Gathered Dust and Others by W. H. Pugmire Read Free Book Online Page A

I’m just slightly disappointed with the house – I expected it to feel more haunted.  I mean, the previous two tenants were so queer, no one really knew what Harrod did with his private time – he seems to have spent so much effort in not being alone in this house, which is so suggestive.  He used to hint that there were secret passageways beneath the house or some such thing, but he never showed these tunnels to anyone because he protested that if he did they would no longer be ‘secret.’  He was rarely alone: film crews made up of students from Miskatonic, constant houseguests, visiting fans who were treated to tea and tall tales.  His entire persona was founded on performance, and the show never ended; even his death was pure theatre.”  He smiled wickedly.  “And then your enigmatic uncle did quite the reverse and never entertained, except apparently yourself when you were an adolescent.  He seems a very strange old duck, your uncle.”
    “Uncle Silas was a loner, certainly.  A strange man, as you say, but not, in the final assessment, an interesting one.  He either made or inherited a lot of money when he was young; I never knew the story of his wealth.  I certainly didn’t expect him to leave everything to me, but perhaps he didn’t notice how critical I had become of him as I matured.  He knew I loved this house and its library, and he encouraged my early efforts at writing.  His big love in life was watching horror films, and that was fine when I was a kid, but…”  I looked at him and returned his smile.  “How amusing, though, for you to speak of how odd my relative was.  I’ve read your namesake’s book, with its brief biographical introduction.  The original Randolph Carter – now there’s an enigma!  A mystic, people called him, but what exactly does that mean?  Was he some kind of occultist, as Obediah Carter is rumored to have been?”
    The young creature’s voice was very quiet in reply.  “Obediah was much more than that.”  He stood regarding me with a peculiar expression on his face as the room’s soft light glimmered on his black spectacles.  Reaching into his shoulder bag, he produced a small book that was bound in red cloth, and he stared at the thing for some silent moments before handing it to me.  “That’s the diary of Randolph W. Carter, written before he became middle-aged and disillusioned, before the incident with Julia’s ancestor, with whom Carter lived and studied until the night of mystery and doom.  You look lost, Hayward.  I thought you were familiar with that other Randolph’s history.”
    “I know some of the legend from studying your family history for fictional purposes.  There’s not really much solid biographical information on him, although he supposedly hinted of things in his short fiction.  I’ve never bothered reading his novels, which are rumored to be poor and unimaginative.”
    “No, they’re fascinating, and proved popular in his day.  His current reputation is stupidly tied to the mystery of his disappearance and little else, although his books are mostly back in print.  I grew up in a family of staid Bostonians who were slightly embarrassed by family ties to Arkham and its ‘mystics.’  Family legend hints that no one paid much attention to Randy’s estate, although there are now doubts as to how vigorously the family was sought by the queer fellow in New Orleans who had been named in the will as literary and financial executor.  Randy’s early work was a shunned subject when I grew up because it’s tied too intimately to his link with magick and madness, and with Arkham.  They don’t like Arkham in Boston, and the family was never forgiven for returning here and disappearing somewhere near the ruins of the family’s ancestral mansion just outside of town.  You’ve noticed that that diary is almost exclusively a record of time spent in cemeteries.  You’re looking for mention of Old Dethshill Cemetery,