(C)1991 Mark Morrison<\/p>\n
[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.]<\/em><\/p>\n 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<\/em> players. This time, however, let me acquaint you with the peculiar circumstance of how I acquired my guiding inspiration: the case.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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<\/em>. 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.”<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/em> 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n It was Dr. Laban Shrewbury’s Cthulhu in the Necronomicon.<\/em><\/p>\n