Arkham, Massachusetts - September, 1928
When Henry Armitage returned to Arkham after that dreadful Dunwich night, he did not quite have it in him to go directly back to his home. The things that he and Rice and Morgan had seen were more than even the most rational of men could put behind him at a single go. Better to return to the world of everyday men in steps, rather than bring the full hideousness of memory crashing down at the wrong time. He therefore took his leave of his colleagues when they reached the university campus, making instead for the place where such things could best be put behind him. It was no very great surprise to him to see the light burning in the third-floor window of Stantz's office. A sudden urge for some form of companionship seized him at the familiar sight.
His assistant did not seem very surprised at all to see Armitage back, nor did he take any particular startlement at the older man's state of mind. Stantz indicated that Armitage should settle himself in one of the office chairs and set about the business of making Turkish coffee in a small copper ewer over a purloined Bunsen burner. Only once the whole business was underway did he seat himself to listen to the tale, excusing himself only to pour the stuff out when it was done. He showed no sign of disbelief at Armitage's words, nor any trepidation or revulsion, though some resigned weariness touched his features more than once. It was perhaps that which drove Armitage to describe the events at Sentinel Hill in their fullest detail, as he hoped on some level to provoke a greater response than that, but the only response was a kind of recognition. At last, irrationally provoked beyond endurance, Armitage broke out: "Damn it, Stantz, what is it with you? What happened out there drove good men to- to-"
"I know, Dr. Armitage," said Stantz quietly. "I know, believe me."
"You look as if you expected this to happen," Armitage said. "I don't believe you were even surprised when Nero brought Whateley down last month, either."
"I wasn't," said Stantz. "A little disgusted, maybe, since that was really a mess, but-"
"I suppose you'll tell me next that this was all the sort of thing you read about in your leisure time." Armitage's tone was a little dry, perhaps more than he'd intended, but Stantz seemed not to notice.
"No, leisure time's for science books. The stuff in the Restricted Section's for on-the-job reading."
Armitage considered this, his drink all but forgotten. "I'd wondered," he said, "how you knew not to let Wilbur in there, back in January. You didn't sound at all as if it were only a matter of precaution."
"Nope, it wasn't." Stantz sipped at his coffee, seeming not to notice that he'd got some of its foam on the end of his nose. "I knew the part of the book he was after, and it wasn't the kind of thing that anybody who wanted to know that stuff ought to be allowed to know."
"Except yourself?"
"That's different. I wanted to know what the book contained, not how to go about using those contents. Not to mention that I knew the dangers inherent in the act of reading that kind of material to begin with."
"And yet," said Armitage thoughtfully, "you seem to have gone ahead with it anyway; not to mention your other reading. I wonder, Stantz, just how much of the works in that section you've read by now."
The silence that followed was disquieting, not so much for its length as for the look of consideration on Stantz's face. "Nearly all of them," he said at last. "Although I can't honestly claim to have gotten very far with the one we got in about two weeks ago, from the Copeland estate- what? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No man with so much as an ounce of sense ought to treat such books so casually," said Armitage, who didn't know the look on his face and in truth didn't much care. "As if the things they speak of- Stantz, I've read barely enough pages in the Necronomicon to do a translator's work on the cipher the Whateley boy left, and what I've learned's been enough to give me nightmares the rest of my days. What's wrong with you, man?"
Again a silence followed that stretched out over the moments, but this time, consideration was replaced by that old, tired recognition. Eventually Stantz put down his coffee and spoke.
"Dr. Armitage, there is in every human being a certain facility that most never use, and are almost never aware of," he said at last. "A capacity, however latent, for the perception and influence of things unseen, of the marvels and horrors of the hidden world. It's a subtle, almost undetectable thing, but it's very much present and very much real, as much so as the lateral line of fishes and the earthquake-sense of dogs and birds. In the vast majority of human beings it's never developed any further than the sense of cold, nameless dread or the prickling of the hairs at the back of the neck when something inexplicable passes nearby. In some it's more developed. The knacks that spirit mediums pretend to are its natural outgrowth. The prophecies of the sibyls of Rome and the oracle at Delphi were nothing more than an extension of that capacity into the realm of sight, so that they might see in time what you and I see only in space. The human brain has this capacity simply by virtue of being alive."
"Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was present at an event whose consequences would have been as catastrophic as the failure to destroy that horror at Sentinel Hill had things not been averted. You had your texts and the powder of Ibn Ghazi to work with tonight. We had only a single artifact among the five of us- an object I won't describe, except to say that it wouldn't be amiss to call it the key to Armageddon. In the wrong hands, obviously, it could be used to bring about the unmaking of everything that you and I hold dear, but in the right hands, like any other key, it could lock a door to that unmaking away. That use required something from each of us, a measure of strength or health or life- it's hard to say, since the sacrifice was different for each one of us. I was the third of the five to take up the key."
Stantz leaned back in his chair; his gaze drifted to some unknowable point in the darkness beyond the library walls.
"It reached into every particle of my being in a single instant and took what it needed from me, and what it needed was that nameless capacity- all of it. Past, present, and future. The inexplicable ability is that place where the things of worlds and powers beyond mankind's understanding can come closest to our own everyday realm, for good or ill- and in the instant that I laid my hands on the Key it took that from me, and all potential for ever achieving it. That natural faculty for the inexplicable of all human beings hasn't been a part of me in decades. I could read any of the books in the Restricted Section aloud, at the top of my lungs, on the darkest night of the year in the queerest and most sinister places on Earth, and nothing more would come of it than a touch of laryngitis."
He pulled his attention back to the here and now and smiled a little, but it wasn't a very convincing look. Had the events in Dunwich not left him half-numbed inside, Armitage would have almost felt pity for the man. As it stood he could only shake his head in wonder, and pass him a napkin for the foam that still clung to the end of his nose; but after that he did not feel any particular need to bother Stantz again about his reading habits.
His assistant did not seem very surprised at all to see Armitage back, nor did he take any particular startlement at the older man's state of mind. Stantz indicated that Armitage should settle himself in one of the office chairs and set about the business of making Turkish coffee in a small copper ewer over a purloined Bunsen burner. Only once the whole business was underway did he seat himself to listen to the tale, excusing himself only to pour the stuff out when it was done. He showed no sign of disbelief at Armitage's words, nor any trepidation or revulsion, though some resigned weariness touched his features more than once. It was perhaps that which drove Armitage to describe the events at Sentinel Hill in their fullest detail, as he hoped on some level to provoke a greater response than that, but the only response was a kind of recognition. At last, irrationally provoked beyond endurance, Armitage broke out: "Damn it, Stantz, what is it with you? What happened out there drove good men to- to-"
"I know, Dr. Armitage," said Stantz quietly. "I know, believe me."
"You look as if you expected this to happen," Armitage said. "I don't believe you were even surprised when Nero brought Whateley down last month, either."
"I wasn't," said Stantz. "A little disgusted, maybe, since that was really a mess, but-"
"I suppose you'll tell me next that this was all the sort of thing you read about in your leisure time." Armitage's tone was a little dry, perhaps more than he'd intended, but Stantz seemed not to notice.
"No, leisure time's for science books. The stuff in the Restricted Section's for on-the-job reading."
Armitage considered this, his drink all but forgotten. "I'd wondered," he said, "how you knew not to let Wilbur in there, back in January. You didn't sound at all as if it were only a matter of precaution."
"Nope, it wasn't." Stantz sipped at his coffee, seeming not to notice that he'd got some of its foam on the end of his nose. "I knew the part of the book he was after, and it wasn't the kind of thing that anybody who wanted to know that stuff ought to be allowed to know."
"Except yourself?"
"That's different. I wanted to know what the book contained, not how to go about using those contents. Not to mention that I knew the dangers inherent in the act of reading that kind of material to begin with."
"And yet," said Armitage thoughtfully, "you seem to have gone ahead with it anyway; not to mention your other reading. I wonder, Stantz, just how much of the works in that section you've read by now."
The silence that followed was disquieting, not so much for its length as for the look of consideration on Stantz's face. "Nearly all of them," he said at last. "Although I can't honestly claim to have gotten very far with the one we got in about two weeks ago, from the Copeland estate- what? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No man with so much as an ounce of sense ought to treat such books so casually," said Armitage, who didn't know the look on his face and in truth didn't much care. "As if the things they speak of- Stantz, I've read barely enough pages in the Necronomicon to do a translator's work on the cipher the Whateley boy left, and what I've learned's been enough to give me nightmares the rest of my days. What's wrong with you, man?"
Again a silence followed that stretched out over the moments, but this time, consideration was replaced by that old, tired recognition. Eventually Stantz put down his coffee and spoke.
"Dr. Armitage, there is in every human being a certain facility that most never use, and are almost never aware of," he said at last. "A capacity, however latent, for the perception and influence of things unseen, of the marvels and horrors of the hidden world. It's a subtle, almost undetectable thing, but it's very much present and very much real, as much so as the lateral line of fishes and the earthquake-sense of dogs and birds. In the vast majority of human beings it's never developed any further than the sense of cold, nameless dread or the prickling of the hairs at the back of the neck when something inexplicable passes nearby. In some it's more developed. The knacks that spirit mediums pretend to are its natural outgrowth. The prophecies of the sibyls of Rome and the oracle at Delphi were nothing more than an extension of that capacity into the realm of sight, so that they might see in time what you and I see only in space. The human brain has this capacity simply by virtue of being alive."
"Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was present at an event whose consequences would have been as catastrophic as the failure to destroy that horror at Sentinel Hill had things not been averted. You had your texts and the powder of Ibn Ghazi to work with tonight. We had only a single artifact among the five of us- an object I won't describe, except to say that it wouldn't be amiss to call it the key to Armageddon. In the wrong hands, obviously, it could be used to bring about the unmaking of everything that you and I hold dear, but in the right hands, like any other key, it could lock a door to that unmaking away. That use required something from each of us, a measure of strength or health or life- it's hard to say, since the sacrifice was different for each one of us. I was the third of the five to take up the key."
Stantz leaned back in his chair; his gaze drifted to some unknowable point in the darkness beyond the library walls.
"It reached into every particle of my being in a single instant and took what it needed from me, and what it needed was that nameless capacity- all of it. Past, present, and future. The inexplicable ability is that place where the things of worlds and powers beyond mankind's understanding can come closest to our own everyday realm, for good or ill- and in the instant that I laid my hands on the Key it took that from me, and all potential for ever achieving it. That natural faculty for the inexplicable of all human beings hasn't been a part of me in decades. I could read any of the books in the Restricted Section aloud, at the top of my lungs, on the darkest night of the year in the queerest and most sinister places on Earth, and nothing more would come of it than a touch of laryngitis."
He pulled his attention back to the here and now and smiled a little, but it wasn't a very convincing look. Had the events in Dunwich not left him half-numbed inside, Armitage would have almost felt pity for the man. As it stood he could only shake his head in wonder, and pass him a napkin for the foam that still clung to the end of his nose; but after that he did not feel any particular need to bother Stantz again about his reading habits.