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  In sibilant, strangely hypnotic tones; he drew a pleasant picture of a well-endowed college, abounding in charming tradition, nested in the domed hills of Arkham, in Northern New England. He did not speak, that night, of what obnoxious horrors lay hidden within the ivy-strangled walls of the Library of Miskatonic. He told his fetching lies with brilliant ease. And, respite the warning voice of danger that had nagged me from the outset, in the end I sanctioned Claude’s choice. For, watching the frozen, grinning determination of his face, I knew I could never change his mind.

  *

  THAT first year at Miskatonic was a brilliant success; Claude’s grades were so far above average as to exact an enthusiastic, complimentary letter from the Dean of Men, I remember how the pallor, of doubt ebbed from Father’s face as he read that message; there was a child-like pride in the way he handed it to me. I myself, was inordinately pleased by this unqualified praise of Claude; the apprehension that had tortured me all that year, began to melt away. Then, I read the list of subjects, in which my brother had excelled, and the warm glow of the library hearth seemed to smother suddenly under an intangible, chill blanket of corruption. "Medieval Lore; Ancient Cults and Sects; History of Necromancy; Examination of Extant Literature on Witchcraft." The vile titles floated, smiling evilly, in the shadowed corners of the room. It was then that I realized the gross impudence, the monstrous significance of Claude’s selection of Miskatonic University.

  In his second, year at Miskatonic, Claude came home for the Christmas holidays. He had been at the Priory only three days when Father suffered a sudden and irreparable relapse.

  It was the argument that brought it on. I was passing the half-open library door when I heard Father’s voice. I turned in at the threshold, my cold-stiffened face had already wreathed in a holiday grin; then, I stopped. They had not heard me. Father sat slumped in a chair by his reading-table; in the lamplight his mouth looked twisted, his eyes anxious. A sickly pallor coated his parchment-dry skin. Claude, his back to me, stared silently at the raw orange corpse of a dying log in the fireplace.

  “Claude...." My father spoke thickly, as though some insupportable burden crushed his chest. “You must try to understand..."

  "I understand," Claude’s voice was barely audible, yet brutally hard.

  “No... You don’t..." Father waved an ineffectual, blue-veined hand. "You’ve got to see that I’m doing this for your own good. Yes; your mother left you some money in her will —she left equal amounts to you and your brother— but, it was put in trust, to be controlled by me, until you come of age, or... or, until I die.... Claude, you must stay at Miskatonic. You..."

  "I tell you I’m sick of college! I’ve learned all I can, there. I’ve got to have the money! I want, to travel. I want to see Tibet and China. I want to live in the Bayous and the Indies..." Abruptly, Claude spun to face Father. For the first, I saw the feverish, seething hate, the uncontrollable rage in his eyes. I watched my father wilt before the power of unhuman gaze. Claude’s voice rose to a demented, grinding cry. He lurched toward the cowering form in the chair. "I tell you, I’ve got to have that money!"

  “Claude!"

  As I stumbled into the room, bundles spilled from my arms. Tree-decorations crashed to the floor, splintering into myriad scarlet and green slivers. Claude stood frozen, only a few feet from the easy-chair. Terrified, prayerful relief flooded the wide eyes Father turned on me. He raised that hopeless, gentle hand as though he would speak, then suddenly sank back, death-pale and senseless, against the cushions of the chair. Choking with sick fury, I brushed past Claude, and knelt at my father’s side. The pulse in his withered wrist was pitifully feeble.

  “Why can’t you let him be?" I said hoarsely. "Why can’t you get the hell out of here, and let him alone?"

  “One way or the other," he said softly, "I mean to have what I want."

  Only the terrible urgency of Father’s condition enabled me to struggle to sanity through the cold, throttling web of terror

  Claude’s words had woven. Almost before the library door closed behind my brother, I had rung Dr. Ellerby’s number on the desk-phone. He came at once. He had grown fatter and nearly bald with the passage of years, but that night, as he prescribed a sedative and several days in bed for my father, there was in his jowly, florid visage the same impotent puzzlement I had seen there the night Mother died. In a professional, matter-of-fact tone, he advised that Father should have as little excitement as possible, and all the while I could feel him thinking that, here, in this ancient Priory, throve a malady that no worldly knowledge of medicine could cure.

  Doctor Ellerby called every evening; after each mechanical, forcedly-cheerful examination of his patient, he could come down to the library for a much-needed drink. I would watch the dejected slope of his shoulders, as he stood, before the casement, gazing at the winter-mauve shadows of the ash-grove. After a time, he would shake his head slowly and his voice would be heavy and beaten.

  "It’s so odd. I can’t explain it. I’ve known your father ever since he came to Inneswich; he never had a blood-condition. He has none now.... And yet, it's as though... well, as though, somehow, the blood were being drained from his body...."

  Sometimes his words varied; their hopeless, frustrated meaning was always the same. Ellerby’s tones echoed softly in some hidden corner of my brain, warping into the cold, venomous cadences of another voice. Once more I heard the brittle snapping of splintered Christmas decorations, under Claude’s shifting feet. I listened as the pale spectre of him murmured that hideous warning again and again. "One way or the other, I mean to have what I want..."

  It was on a sleet-chilled morning in mid-February that the letter arrived at Inneswich Priory. Addressed to, Father, it was signed by one Jonathan Wilder, Dean of Men, Miskatonic University. The expensive bond paper rustled faintly in my trembling fingers. Apprehension rose in a gelatinous tide, clogging my lungs. It was a short letter; the sentences were cryptic and strangely self-conscious. They said little, and yet, they hinted strongly at some darkling fear that haunted the mind of the writer. Jonathan Wilder confessed that what he had to say was not meant to be committed to paper. He said he would be grateful if Father would visit him in his office on the campus at Miskatonic, so that they might discuss in private the strange circumstances which had brought about this unfortunate turn of events in the college career of his son, Claude.

  Father never saw the letter. The next Saturday, I was aboard the late evening train bound for Arkham. I lay back wearily against the dusty green Pullman seat, and stared into the square of impenetrable night that was my window. I saw nothing of the spectral landscape through which the train rattled like some phosphorescent worm crawling endlessly in the subterranean darkness of a tomb. Before my burning, sleepless eyes, only the final sentence of Jonathan Wilder’s message writhed in a depraved, hypnotic danse macabre. "Believe me, I am indeed sorry to have to inform you that, after long deliberation, the Board of Directors can see no other course. Claude Ashur has been expelled from Miskatonic University."

  IV

  JONATHAN WILDER was a tall, cadaverous man who tried to hide the sombre distaste in his eyes behind a blinking barrier of pince-nez. He made a bony steeple of his fingers, and, for a long time, gazed wordlessly at the barren expanses of the university campus beyond the window. His eyes studied the distant, gray coldness of hills that hemmed in Arkham; they squinted against the icy glint of winter sun on the sluggish, winding ribbon of the Miskatonic. Then, abruptly, decisively, Jonathan Wilder turned back to me. He cleared his throat.

  "I do hope you’ll appreciate our position in this matter, Mr. Ashur. The Board has bent over backward to be lenient with your brother; they know what a brilliant mind he has. But...." He shrugged faintly, wiping the pince-nez on the sleeve of his oxford-gray coat. "The fact is, from the very beginning Claude has shown a rather... shall we say, unwholesome?... yes... a decidedly unwholesome interest in subjects that are directly opposed to the concepts of medic
al science. He has spent virtually all his time in the University Library..."

  "You... ah... You haven’t heard about the library here at Miskatonic, Mr. Ashur?... No I see you haven’t... Well, I might begin by saying that our library is reputed to contain the most extensive collection of forbidden and esoteric lore in existence today. Under lock-and-key, we have the only extant copies of such things as the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Juntz, and the loathsome Book of Eibon... Yes, even the dreadful Necronomicon..." I fancied that I saw an irrepressible shudder pass through Jonathan Wilder as he said those damnable names when he spoke again, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “Your brother, Mr. Ashur, has been seen to copy whole pages of that horrible lore. Once, long after, closing hours, one of our librarians—a wholely reliable girl, I assure you—found Claude Ashur crouched in a shadowy corner among the bookstacks, muttering some weird incantation. She swore his face was... not human..." The tall man drew a long shivering breath. "There are other stories, too. There have been whisperings of strange doings in your brother’s lodgings in Pickham Square. People speak of foul odors and whimpering agonized voices... Of course..." He raised one hand palm-up. “Some of this may be conjecture; possibly it’s been exaggerated. But, in any case, the tales about Claude Ashur are doing Miskatonic definite harm. Enrollment has fallen off. Students have left, midterm, without apparent reason, after a short period of friendliness with your brother. You see, the esoteric learning our library affords is all very well when assimilated by a normal mind.... But, a mind like Claude Ashur’s... He broke off, self consciously. “Well... I’m sure you see the point...."

  “Yes," I said, slowly. "Yes... I see..."

  *

  A MAN opened the door of Claude’s house, his unfriendly, age-scared face Stiffened at mention of the name.

  "Mr. Ashur’s out," he said flatly.

  "I see.... Well, I’ll wait in his rooms... I took a step forward and the door all but slammed in my face. The jaundiced glow of a streetlamp winked in the old man’s hard, wary eyes. I got out my wallet. "It’s all right. I’m his brother... He took the dollar bill without thanking me.

  “Top floor." He opened the door to let me pass.

  “Thanks...." I paused... "By the way, Mr. Ashur will be leaving here tonight... for good..."

  I couldn’t be certain, but in the dubious glare of a garish hall light, it seemed to me that the old man’s face grew suddenly soft with unspoken relief. As I moved carefully upward through the Cimmerean darkness of the stairwell, I heard him mutter, "Yes, sir!" He said it with the fervor of one who was murmuring: "Thank God!"

  From the moment I entered his room, I had been vaguely aware of_ an indefinable odor, at once sickly-sweet and stinging in the nostrils, that seemed to permeate every corner of the room. Now, I knew, I had been inhaling the pungent fumes of oily pigment mixed with turpentine. For, the thing beneath the skylight was an artist’s easel, and propped on its cross-bar, hidden by a cotton veil, was what I took to be a canvas in progress. To the right of the easel stood an antique work-cabinet, it’s scarred top littered with paint-clogged brushes and a pallet. Mechanically, as though driven by some mystic compulsion, I went to the table. Not until I was standing directly over it did I see the open book that lay half-buried beneath the melange of brushes and paint.

  *

  A MALICIOUS gleam from one of the lamps slanted across the tissue-fine texture of the volume-pages. A stench of immeasurable age swirled upward to me as I bent to decipher the ancient hieroglyphs that crawled like obscene insects across the paper. The book before me was one of the earliest editions of Albertus Magnus; at the bottom of the right-hand page, a single passage had been underscored. Revulsion knotted my stomach as I read those accursed lines.

  “...Three drops of blood I draw from thee. The first from thy heart, the other from thy liver, the third from thy vigorous life. By this I take all thy strength, and thou losest the strife..."

  Beside this Medieval sorcerer’s chant, on the wide, yellowed margin, Claude Ashur’s spidery script confided: "There has been no news from the Priory, but I am certain the spell will work. The portrait is completed. Before long, I shall know victory; I shall have what I want..."

  I cannot say for certain what wild conjectures seethed through my mind in that instant. I only know that some instinctive, fearful hatred warped my hand into the vicious claw that ripped the veil from the painting on the easel. A terrified cry snagged in my throat, and I staggered backward, staring sickly at the festering, noisome thing my brother had created. To this day, here in the white-walled sanctuary of my asylum cell, there are hideous moments in the night when I lay horrified, on the paralytic brink of sleep, while the loathsome creatures, of that canvas of the damned writhe against the dark curtains of my eyelids. I pray God no other mortal eye shall ever be seared by any such horror as I beheld that night in Pickham Square.

  In the slimy colors of some subterranean spectrum, Claude Ashur had wrought cancerous images of the slobbering, gelatinous beings that lurk on the threshold of outer night. Diabolically smiling, amoebic, gangrenous creatures seethed in the shadows of that hateful canvas, and slowly, as I watched, there emerged from its crawling depths, the portrait of what once had been a man. The visage that confronted me was barely covered with discolored, maggot-eaten skin. Its blue-tinted lips were twisted in agony; and in their corrupted, sockets, the eyes held a pitiful, pleading expression. Not one feature of that ruined face was-whole, and yet there was something terribly familiar about it. I took an unsteady, step toward the picture, then stopped. Awful suspicion reeled madly in my head as I noticed for the first the tiny scarlet globules that oozed from that decaying skin. It was as though every pore had exuded, a dew of blood!

  “You always were an incurable busybody, Richard..."

  Echoing icily in the dim corners of that low ceilinged room, the sibilant hardness of the voice seemed unreal. Only, when I had turned to find Claude’s angular, dark-suited figure framed in the doorway, was I certain that my confused brain wasn’t playing tricks on me. There was no mistaking the malevolent reality of the half smile that curled my brother’s lips. Sunken in his pallid, immobile face, onyx eyes flashed with caustic humor.

  “I’m afraid my little creation gave you rather a turn," he murmured. "You know, Richard, it’s always best for sensitive souls to mind their own business..."

  The old, impotent rage blurred my vision; Claude’s venomous smile faded and grew horribly clear again. When my voice came, it was thick and ill-controlled: “You’d better do your packing, now. I’ve made reservations on the midnight train for Inneswich..."

  We reached Inneswich Priory at noon the following day. A winter storm had swept inland, and gray, needling rain made the ivy-choked walls glisten evilly. There was a fire on the library hearth; before it, Doctor Ellerby stood waiting for us. One look at his face, and the vile suspicion that had been spawned last night in that dark, narrow room, blazed into putrescent reality. In that instant, I knew who had been the subject of the-hellish portrait in Pickham Square. I knew my father was dead.

  Claude made no display of pretended grief. He made no secret of his eagerness to have the will settled. There was whispering in the village; the simple, superstitious people of Inneswich spoke of daemons and the consorts of hell who could laugh in the face of Death. My brother’s terrible, inhuman cheerfulness became a festering legend muttered by witch-hunting nonegenarians. Only the brave, the few who had been closest to the Church and my father, attended the lonely burial service, and even they departed in haste, glancing apprehensively backward at the figure of Claude Ashur, black against the bleak and threatening sky. Two weeks after the interment, one week after the reading of the will, Claude cashed a check for the full amount of his monetary inheritance and disappeared.

  *

  YOU can make a religion of escape. You can run away from the memory of horror, and hide yourself, in willful forgetfulness. You can fill your life with feve
rish activity, that crowds out the shadows of diseased evil. I know. I did just that for nearly eight years. And, in a certain measure, I succeeded. Having acquired a modest, white-stuccoed cottage on the outskirts of a southern Jersey resort, I divided my time between it and the Priory. I made new friends. I forced myself to mingle with worldly society as I’d never done before. After a time, I was able to resume my neglected literary career. I told myself I had escaped. Actually, I was never able to pass that carven padlocked door in the East Wing without having to suppress a nauseous chill. There were still moments when, alone in the dusk-dimmed library I broke into a cold sweat and Claude Ashur’s voice echoed demoniacally in the shadowed corners of the room. At worst, however, these terrible sensations were transient illnesses that could be cured by friendly laughter or concentrated creative work. Somewhere, I knew, the malign genius of my brother still existed, but I hoped and slowly grew to believe that he had passed out of my life forever. I never spoke his name. I knew and wanted to know nothing about him. Only once, in all those years, did I have any direct news of Claude.

  By a lucky chance my first book excited friendly interest among certain groups, and I found myself on the invitation lists of the literati. I attended countless cocktail parties and dinners, and it was at one such soiree that I met Henry Boniface. He was a small man, almost effeminate, with a sandy top-knot and straggling beard to match. He shook my hand timidly, but I fancied a sudden brightness in his pale eyes as he repeated my name. I wanted to get away from him. Thinking of what my hostess had said of Henry Boniface as she guided me toward him through the crowd, I felt a sudden oppressive apprehension close in upon me. He was a surrealist painter who just returned from the West Indies and a few years back, he had taught at Miskatonic University.