1
My story begins like many others, on a cold and stormy April morning. I recently returned home from a lecture, where I presented a newly unearthed collection of poetry belonging to Paul Cézanne, and now stand at my study window. Darkness settles into the chilled morning sky as impenetrable clouds drift in front of the full moon, blotting out its majestic white light. Soon flashes of lighting and bellows of thunder commence. Deafening whispers of wind rip through the tendril-like leaves of my yard’s willow trees; morsels of green life wither away at the wind’s icy touch.
Figuring it’s time to lock-up the house, I turn from the window and exit the study. Walking gingerly down the small flight of redwood stairs, I descend into the parlor. Even though I attempt to be quiet, each footstep creates a sickeningly audible smack against the wood. At the base I stroll across a crimson shag carpet; its hairy tendrils tickle the soles of my naked feet. A lamp emanates dim light throughout the room causing a personally excavated Egyptian vase to glisten. Arriving at my destination I twist the sterling silver deadbolt door lock to the left to secure my estate.
Daring to take a glance at my pocket watch, its analog face designates the time 3:10. Turning to the left I push black velvet drapes aside, unlock the window latch, shove the cold glass panes open, and stick my head out into the chilly early morning air. A thin seam of silver moonlight filters through the dense cloud cover. The storm’s preface appears to be at its climax. Soon the weather’s restraint will shatter and its unbridled wrath will be released upon anything that crosses the storm’s path.
Averting my eyes ahead I notice a narrow white beam of light penetrating through the icy darkness at ground level. As the bobbing light approaches, I am barely able take notice of the repetitive sound of loud curses being uttered in a thick Irish accent. Straining to spot who was mentally unstable enough to venture out into the brewing storm, I hear the muffled sounds of barking and a petite shadowy figure blazing an eager path in front of the bouncing light.
Disbelievingly shaking my head, I shout into the dank weather at my crazy neighbor. A gust of wind seizes the heartfelt greeting and swiftly turns it into an inaudible yelp. The Irishman glances in the foreign noise’s direction and then smiles as his dilated eyes finally settle on my broad grin. Struggling against the ferocious wind, the shivering figure of Owen Finnegan appears before my eyes. A thin layer of scarlet hair peeks out underneath a beaten wool knit cap. The burly 5’3” man is wrapped from head to toe in heavy grey wool clothes. His face is drained of its normal rosy hue looking as if he had been out in a subarctic gale, instead of just a rather brash Oregon storm.
Yelling what I can only assume was “Morning Dirk,” Owen finally reaches my open windowsill. His vivid emerald eyes twinkle with distress. Dark crescent shaped circles tattoo their undersides, alluding to a sleepless week. We shake hands as flashes of lightning sizzle through the air, giving the appearance of generals meeting behind the scenes during a World War II air-raid. A tremendous boom of thunder shakes my house- causing ancient paintings to rattle along the white walls. After reassuring myself nothing was going to take a plunge off towards destruction, I address my neighbor.
“Ejected by the Mrs. approximately 17 minutes ago in respect to a dispute concerning fiscal independence from your bookie, which you now have hounding you due to recent unemployment, I perceive,” I quip.
Owens scrawny excuse for a dog, which I can only accurately described as a labradoodle, began to relive itself on my grass as the man answered.
“How on earth could you possibly deduce that?” he asked flabbergasted.
“Never mind it,” I chuckled.
“You’ve always been a queer one Dirk. While Marty and I are here do you mind if we come in for a couple of shots of that English whiskey you’ve got stashed inside of the liquor cabinet? I need something to take my mind off of this financial extravaganza.”
As almost in agreement the small mutt barked and nodded its shaved head.
A strong blast of frigid air saps away his warmth and Owens chest begins heaving with every breath. With nubby pale fingers he fumbles with his Maglite until I respond.
“Your presence would impose a detriment to my studies tonight, Owen. I understand you’re in despair, but I am unable to house you. You have a home and a wife to return to; I suggest you do just that.”
“Not for much longer…” Owen muttered.
Staring at him blankly, I emphasize that he must return home. After a few excruciatingly long seconds of Owen returning my stare, rather blankly, I inform him that I must retreat up to my study to continue a current project.
“Ah right, it’s always work with you.”
Owen’s expression hardens and his once stunning eyes glaze over in a defeated haze. Bidding my neighbor farewell I watch as the man slumps away, with his head drooped and shoulders flaccid. The flashlight beam bounces up and down with each of Owen’s heavy footsteps. Soon he and his insufferable dog turn the corner and disappear from sight.
Withdrawing back into the comfort of my warm home, I shut the window, turn off the lamp, and nonchalantly migrate back upstairs to my study. Bookcases filled to the brim with a libraries’ variety of literature and topography collections line the walls. Coffee tables imported from many foreign countries litter the floor; on each of them lay an artifact from one of my many excavations. My eyes finally rest upon the smooth manzanita desk standing in the middle of the room. Laying upon its glassy surface is an ivory lamp and an unorganized scatter of books and papers. Yet through all of this jumbled mess my eyes only noticed one item.
Worn throughout the ages, it is still able to retain a dark color; a shade so sinister that the darkest regions of space appeared to be brighter than heavenly clouds in comparison. Along its old leathery cover, ancient druidic runes skittered from left to right. The symbols created a pentagram if looked at from a 45º angle. The binding was bound together, by what appears to be bones of an infant. An aura of pure evil loomed menacingly around the item. Simply approaching it makes hair on the back of my neck tingle and stand on end. Adding to my unstable nerves is how the item came into my possession. Two days ago, a plain brown package was left on my doorstep; the only marking was this letter.
Dear Dr. Devlin,
If you have received this parcel, that means I have failed to unlock its power. The unimaginable horrors withheld inside its cover was too much for my mind to comprehend. You were the only suitable option of who may be able to learn the books secrets, and correctly use them. I inform you that the following item on your doorstep is dangerous. Please be careful, if this book were to fall into the wrong hands, the impending disasters would be unfathomable.
“It appears I may as well examine this to see if the anonymous sender’s claims are true.” I mutter aloud.
Moving to my oversized leather office chair, I slide inside and slowly begin to relax in its comforting embrace. Mentally preparing myself for whatever atrocities the sender of the tome mentioned, I cautiously move to grab the artifact off my desk.
As if on cue lightning and thunder crackle above me; rain pounds on the windows so vigorously that it sounds as if the glass may shatter. Nervousness floods my spine, causing waves of shivers to roll through my body. My hand trembling, I pick up the item.
Opening the book I turn to the front page. An eerie amount of dust floats away as I lift the cover. Some of it gathers in my eyes and I shut them quickly. I begin to hold my breath and the beating of my heart hastens. My entire body begins to tremble and goose bumps flourish over its surface. Simultaneously exhaling I rapidly open my eyes and they rest upon the book’s cover page. Unbelievable, it was blank! Why would these pages be blank? Flipping through the 83 pages I discover that the inside of the whole diary was blank, not a single mark anywhere. What type of prank is this? Perhaps there something I’m missing.
Extracting a magnifying lens from my middle-most desk drawer, I return to the item’s cover page. Under magnification and amplified light, faint traces of scratch indentations are apparent. Grabbing a small vial of iodine and a petri-dish from the desk’s upper right drawer, I pour out a small amount of the concentrated liquid into the saucer. Dipping my finger into the solution, I gently rub the book’s indented scratch marks. No reaction occurs.
Retracting my legs and arms into my chest, I place my hands together, fingertips skyward, and rest them upon my knees. Drumming my fingers together I close my eyes and reflect upon what other methods can be used to illuminate the book’s hidden lettering.
