DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943

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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943

Page 11

says she does, but she won't talk about it. I slept in there a couple of times, but I never had any dream."
"That's all right," Bruce said. "I don't dream either."
"I knew a scientific man like you wouldn't put up with such stock. There's only a small cot in there that one of you can use--and then ther's another small room across the hall. Sorry I can't offer you better."
I looked about me dubiously as we passed along a narrow hall toward the rear of the old house. The lamplight made a pale, moving pattern on the papered walls that were worn smooth and brown from the contact of generations. I stopped at my door, and Bruce went along to his, which directly faced the length of the hall. Eb unlocked that door and said, "I'll be out in the south field tomorrow,Mr. Tarleton; hope you'll come out and take a look at the soil."
I saw Bruce nod, and I waited until Eb Corey made his way expertly back downstairs in the dark. Then I quickly crossed the hall to where Bruce stood with the lamp in his hand. "I don't like this at all," I began. "What's this business about you being..."
"Come on in here, and I'll tell you."

Everywhere in this house I had been aware of that dank, age-old, peculiar odor. I might almost call it a yellow odor. I had smelled it in other old houses. But the moment we entered this upstairs room it seemed magnified, became almost tangible. The place seemed half bedroom and half store room. One side was piled haphazardly with trunks, boxes, broken tables and chairs. Bruce held the lamp high, looked around, and grinned most delightedly.
Already he had espied a tall, clumsy bookcase in the far corner. He strode over to it, and examined the faded tomes. Quickly he pulled one out, then another, and another. I groaned. I might have known this. Bruce had had this detour planned all the time; he had come up here deliberately. I sat down on a rickety chair and watched him. Finally I said, "All right, what is it this time? And don't give me any more of that Necronomicon stuff, for I know that's a myth." Bruce was an authority on certain terrible lores and forbidden books dealing with such lores, and he had told me things from a certain Necronomicon that literally made my flesh crawl.
"What?" he said in answer to my question. "Why look at these! Not Necronomicons, but interesting!" He thrust a couple of worn, leather-bound volumes into my hands. I glanced at the titles. One was Horride Myteries by the Marquis of Grosse; the other, Nemedian Chronicles. I looked up at Bruce, and saw that he was genuinely excited.
"Do you mean to say," I said, "that you really didn't expect to find these?"
"Of course not! I'll admit I came up here deliberately, because I've heard certain rumors..."
"Something to do with a dream?"
"No, nothing to do with a dream. And I'm as surprised as you are to see these books. These two I've sen before in expurgated editions. But this I've never seen before, although I've heard vaguely of it." He looked fondly at a third book he held, and I could see that his eyes were aglow with a sort of wild anticipation.
I reached for the tome, and he relinquished it almost reluctantly. It was huge, heavy, and the pages were brittle and brown. There was no title on the spine or cover, but on the first page I read in a delicate, faded script: M-ON-S-T-R-E-S A-N-D T-H-E-I-R K-Y-N-D-E. Each word was in script capital letters, free of each other. No author was mentioned. I placed the book on my knees and saw that the edges of the leather binding were well worn, frayed in places. As I turned a few pages at random, a powdery brown dust blew out and lodged in my nose. I sneezed.
"Hey, be careful how you handle that!" Bruce took the volume back as solicitously as a mother with her child. I took one more look around the room, sniffed the air distastefully, and said, "I'm getting sleepy. Good night."
I don't think he even heard me. When I left him there, to cross the hall into my own room, he was sitting hunched over the table by the oil-lamp, opening Monstres and Their Kynde tenderly, peering down into it.

The next morning I was downstairs early only to be informed by Mrs. Corey that
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Saving...

says she does, but she won't talk about it. I slept in there a couple of times, but I never had any dream." "That's all right," Bruce said. "I don't dream either." "I knew a scientific man like you wouldn't put up with such stock. There's only a small cot in there that one of you can use--and then ther's another small room across the hall. Sorry I can't offer you better." I looked about me dubiously as we passed along a narrow hall toward the rear of the old house. The lamplight made a pale, moving pattern on the papered walls that were worn smooth and brown from the contact of generations. I stopped at my door, and Bruce went along to his, which directly faced the length of the hall. Eb unlocked that door and said, "I'll be out in the south field tomorrow,Mr. Tarleton; hope you'll come out and take a look at the soil." I saw Bruce nod, and I waited until Eb Corey made his way expertly back downstairs in the dark. Then I quickly crossed the hall to where Bruce stood with the lamp in his hand. "I don't like this at all," I began. "What's this business about you being..." "Come on in here, and I'll tell you." Everywhere in this house I had been aware of that dank, age-old, peculiar odor. I might almost call it a yellow odor. I had smelled it in other old houses. But the moment we entered this upstairs room it seemed magnified, became almost tangible. The place seemed half bedroom and half store room. One side was piled haphazardly with trunks, boxes, broken tables and chairs. Bruce held the lamp high, looked around, and grinned most delightedly. Already he had espied a tall, clumsy bookcase in the far corner. He strode over to it, and examined the faded tomes. Quickly he pulled one out, then another, and another. I groaned. I might have known this. Bruce had had this detour planned all the time; he had come up here deliberately. I sat down on a rickety chair and watched him. Finally I said, "All right, what is it this time? And don't give me any more of that Necronomicon stuff, for I know that's a myth." Bruce was an authority on certain terrible lores and forbidden books dealing with such lores, and he had told me things from a certain Necronomicon that literally made my flesh crawl. "What?" he said in answer to my question. "Why look at these! Not Necronomicons, but interesting!" He thrust a couple of worn, leather-bound volumes into my hands. I glanced at the titles. One was Horride Myteries by the Marquis of Grosse; the other, Nemedian Chronicles. I looked up at Bruce, and saw that he was genuinely excited. "Do you mean to say," I said, "that you really didn't expect to find these?" "Of course not! I'll admit I came up here deliberately, because I've heard certain rumors..." "Something to do with a dream?" "No, nothing to do with a dream. And I'm as surprised as you are to see these books. These two I've sen before in expurgated editions. But this I've never seen before, although I've heard vaguely of it." He looked fondly at a third book he held, and I could see that his eyes were aglow with a sort of wild anticipation. I reached for the tome, and he relinquished it almost reluctantly. It was huge, heavy, and the pages were brittle and brown. There was no title on the spine or cover, but on the first page I read in a delicate, faded script: M-ON-S-T-R-E-S A-N-D T-H-E-I-R K-Y-N-D-E. Each word was in script capital letters, free of each other. No author was mentioned. I placed the book on my knees and saw that the edges of the leather binding were well worn, frayed in places. As I turned a few pages at random, a powdery brown dust blew out and lodged in my nose. I sneezed. "Hey, be careful how you handle that!" Bruce took the volume back as solicitously as a mother with her child. I took one more look around the room, sniffed the air distastefully, and said, "I'm getting sleepy. Good night." I don't think he even heard me. When I left him there, to cross the hall into my own room, he was sitting hunched over the table by the oil-lamp, opening Monstres and Their Kynde tenderly, peering down into it. The next morning I was downstairs early only to be informed by Mrs. Corey that -- 11 --