The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery Read online

  “Finish it.”

  The book . . . sitting in the bottom drawer of his desk at the museum. He continued to sip his drink. The edges of his vision blurred. He shook his head, closing his eyes.

  “Doing okay?” the bartender asked.

  Capshaw opened his eyes. He turned to face the bartender. It wasn’t the man with the benign face. It was the Mad Arab, dark skin camouflaged with the atmosphere. The smile was bright and wide. Too bright for Capshaw’s taste, like two dim lights shining from a dark tunnel.

  “That which eternal lies . . .” the man said.

  “Excuse me?” Capshaw asked.

  A feeling of cold dread moved up his arms and into the back of his head. Alarm bells sounded. He did his best to ignore them.

  “The second gate is open already,” the Mad Arab said. “Yog-Sothoth is proud of you. Harken to the spells of the cosmos, Mr. Capshaw.” Abdul Alhazred smiled wider. “Such sights and sounds await this world. Look around. We can accomplish a lot together, you and me. Hasten the process, so to speak. The Outer Gods are anxious to get through. It’s taken a long time to get them this far, but there’s plenty to do. I need you to help me, jot it down. Record it. Immortalize it. There is much to document. Information we don’t want to lose. Will you help me?”

  This wasn’t happening. He was experiencing a fantasy from the book. The thing was more powerful than he’d thought. He was feeling feverish again. He put the glass, still cold with ice, to his forehead and closed his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, under a spell. “I understand.”

  Just as quickly, he snapped out of it. He opened his eyes.

  “I mean . . . no,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  “No matter, Mr. Capshaw. Your services will be required whether you like it or not. Enjoy yourself. Have another drink.”

  He’d been trying to do that. The periphery of his vision was bending. The floor was moving in slow circles. A strange, dream-like reality moved around him—all too real.

  He tried to move off the stool. The music was coming down a very long tunnel. He turned, thinking if he could see the door it would help him to his feet. He was able to move enough. A figure stood in front of it. He couldn’t see its face, a tall, dark figure with dim, luminescent eyes. It didn’t seem to have a face.

  “What . . . do I owe you?” he tried to say.

  He reached into his wallet before the bartender, the first one, told him he’d paid already.

  “Mac, are you all right?” the bartender asked. “Leaving already?”

  Capshaw looked up. It was the Mad Arab again. The man was smiling. Capshaw tried digging into his wallet, but he’d already paid. The bills were sitting on the counter.

  “He makes a large path,” the Mad Arab said. “But The Necronomicon is just the beginning. Experiential knowledge. That is what it craves. It’s not enough to worship. You must encounter the Outer God. Face to face.”

  He looked to the door again. The figure was gone. Nothing but his imagination, or so he told himself. A series of warped images in succession moved in the air, phantasmagoria before his eyes. It was like being yanked into an alternate reality. He’d been fine before, studying the ancient text, but now he couldn’t help but wonder. Did he think he was exempt from its warnings? That he could resist?

  “Mac, you need me to call you a cab?” the bartender asked. Capshaw was relieved to see it was the bartender he’d seen when he first walked in. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m okay,” Capshaw said, putting a hand to his head. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  The strange, warping reality bent the atmosphere again.

  “Just need some air,” he said.

  That was a good excuse.

  “You sure?” the bartender asked.

  Capshaw nodded and forced a smile. His personality was being pushed aside, making room for another.

  Ruins appeared in the bar. Sand. Something strange about the stones and archways. He was in the Middle East, but his sense of time altered his sense of equilibrium. He was farther away from Innsport than he realized.

  The archways were too low for the likes of a human being. They were small, as if the city had been built for children.

  “Or reptiles,” said something in his ear.

  The doorways, catacombs, entranceways, owned the sense that something had lived here at one time. They might’ve been the same size as Capshaw, but they weren’t the same height.

  “See?” the Mad Arab told him. “This is one of many places throughout history.” Capshaw couldn’t see him. “You understand. You see. These are the ruins of the Nameless City. We cannot allow it to be forgotten. This is what the book is about. I need your help, Mr. Capshaw. I need your help preserving a history of the black earth. You see how important it is? I can go places, see things no one has ever seen. But I need help. I need you to help me preserve it. For the . . . museum.”

  He could see the Mad Arab smile in his mind’s eye.

  “This is madness,” Capshaw said.

  Abdul smiled. “Perhaps. Madness is its own form of enlightenment. You will be rewarded by Yog-Sothoth. Is there anything greater?”

  The spell was taking him. The monoliths defied reality. Capshaw could see their history, the lush gardens they’d been, the reptilian people who’d lived here.

  On the horizon, a mound of bluish-green orbs began to glow. Orbs made of some substance, alien to earth. It looked like a colony of egg sacs, but they weren’t eggs. The buildings of Innsport hovered behind them.

  He had to get away! Away from the Mad Arab and the book. It was more powerful than he’d thought. He’d underestimated it. Whatever was on the horizon was too large for him to see. Its enormity dwarfed him. It spilled from the past into the future, coming from the farthest reaches of space.

  It had landed in Innsport.

  Capshaw pulled himself off the stool and ran out of the bar.

  The laughter of the Mad Arab followed him.

  Chapter 8

  Macky grabbed his lock-picking set from the desk drawer. Sometimes you just got a feeling you were going to need it. He left the office early the next morning, one of the few times he got there before Millie. Duke and Newt had notified him of another murder. He was on Humboldt and 63rd Street in the alley behind Hang-and-Dri, a laundry shop on the east side of town. Duke and Newt were with him.

  It was Muncie Cross, one of the local officers at the precinct. Cross’ body was face down in the middle of the alley, his dark blue hat a few feet away. A pool of blood spilled from his head. A blanket lay over the body. Macky knelt, lifted one side, and looked under it. He made no expression and put the blanket down.

  Duke lit a cigarette from his own and handed it to Macky. Macky took it and rolled it between his fingers.

  People were milling about. Word had spread. Several reporters were jotting things down. Cameras flashed.

  “Get these reporters out of here,” Duke said, motioning to the people. Other officers were guarding the area. “Come on, come on.”

  “There’s nothing to see here,” one of the other officers, Jolves, said to the crowd. “Let’s show a little respect, huh?”

  The people took a few steps back.

  “Does this look like a connection to last night’s murder, detective?”

  Frye W. Fields was a journalist for The Innsport Gazette. He wore a light gray coat and hat. He was a shorter man, clean, studious looking, with small round spectacles. He carried a notepad and pencil, jotting things down with the casual air of an experienced reporter. He had a young face but a deep, intelligent look in his light blue eyes. Macky thought of rain clouds every time he saw him.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do, Fields?” Duke asked.

  Frye looked confused. “Is this linked to the other murder? Do you have any leads?”

  “Not for you, I don’t,” Duke said.

  Frye gave an ingratiating smile. “One of yours?”

  Duke
stared at Frye for a long time. He wasn’t obligated to chat. Whatever he said would be embellished for the local rag anyway. Frye had enemies. But it sold papers.

  “What’s the scoop?” the reporter asked.

  “A wild animal,” Macky said. “Maybe.”

  Frye raised his eyebrows. “Rabies?”

  Macky looked at Frye. “Yeah. Maybe the two of you are related.”

  “Can’t you shoot it? Put poison in the dog food or something?”

  “We tried that,” Duke said. “You didn’t go for it.”

  Macky stood up and grinned. “I like your style lately, Duke.”

  “You got to make the most of the little things, Dev. It’s putting people like Frye in place that give this job a silver lining.”

  “Do I print something about a rabid dog?” Frye asked. “That doesn’t sound very interesting. Local Killer sounds much better.”

  “The Innsport Gazette has turned to fiction to sell, Dev,” Duke said. “What do you think of that?”

  “They’re competing with Weird Tales Magazine. They have to do something.”

  “We got ourselves a war,” Newt said, “and I think the good guys are winning.”

  “Is that why you brought Macky in, Duke?” Frye asked.

  Duke shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Oh, come on!” Frye said, and smiled wide. “You’re becoming a household name, Dev. Dagon a few years ago, that Arkham business over the spring. And now this. Supernatural Sleuth is making the rounds.”

  “Don’t call me Dev, Small-Frye,” Macky said. “That’s for close acquaintances. It’s Mr. Macky to you.”

  “I got bills to pay, too, you know?” Frye said.

  “Bribery or . . . bribery?” Macky said.

  “Integrity, honor, and decency aren’t part of Fry’s vocab,” Duke said. “Only embellishment, imagination, and greed. Isn’t that what lights up your eyes, Frye? You are a perfect product of the corrupt system. Truth has no place where you stand. Neither does integrity.”

  “You don’t have to be insulting.”

  “You have a price,” Macky said. “Most people do. You just wear yours for all to see.”

  “Millie would be proud, Dev,” Newt said.

  “I can add plenty to give you a bad name, Macky,” Frye told him. “All three of you. I got clout, you know? I know the higher-ups.”

  “Did the Captain and Mayor invite you on the cruise, too?” Macky asked.

  “I’ll write something you won’t like. You won’t like it at all.”

  “My nerves are rattled,” Macky said.

  “Cut it out, both of you,” Duke said. “My head’s ringing with all the bantering. And the ambulance is here.”

  —

  Macky looked at Frye W. Fields as his photographer, Elvis, snapped pictures. Eventually, they both walked away. In the alley, he noticed a figure standing in the entranceway of the laundromat. It was looking at him. Was it a figure, a human being, or something else? It was tall, dark, and shadowy whatever it was. Two luminescent eyes peered from a faceless smudge of black.

  “Dev, you all right?” Duke asked. He turned to where Macky was looking, then back at the P.I. “Dev? What are you looking at?”

  Macky stared for a long time. He blinked. “Huh? Sorry, Duke. Lost in space.”

  “Is it starting to wear on you?” Duke asked. “I understand if it is. It would me.”

  “No. I’m . . . fine. Thought I saw something.”

  A dreamlike quality entered his brain. “Look, Duke, I’ll get back to you on this . . .”

  “We’ll take it from here, Dev,” Duke said. “I just wanted you to see it.”

  Macky nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m going to check on Capshaw and see if he’s found anything. I’m not sure what else I can do at the moment.”

  “Be careful, huh?”

  “You do the same.” He tipped his hat to Duke and Newt and wandered off.

  His spine was cold. He looked back to where the figure had been.

  It was gone.

  —

  He drove the coupe to the Natural History Museum, got out, and made his way to the entrance. He hoped Millie wasn’t worried about him, not being at the office. He should’ve left a note.

  Deb wasn’t at the desk. Nobody else was either. It was just as well.

  He took the elevator to the second floor, got off, made his way down the hall, and knocked on Capshaw’s door.

  There was no answer. The door was ajar.

  Macky pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Creighton?” he said.

  The office was empty. Macky looked for The Necronomicon. He didn’t see it. He looked along the shelves and filing cabinets. He was invading the man’s privacy, but if he got caught, he’d explain himself. He opened each drawer of Capshaw’s desk. Papers, file folders, manillas, knick-knacks, various bric-a-brac. No ancient book. The bottom drawer of the desk was open. A lock was hanging from it, but it was broken. The drawer was hanging out of the desk about six inches. He looked inside. Nothing but a few file folders and some documents, parchment, even a scroll.

  He stepped out of the office.

  Nails clipped along the marble floor.

  “Show yourself, and let’s get this over with,” he said.

  A shadow emerged on the wall along the hallway, a green glow. The shape was a large dog, the build of a Doberman: large ears, stubby tail, but bigger.

  The beast took several steps, lowered its head, and paused.

  Macky took several steps backwards. Then turned and ran for the elevator. He heard the thing coming after him, nails scrambling along the floor. He looked behind him.

  Was that a green glow in a cloud of fog?

  Inside the elevator, he turned and close the cage doors. He pressed the button for the first floor. The elevator started to move. It stopped when he made it to the first floor. The doors opened. A security guard was standing in the lobby.

  “Hello,” the man said.

  He looked familiar. The hairs on the back of Macky’s neck stood up. He looked at the nametag:

  Wilbur.

  “Hello,” Macky said. “Could you tell me how to find Mr. Capshaw? He wasn’t in his office. I’m a private investigator.” He pulled out his identification and showed him. “Devlin Macky. He’s doing some research for me. I was just wondering how he was coming along.”

  “I haven’t seen him today.”

  “His office door was open. Doesn’t he usually leave it locked?”

  The man frowned. “I would think so. I’ll double-check.”

  Macky nodded. “I guess it’s against company policy to give out his address?”

  “I’m afraid so,” the man said. “If you were the police or could prove you were working for them, I could give it to you. But I could lose my job.”

  “What if I told you it was a matter of life and death?”

  The man smiled. It made the hairs on the back of Macky’s neck stand up.

  “If I put my job on the line, the answer is still no. You should probably leave well enough alone, anyway. Much of this doesn’t concern you.”

  Macky stared at the man for a long time. A smell was coming off him he was starting to grow familiar with: a tarry sort of stickiness. He wasn’t too fond of the look in the man’s eyes either.

  “I understand perfectly,” Macky said. “I’ll let myself out.”

  The man nodded and smiled.

  “Have a nice day,” Macky told him.

  —

  He stepped outside. The wind was blowing, a cool October day. He put the collar of his trench coat up. He went to the nearest phone booth, stepped inside, and grabbed the telephone directory. He opened it and looked under the letter C. He found it and saw the address. 117 Asherton Place. Apt 14C.

  Macky memorized the number, stepped out of the phone booth, and got in the car. There was that smell again, even outside.

  Macky put the car in gear and drove to Capshaw’s apartment.
/>
  —

  “Mr. Capshaw?” Macky said, knocking on the door. “It’s Devlin Macky. Are you in there?”

  There was no answer. He put his ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Capshaw?”

  He pulled the lock-picking set out of his inside pocket. He inserted two of the tools into the lock. He wiggled some, pulled another, heard a click, and turned the knob. The door opened easily. Macky stepped inside.

  “Mr. Capshaw? Are you in here? Sorry to barge in. Just making sure all is well. Hello!”

  The place was much like the man’s office: books, artifacts, trinkets, and history. It smelled the same: coffee, cigars, some sort of oil polish, and leather. Something else all museum curator’s had: the smell of the past.

  A lamp was on in the room to his right. He stopped to listen. Someone was muttering under his breath and scribbling at the same time.

  Another smell was here, too, that faint aroma he’d first noticed in the alleyway: tarry stickiness.

  “Mr. Capshaw?”

  He turned into the room where the lamp was. Capshaw was hunched over a small desk, scribbling. His profile was in view. His tongue was clenched between his teeth, eyes alight. They weren’t blue; they were black. He looked disheveled, face glossy with sweat. This wasn’t the benign and friendly Creighton Capshaw Macky had come to know.

  “Creighton?”

  The man didn’t respond. He continued to scribble.

  “Creighton! It’s me. Devlin Macky. You didn’t show up for work today, naughty boy. I was worried someone might’ve broken into your office and taken the book. I don’t see it anywhere. Are you okay?”

  It was dark inside with the curtains drawn—only the single lamp. He stepped in and looked closer at what Capshaw was scribbling. Pages were stacked beside him. His eyes widened. He could see the handwriting. It wasn’t Capshaw’s. There were drawings, faces, symbols, the same ones he’d seen at Rhode Island Books.