, and how that book must be used!”

“But this is different, this is not at all like a car, a flask of acid, or a bomb—there is something devilish about it, Mr. Corelli. I don’t like it!” Davis shuddered visibly, and seemed to become even smaller for a moment.

“Aw, don’t be a fool, old boy. I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you. You have too much imagination! Here, you can look at this article—I think you will be able to figure out for yourself exactly how and when and where our little toy took effect. Look…”

Carlo Corelli turned the newspaper around, and pointed at several paragraphs in the report of the strange deaths which had shocked the Boston community that morning. Davis read, feeling a deep chill inside, in spite of himself:

The condition of the two bodies was described by the janitor who discovered them as having suffered partial decomposition, “puss-like rotting,” although the unusual condition was apparently localized in specific areas. Dr. Ericson’s body exhibited the puzzling condition on the sides of the head—particularly the ears, which seemed to have melted away, along with adjacent areas of the skull and the brain—while his butler showed similar decomposition in the mouth area, as well as on the sides of his head.

According to Jim Martin, the janitor, the butler’s mouth had completely rotted away, exposing parts of the jaw and mandible bones. The police have refused to comment on the Martin story, or to allow examination of the remains by members of the press. The officer in charge of the investigation also refused to indicate whether or not the autopsy reports would be made public.

Dr. Ericson owned a valuable collection of occult and rare books. The presence of gaps in the shelves of the room where the bodies were found has led some friends to speculate on theft as a possible motive, although the evidence for foul play is not clear, since the cause of death has not been determined, much less any possible weapon. The possibility of acid has been suggested, although Martin rejects this explanation, insisting that the heads of the victims looked as if they had burst from inside, which is patently absurd. He also admitted having had several drinks earlier that evening.

Jack Davis had paled considerably while reading the report, and now stood up, his face as gray as his unkempt beard, only to stagger and grab hold of the lamp-post decorating a corner of the room, for support.

“My God, Mr. Corelli, the same as with the other—there must be things that are truly unspeakable, horrors that cannot be tolerated by a human brain or heard by a human ear… this is sheer madness… this is more than madness… if I hadn’t seen that other one with my own eyes… Gawd, Corelli, how can you be so calm? I don’t… I don’t want to have anything more to do with this kind of thing… no more!” Davis’s eyes protruded slightly as he addressed the plump man sitting at the gold and onyx desk, peacefully puffing at his cigar.

“Aw, Jack, c’mon! Too much imagination, I tell you. And besides, surely you haven’t forgotten your daughter, have you? Cynthia Davis is such a pretty girl, such a little innocent birdie… Now, we wouldn’t like for anything like this to happen to little Cindy, would we, eh, Jack? Sit down, old boy, and calm down.”

Davis remained standing for a moment, then collapsed on his chair as if all his strength had left him. He was a broken man, and a resigned look appeared on his face.

“Did… did… did the thing… come back?”—he asked with a tremulous voice.

“Yup, never fails!” laughed Corelli, and opened a large drawer in his desk. “Here, buddy-boy.” His thick, bejeweled fingers removed a large black box, with an ornate design on the top. “Just like the old chink said—look!”

Jack Davis recoiled in horror as his boss removed from the inside of the black box the smaller box he knew so well, the hellish Pandora’s box of the demented Tomeron the Decayed, with all its waxen seals intact.

“Here, Jack, take it…”

“Please, Mr. Corelli, I’m afraid, dammit, I’m scared, hell, aren’t you human—doesn’t this thing bother you? Such things should not be! Please, Mr. Corelli, couldn’t someone else?…”

“Enough! Basta!” Corelli’s fist slammed on the top of his desk. “Don’t you be a fool, Davis! This has been a most profitable enterprise for both of us—you know I can’t use anyone else. You have the connections and the reputation as a dealer in kook books. No one else would do. Here, take that crazy toy—c’mon, it won’t bite you. And I know you can’t read Arabic, so you are pretty safe, even if curiosity got the best of you—not that I think you’d ever open the little box! You’d rather open your own coffin, huh? Ha! Take it, and perhaps I won’t have to give your little Cindy a personal visit, not yet, anyway!” He winked an eye and flashed a lascivious smile.

Visibly shaken, Jack Davis accepted the odd-looking box with the waxen seals with obvious repugnance, and immediately proceeded to wrap it with the newspaper pages on the desk, as if anxious to avoid further physical contact with the instrument of death and madness it contained.

Corelli laughed loudly. “My, Jack, old boy, one would think I had asked you to finger a snake! Well, you’ll get over it, won’t you? Yeah—well, those crazy book freaks do get good stuff, you know? The quality of the latest batch was the best ever. The poor nuts will do anything to get the book they want. Well, to each his fetish, no, Jack? Gimme good ol’ greenbacks any time, and I’ll give you the world… how about you, Jack—what is your fetish?”

Davis did not reply, sullenly staring straight ahead.

“Oh, my, don’t look so pissed! Think of the good side—your commission on the last one is ten per cent, as usual, and I’ll add a grand to your account, to show my appreciation! By the way… you may soon be hearing from a wealthy occultist, a kook known by the name ‘Stag’ Dawoud, who gets really high on them crazy nut books. You know, he recently learned, quite by accident”—here Corelli grinned and winked at his silent interlocutor—“that a copy of the fabled and legendary book of Tomeron, the loathsome Necrotic Book, exists in this country… Should I add that he is extremely anxious to add it to his collection? I’m sure he has heard your name mentioned as a possible source of information, if not of the actual thing…”

Corelli started laughing hysterically. “The price has been doubled, of course. You know how those rare books increase in price, particularly the out of print ones, when there is a lot of demand… But I shouldn’t be telling you this, should I, Jack? I understand this guy Dawoud has quite a few connections in the Orient, and has access to some of the best stuff, and in quantity—it should be a pleasurable transaction, don’t you think? And there will be more—a great gold mine, my boy—who would have thought books could be that much fun? I don’t think I’ve read any since my dear departed mother gave up on teaching me the Catechism! Ciao, amigo, and keep in touch, huh?”

Jack Davis whispered—“Forgive me, Cindy…”

He stood up, slowly, leaves of the newspaper falling at his feet.

“I have been reading, and I have learned many things, Mr. Corelli—even some lghat-ul-’arabyah, you bastard, ibn-sharmtah…”

Carlo Corelli stopped smiling.

“Hey, Jack, you gone nuts? Armando! Arturo! Hey, don’t…”

It was too late—Jack Davis had opened the box, and the book within, and commenced reading in a deep voice…

* * *

There was stiff bidding at the auction disposing of some of the stuff the recently widowed Signora Maria Corelli decided to get rid of. Particularly noticeable was the extremely high bid a certain Stagnus Dawoud made for a queer oriental box. Maria Corelli felt strangely relieved to see it sold, although she could not explain why…