On one of the lower shelves I noticed something odd: a row of books and pamphlets which stood behind the front row, which made me wonder if all of the bookshelves were built double ... or was this, perhaps, where Uncle Hiram had squeamishly concealed from casual public discovery a small, choice selection of "risque" Victorians? Grinning, I pried one of the volumes our and held it up to the light so char I could read the title.
It was Night-Gaunts, a novel by Edgar Henquist Gordon, published in London by Charnel House, Publishers—great heaven! I was holding in my hands an extremely rare and very valuable book. It was the first book Gordon had published and, probably because of what critics of the period had damned as its "excessive morbidity", had been a total failure, which was why the volume I held in my grasp was so sought-after by collectors of the bizarre and the fantastic.
Setting it down gently on the table, I removed the front row of books and began to take out and to examine one by one the hidden volumes they had concealed. The next one was also by Gordon, his privately published novel, The Soul of Chaos. This was followed by a rare copy of the obscure magazine Outré, the very issue which contained Gordon's famous first short story, “Gargoyle”. For my projected book on Decadence in literature I had studied a photographic copy of “Gargoyle”, obtained not easily and with considerable expenditure of time, and I remembered well its phantasmagoric lore of black cities on the outermost rim of space, where weird beings whisper unmentionable blasphemies from formless thrones that stand beyond the domain of matter.
The next volume was a slim volume of verse by Edward Pickman Derby entitled Azathoth and Other Horrors, into which I had also peered and which was a valuable first edition in a very desirable state. Paired with this was a second volume of verse, The People of the Monolith, by Justin Geoffrey; then came several crumbling and yellowed copies of Outré and another magazine called Whispers, which contained the famous tales of that extraordinary, overlooked young genius, Michael Hayward. But the next book was such an astonishing find that I virtually reeled backwards in slack-jawed amazement: It was the original, unpublished manuscript of Amadaeus Carson's notorious and legendary novel, Black God of Madness, which most authorities believed no longer to be in existence.
I had stumbled upon an amazing trove of literary treasures so fabulously rare as almost to be considered legendary.
Which made me wonder—it was only an idle, passing thought!—what other hidden treasures the house of Hiram Stokely might conceal.
V.
WHEN Brian woke to a gray and drizzly morning, and I shared with him the wonder and delight of my discoveries, he was considerably less enthralled than he might have been. I suppose it takes a liberal arts education with a deep interest in Decadent literature to appreciate fully the profundity of my discoveries, but, still, he could have showed a little more interest—!
"Pretty rare stuff, and really valuable, eh?" he mused, leafing through the bound manuscript of Black God of Madness.
“Some of these items are almost priceless,” I said. “The one you’re examining is not the only unpublished manuscript, either: Here’s what seems to be the authentic original manuscript of Simon Maglore’s celebrated, prize-winning poem 'The Witch is Hung', famous for its riot of wild imagery and eldritch color ... and here’s a gem: a true first edition of Halpin Chalmers’ arcane and recondite work, The Secret Watcher, another first edition from Charnel House in London.”
"Yes, and here’s another one," he muttered, looking through a slender pamphlet. "Visions from Yaddith, verses by Ariel Prescott. Charnel House, Publishers: London, 1927. I’ve heard of her; didn’t she die raving in a madhouse?"
"Yes; in Oakdeane," I said briefly. “And here's the notorious January 1922 issue of Whispers, which contains that famous—or infamous!—tale by Randolph Carter, 'The Attic Window.' This copy could be worth hundreds to the right collector; when the story appeared, it aroused such an outcry of revulsion that every known copy of that issue was withdrawn from the newsstands."
Brian was glancing through some magazines, flaking and yellowed with age. "Who was Phillip Howard?” he murmured curiously.
"The author of several short stories that would have delighted the soul of Poe and Bierce," I declared. " 'The House of the Worm' is probably the most notorious; at least one young reader, a student at Midwestern University, I believe, went insane because of it. Another of his tales is in one of the issues you’re looking at: 'The Defilers', it’s called; I remember an article in the Partridgeville Gazette as claiming the magazine received no fewer than three hundred and ten letters of outraged indignation when they published that tale."
"Didn’t know Uncle had such morbid tastes in literature," he said, wonderingly. Then, looking up: "What’s that you’ve got?"
"More original manuscripts," I whispered almost reverently. "I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of that appalling young genius, Robert Blake? I thought not; well, he only died last year, after all ... but word is getting around about these stories." I stared at the neatly written manuscript pages of "Shaggai", "The Feaster from the Stars", "The Stairs in the Crypt", "The Burrower Beneath", and "In the Vale of Pnath.”
"Someday, they must be published, for all to read," I murmured, hungrily scanning the papers.
But Brian was examining the pile in bafflement, "If they’re so rare and valuable, why hide them away behind another row of books?" he asked, almost challengingly. "I always thought collectors liked to show off their treasures—why?"
I gave him look for look.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
WE drove to the diner for breakfast and bought some supplies for lunch, as the utilities were still turned on and it might be more pleasant to cook something than go out through the rain again. We spent the rest of the morning cataloguing the furniture and pictures; I don’t know much about antiques, but everything looked pretty valuable to me. With a little luck, we would each come away from this with a sizable sum of money. The real estate value of Uncle Hiram’s house was another matter; the way the town was slouching into decay—and the nearness of the house to Hubble’s Field—might bring the resale value way down.
I was mulling over these things while going through my uncle’s curio collection, when I was roused by a startled whoop from Brian.
"What’s up?" I demanded, joining him in the library. "You just about gave me a heart attack ..."
Then my words trailed away. Brian was grinning at me excitedly, beside a door-size opening in the bookshelves. "A secret room!" he exclaimed, eyes a-gleam with boyish enthusiasm. "I was searching behind the shelves to see if there were any more concealed books, and must have triggered the mechanism. Like to’ve scared me out of a year's growth! Take a look ..."
I peered past his burly shoulders into a narrow, small, cramped, airless room, revealed to view when one of the bookcases had swung ajar like a door. It was so dark within the hidden chamber that, at first, all I could see was a huge piece of ancient oakwood furniture. It took me a few moments to identify it.