Lovecraft: Arkham Horror

They shambled past the ancient buildings of the campus with coats drawn around them, protecting themselves from the early chill that meteorologists insisted wouldn’t last.

Miskatonic was only just illuminated by the scattered lamp posts that dotted the grounds. A sharp, bitter wind ripped a few leaves from their trees and the sky was overcast, but at five o’clock in the evening on a Friday in September, it was still far darker than logic would imply it should be. Most classes were done for the day, and only one lecture hall was still lit with a few flickering light bulbs. It was a lecture that had been somewhat publicized in a few of the less trustworthy tabloids, but despite that it was closed to the general public. “Acclaimed” occult writer Michael Raimi had the podium in the aging Jermyn Hall that night, and his presence had drawn a fair number of the staff and students away from their evening meal.

They moved through the creaking wooden doors of the Hall, stepping hurriedly into the warmth and stamping the dirt from the soles of their feet. As more and more people entered the lecture hall, a dull roar of conversation grew. An eavesdropper might have been surprised at the sheer variety of topics discussed amongst the body of students and faculty, ranging from the latest boxing match, to the downright outlandish weather, to the shocking new policies coming out of the recently formed USSR. However it was indisputable what the real topic was, the reason such a crowd had gathered at such an inconvenient time.

The subject of the occult had always been popular at the prestigious university; it was analyzed and scrutinized extensively with little result or concrete evidence aside from the crumbling tomes that filled the stacks in Miskatonic’s extensive library. But still the study of the mystical and the unknown echoed throughout the hallowed edifices of the academy, and Michael Raimi’s lecture merely exemplified the University’s more macabre interests.

One student with such interests by the name of Idris Cain strolled more casually than the rest with hands lodged deep in his pockets. The wind sent a shiver down his spine as he headed towards the Hall on the paved paths that crisscrossed the browning grass, but he ignored the cold the best he could. A short distance from the entrance, his eyes lighted upon someone who seemed similarly unaffected, leaning against the wall near the door with a lit cigarette between his fingers.

As the distance between him and the man shortened, Idris noticed the man's Middle Eastern ethnicity and realized who he was approaching. Professor Azar al-Sanaa finished off a long drag before snuffing out the butt into the short, stone baluster built next to the stairs. The Arab, or Syrian, Idris couldn’t quite recall which, seemed oddly dressed down for the cold weather - wearing only a casual suit with an open jacket and an overall brown color scheme that complimented his complexion. The young pianist did remember however that Azar was to be tonight's host even though that usually ended up being a rather benign and menial job, and that the professor told his students to take what the lecturer said with a few grains of salt.

The young man made a note to approach him later for an opinion on the whole ordeal, and promptly forgot about him as he pushed aside the heavy doors into the atrium where a few people still chatted, not yet having taken their seats. Included was a nervous looking, frizzy haired girl who paced in front of the doors, presumably waiting for something. Idris gave her a nod and proceeded to the lecture room, taking a seat silently near the back row of the antiquarian auditorium. He was sure this would prove most interesting.

Michael pulled his coat tighter around him, jamming his fists deeper into the confines of his pockets. He was nearly late. Was he late? Checked his watch, his gaze penetrating through the cloudy haze of tobacco smoke that swirled around him as he strode forward. His watch did him no good, seeing as it had chosen now of all times to stop working.

With an impatient breath outwards, the man proceeded towards onto the University grounds. He dared to hope to find himself meandering about without aim or intent for some time before ultimately giving up and returning to the four welcoming walls of his room at the bed-and-breakfast. But under those circumstances he would also find himself without any cash in pocket, and spending a cold night on the streets of Massachusetts in his automobile sounded rather unappealing at the moment.

The campus was unwelcoming at best, its imposing visage marking an eerie form against an unnaturally dark evening sky. Wind swept leaves and distant scents through the air, and the entire grounds seems to manifest their own ill intent on those daring enough to walk them...

Raimi quietly wrote these sentences in his mind, he had some inclinations to use such a striking evening as inspiration in his next work. He would start it tonight. Or he would drown himself in the spirits of drink until he forgot his ever present woes. Even he was unsure which was the more likely scenario.

A sharp and polite cough tore the novelist from his silent reverie, yanking him from his thoughts and grounding him once more in reality. He had been walking for some unknown time (blasted watch), and found himself, as if drawn by fate, at his goal. The Jermyn Hall, what a name that was. Raimi drew his attention from the building before him to the source of the attention thief, the Middle Eastern man before him.

"Professor?" The investigator was almost startled by the sound of his own baritone, smoke released from his mouth in silent waves with each syllable. "Independent Occult Investigator and Novelist, Michael Raimi. A pleasure."

The once-police officer spat the remains of his mood enriching cigarette from between his lips and stamped it out under foot as he presented a hand for the Professor to shake.

Dreadful dreams and silent stares
Cobblestone creeks and woeful wares-

A quick one-handed motion and the page was ripped forth from its binding, littering the floor of the smoke-stenched pub. A raspy voice entered the ears of one Benji Moore, "Are you gonna pick that up or just leave it there?"

Benji locked eyes with the grotesque, older woman that served as bartender for this shitty, local pub. Without breaking contact, he downed the rest of his beer before popping the littered paper inside the now empty glass. In his drunken stupor, Benji shoved his little black writing book and pen into his messenger bag. While somehow maintaining his balance, he couldn't manage what came out of his mouth.

"Listen, lady. If you're not a little nicer to me..." he glanced around as if they were going to be overheard, but there was no one around, "I may just have to tip someone off about this place."

Without so much as a blink, the bartender sneered at the young, crude man. She took a long drag from her cigarette, leaned over the bar, and blew a puff out into his face, "I highly doubt you have the guts to tip anyone off about the only place you can come get your fix at."

His now stinging vision sobered him up. The bartender gave out a maniacal, but hearty laugh as Benji gave an awkward nod and raced up to the basement door. Per instructions of the bar, Benji flicked up the switch to alert the owner on the ground floor that he wished to leave. Once the coast was clear, a man propped the latch open and released Benji through the backdoor. If he were to go through the front of the building, he would have passed through the barbershop front.

The alleyway behind the barber/pub was dark and smelled of urine from rats, cats, and the homeless. Benji decided it wouldn't make things worse if he took a leak right then and there. He always pissed on the things he cherished.

The sky portrayed a dark, gloomy hue of blue masked only by a few scattered ash clouds. He wondered just how long he had been in the pub, drinking his life and words away. The streets resembled an eerie silences that smothered passersby with their own thoughts, insecurities, and anxieties. Benji was no different. He was in pursuit of something--or someone--that could give his words meaning.

The bus stop sat in solitude and he couldn't help but relate.

Stuck in one place, but not in one time-

This particular stop sat between the boundary of Miskatonic University and the city. A paper clung to one of the four pillars.

Miskatonic University presents: A Lecture on the Occult by Michael Raimi

It was just about to start. Benji tore down the flier and stepped onto the campus side of the boundary, in search of Jermyn Hall. It took a bit of trudging around, but eventually, he found himself standing before the grand building.

The lightly-dressed Middle Easterner was also burying his hands in his pockets when he grabbed Raimi's attention with a benign cough. However, it was not the temperature that was causing this - indeed, the cold did not seem to affect him at all. He was simply rifling through his pockets in search of another cigarette. The man continued doing this while Raimi greeted him even though he knew that the action was in vain as the cigarette he had just snuffed out was the last one on his person. 

"Professor? Independent Occult Investigator and Novelist, Michael Raimi. A pleasure," he heard and nodded in response even though he did not believe the man.

The foreigner watched the cigarette fall downwards from the man's lips and tried to keep track of how many times the diminished cylinder flipped before it hit the ground. He pretended that he could count the number of droplets of spittle that had also been expelled from the journalist's mouth while they were still floating in air and that he could calculate the exact angle at which the stamped-out cig had bent. Of course, he knew that this was all just a childish way to keep himself from looking bored in front of a man that he did not care much to meet and actually believed to be a complete hack. 

He slipped his right hand from the silken lining of a pocket to meet with Raimi's. His grip was strong but not imposing, and his hand, other than a single callus on the end of his index finger, felt smooth and dry compared to Raimi's own rough hand that also felt oddly warm considering the weather. 

"Right, Azar al-Sanaa," he introduced himself in an affable tone with an Arabic accent that was so faint one might not even realize that the man was foreign at all. "Professor of Occult Studies here at Miskatonic." 

He released his grip and glanced towards the entrance of the building briefly before continuing, "You've almost got a full house in there, detective. I would say that four-fifths of the seats are taken. I might even have trouble finding my own after I introduce you."

Benji took in the entrance of the building, with its wide double doors and foreboding stairs. He noticed the few people still scattered around outside. Two men could be seen talking. Benji noted that one had a brown complexion, which wasn't something you saw around here everyday.

He glanced down at his watch--a cheap, old thing--that told him the lecture would begin at any moment now. Benji scurried inside the building to find himself in the lecture hall. Rows upon rows of occupied chairs filled the majority of the room, leaving the man with few options for a seat. His eyes scanned the back rows for something more secluded, hoping that he would still be able to hear. His eyes passed over and returned to a young woman.

She wasn't beautiful in a glamorous sense, but Benji couldn't pull his eyes away from her. With firm brows and an intense, but open stare, the woman looked positively bright. He slipped into the row that was a couple behind her and sat at a diagonal angle. He wanted to be able to see her face and, hopefully, write about it.

Standing at the top row in the back of Jermyn hall, two men could be seen mumbling and whispering about. Brothers, they were, born into a large family of very little wealth where words such as "soft" or "weak" were rarely ever attributed to the boys. Cowards, they were not, nor were they allowed to be. For they were men who couldn't even see the color yellow, but would see their fair share of red. "Dempsey boys don't get scared, they get angry," their father would say just as his father had said before him and so on.

Floyd Dempsey, the oldest one in this picture, stood stiff and straight, but glanced around the hall with tired, world-weary eyes as his younger brother, Gene, rambled on about the occult speaker Michael Raimi. "I'm telling ya, Floyd. This guy, Raimi, he is something. Fella rolls outta Salem preachin' all about the supernatural, hidden knowledge, and things that just aren't of this world, you know?"

"Mhm," Floyd mumbles, halfway paying attention to his brother.

"So, he goes around to all these colleges with this hocus pocus spiel about the 'paranormal' and 'inner nature' and shit, just lying to all these kids' faces, while practically stealing their hard-earned money for his own selfish reasons. I mean the man don't know from nothing. And what's worst is the kids are always "oohs" and "ahhs" about this phony-baloney occult bullshit. Meanwhile, I try to teach them a simple history lesson and half of these poor saps start turning textbooks into pillows. Damn, I almost wish I came up with this occult mumbo-jumbo, because this Raimi guy must be rolling in dough," Gene quietly carried on.

"If he were, you think he'd still be doing this sorta thing?" Floyd asked.

"I don't know, probably. Some rich folk might get their kicks from this sorta thing. Anyways, where the hell is this guy? I wasn't trying to keep you up all night with this shit, but jeez louise he really should be here by now," Gene tapped his foot in anticipation.

Meanwhile, Floyd's eyes locked onto a young girl leaned back against the wall in the far right corner of the lecture hall. The girl had bobbed hair covered a fancy Parisian hat, her face covered in make-up, yet not too excessively, and she was dolled up in a black and white speckled dress with a short skirt. Something about that dress made her brighter than anything else in the room. To Floyd, she seemed out of place as she smoked about with a bored look on her face.

At that moment, she glanced over at Floyd, causing his dark brown eyes to get lost in the crystal blue sea of her own, as she stared at him for what felt like a full minute before tossing up a friendly wave accompanied by a delightful smile. Floyd furrowed his brow in some deep confusion and waved back long after she had already looked away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt like he had met this woman before, but just couldn't place it.

"My god, where is this guy?! You reckon he got torpedoed by the mob or something?" Gene pondered, snapping Floyd out of his dream-like state.

Azar broke away from the chat that he and the investigator were having to turn and peer through one of the few windows of the building. He glanced towards the large, ornate clock that hung over the atrium and noticed that they were running a few minutes late. Too bad, he had though there was enough to ask Raimi for a cigarette. 

"Ah, seems we're behind schedule, detective. Come, this way," he said and began his way inside the building. "Let's get you on stage, yes?" 

When they entered the lobby, the professor turned his head this way and that way - seeming to look for something. In fact, he was looking for his young underling, but it looked like she had gone on to find her seat inside. Azar found this to be true when the pair made their way into the auditorium - a calm hush coming over the crowd inside - and saw her anxiously sitting on the fourth row from the front. 

Suzanne Sutcliffe's eyes fixated onto Azar the moment he walked into the room. She seemed rather frustrated if not outright angry and for good reason - at least, to her. The man had left her, not to mention everyone else, waiting for quite a while. The young assistant was never good being at alone with strangers, and in a crowd such as this, the urge to latch onto anyone remotely familiar was almost overcoming. So comfortable did she feel around the professor that she allowed herself to visibly and childishly huff when he had the gall to send a friendly smile her way as he passed.

For his part, the professor, taking his place behind the podium and seeing how packed the auditorium actually was, was happy enough to see that his aide had saved a seat for him with her belongings - namely, a purse and a couple of heavy-looking books. He then coughed into his fist to clear his throat before leaning forward towards the microphone. 

"First of all, forgive me for the delay," he opened simply with. "I am Azar al-Sanaa, the Professor of Occult Studies at this most prestigious university. I can actually see some of my students here. Good. As with all things, I ask them to take what is said here today with a large grain of salt." He paused to give a pleasant smile before continuing. 

"This evening, I am honored by Miskatonic University to introduce a most powerful voice in my field. He has written numerous articles and three novels on the related subjects and has personally investigated the kind of strange occurrences and phenomena that scholars of the occult dream of. He is here now to give us a lecture on the unseen forces that affect us everyday, how deeply rooted they are in power structures around the globe, and if we're lucky enough to have time, his thoughts on the Wilfred Vellum that I'm sure many of you heard was uncovered a few years back. So, without further delay, Detective Michael Raimi."

The audience applauded Raimi encouragingly, and as the professor passed, Azar looked at him with a naturally blank face and gave him the subtlest of winks. The Wilfred Vellum was a collection of writings that detailed strange medieval rituals uncovered in Germany during the war. The professor was more than aware that the detective had plagiarized two of his essays on the subject, but whether he had brought it up out of mischief or malice was anyone's guess. The foreigner made his way down the stage and quickly found himself taking his spot in the auditorium next to Suzanne. 

"You look quite lovely this evening, my dear," Azar said before sitting down next to her. In actuality, it looked as if she had gone out of her way to appear as plain as possible. Her hair was frizzy as always, and she was wearing a simple plaid blouse on top of which was a brown overshirt. She was also wearing a khaki skirt that came all the way down to her ankles and a pair of unremarkable brown dress shoes.

"Don't try to c-calm me down," the girl replied in a hushed voice, clearly still offended. 

"Is that not my job?"

"You were gone for ages! I b-believe I've gained a stalker."

Azar turned his head back at that and, without even needing to search and scan, uncannily and immediately locked eyes with the aspiring poet several rows back. Turning back towards the stage just as quickly, he leaned his head in Suzanne's direction to talk further, "A mysterious admirer?"

"He won't stop looking at me..."

"Perhaps, I'll invite him to the house with us after the lecture," Azar replied impishly.

"Don't be d-d-daft!"

The Detective chose to ignore the professor warning his students to take the speech with a dose of salt, but the mention of the Wilfred Vellum was a purposeful jab, and he knew so quite well. The author may have more than generously borrowed from some of the professor's own works, and perhaps the eastern man was less than enthused about it. Ah, but then, that would imply the good Professor Azar had read Raimi's works. Just how far reaching his pathetic scribbles were impressed even Raimi himself.

The journalist shrugged off his coat, draping it across an unused chair behind him on the stage, the sort of chair normally occupied by a Dean or other figure of import during speeches of value, the sort of chair that no self respecting person would be using during a half baked lecture on speculative subjects.

Bearing countenance to the crowd of anticipatory shadows before me, my fingers fished a trusty companion from the recesses of my pocket, teasing a worn notepad into my waiting grip. Within its confines lay a bevy of writings and scribbles, thoughts prepared to guide my feeble mind through the trials of the evening. My calloused thumb opens the book to a familiar page, whereupon my eyes fall upon-- oh, fuck me.

Michael's brow furrowed. At some distant time he couldn't recall, in some location he did not remember, a brown liquid had soiled his trusty notes. The writing inside was illegible, runs of black on a once white page. The man gave a deep sigh, and looked over the waiting crowd. He would have to improvise.

Tucking the ruined pad of paper back into his pants pocket, he began: "Followers of the Occult like the Professor and myself, even all of you here tonight. We're a rather interesting sort, I think. The occult itself is... its the unknown. We use such clever words to describe it. Words like 'para-normal', 'super-natural', magic, mysticism. Words that inherently define it as beyond Man's understanding, and above the domain of normalcy.

But for us to follow the occult, we must learn of it. Tame the unknown, understand it. Gaining knowledge is one of the finer pursuits our kind can engage in. And these things, the occult, so poorly understood by its very definition, is one of the things we strive the hardest to understand. How curious that when more practical pursuits call to us, the safe, the known, the easy, we as a species will continue to demand to exert our power over the unknown by understanding it. Taming it.

It's the epitome of naivete, to think we as humans could ever tame the unknown. The words, again, 'para-normal' ,'Super-natural". These are terrible descriptors. We call the occult, the unknown forces surrounding and permeating our supposedly safe little world, these things so that we might distance it from the status quo. Claim it to be beyond what should naturally occur. But strange things happen every day. A man in his full health may suddenly die and look to all the world as if his life had been drained from his very body.

Tomorrow, you may hear on the radio of a woman spontaneously combusting in her own home, with not a medical mind in the country, even one from an establishment as fine as the Miskatonic, able to explain the why's and how's of it.

The day after, a distant acquaintance may go off into the woods in  search of game only to never return, and within the week those who name him will simply forget, his name to escape from memory, with nary a thought put toward it.

The bizarre occurs every day, with the dull and simple among us simply thinking 'oh, the more learned will understand, its not for me to know.', while the rest of us pursue forbidden knowledge, demanding explanations, striving to understand things mankind was never meant to know.

And these things, these oddities occuring all around us? There are far from supernatural. Not even nearing paranormal. These oddities are every bit as normal and natural as you or I, unseen forces swirling about our inner spirits, pushing the will of nature, or perhaps of an angry God upon our world.

Dear fellows, can one of you explain why tonight is so, quite cold? Why, experts on the matter have insisted to me that the weather should be quite warmer by now. Isn't that odd?"

Raimi afforded himself a chuckle. A few explorative minds in the crowd had enamoured themselves with the belief that the weather could be something more diabolic. His thoughts lingered briefly on how simple the crowd was to have ventured into the web of words he spun. But tired students will look for any escape, and that made his job as simple as a clever word and a sly smile.

Now that he had them hooked, Raimi went on at some length for nearing an hour, discussing sites of geological bizarrity, and events of unexplainable oddity, explaining the ever present forces at work, teasing at the presence of omnipotent or all knowing beings cleverly imparting their will upon mankind.

The Detective twisted his arm to check his watch. It hadn't moved a second. His tired mind strained in confusion, racing to understand before he recalled that it had broken some hours previously. Regardless, he cracked his face into a contented expression.

"I do believe I have wasted quite enough of your time, ladies and gentleman. But I will remind you, fear the unknown. The unknown is the only thing you should truly be afraid of to begin with. But always remember, braveness is to fear as the head of a coin is to its tail. I bid you all a good ni--"

"What about the Wilfred Vellum?!" came a stark cry from the crowd.

Raimi's eyes scanned for the voice that had called out, unable to find it in the audience. "Well," he began. He imagined the Professor must have been profoundly pleased that he had been put on the spot so thoroughly.

Michael smiled confidently, one hand in his pocket, staring bravely at the crowd, masking his panic behind impenetrable confidence. "A ponderous tome discovered by an antique dealer. Remarkably convenient. Make no mistake, there are those who are quite willing to exploit your desire to learn the unlearnable. I do believe in the future history will remember it as the 'Voynich Manuscript', after the hack who no doubt penned it.

However," Raimi teased "If the writing were real, and I'm not saying it is, it would have to be very old. Penned in a language that no man alive still speaks, holding unimaginable secrets the likes of which our kind was not meant to know. Why... Do you know what I rather believe?"

The crowd was visibly on edge, eager to hear of some untold secret.

"Well, of course you don't. And if you want to find out, order one of my books at your first convenience. Stay scared, kids. Have a good night."

The patience of the beholder
and the beauty of the beheld
shall ever grow colder
with my love overcome.

The season change
and leaves scatter asunder
as the beauty of the beheld
beats the beholder's head til numb.


It seemed as if ages had passed before a man--the same, brown-skinned man from outside--entered the auditorium and made his way onto the stage. The man introduced himself as a professor of the university and announced that the lecture for the evening was to commence at this time. "So, without further delay, Detective Michael Raimi."

The professor swapped places with the other man he was talking with just outside moments before, and headed right for the young woman that Benji had been eyeing. Benji watched as the two had a hushed conversation, and strained his ears to listen, but to no avail. As if the professor knew he was trying to spy on them, he turned back and stared right at Benji for a few seconds before returning his attention to the woman.

The detective--Michael Raimi--had now began his lecture on stage, and all focus on anything else was dropped entirely. The detective spoke forever on the topic of the occult, and how the "para-normal" and "super-natural" were not para- or super- at all. Just rarities in every day life. Benji became enamored by the detective's words, and glanced back at the woman now and again to see if she was also so inclined.

Mr. Raimi ended his lecture with a shameless self-promotion, but that did not matter to Benji, because he was already planning on scooping up every written word that the man had to offer.

The detective exited the stage, and the crowd of students sat in silence. Enthralled from the lecture and also with a confused air of "Now what?" Benji, himself, was suffering from an internal dilemma of whether he should go speak with the woman or go chase down after the detective. Both options could lead to promising or humiliating outcomes. Was the risk actually worth it?

The young man thought back on his life. Lonely, monotonous, sheltered. Benji had always resigned himself to follow the path of his Uncle, because at least that would be secure; but times were changing and Benji no longer wanted to be recognized as a closet poet. He wanted what the detective had. People clamoring over themselves to get a better listen to his words. Life experiences filled with madness and wonder. And women. Probably loads of women.

Then he thought back on his parents, whom had disappeared without a trace when small Benji was only three years old. He had only been told that his mother and father had gone off on a business trip and never returned. His father's business associates, when questioned, had stated his parents had not even shown up for their planned meeting. Benji wanted to ask Michael Raimi about this. What could it mean. What could have happened. A bit of closure would be nice after so many years guessing, only to come up empty-handed and heavy-hearted.