(C)1991 Mark Morrison
[This is the debut of the afore-mentioned column by the mad Mark Morrison of Australia. Mark’s wit and wile are legendary, dating back to his many appearances in Dagon magazine.]
Welcome to The Case of Mark Edward Morrison. In future issues I hope to bring you advice and inspiration for disturbing your Call of Cthulhu players. This time, however, let me acquaint you with the peculiar circumstance of how I acquired my guiding inspiration: the case.
In August 1990 I made the pilgrimage to Providence, R.I. The city had given Lovecraft life in 1890, and had given his bones a bed since 1937. His centennial year seemed like an important time for me to be there.
What I hadn’t allowed for was the treasure trove that awaited me in the bookshops of Providence. I had high expectations, true; I even hoped that in this city of Lovecraft’s wanderings I would be able to acquire a volume which had eluded me for some time, Dr. L. Shrewsbury’s inadvisable Cthulhu in the Necronomicon. In between the lectures at the Centennial Conference I discovered the Brown University bookshop, an outre place known as Other Worlds, the aptly-titled Cellar Stories Books, the potentially perilous Murder By The Book, and numerous antiquarian booksellers. Although I could not find the Shrewsbury volume, these establishments had much to offer, and my spending quickly out-stripped my available carrying space. It was apparent that I would need a second suitcase.
I hardly required designer luggage, so the best bet seemed to be to nip into a pawn shop and pick up something cheap and sturdy; it only needed to survive the trip back to Australia. On my way back towards College Hill through one of the more depressed retail areas of Providence, I spied a dusty window containing a dented typewriter, a guitar with no strings, a silent television, and a pile of ragged paperbacks. It looked to be just the place.
Inside was more dust, and further forgotten and timeworn objects. I was the only customer, indeed the only person in the place at all. I browsed, expecting the merchant would be along to help me shortly. I sorted through faded lampshades and sagging bookshelves, through bent bicycles and ancient stereo equipment, through non-descript portraits and unsprung sofas; through junk both old and useless. It seemed I was not in luck, and was about to leave when a thump from behind me attracted my attention.
The thump originated from the counter, and had been made by a tall, sallow man as he placed a worn leather case upon it. I was slightly startled, for I had not seen him enter from the back of the shop; surely he had not been crouched behind the desk the whole time? His shadowed eyes surveyed me as slowly his hands smoothed dust from the ancient portmanteau. I was about to wish him good afternoon, but as I opened my mouth to speak he coughed mildly, pushed the case across the desk at me, and spoke in a soft voice, “Ten dollars, sir. I think it is just what you were after.”
I was so astonished that without thinking I fished out a ten dollar note, placed it in his dry hand, seized the proffered handle, and left the shop with my sudden purchase swinging under my arm. Behind me I heard the quiet click as he closed up for the day, and I turned to regard him one last time as his face melted into the deeper shadows of his curious establishment. The last of the sun died and, oddly disturbed, I hastened back towards my room on campus, and the company of my fellow scholars.
Once there I was able to inspect the item. It was old, but sound; the leather was frayed, but not cracked. After a quick cleaning, it looked fine, even respectable. I packed my excess books into it, pausing thoughtfully to regard the gentleman depicted on the back cover of my newly acquired Arkham House volume Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos. A peculiar thought strayed through my mind, but I quickly banished it. I shut the lid and hurried to join my companions for some welcome dinner and normal human conversation.
This should have been the end of the affair. One month after that weekend in Providence I returned home to Australia, and after a sleep heavy with jet-lag and oddly disturbed by dreams of cracked and yellowed pages, I unpacked my things. When I picked up the old leather case I was alarmed to find it far lighter than I had expected; had some international airline thief made off with all of my new books? Angrily I flung the thing open and instantly fell back, retching, as a noxious mist billowed out of it. Weak with dizziness and nausea, I surveyed the poisonous miasma from a safe distance as it drifted out of the hideous suitcase and dissipated. When all seemed clear I leaned across to see what had happened to the things I had so carefully packed there.
Where once I had placed twenty or thirty books, now there was only one. I picked the slim black volume up and read the title off the spine.
It was Dr. Laban Shrewbury’s Cthulhu in the Necronomicon.