Strange Eons by Robert Bloch Read Free Book Online

impulses that sought an outlet for expression. Just as he, in collecting such bizarre artifacts, fulfilled his own urge toward the fantastic.
    And such urges weren’t confined to artists, craftsmen or collectors. All humanity shared a need to indulge in flights of imagination—though their vehicles of escape were merely motion pictures, television, or comic books. Even the illiterate knew the lure of the unknown; no one who shares the human condition, however humbly, is insensitive to the eternal enigma of life and death. There is something in all of us that seeks the strange, the abnormal, the inexplicable. And in so doing, propitiates its power over our minds. It’s the hard-headed realist, the self-professed skeptic and scoffer at all mystery, who is most vulnerable to madness.
    Keith stared at his collection with new awareness. These objects he’d accumulated were not just an expression of an eccentric taste; they represented a need to surround himself with fearsome symbols until the frightening became familiar. Once accepted as commonplace, they no longer disturbed him. It was, in a way, magic; a means of overcoming inner dreads. Just as Waverly exorcised his personal demons by reading fantasy, and Lovecraft—the realization came clearly—had done so by writing.
    Keith was just freshening his drink when the phone jangled. He picked up the extension and smiled, reassured by the sound of Waverly’s voice.
    “Good evening. Did the package arrive?”
    “The envelope? Yes, it’s here.”
    “Fine. You haven’t opened it?”
    “No.”
    “Good man. Sorry I’m late in calling—I ran into problems.”
    “You sound like you have a cold.”
    “It was raining in Boston, and like a fool I didn’t bring a coat. But that’s not important. It’s my damned foot—”
    “What happened?”
    “I tripped coming down the ramp after we landed here. Broke my bloody ankle.”
    “Good God!”
    “Serves me right for being in such a hurry. Flight attendants got me into an ambulance and over to Dr. Holton’s office. He took X-rays and put on a cast. Drove me home himself. I can’t get around without crutches, but Holton is sending a practical nurse to look after me for a few days.”
    “Then we won’t be seeing each other tonight.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m all right. Come on over and bring the envelope.”
    “Can’t we get together tomorrow instead? You need some rest.”
    “Look, I think I’ve found the answer to all this, and I want you to hear it before I lose my voice entirely. How soon can I expect you?”
    “Give me an hour.”
    “I’ll be waiting.
    The night air was oppressively warm and still. Keith loosened his jacket as he drove along Melrose, then turned south into a side street where old frame bungalows rose boxlike from the shadows of weedy and untended lawns.
    Waverly’s house was larger and better preserved than its neighbors, set well back from the sidewalk in a fenced yard, but in the moonless dark it looked no more inviting than the surrounding structures. Keith parked behind a white van, puzzling at its presence until he remembered Waverly’s mention of a practical nurse.
    Thus he was prepared when, in response to his ring, the front door opened and a stranger’s voice asked him to enter.
    Moving into the hall he confronted a smiling young black man in a leisure suit. “Mr. Keith?” said the nurse. “I’m Frank Peters.”
    “Pleased to meet you.” Keith lowered his voice. “How’s the patient?”
    “A little under the weather. He’s been taking some of those pain pills the doctor left, but his throat’s giving him a hard time. I phoned in a prescription for cough-medicine—now that you’re here I’ll run down to the pharmacy and pick it up.”
    “Good idea.”
    “He’s waiting for you in the study. Try not to let him talk too much.”
    Keith nodded and started down the hall as the young man left, closing the front door behind him. “See you later,” he said.
    The study was