The Adventure of the Red-Handed Acolyte

Professor Champion was not a man who went to great lengths to curry the favor of others. In his personal dealings, particularly when they involved members of his own profession, it would not be far from the mark to describe his attitude as disdainful. As a result, he had few close companions, among whom I am honored to consider myself, though naturally our relationship rarely strayed beyond the bounds of a master and his beloved servant. I credit my tolerance of his eccentricities and occasional incivility to a thick skin and an admiration of forceful personalities. It is often the case that those who possess a broad and liberal outlook are paired with companions of the most fanatical and monomaniacal nature. Were I a religious man, I might see a Divine hand at work, supplying us with a study in contrast that we might better understand ourselves.

As I was saying, in disputes of an academic nature, the Professor often disregarded the opinions of his colleagues entirely, preferring to let the facts prove him correct, which they invariably did. At times I wondered if Creation itself feared the man's intimidating glare and adjusted itself accordingly. It was just possible, however, that this supreme self-confidence, though without a doubt justifiable, overrode honest dissent and practical suggestions which ran contrary to the Professor's own thinking. Our current predicament may furnish an illustrative example.

"But Professor..." I began again.

"No, Hardings, the evidence is incontrovertible." The Professor strode ahead, his lean shadow swinging wildly along the cavern walls in the light of his lantern. "The hieroglyphs clearly indicate that whatever the case may have been, these catacombs were abandoned long ago. The mentions of "living dead" are no doubt references to their elaborate funeral services." His tone became more measured. I was being lectured to. "We often portray ancient man as primitive since he did not enjoy the benefits of civilized society - the steam engine, say, or indoor plumbing. Still, it is rituals such as the one described in the Um Thuman scrolls that display a sophisticated awareness of life's brutality and beauty."

By this time, I had managed to break free from the mummy's grip - literally, as it happens, since I secured my release by snapping off its arm at the elbow.

Champion called back over his shoulder. "I say, watch your step, man! These are the bones of warriors and kings. It would not do to trample them underfoot."

The mummy seemed oblivious to his injury and pushed his attack. I struck back with the only weapon at hand, the mummy's own forearm! The thin and brittle bones had little effect on the brute, but the yellow nails of the hand caught on the bandages near his mouth and tore the rotten cloth, revealing gnashing black teeth. I was beginning to feel a bit fed up with the whole thing.

Retreating backwards and wielding my ineffectual weapon, I raised my voice. "For God's sake, Champion, it's a mummy! And it's trying to eat me!"

There was no response. Frantically, I cast a glance over my shoulder and saw Champion standing framed in the light of his lantern. He stood frozen, his gaze slightly elevated. He faced a figure at the edge of the circle of light which surrounded him. Rotting bandages barely covered the rotted flesh beneath. It was tall; the head was shrouded in darkness beyond the range of the lantern.

Something caught my heel and I tripped, sitting down hard. I could hear Champion musing. "Must have been an error in the translation. I knew that edition of Schleiden's Dictionary was worthless. Why, I told him as much at the conference in Cologne last year..."

It was then I noticed a low sound beneath Champion's ramblings, a sort of hum which grew into a tortured moan. It seemed to be coming from all around us. I peered into the darkness. There were shapes, stumbling and hunched but moving with purpose. Then the light caught their burning eyes and I saw them for what they were.

Mummies! Hundreds of them!

That Horrid Tome

The Codex Importunica! Could it really be? I had long thought it the stuff of legend, a bogey man to frighten neophyte librarians. Tales of the horrid tome had long circulated among the occult set; how it was bound in human flesh or worse, how the knowledge contained therein had its roots in bloody empires won at the dawn of time, and, most importantly, how even the most casual perusal could turn a sane man into a gibbering idiot.

Here it is before me. Dare I continue? It is not a large book, its cover black with the grime and decay of centuries, yet it is disproportionately weighty. It settles here in my lap like a great beast and I imagine I can almost feel it expand and contract with hellish breath.

The purported author, the insane Englishman Catsmeat Featherstone, is said to have died alone and penniless despite having inherited millions from the family fortune. His forays into the increasingly bizarre reaches of the occult sciences divorced him from house and home, driving him to the most remote ends of the earth in search of ruins so ancient, the mind reels at the vast gulf of Time which separates those ancient relics from ourselves. Through frozen waste and dripping jungle, he pursued the unearthly knowledge and then, alone and raving in a London flat, he wrote the Codex in a single night.

His body was found three days later, still sitting erect at the desk but, oh, so pale. For he had written the evil thing in his own blood!

Very well. The book is finally in my hands. Contained within is the knowledge which could save Professor Champion and perhaps even reality as we know it. I must venture on.


It is some time later. I can not relate to you those words that burned mine eyes, for you have not the protective devices I bear, given to me by the Witch Doctor on the moor. I can say nothing of those ancient gods and their unseen battles which threaten our very existence - Zsazsa, whose unholy appetites are too horrible to contemplate, Klaatunikta, she who hunts by the light of the moon. Certainly I can say nothing of the Lord of Despair, the many-headed mad god -----, whose name is spoken on pain of death. I see now the ties which bind the fabric of this reality and how simple it would be to undo them, with such grotesque and dire consequences. But I was careful not to go too deep, looking only for that shard of information which will liberate my friend and master from his terrible bonds. Even now, I feel the terror fading, slipping back into those vestigial recesses of the mind, only to make itself felt in the black of night, when shadows take on a life of their own.

My task complete, I exit the water closet.