I
brought the dread stone with me to the downtown library, that edifice of stone
and books that harkened back to an earlier era where learning was king and
intelligence a virtue. Now it mostly
served as a day center for the homeless, although at least they were learning
something instead of shooting themselves full of poison.
I
suppose I could have found what I needed on the internet. Everything is on the internet. But this stone called for a certain kind of reverence
for the timeless art of research. Methodical,
thoughtful research. I had to focus my
mind. Really focus it. Because if I let
my thoughts about the artifact become disorganized, chaotic, then I would
surely be lost.
I found what I was looking for – what I hoped not
to find – what I dreaded being right
about – in the old journal of a man named Hopley, who’d explored obscure towns
and villages in New England at the turn of the 20th century. Why the
Portland Public Library had a copy of Hopley’s journal was not a mystery
relevant to the current situation.
Hopley
had been following the trail of a man named Gafney, who’d left behind his own
journal and a mystery – a chaotic screed ranting about arcane monsters and
impossible architectures, about fish people and for some reason, cats. Gafney, it turned out, had also found some
obscure papers in an attic, and had been using them to piece together a mystery
of his own. In fact, the papers that
Gafney mentioned in his journal also mentioned following the trail of an
obscure journal found in an attic. Gafney,
for his part, had apparently died, or committed suicide, during his quest, as
had the author of the mysterious papers he found.
I
was following the trail of a journal, following the trail of a journal,
following the trail of some papers found in an attic, following the trail of a
journal.
But
I was definitely on the right track.
The
engravings on the stone matched an etching on a page of Hopley’s journal, with
the inscription: “Do not ever read this aloud” scrawled underneath it. I heeded that warning. I knew what it said and what it
portended. What I didn’t know was what
it was doing in Portland.
To
this day, I wish that Mike hadn’t handed me that stone. I really do.
I can’t ever undo what happened.
I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry
for what was unleashed. We are such tiny things. Such tiny, fragile things, and there are so
many horrible dimensions just waiting to snuff us out. I stare out of this impossible stone parapet
at the ruined city beneath me, and I weep.
Or I would weep. I would weep.
