Flanneljack

23705 pts · February 14, 2014

When no one else can- call Flannel Man BTW-Have a short story I'm working on- it has Cthulhu in it. and please by all means, rip it to shreds-PM me “Damn these eyes.” Dr. Bertrand, lifted his glasses and began to massage the bridge of his roman nose. The flame of his whale oil lamp danced in the darkened room. Years of reading eldritch tomes in the dark libraries of Northern Europe had grayed his hair and sapped the keen flare that once burned in his, now pale, eyes. He scratched the stubble that was growing about his cheeks and thought, “What on earth am I doing awake at such an hour? It’s been days since I’ve slept.” For days on end Dr. Bertrand had spent the small hours of the morning pouring over the many tomes of Minuscule script written by that sainted monk, the Venerable Bartholemieu. In a fair hand, that humble monk had copied those words no man was meant to read, and hymns no man was meant to hear. But here, on the skirts of the Black Forest, they were read, and as Prof. Bertrand whispered in low tones they once again reached the ears of the Old Ones. Hidden away in library of the parish church of La Moselle. This book had survived crusades, floods, the Terror of the Revolution, and a conflagration set by Prussian soldiers, only to be discovered by a Francophilic Professor of Medieval Literature at Cambridge. It was my third year of my doctorate at Blacksburg University. A fairly large school in the sleepy mountain town of Leesville, Virginia. Famed at the time for its School of Ancient Oriental Linguistics. I had just published my first paper on the Linguistic patterns of the Classical Sumerian Script when I found myself engaged in vicious battle for not only a professorship but also my very soul. It was in my rented room just above Mosby’s Tavern that I first chanced upon the sacred words copied by the Venerable Fr. Bartholemiue. I awoke on the morning of March 3rd to the sound of a knocking on my door. “Who on earth could it be so early?” There was still frost gathered on the third story window that looked out over the Blue Ridge Mountains to the East. Spring would still be a few weeks coming. Putting on my jacket I crawled to the door, being careful not to disturb the many bottles of India ink and Rye whisky that littered the floor. “Just a minute” I coughed. Cold air rushed by as I opened the door, and there on the threshold stood a pert young lad with a letter in one hand and the other expectantly upturned. His teeth bared he looked more likely to bite the mailman than to be one. I fumbled into my pocket and growled out a “thanks” and gave the lad a nickel and a good slam of the door. Absently I set the letter down on my desk, reached into my pocket for my pouch of tobacco and tearing a page out of Dante’s Paradiso I rolled my first of the day. Dr. Randal Thompson, of Oxford College of Medieval Studies to Mr. Alistair Braithwaite of Blacksburg University Dept. of Oriental Linguistics Mr. Albert Braithwaite, I had the pleasure of reading your dictionary on Classical Sumerian this winter and it is evident that you are some authority of the languages of the ancient Near East. It is with this in mind that I must ask for your scholarly assistance. My colleague, the late Dr. Theodore Bertrand, Professor of Medieval studies seemed to have discovered a singular manuscript on a recent expedition to the Lorrain, in France. A unique Codex in a most curious library that I believe will be of particular interest to you, though its meaning eludes me. I must ask your assistance in translating this manuscript, we need someone not only with your expertise but also someone not of this University, as this is a sensitive matter. I await your response, Yours, DR. R. Thompson Oxford CMS, GBE, RSF, KBE, KBQ etc. PS. Along with this letter I have sent along some of Dr. Bertrand’s diary which reference the strange codex whose title Dr. Bertrand believed to be Qui Veteri Libro Experrecti. Or “The Book of The Old Ones, That Shall Awaken” “A curious letter to be sure Allie, damned if I can explain it.” “Tom, what do you think a Professor of Medieval Latin wants with an Assyriologist on the other side of the Ocean?” Tom reached out gently tapping on the club waiter’s shoulder, in that “good old boy” kind of way and asked for another round then leaned back in his chair and chewed on a fresh plug of Old Burly tobacco. Spitting he said, “have you read any of the diary yet?” “No, and to be honest I don’t know if I’ll want to. I’ve got my thesis to defend in a couple months, not to mention the Easter Social…” “And Sarah at this Easter Social?” I could see Thomas grin at my obvious discomfort. “And you were going to ask her something that night too weren’t you?” This was too much abuse, and had my head not been at the point of explosion from the bottles of Rye the night before, I would have proffered him pistols to finish the job. “It’s this Damn letter” I cried taking it from him. “Sorry, old boy” he spit out his wad and took in a deep draught of whisky. “I’m off, got a class to teach, see you tonight?” “Yes, of course Tom” As colleagues go, Tom wasn’t so bad. He had been teaching at the university about as long as I had, but had somehow managed to get tenure this year. Some say it had to do with his last name, while others hinted at his fondness for the Dean’s wife. As a Friend and drinking mate however, Thomas Fairfax had no equal, he could ride a horse and was reported to have out drunk a black bear on a lark. As I sat in the Classics Club I thumbed through the letter, I have to admit, it’s not every day that a professor of Cambridge asks your assistance on a translation. It either spoke highly of me or poorly of him, but either way it seemed a unique opportunity. From the diary of Dr. Theodore Bertrand- I was visiting the old Palace church at Aachen, where I had heard some of the original Carolingian manuscripts were still kept when a demure yet stately friar begged to speak to me. His English was atrocious at best, but between my expert knowledge of Middle French and his Walloon we were able to converse, if only haltingly He explained that his monastery had been burned to the ground when the Prussians marched through Moselle and that he was an itinerant of sorts. He had been sent along by his abbot to begin work in Aachen. He reached into his pocket and he shewed me a letter in Latin recommending him to the Dean of The Aachen Cathedral, of which he seemed overly proud. When I told him what I was doing in Aachen, and that I was always hungry for more books and codices of the Carolingian period I could see his heart sink. “Pierdou” he said, “all lost”. The fire had taken a trove of manuscripts and books dating back to the time of the Venerable Bartholemieu. “The tragedy!” I said “is there nothing left?” He sighed, “maybe, but I’ll never return to that place again” Then leaning in closely, he began to murmur “It wasn’t the Hun that burned down that church, but the judgment of Almighty God” At that moment the bells tolled, and as if the whips of the devil were behind him, off he ran without so much more of a word than “L’Abbot!”. So taken was I with his story, and the hopes of a trove of Manuscripts dating back a thousand years I decided to procure a carriage and ride down to the Parish of Moselle and see for myself what had become of this library. The town was nearly deserted, war and the subsequent famine had emptied the streets, as well as the hotel. I found a fine room for next to nothing, you’ll be pleased to know, and despite the dreary environs, the coq au vin was exquisite. I decided to walk to the monastery, a short walk of two or three miles, I packed along some bread, cheese, and a fine boudin and took off with the rising of the sun. I followed the rude map that the generous innkeeper had drawn for me and found myself bounded on either side by magnificent firs, some of the few untouched by the ravages of the Prussian hordes. As I walked I saw the tall bell tower of the Monastery stretching above the conical tips of the trees. The stately tower was all that was let of the once proud monastery that seemed to consume acres of land. All around were the broken walls and charred oaken beams that had once been the pride of the Lorraine. Wandering through the ruins I could see the pointed Romanesque Arches, and the willowing statuary so indicative of Charlemagne’s Renaissance. Strewn about the floor of the great Aisle were fragments of stain glass windows depicting St. George battling the great Dragon. Now all that was left standing were the hooves of his horse and the tip of his lance. To be truthful, the sight was a blow to my heart, I thought at once that my encounter with the mad little friar had been in vain, and that the whole enterprise would be for naught. But it being now the middle of the day I decided to take my lunch amongst the ruins of greatness, and laugh at the pride of man. After my light repast made myself ready to return to the hotel and back to Aachen and the respectable company of my fellow learned Englishmen. But as I wandered my way through the ruined abbey I found myself drawn to the foot of the great bell tower. I wish I could explain it to you, but in light of the dark words that I would come to read, I think it no great coincidence. At the foot of the tower, the only structure apparently untouched by the great conflagration, was a small wooden door. It was in remarkable condition, and upon close inspection it seemed to have been completely unscathed. Despite this, it opened with ease, and by no small fortune I did not follow with it. For behind it were hundreds of steep and dark stairs. I peered down into that darkness a long while thinking before I decided I must descend and explore. The promises of the sacred library of The Venerable Bartholemieu and the tomes it must have contained filled me with a lust I had not felt since I was a boy stealing sweets from the tall cupboard. Behind the door hung a lantern of no small size, and after lighting the depth of the stairs became apparent. Spiraling downward I chased after my prize, deeper and deeper into the earth the stairs wound on without end. I was surprisingly tired, years spent crawling through old libraries had done nothing for my physique, and after what must have been the 50th stair I was breathing hard. Finally, when my lungs felt as if they were to burst I tripped and fell face first onto the cold hard stones. Stumbling through the dark I relit my lantern. “This is it!” I thought to myself, “the sacred Library of Fr. Bart at last!” I could hear my colleagues at the royal society cooing with envy as I presented my discovery. “This is it?” The small lantern filled the room with its light, from end to end it could not have been more than 15 feet. “Why go to such lengths?” I thought. I set the lantern of the small wooden desk and ran my fingers over the sole bookshelf. Tags with faint ink names and numbers hung from the spines of the codices, and rolls of parchment. These were all of the sort that you would expect to find in such a library, Gospels and Psalters ranging from the arcane to the modern. Some in the Walloon, while most in Latin. But then I came across a codex that bore no tag. It was hidden beneath several fragile tomes, but I felt strangely drawn to it. As I reached out to grasp it I thought I heard strange discordant music, of a most non-Euclidean nature. I thickness hung in the damp air of that subterranean library, such that I could scarcely breathe. The codex looked worn, and terribly old, I saw holes in its cover that bespoke of bookworms, and I was truly despondent then. But when I set the book down on the scrivener’s desk I found it was unlike any gospel or psalter I had ever seen. No Carpet page, no jeweled cover, no crucifix to adorn it, no lambs but a simple and plain leather frontispiece. Opening to the title page I found that my eyes had failed me and I could not make out a word in such light. I was determined to discover the mysteries of this book, and so taking it under my arm, and ignoring all else in the library I made my way up the winding stairs. When I had reached the main apse of the Abby I found that it was night in La Moselle. The moon was waning, and was showing her horns that night. I packed away what remained of my lunch, thinking to place the book in my satchel, but I found that I could not part with it, not yet at least. For I found that in the moonlight I could make out the first words of the cursed Fr. Bartholemiue introduction, “ Qui Veteri Libro Experrecti” As I spoke the words aloud I could feel the cold wind blast against my face. Suddenly I was filled with an inhuman terror, the likes of which I have come to know all too well of late. There in the ruins of La Moselle I suddenly realized how alone I was. It had been a long march to the ruined monastery from the town; four miles at the least. But at the moment they felt as if they could have been forty. The forest whose barren boughs had in the morning seemed clean and inviting now seemed stark and naked; bereft of hope. I made my way over the tumbled down blocks and scorched oaken pillars and as I crept over the threshold of the ancient Abbey I found that the book was not in my pack, but still in my hands. I once again ran my fingers over its leather cover. What was it about this book that so compelled me? Why could I not bear to let it from my grasp? My mind raced over those bizarre words. “Veteri” who on earth could they be? Only now can I guess at their nature, only now do I begin to understand. The chill autumn wind bit into my face, and wormed its way through every hole in my tweed vest. I took the book under my arm and made for the track that lead to the village. As the track lead further and further into the edges of the fabled Black Forest I found my pace ever quickening. All the while finding the need to peer over my shoulder and search the track behind. Always looking, always grasping tighter on that accursed book. In minutes I found that I was in a full run, my heart filled with some unseen terror. In my mind’s eye I could see the dark shapes of uncouth figures swirling about me in the tree tops, and as I drew closer to the Moselle I shall swear on any holy relic, that I heard the beating of wings. I bolted fast the door to my apartments. My pulse surged through me until I could feel the blood blasting in my ears. I sat on the edge of the bed and drank gulp after gulp of Rhenish wine until at last my heart stopped pounding. Still in my hands was the cursed Libro Expereccti. I ran my fingers over the cover and found myself turning the pages. The book was filled with an awkward script I had never seen before, not in all the Norman or Latin or even coded Italian of Da Vinci had I seen such grotesque and frightful characters. Small wedge-like triangles and deep scored lines. Pages upon pages of them, they rolled on and on in the blood red script of some ancient language, of a people lost to time and memory. Though along with this strange script were smatterings of the words of Fr. Bartholemiue these seemingly added into the codex. In neat Ottonian Latin he had scrawled these words. “Though the Emperor wish it destroyed my master ΚΤΥΗΧΥ bids me copy and write”- Fr. B. That was all I could make of the devilish script. Obviously, if the great Holy Roman Emperor wanted this destroyed it must have been some heretical book, but who this KTYHXY was I knew nothing. It was clearly a loan word in the Greek, but I had never come across it in all my studies. No man or god was ever known by such a name, but all the same, it filled me with such a fear I had not known before. Perhaps if I were able to translate this alien script I could discern the meaning of these Greek letters, that when uttered seem to say CTHULHU. The last rays of the sun sank behind the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains outside my window, and looking up from the diary I found that I was alone. Gathering my papers I stepped out into the street, and mad my way home with all haste. CTHULHU, I’d heard it before. But from what dark corner of my memory I could not recall. Never in the Greek, of that I was certain. But where? Reaching into my pocket I took out my flask and swallowed the last of my rye. It was a short walk to my apartments, but in the growing darkness I could feel the weight of the words etched in his diary bearing me down like so much lead shot. To say that my apartment was disordered would have been a matter of course, but when I opened my chamber door I saw that every stick of furniture, every book, every paper, every bottle was either splintered, torn, or smashed. Even my last bottle of whisky was dashed and left leaking out through the floor boards.