Chapter 35: A Bargain from Beyond

“ ... the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts...”

— Screwtape, C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. First published by Geoffrey Bles, London, in 1942. Copyright © 1942 by C. S. Lewis; copyright restored © 1996 by C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Published in the United States by HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.

The journey from Dreibruch to Wolcott Manor felt longer than Silas remembered. Was that because he was leaving behind his allies in this personal crusade he was one, or was it possibly because he was excited about the book Thomas wrote him about?

The more likely reason was that anticipation had transformed every mile into an irritation much like when he was a child and did not like to endure the wait from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

None of that mattered though; after all, he was very nearly home. The manor emerged beyond the trees just as dusk began settling across the countryside.

The place was a welcome sight and took his mind off of all the strange new happenings he had been a part of as of late.

He left the carriage in great haste and ascended through the front door. When he did not see Thomas in the foyer to greet him, he assumed he was in the study.

Thomas Wilson waited beside the desk like Silas thought. A large package rested upon the workspace’s polished surface.

“Is that it?”

Thomas nodded. “It is.”

Silas carefully removed the wrapping. The volume beneath appeared older than he had expected.

The leather binding was dark with age. The corners had been worn smooth by hands long dead. No title adorned the cover, yet somehow the absence of a title made it more unsettling. It was a substantial work with many pages, and therefore, a heft to the paper.

“I will say that Mr. Huntington advised against this book, sir.” Thomas said. “And while I have not looked at the work myself, I will say that there feels an evil to this book.”

Silas sighed.

“I do understand your concern, Thomas, but we are too deep to stop now.”

Thomas shook his head.

“When someone thinks there is not other choice, that is when things become dangerous, Mr. Wolcott. Look at what happened with Princess Sophia. My instincts say that this discovery you are doing and that book will only lead to more death.”

Silas looked from the book to his butler and friend.

“Maybe, but to do nothing leads to the death of all humanity, Thomas. You know that I know this. I saw it.”

“That does not mean I have to like it.”

Silas heard those words and nodded. He would not fight with Thomas. The trust of Thomas Wilson was too great a thing to set aside, so Silas inclined his head toward the butler and spoke.

“You might be right to stay away. I need to go on in this investigation, my friend. I ask that you keep managing the house. If I am wrong about all of this, I will need a place to return.”

“You want things to stay as they are and for there to be a home for you to return to?” Thomas wondered.

“I suppose that is one way to put it,” Silas said with a laugh.

Thomas grabbed Silas by the hand.

“This is serious, Mr. Wolcott. Please, be careful.”

Silas could see all of the loving care that Thomas had for him, and he would not disrespect the man who showed him the affection of an uncle.

“You have my word.”

The laboratory was silent save for the faint ticking of a brass clock and the distant groan of timbers settling within the ancient university building.

Dean Theophilus Ashcombe stood alone before the apparatus.

For the few days that Silas had been gone, he had labored over the construction personally. He did not want anyone other than himself, Silas, and Kaufman.

He made the doorway out of copper with silver intertwined. In a way, it reminded him of a wooden rectangular portal one might find in the woods as a child.

He had found the note left for him by Silas, with the symbols on the crown, and the translation that the old man had left her. After this, Ashcombe consulted one of the linguist instructors in the university.

That helped Ashcombe plan to understand the language. The man (some Professor Gibbons or some such) helped make a working alphabet and shorthand for phrases.

Language stood with mathematics as mysticism was surely being sprinkled in. Reason was accompanied by madness for these breakthroughs.

The Dean stared at his construction. What was made here was his chance to see a greater, outer world.

His heart hammered against his ribs at the thought, the chance at discovery, what it could mean for the world at large, and how he might still become more famous for this.

“By the will of Yog-Sothoth, we seek travel.”

The opening widened, glistening with a glittery blue liquid. A cold breeze overtook the private lab.

He did not know how, but Ashcombe knew that he was no longer alone. Some unknown sense of his allowed him to know that some unseen, intelligent presence was there, and this vast being was large enough to make his own mind feel embarrassingly small.

When he was starting to feel a cold fear creep from his heart into his throat, a pale shape emerged from the void.

They were silver-white and smooth, standing on two legs, but rather than two arms, there were six. Two were at the shoulder, two where the ribs should be, and two coming from the back

The smoothness that he noted earlier was seamless and terribly still.

The being resembled neither man nor beast wholly in his mind, for its form possessed an unsettling symmetry that seemed almost human while remaining entirely alien.

Part of him, within his heart or mind, spoke to himself to say that this creature did not have veins or blood in its body but truth that flowed beneath the thin layer of skin. Like a tree with bugs, parasites crawled beneath marble epidermis.

Ashcombe immediately knew one thing for all of these facts: This was not the being from his dreams.

The realization struck him with peculiar force, causing him to realize how in danger he truly way.