“I agree with you there; I never saw such a mess as this.”
“Oh, I have just moved in here,” he explained, still smiling, “and have not had much time to arrange things in their proper order.”
I had surmised as much. I said 1 would drop in later, and started for the door.
He placed a hand on my arm.
“But wait. You misconstrued my meaning when I said you would never find what you are looking for. I was not referring to the disarrangement of my books.”
I merely raised my eyebrows, and he went on:
“I hope you won’t be too astonished, Doctor Wycherly, when I assure you that I am quite aware that there are certain remote books you would give much to own — or even to read. Are there not? And remote as these books are, remote as your chances are, you do nevertheless entertain a hope that perhaps some day, by some lucky chance, you might come into possession of one of them. Is it not true?”
In my amazement I answered both his questions at once, hardly knowing that I spoke:
“Why — yes; indeed yes.”
His bald head bobbed benignly, and he waved toward the haphazard piles of books around us.
“And these?” he emphasized in that shrill voice. “These? Phfft! they are rubbish, they are nothing! You will not find there what you seek!”
I was astonished at his vehemence. “Probably not,” I murmured vaguely. “But you — just now — you mentioned my name, and I was not aware that you knew me. Would you mind explaining?”
“Ah, yes, you are puzzled, of course. You are wondering how I came to know your name. That, sir, is entirely inconsequential. Even more so do you wonder how I could possibly know of that secret desire of yours, the desire to peruse those so-called ‘forbidden books’ which speak of the unthinkable things of evil — the books which are, now, so inaccessible as to be indeed forbidden. Suffice it to say, for the present, that I cannot help but know of your delvings into subjects of the weird and terrible, because — well, because it is most imperative to me that I should know; therefore, I know. But I think you will agree that your quest for such books is a rather hopeless one! The various versions of Alhazred’s Necronomicon, Flammarion’s Atmosphere, Von Junzt’s Nameless Cults, Kane’s Magic and Black Arts, Eibon’s Book, and the mysterious King in Yellow — which, if it does indeed exist, must transcend them all — none of these will you find lying around in bookstores. Even those few that are known to be in existence are under lock and key. Of course there are other, lesser sources, but even they are not easy to procure. For example, you probably had a difficult time in locating that later edition of the Nameless Cults which you now have in your possession; and criminally expurgated as it is, I imagine you find it very unsatisfactory.” “Yes, I do!” I admitted breathlessly. I was surprised to have come across a person possessed of such evident familiarity with this recherche literature. “The Nameless Cults which I have,” I went on to explain, “is the comparatively recent 1909 edition, and it is puerile in the extreme. I should like very much to get hold of one of the originals; published in Germany, I believe, in the early eighteen-hundreds.”
But he waved that peremptorily aside.
“What of the Necronomicon,” he said, “that most fearsome and most hinted-at of all the forbidden books; you would give much for a glimpse into that?”
“That,” I smiled, “is even beyond my fondest hope!”
“And if I were to tell you that I have here in this very shop the original Necronomicon?”
I did not bat an eyelash. “You haven’t,” I stated positively.
He looked not at me, but beyond me.
“True, I have not,” he said at last. “I thought you would consider that statement an absurdity.”
He sighed, then went on a bit hurriedly: “And yet I wonder if you can imagine an even greater absurdity — a book even more terrible than the dreaded Necronomicon, a book so ominous in its scope as to make the Necronomicon seem as tame as — as — ”
“As a cook-book,” I supplied jocularly, for the tiny man had become almost amusingly solemn and serious now.
“Yes. A book that tells of things the mad Arab never dreamed of in his wildest nightmares; indeed, a book not even of this Earth; a book that goes back to the very beginning and beyond the beginning; that comes from the very minds of the things that caused all things!
I looked at him with a sudden suspicion, then smiled cynically.
“Are you trying to tell me that you do not have the Necronomicon but you do have such a book as you describe?”
His eyes held mine for a moment, and just for that moment there was a gleam in them.
Said he: “Do you dare to let me show you?”
Said I: “Yes, do show me, by all means!”
“Very well. Please wait here a moment.”
I waited, doubtfully enough, and for the first time mused upon the really extraordinary aspect of the thing. I suddenly remembered a story I had read a while back, something about a man who had entered an old bookshop and was plunged into an orbit of strange adventures — something to do with vampires- I was disturbed that this story should leap to my mind at this particular time, but I smiled at the thought of anything untoward happening to me; this little slate-colored man was a quite peculiar person indeed, but he did not conform to my conception of a vampire.
He returned just then, bearing an immense book nearly half as big as he was.
“You must understand,” he said, “that what I am going to tell you should not be taken with skepticism. It is important that you should know certain things about this book” — he hugged it tightly to him — “that will seem to you incredible. First, you should be informed that it does not belong to me, nor to anyone on this Earth either: that is the first incredible thing you must believe. If I were to tell you truly to whom it belongs, I would have to say — to the cosmos, and to all ages that were, and are, and will yet be. It is the most damnable book in the universe, and but for it, I — but no, I will not tell you that now. I will only say now that I am the guardian of it, the present guardian, and you could never imagine what terrible transits of time and space I have made.”
Can you blame me for edging toward the door? Can you blame me for wanting to get away from there? There had been a growing suspicion in my mind that this man was mad, and now I knew it. But I said, precisely because I didn’t know what else to say:
“And you want to sell me this book?”
He peered at me more intently. “It could not be bought for all the wealth of this or any other planet. No, I merely want you to read it. I am most anxious that you read it. You may take it home with you if you wish. You see, I am aware that in spite of your skepticism you are consumed with curiosity.”
He was right. And yet why did I hesitate? There was something very queer about all this, something that did not appear on the surface, something subtle and almost frightening. So far he had hinted at much, but had told me exactly nothing. He was far too ready to let me take this book away with me, and something told me that if he were so anxious to have me read it I would do best by not doing so.
“No, thanks,” I muttered, and didn’t try to conceal a shiver as I turned away.
I had had enough. His eyes were too black. But he had seemed to anticipate my refusal, and at the door he again gripped my arm.
“You may as well know,” he said, “that if you had not come here I would sooner or later have brought the book to you. Knowing what I do know of you and your occult studies, it follows that you are the logical one to be entrusted with this volume. I realize that I have only hinted at things and have told you nothing, but I cannot do more than that now. You must read the book; then you will understand.”
My hand on the door, I hesitated one fateful moment. In that moment the book came from under his arm and he pressed it upon me most eagerly, half shoving me out the door into the dusk of the approaching night; and there I stood with that ponderous volume in my hands, mystified, half angry, yet daring to hope that at last I was in possession of something momentous. With a half-laugh and a shrug, I turned homeward.