The Shambler In The Attic

‘Must you have battle in your heart forever?
The bloody toil of combat?
Old contender, will you not yield to the immortal gods?
This nightmare cannot die, being eternal evil itself.
The horror, pain and chaos.
There is no fighting it.
No power can fight it.
All that avails is flight.’

-The Odyssey.

Dear James,
I write to inform you that your persistent enquiries into the ‘’Byron House Incident’’ have finally worn away the last threads of reticence I may have developed regarding its open discussion. I have warned you more than enough in my various replies over the past few years, but if you still desire to know the truth of what happened at that accursed house, on that accursed night, read on. I urge you not to do so, however. Some things are best left buried in the past, or in this case, buried beneath the charred rubble and crumbled stone of that hideous edifice. I do not write this letter easily, even now the events surrounding that night create a panic that causes a cold dread to creep across my skin. To even briefly recall what I saw on that night, and of the measures I took to end it, causes my mind to unravel in terror at what vague horrors may still lurk beneath the bricks and mortar of that terrible place. Although my account is undoubtably localized in its scope, it hints at a much larger gathering of nightmarish forces at work in the hidden, shadowed corners of the Earth and beyond. The lurking unknown that lairs in the twisting vistas of the deepest cosmic spheres and the lightless chasms of the unnameable blackness of the outside. I have long since burned all my diary entries detailing Byron House and my subsequent correspondences with occultists, pseudoscientists, and fringe-scholars from across the globe. All that remains is the very letter you now hold in your hands. Because I have destroyed all written record of what happened at the house, I am relying purely upon my memory to recount the shadowed details. The horrid truth is that I have forgotten much of it, and what remains feels like little more than the fevered hallucinations of an over-sensitive and morbid imagination. It may be for the best that I struggle to remember the exact facts of the matter, a blessing for the both of us in fact. I will now detail for you that terrible chain of events that led me to soak the attic room of Byron House in gasoline and burn the building down to cinders, free of all its occupants, save one.

You may recall that I have always held an interest in the afflictions of the mind and a morbid fascination with those poor souls with which such illnesses hold enthralled. Well, in my younger years, before I became a doctor, and was still very much under the subjugation of academic studies, I took on the role of an orderly at Byron House. For me then, the job was more than a way to pay my university fees, but a way for me to get close to that unseen world of lunacy and madness. Byron House had once been a home for the elderly, but was closed for unknown circumstance, only to be bought and re-opened privately by one Dr Samuel Monroe as a home for the mentally ill. I knew of the house long before I ever worked there. Everyone in Barton did, I think. In my childhood, it served perfectly as the quintessential ‘haunted house’ for me and my small coterie of friends. Whereas they looked upon the building as a means of acquiring a cheap thrill, calling the staff and residents names before running away, I looked upon it with a chilling, but irresistible dread. Even then the macabre held me in its grip of fascination. It wasn’t wraiths bound in chains or moaning specters that captivated my imagination, no, Byron’s phantoms were bound in the crippled grey flesh of those elderly inhabitants. I would watch them, shambling around its gardens, waiting, perhaps even hoping, for death to swoop down and take them. I sat for hours, motionless behind a hedge and watched their frail brittle bodies wonder around the wide lawns, seemingly unaware of the moribundity of their surroundings. I made a vow to myself one day that I would never allow old age to take me, I was determined that I would die relatively young and energetic, better to go suddenly in the throes of youth than slowly rot away within the walls of a tomb like Byron House. Time has passed however, and I have failed to keep my vow. Many times, I have considered taking my own life, but something has always pulled me back from the precipice of saturnine thoughts.

I started my job as a fresh-faced naive youth, eager to learn all I could from some honest hands-on experience. There were twelve inmates at the house, each labouring under a complex cocktail of mental disturbances and psychoses. The inmates were over seen and cared for by eight staff members of various rank. At the very top there was Dr Monroe, while at the bottom there were the orderlies like me. The conditions of the inmates ranged drastically, from hysteria, monomania, and psychopathy to feeble mindedness and retardation. My fellow workers were likewise a mixed bag. One that really stood out was Williams, an ape of a man whose large frame was well suited to restraining rampaging inmates, as well as beating them on occasion, if the rumors about him were true. Another stand out was Jane, a well-mannered but somewhat jaded divorcee approaching fifty. Jane was part of the government’s new nurse training program, and she was always on hand to offer advice regarding administering medication, but there was no warmth in her towards the inmates and I often wondered why she chose this kind of career for herself. Then there was Dr Monroe, a distant and stern figure. I got the impression that he in some way resented his position at the house, and he was rarely seen outside of his office. In addition to those three, there were several new starters, some students like me, and some more local strong arms who were only good for lifting and carrying uncooperative inmates. I regret that I cannot remember anymore names or faces, despite the impact it has had upon my life, my time at Byron House was mercifully brief.

Now, I said there were twelve inmates and at first that is what I thought when I started my job. I quickly learned through staff gossip and whispered hearsay however, that a thirteenth inmate was being treated at the house. A rare and special inmate, whose condition was so extreme that it demanded constant specialized care from Dr Monroe personally. I eventually learned that this inmate’s name was Jonathan Spencer. He was ominously nick-named ‘’Thirteen’’ by the staff and he resided at the very top of the house in the attic space, which had been specially renovated to accommodate him. Unlike the other inmates who were permitted to occasionally visit their families, Thirteen never left the house. He never even left his attic room, and all the staff except for Dr Monroe were forbidden from going to the top floor of the house. Jane once told me a story about a young girl who had come to work at the house several years ago as a porter. She had been working the graveyard shift and Monroe was away on a rare occasion hosting a lecture at Manchester University, leaving her on her own. She had heard Thirteen banging around upstairs and despite being told to never visit the top floor, she decided to go up to the attic to make sure everything was ok. Upon investigating, she had run screaming from the house into the night, never to return. After that time, Monroe became even more paranoid about exposing Spencer to the rest of the staff and would often sleep over at the house in his office to ensure that a similar incident did not occur.

Although she didn’t like Monroe, Jane was happy that the grim man spent most of his time at the house, it meant that she didn’t have to deal with Thirteen in any way. As far as she knew, Spencer had always lived in the attic, even before she came to work there, which had been a great deal longer than she cared to admit.

Williams didn’t have much to say on the matter, he seemed to think that Thirteen’s condition was more physical than mental, that it was his body that was deformed rather than his mind. Even though the man was large and not afraid of any of the other inmates, he would grow nervous when working the top floors of the house. Monroe was quick to inflict Williams upon unruly inmates, but as much of a lackey that he was, even he was not permitted near the attic.

Between myself and the other orderlies, Thirteen was a source of constant gossip. None of us had ever seen or even heard him, and apart from that one singular horrifying moment in time that I endured, none of us would ever see him either. My own curiosity regarding the attic and its occupant grew by the day, but Monroe was protective, fanatically so when it came to Spencer’s care. Despite volunteering to help, the doctor would just brush aside my inquisitiveness with an annoyed wave of his hand. As fate would have it, I was permitted an entrance into that insane dark world where few among mankind have tread, and it happened sooner than I thought it would.

It was December, and I had been working at the home for a little under two months when Jane came into the staff room one morning with a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes and a look of pure vexation on her ashen face. I had never noticed that she smoked before that day, but she had been in the room no longer than a few seconds before she had lit up a slender white stick and slumped down in the chair opposite me.

She didn’t talk to me straight away, or even look at me, she just sat down, almost as if in shock and drank from her coffee cup and took the occasional long languid pull from her cigarette. I tried several times to ignore her and go back to reading an article that had caught my interest, but my gaze was always drawn back to her wide unblinking eyes.

‘Ok!’ I said, folding the paper and slapping it down on the chair next to me, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

I had developed a casual friendship with Jane, despite her being my senior, and we often talked in a direct, no-nonsense manner.

She finished her cigarette and immediately lit another before answering my questions.
‘I was on shift last night’ she said quietly. ‘I was working the graveyard, I’m having to cover for a staff absence’

‘Oh whose?’ I sat up interested.

‘Monroe, he’s got a virus and can’t risk passing it on to any of the inmates, especially’ she paused for a few seconds.

‘Thirteen?’ I prodded.

She didn’t say anything, she just nodded slowly. I didn’t question anymore as I could tell that whatever ordeal she had gone through the previous night, she wasn’t keen on elaborating further. I sat for a few minutes and pondered, this was my chance I thought. I had been curious about Thirteen for a while and I had hoped to get involved in his care. With Monroe away and off sick, a window of opportunity had opened up before me.

‘So’ I said, startling Jane out of her thoughts, ‘I take it you’re having to work tonight too?’
She grimly nodded with a sense of total defeat.

‘Well, I could always work instead. I don’t mind, I’ve even asked Monroe a couple of times if I could assist with Thirteen, you see I’m writing a paper for college at the moment and….’
She cut me off and stood up out of her chair. ‘Really? You wouldn’t mind? Are you sure?’

‘Of course’ I replied. ‘Although Monroe has probably asked you to cover as you’re the most senior member of staff. I’m not sure he would be pleased if he found out we had swapped shifts.’

She thought for a moment before replying. ‘Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t. I can pay you directly from my pay packet, no need to change the rota’.

I nodded in agreement. ‘It’s settled then. You finish here early, and I’ll stay on to work the night shift. I may need to quickly go home and grab some things, but it won’t take long, I live quite close.’

The relief that washed across her face was at once pleasant to see yet also concerning, for I knew that should I go through with my offer, a good night’s sleep would not be on the cards. She perked up considerably and continued to work for the rest of the day, planning to leave a little before 7pm. She was good enough to provide me with a list of chores I would need for the night shift and I spent the rest of the day working my usual rounds. I don’t think the impact of what I had offered to do had truly sunk in and I remember feeling more excited than anything else.

As the daylight hours gave way to the dark of the December evening, the rest of the staff left one by one, not too long after Jane had departed, and it was only then that the situation dawned on me. Williams shot me a cruel look on his way out that made me uneasy and left me to ponder if he knew more about what was in store for me than he had let on during his various digs and jibes made at me during the day shift. I had never worked the graveyard shift before, others had of course, and they had said that despite his unsociable nature, the presence of Dr Monroe was always a reassuring one. At least having a ‘normal’ person in the house with you was comforting, with the added bonus that, as a trained doctor, he could handle any situation that might arise from the myriad possibilities available.

But as night crept on and the inmates were safely restrained in their rooms, I began to feel an oppressive cloak of loneliness wrap heavily around my shoulders. At nine o’clock, I prepared medication and a light supper for Spencer, the details of which Jane had written down for me, along with instructions on how to offer them to him. The meal consisted of nothing more than a plate of scrambled eggs and some fresh orange juice with a straw. The medication too was simple, some pain relief, nutritional supplements, and allergy treatments. There was nothing in the medication that would suggest a psychosis or mood stabilizing treatment was required for him. Whatever Thirteen’s disorder was, I thought, it was clear that it wasn’t a mental ailment but something physical that could not be cured, only treated. I wondered how much time the unlucky resident must have left, if indeed he was suffering from a physical disease, as I ascended the stairs with my tray in hand.

I paused momentarily at the landing on the third floor and listened for any sound coming from the other inmates. After a few seconds, satisfied that there was no disturbance, I continued. This was the closest I had been to the attic since I started my job, and the thought of venturing upwards filled me with dread. I cleared my mind however and shook off my doubts away as I headed for the final set of steps that would bring me to the lonesome attic room. The stairs from the third floor led straight up and then curved slightly as they ascended upward and to the left. They grew narrower the higher I climbed but the ceiling appeared to lower and grow cramped, giving me a distinct feeling of being boxed in. I stopped as the bend curved around more tightly and finally revealed the entrance to Thirteen’s room. I was maybe ten steps away from the looming wooden door. It had been painted white some time ago, but large chalky flakes had fallen away revealing the original oaken surface beneath. Just as Jane had described, a small flap had been crudely cut out of the bottom and nailed back on and it was just wide enough to slide the tray under. The door seemed almost ethereal as it stood alone and silent at the top of the staircase. It was something that I had only heard of in hushed whispers, but it now stood before me in all its horrid reality.

I had moved no more than a single step towards the door, when I heard an excited movement coming from the other side. I say movement, but to be precise the exact sequence of noises that followed gave the impression of awful liquescent gesticulations. First, there came a soft thud, as if something had dropped from a small height. The noise was softly muted as if whatever had landed had been cushioned by thick folds. I thought at the time that this was probably attributed to something like Spencer rolling out of his bed whilst wrapped in thick blankets, but there was a certain hinted wetness about the sound that baffled me. Secondly and more repulsively, a low dragging sound followed by a laboured breathing could be heard. It grew louder the longer I stood but appeared to take a long time to get to the door. It was as if whatever mass inhabiting the room was closing in on my location with a deliberate, ghoulish lethargy. Horror took hold of my heart, but the rational in me demanded I maintain clear thinking. In a burst of what I can only describe as mad curiosity, I ascended the stairs and set down the tray at the bottom of the door. Then I pushed my body down flat against the stairs so that my head was level with the half inch gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. What greeted me on the other side will haunt me until the end of my days, for looking back at me was a set of bulbous blood shot eyes.

I don’t remember running down the stairs, but I do remember going into the ground floor bathroom and vomiting. A silly reaction you might think, but there was something about those eyes that disturbed me to my very core. It may have been the odd spacing between them or the way they had seemed to roll around sluggishly and loose in their sockets. For some reason I couldn’t banish the thought of a toad or frog from my mind, as if my brain was struggling to conjure up the most obvious terrestrial comparison to the alien eyes that had glared back at me. I spent the rest of my shift in the staff room drinking coffee and waiting for the December sun to rise. When it finally did so, I packed up my things and waited for Jane and the other morning staff to relieve me of my duty. I said nothing to Jane as she approached me and asked how the night had gone. I think I managed a weak smile and a dismissive ‘it was fine’ before hurriedly leaving the premises and making my way home.

As fortune would have it, my week on shift came to an end the very next day and I spent some free time in total seclusion at my flat. I slept at lot but did not feel refreshed. I could not get those eyes out of my mind, and they continued to haunt me for days afterwards with restless vivid dreams. When I did return to work a few days later, I confined myself to studying my course work in the staff room as much as I could. No one bothered me as I sat in deep concentration over various books and papers. Despite the distraction, I could not banish that awful night from my mind.

Dr Monroe was still off with a virus, so I assumed that the other staff had covered the night shifts during my week of respite. Nobody spoke of or reported any strange happenings or eventful encounters, however. Despite my shock, a morbid fascination was creeping over me. I felt I had seen something not only horrifying but also enlightening and my mind burned with the duality of horror and curiosity.

My thoughts kept snapping back to those eyes. What terrible affliction could have caused such physical madness of form? If I could perhaps speak with Spencer, especially with Dr Monroe currently out of the picture, maybe I could make the unfortunate patient the focus of my academic work. At the very least, I could find some rational and mundane reason that would explain what I had seen that night.

A few more days working my ordinary rounds, and my mind was made up. I approached Jane and stated clearly that whilst Monroe was off ill, I would like to personally take over her night shifts in the house, the same deal as before. Unsurprisingly, she was eager to facilitate my request without protest. My next shift began that very night and I pondered my renewed focus as I prepared the medication and evening meal to take up to the attic. Again, it was a simple set up, some mashed potato and a milky cup of tea with straw. I looked distastefully at the pan of steaming mash and wondered if Thirteen ever grew tired of the sloppy menu Dr Monroe had set down for him. All the meals were clearly designed for someone with only the most rudimentary of eating ability. It was more like the kind of food you would feed to a baby than a man, it was all soft puddings, mashed vegetables and liquid nourishment.

With a newly fortified resolve, I made my way back to the attic with my tray, this time without pausing. As I ascended that last set of stairs, something did indeed greet me at the door. It was not an object of terror or disgust but rather an item that made me immediately question its validity as something that belonged to this exact time and place. It was a small piece of plain paper, a little crumpled and folded crudely several times and it was sticking out from the gap at the bottom of the door. No sounds came from within the room beyond, and I assumed that Thirteen must be sleeping. I quietly slid my tray carefully through the flap, as to avoid disturbing the occupant behind the door, and collected the note and the breakfast tray left behind by the morning staff before creeping quietly back down to the staff room.

I dared not read the note during the night, just in case its contents caused a disturbance in my mind that would affect my ability to continue working. I placed it into my satchel, noticing a strange glistening semi-wetness on its surface, and tried to distract myself with some university work, occasionally glancing over at the bag and resisting the temptation to read Spencer’s note. In the morning, I did a quick hand over with the morning staff and sharply made my way back to my flat. Normally I would go straight to bed and catch up on some sleep, but instead I put on a large pot of coffee and prepared some toast. Taking my breakfast and the note over to my study desk I opened the blinds to allow the struggling December morning sun to break into the room and then sat down and slowly unfolded the paper. Now, I would be lying if I was to say that the writing on the note was anything more than childish scrawling and at first, I doubted there was anything of worth to be gleaned from the spidery scribblings. But after several minutes of study and copying words onto a fresh piece of paper, I managed to decipher enough of the contents to read. As I mentioned at the start of this account, I have long since destroyed all written documentation of these events, but I can recall enough of the note to tell you what Spencer had written. I may be embellishing the text slightly, for if you knew what I know, you would find an impossible juxtaposition between the writing and what had written it. As best as I can remember, it read roughly as follows:

‘I apologize if I shocked you the other night or gave you a fright. Please don’t feel guilty for finding my appearance shocking. I have long since grown accustomed to such reactions. I can only assume that Dr Monroe, for whatever reason, is unavailable to look after my well-being and it is on that assumption that I have seized upon the chance to finally have contact with someone else. I must apologize for my disgraceful and crude writing, my condition makes matters of delicacy difficult, so please be patient. I will not confuse you with the full knowledge at what is at work here, nor my condition or cause of confinement within this house. I freely admit that I do not know exactly where I am or how much time has passed since I first came to be here, but that isn’t important anymore. Unless certain measures are taken care of, I will not be long for this world and if that happens it can only mean Monroe has achieved his grand aim. Understand this, the man you know as Dr Samuel Monroe is not whom he appears to be. In our youth we were close friends, the best of friends you could say and together we adventured and travelled among all the forgotten corners and exotic places of the world. The Orient, the Congo, and Arabia. We explored the deepest jungles of the Indian Sub-continent, the ancient sands of Egypt and the forgotten ruins of the Americas. My condition is somewhat linked to these travels, but it is something far more sinister than a mere tropical disease. Now I need to have two things from you, if I may be so bold. I realize you are under no obligation to aid me but know that if you do you will not only be doing me a service but also securing the future safety of all mankind. Firstly, I need you to keep our correspondence a secret. No-one, least of all Monroe, must suspect we are in contact. That man is wicked and will seek to do you harm should he discover you have been talking with me. Secondly, I will need you to acquire some items that have been taken from me. Unfortunately, I believe them to be in Monroe’s possession. I will tell you more about these once I have received a reply from you, only then can we move things forward. I am thankful to whatever powers allowed our paths to cross and look forward to hearing from you.’

The note was fascinating. I reread it several times as my coffee and toast lay forgotten amidst the dozens of questions now burning through my mind. I could not be certain that it was even meant for me, but somehow, I grew convinced that it was. The eloquence of the writing was in total contrast to the manner in which it was presented, but it clearly came from a vibrant and sharp mind. As intelligent as the author may have been, it was clear that Spencer was disturbed in some way. There was little doubt that the letter had cast a dark shadow over Dr Monroe’s conduct. Just what sort of wickedness was Spencer implicating the doctor in? True, the man was unfriendly, cold even, and more than a little abrupt but would he really seek to cause me harm should he find out I was in contact with Spencer? I simply could not give the idea credence. I was quite certain, at this point at least, that the whole affair regarding Spencer’s dislike of Monroe was a delusional fantasy. Conjured up by Spencer in the isolation of his attic confinement. Afterall, was it not only natural for someone with a mental disturbance to project a demonic persona upon those whom he saw as his jailer? Fantasy or not, I decided to follow the advice given to me and not alert Dr Monroe to my contact with Spencer, if only out of a desire to keep my job as opposed to any kind of fear of physical harm.

I wrote a reply that morning and took it up to Spencer when I started my next night shift. Suffice to say, I had agreed to hear him out but only on the sole condition that he told me all he knew about his illness so that I could use that knowledge to benefit medical science. Of course, what I was truly hoping for was a unique case to focus my academic studies and career around, and I’m sure on some level Spencer suspected that. Before sliding my reply under the door, I first attempted to make verbal contact. I pressed my head close against the door and simply said ‘It’s me, I got your note. No reply came. I continued with ‘How did you know I would get it?’ and ‘Can you hear me?’ My last question was cut off my a loathe bubbling, gurgling sound. A liquid response that brought bile up to my throat. I fled once more, almost as keenly as on that first night I saw those terrible eyes and confined myself once again to the staff room, where a cold sweat prevented me from gaining any meaningful rest.

Early the next morning, I rushed upstairs before the morning staff came in and to my relief there was another note waiting for me. This second letter was shorter than the first and as I was more accustomed to his writing, I was able to quickly read over it before the day staff arrived. Although shorter, this note was more revealing, and it opened the doorway to the chaotic madness which eventually followed.

‘Overwhelmed to hear that you will aid me. I am a little unsure if you are ready for all that I have to say, but you must be, for my sake but also for yours. Before that though I must address a few things. Last night I was unable to respond to your questions. I did try but as you no doubt heard my vocal skills have atrophied to the point of uselessness. I appreciate your keen interest in my condition. I am flattered that you would consider trying to offer treatment or a cure, but I am afraid I am far beyond that. Perhaps a bathe in the waters of Lake Hali in Carcosa or the medicine of the star-scientists of distant Yuggoth might avail me, but mere terrestrial treatment is useless. My affliction is just that, a punishment handed down by callous forces that occasionally take an interest in our race. Never to our benefit and always to our misery. No, I am beyond help, but I thank you for the gesture. The items I mentioned in my last letter are as follows, my diary that I kept up until my imprisonment and a manuscript. The latter is of the most importance. Its title is De Vermis Mysteriis. Both should be in Monroe’s home. You must find a way to get both back to me here as quickly as you can.’

The next few days dragged on. I knew what Spencer wanted me to do, but I was undecided if I was capable of committing a crime to get him what he wanted. Clearly, he was delusional, there could be no doubt of that, but I was still so keen to learn more about him. Despite his words, I was sure his condition could benefit from study and it was only the continued imprisonment by Dr Monroe that stopped the medical community from offering him any kind of aid. I wasn’t fully ready to burgle a man’s home on the request of a madman and besides Dr Monroe was still off work with a virus, making a midnight trip to his home a risky endeavor. I had no reason to call on him in a social capacity, and I doubted he would even recognize me as a work colleague, such were the man’s ways. I maintained a relaxed correspondence with Spencer, avoiding a direct answer to his request and instead probing further into his and Dr Monroe’s past. Eventually he grew inpatient, and our brief notes started to turn into bitter circular arguments.

Spencer’s illness appeared to worsen, and he was growing nervous. I was unwilling to rush head long into a decision regarding recovering his notes and manuscript and this provoked in him a string of notes filled with venomous scoldings. I admit that during this time I considered dropping the matter entirely and returning to my previous routine of university work and considered quitting Byron House all together. Before deciding one way or the other however, I took it upon myself to do some research without telling Spencer.

I didn’t have a lot to go on, but I made a trip into the nearby town of Eastwich and consulted the modest library there. I searched for anything that mentioned a Lake Hali, Carcosa, Yuggoth, De Vermis Mysteriis, and all the other nonsense words that had appeared in Spencer’s notes. Of Lake Hali and Yuggoth there was nothing. No text on geography, history, science, astronomy or any other subject known to man contained a reference to either of these words. De Vermis Mysteriis was a more successful area of study, and I learned a great deal about this forbidden and cursed tome. It was written in the year 1542 by one Ludwig Prinn, shortly before his death at the hands of the Inquisition. Various translations and copies had been made throughout history, many with strange titles such as The Grimoire or The Saracenic Rituals. Its original Latin title however was ominous, translating into something akin to The Mysteries of the Worm. The book seemed to be one of several interconnected volumes, each more hideous in subject matter and scope. Other works were mentioned in the text, books such as Cultes des Gouls, Things of the Water and that final and most dreadful work of black magic, the Necronomicon. Each book spoke of strange places and strange times. Whole cycles of myth where the Earth had been ruled over by Old Ones and Elder Things. Of the Malevolent Fungi from Yuggoth. Of the faceless Night Gaunts and of the Black Goat with a Thousand Young. Of Great Cthulhu, who lay dead, but dreaming in lightless, brine-soaked R’lyeh.

I freely admit that most of the works were mercifully beyond my understanding, but still there was an awful sincerity to their descriptions. I pushed such thoughts from my mind, after all, I was at that time a man of science, not sorcery. Still, they lingered in my imagination and have continued to do so every day since. After hours of searching, I also came across a small paragraph in a recently written history book about witchcraft regarding the reign of Queen Elizabeth I that mentioned a certain John Dee as ‘a sorcerer and author of such works as Monas Hiroglyphica and Notes on the Mysteries of the Worm. I made a note of the book’s author, a Dr Harlan Glass, and penned a letter to him the next day, asking if he knew anything about a book called De Vermis Mysteriis, but I never received a reply.

What kind of forbidden study had Spencer and Monroe been involved in? I had always assumed the Dr to be a rational man, but if Spencer were to be believed, he has once a keen scholar of the supernatural and explorer of strange, dark places. The day in the library had taxed my mind and I returned to my flat for an early night’s sleep. My dreams however were far from restful. I was plagued by a reoccurring nightmare of the first time I had seen Spencer’s strange eyes. Chaotic vortices burned into my mind, and I found myself floating through the vast void of space. I knew not how I came to be in the ether, but I had a vague sense of possessing no body and of being carried on the back of something so sinister I dared not look. The beating of huge wings deafened my ears and although I had no idea where in space I was, I instinctively knew I was bound for lightless Yuggoth, the outpost of the dread sentient fungi. Then my nightmare scene shifted, and I found myself standing at the edge of what I knew must be Lake Hali in Carcosa. Dark purple waters lapping languidly around my ankles, thick like syrup but with the stench of a thousand rotting corpses. Something huge and horrifying rotated slowly in the center of the lake. A colossal tower of plastic flesh that to my horror possessed the mockery of a face upon its surface, and eyes too, the swollen bulging eyes of Spencer!

I awoke suddenly, screaming and short of breath. My sheets were damp with cooling sweat and my head throbbed in pain. I took a week off work to recover, but the nightmares continued to assault me on a nightly basis. Eventually December came to a close, and Christmas came and went with little fuss. I’ve never been one to overly celebrate the so-called festive period and spend most of my time alone in my flat, or in the local pub. When I did finally return to Byron House, I discovered that Dr Monroe had also returned to work and was looking a lot healthier, having finally beaten the virus and he was back to his usual, aloof self. I was some-what relieved, as his presence made contact with Spencer impossible and beyond my control, something even he would be forced to accept, as it seemed he was as afraid of Monroe discovering our contact as I was. I wasted little time, by now I had become obsessed with gaining more knowledge about De Vermis Mysteriis and its contents.

I didn’t for one second believe that anything I had seen in my dreams or read in various books on necromancy and witchcraft to be true, but rather I saw it as a means of further understanding more about Spencer. My desire to write a paper on him had been renewed by my sudden plunge into his supernatural interests and I felt confident I could write a groundbreaking work on ‘Supernatural Monomania’ and hand it in confidently to my tutor. I had finally decided to go ahead with Spencer’s wish and steal back his diary and manuscript, not to hand over to him of course, but for my own personal study. Once I was done, I could simply sell the book and make a bit of cash in the process. By all accounts it would be worth a fortune to the right buyer. I knew my time at Byron House was coming to an end. First semester exams were looming, and I would need to quit my job in order to focus on my studies. In a few weeks I would be away from Monroe and Spencer and back into the sanity of regular student life. Greedy for knowledge, I therefore decided that breaking the law was worth the risk and set about planning my theft.

I started to follow Monroe home on my days off. Despite recovering from his illness, he seldom stayed the night over at Byron House. No doubt he was still recovering on some level and wished to sleep in his own bed. This would make things difficult of course, but I was confident his stubbornness would cause him to quickly lapse back into his old habits. I would wait for him just out of sight and then carefully shadow the man until I became familiar with his routine. Fortunately, he did as I suspected he would and started spending more time at Byron House. Eventually, I chose a night to break into his home.

It was a freezing January night when I made my way over to Monroe’s large, detached house on Towncourt Lane. The night was clear and painfully chilling, and the moon and stars were shining down brightly from the void above, momentarily bringing back memories of my recent nightmares. I won’t make too much of an ordeal about my burglary, and I’m certainly not proud of it. Despite being a total amateur, I managed to scale the large brick wall at the back of the residence and using my jacket wrapped around my hand, punched my way through a small glass plate fitted into the kitchen door. Wasting no time, I pulled out my pocket torch and systematically searched the downstairs rooms, it wasn’t long before I came upon a study. There was a strong musk permeating the whole room which I attributed to the stuffed animals and ancient tomes that littered the walls. Hundreds of large heavy books were held up by sagging shelves that almost seemed to creak and moan under the weight. I searched the largest of the bookshelves, trying my best to find the tome I needed. The books were in no order and heaped upon each other in a haphazard fashion. Among the mundane volumes on history, anthropology and geography there sat several dark and sinister texts that I had seen mentioned in my time at the Eastwich library. There was Unaussprechlichen Kulten of Von Junzt, Comte d’Erlette’s Cultes des Goules and the dreaded Celaeno Fragments. Most of these forbidden texts appeared to be modern translations, but at least one of was frighteningly authentic and ancient.

It didn’t take me long to find De Vermis Mysteriis. I slid the crumbling manuscript out of the shelf carefully, the remaining books gently toppled into the vacant space it left behind. I doubted if Monroe would even notice a particular volume missing in all this chaotic cataloguing, but I quickly rearranged the shelf, so no noticeable gaps were present. I noticed another, slimmer black bound volume tied to the back of manuscript, and a quick check confirmed this to be Spencer’s diary. I silently praised Monroe’s sense of propriety, despite his disorderly collection, he must have known how important Spencer’s diary and notes on the manuscript were. Unable to contain my curiosity, I opened De Vermis Mysteriis and glanced over the spidery text inside. Unfortunately, the manuscript was far too complex to decipher, with its archaic Latin and so I concentrated instead on the more accessible, but no less mysterious journal. I was confident that Monroe would not return home, and the house had no close neighbors. So, by the light of my pocket torch I sat at the study’s large desk and read. The journal detailed the various travels that Monroe and Spencer had undertaken as young men and it appeared that the latter had been true to his word in his note describing these adventures. The diary spoke of an ancient cult that the two had come into contact with during their sojourn in central Asia. A place, or perhaps even a time, known only as Leng. It also spoke of a secret order of undying monks who guarded a fabulous treasure that lay in the center of a great stone monastery. This treasure, a large golden idol of a winged hound, was a powerful artefact, capable of opening the way for the Old Ones locked beyond our reality. They guarded this treasure from all would be thieves, such as the fearsome Tcho-tcho, a race of semi-human cannibals as well as the dreaded Spiders of Leng, sentient arachnids with their own designs for mankind. The Old Ones appeared to be Monroe’s main motivation concerning the cult, in particular he appeared to be opposed to them in some way. Spencer seemed much more interested in the cult’s mysterious powers.
As I read on, I learned more about their dealings with the monks and the secrets of immortality that they could induct outsiders into. It seemed that Spencer did indeed get his wish and meet the deathless leaders of the group, but that the meeting had gone sour and in retaliation he decided to steal the golden idol and make his escape. Monroe was reluctant to go with him, but being guilty by association was forced to flee for his life. During the trip back to England, the two had been in constant disagreement as to the idol’s fate. Monroe wanted to be rid of the thing, but Spencer refused saying that the black secrets contained within would allow them to live forever, as gods upon the Earth.

At some point the two parted ways, Monroe with the idol and Spencer with nothing.
He grew deeply paranoid and furious with Monroe’s departure and became convinced that either the cult or Monroe had placed a curse on him and spoke first of the symptoms that no doubt manifested into his current condition. I tried my best to locate the idol, which was drawn on a diary page with great detail. But my efforts were fruitless. I suspected that Monroe may still possess it, but that is must have been hidden somewhere in his house, or even his office at Byron. Regardless, it was time for me to leave.

I didn’t sleep well after reading Spencer’s diary. The nightmares grew more vivid and intense. I felt as if I was being plunged into gloomy Erebus, my tormented soul nightly assaulted by every blasphemous revelation that the diary had revealed. The morning I was due to attend my last shift at Byron House, I sat and pondered over an untouched cup of coffee. I had read much in the past few weeks and although I was certain that the whole matter of magic and Old Gods and Yuggoth was purely fanciful, I couldn’t detach a dreadful sense of realness from the topics I had read.

If everything written down in that diary was true, then it would appear that Monroe had put a stop to Spencer’s plans of immortality and locked him up in the attic to cease whatever menace he may have been to mankind. Due to my nightmares however, I was quickly growing tired with the whole affair. It was taxing my mind to breaking point and my studies had suffered because of it. I reasoned that if some insane inmate wanted his books back, who was I to deny him? Better to be rid of the things and banish all thoughts of Elder Gods and Old Ones from my mind and get back into my studies. Forget about the whole thing and my involvement in it. Secretly I had thought about putting the books back in Monroe’s house, but it had been clear that he knew about the burglary due to the smashed window I left behind. He seemed to be spending more time at home now, and I heard a rumor that he had acquired a rather large German Shepherd to guard his home. Having possession of the books would clearly mark my guilt. On the off chance he suspected me, the local police would not have to search my tiny flat long to find them. I could have discarded them, but that felt irresponsible, given their contents. Plus, my fingerprints would be all over them. Selling them was an option, and my original plan. But I pondered upon what kind of person would be interested in obtaining the book, and to what purpose? Plus, they could still be traced back to me. You may think I was being paranoid, but at the time I did not want to risk the chance, no matter how unlikely, that I could be linked to criminal activity.

I snuck the manuscript and Spencer’s diary into one of my folders and went to work. At the earliest opportunity, when the other staff were busy and there was a lull in activity, I marched up to the attic and after a moment’s hesitation I placed both the diary and the De Vermis Mysteriis in front of the door and knocked once before briskly leaving. I worked sporadically at Byron House from then on. I had planned to quit, but a few extra shifts came my way, and I was in no position to turn down the money. I found a way to juggle the work with my studies and I took day shifts only. Slowly the nightmares stopped, and I was able to get adequate rest. I looked forward to passing my exams and starting a new semester at university and it felt as if normality was returning to my life.

However, I noticed a strange change in Monroe as the days went by. He was showing signs of severe stress and appeared to be growing weaker as time passed. The virus that had plagued him a few weeks ago appeared to be back and I even saw him cough up a small measure of blood into his handkerchief. His entire demeanor took on a somber appearance. Great black rings formed around his eyes and deep wrinkles appeared to be manifesting upon his brow. Not only did he come across as a man ravaged by illness, but also a man worried out of his mind. He was less abrasive than usual and even attempted to make some light conversation with the other staff in an almost, resigned and defeated way. Eventually he got so ill that he once again had to leave work, only this time he never came back. We received the news a few days later that Dr Monroe had died of heart failure, nothing unusual given his age and recent stress, but still it unnerved me greatly. His death plagued my mind, for if what I dared suspect was true, then I had somehow played a part in his death and so had Spencer with that damned manuscript.

Now James, we are coming to the end of my story. It has taken a while to get to this point, and I admit that I may have stretched out the affair longer than I intended. If I have, it is only because I dread writing that which must be written down. It is the only way you will understand. As I did at the start of this account, I now urge you to consider not involving yourself any further in this matter. Put the occult and witchcraft far to the back of your mind. There are things mankind should not, cannot know. Black magic is truly the devil’s work James.

If you are so inclined, you can do your own research on the history of Byron House. If you do so, you will learn that one February evening around sixty years ago, the house was burned down to its foundations, with only one casualty. You may also learn too that not long after, Dr Monroe’s house was broken into and a large portion of his private book collection burned to ashes on his back lawn. No-one was ever caught for these crimes. There were suspects of course. Disgruntled ex-employees. Former inmates. Perhaps even a naïve and young orderly studying psychiatry at the University of Manchester. But the police failed to ever nail down a perpetrator.

I am an old man now and my mind is not as sharp as it once was. Nevertheless, I will recount the horror as full as I can and maybe then you will give up this investigation of yours. Once a month the staff and inmates at Byron took a trip into the countryside as a reward for good behaviour so that everyone could benefit from some good old fashioned fresh air. Spencer was exempt from these trips of course, due to his physical limitations and would have normally stayed behind with Dr Monroe whilst the rest of the house went out. However, with Monroe gone none of the staff were willing to stay behind to see to Spencer’s needs and instead a tray of food was to be left outside of his attic door. The staff and inmates then left the house for a few days.

I had made it clear that my college studies needed some serious tending too and I would be unable to work at Byron House any longer. I left not long after Dr Monroe passed away and never stayed in contact with Jane, Williams, or anyone else from the house. Confident that one of the fellows I now shared my student accommodation with in Manchester could provide me with an alibi should I have need of one, I took the train from Piccadilly to Eastwich. I then took the last bus to Barton, and I waited for Williams, Jane and the various inmates they looked after to leave the premises and allow me to make a concealed entry. It was with a heavy heart and a troubled mind that I once again ascended those lonely, sinister steps that led to the attic. By this time, the nightmares had returned, only now they featured the tormented spirit of Monroe, crying to me from beyond the grave. I admit to you fully that I may have been in the grip of madness myself at this time, for what sane man would have done what I did on that chill February night? I was convinced that the fate of all mankind was at stake. That Leng, and Yuggoth, and Carcosa, were all very much real and that the Old Ones waited patiently in their ancient prisons to descend once more upon the Earth. I cannot say to you that I do not still believe these things, but that is my burden, not yours.

As I summed up all the courage I could muster and stood before the door, a voice slurred forth from beyond. To this day I cannot say if I truly heard these words or if they just appeared in my mind, but those liquid syllables, slimy and slopping, spoke to me and I dared not answer back.

‘You, done well. The key mine. Monroe denied. Killed him. Called it down from the stars. Ritual. Soul is nectar to the gods. It fed of him. Elder Ones feast now. Monroe burns. Body returning. Freedom. Your help. You’re next’.

My head spun with confusion and my heart pounded with fear. In one mad burst of fury, I kicked down the door and gazed upon that which had once been Jonathan Spencer. What did I see? It’s difficult to truly describe with justifiable detail. But what I did see caused me to flee the attic in a fit of howling madness and return with petrol and matches. Whatever it was, I was convinced that only the purifying touch of fire could erase its horrid monstrosity from the world.

For floundering on the attic floor there laid a vast mass of gelatinous rotting fungoid flesh, quivering under the weight of its own hideousness. Parts of it lay splashed upon the ceiling and the walls, but the bulk laid upon the bare attic floor in bubbling pools. Unblinking, bulbous eyes rolled around the shuddering mound before locking upon me with the intensity of a dying star. Appendages and pseudo-appendages formed and spurted up from within, only to collapse into mounds of hideous proto-plasmic tissue that continued to squirm of their own accord. I think I saw a face, or at least the parts of a face crawling somewhere upon the surface of that blasphemous bulk. It was a rancid thing that had labored under the curse of Leng for more than half a century. A blob of squirming meat that was the laughing, gibbering, mocking form of Jonathan Spencer. Inmate number thirteen. The Shambler in the attic.

Credit: Nick Lowe

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