Strange Eons by Robert Bloch Read Free Book Online Page A

dim and it took Keith a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness; the lamp on the desk had been turned down to low. Waverly sat in a big chair at the far corner, his left foot resting on a hassock and encased in a plaster cast. Despite the stifling warmth he wore a longsleeved woolen bathrobe and a neck-scarf, but that portion of his pale features not covered by the beard bore no trace of perspiration.
    He nodded as Keith entered. “Thanks for coming—it’s good to see you.”
    “Sorry I can’t return the compliment.” Keith surveyed his host. “You look like you’ve had a rough time of it. And you sound awful.”
    “Never mind, I’ll be all right now that you’re here. Help yourself to a drink if you like.”
    “No thanks.” Keith seated himself in a chair beside the desk. “I’m not staying long—you’re supposed to take it easy.”
    “Then I’ll be brief.” Waverly blinked at his visitor from behind the dark glasses. “Did you bring the package?”
    Keith extracted the brown envelope from his jacket.
    “Good.” Waverly nodded his approval. “You can open it now. We’re safe here.”
    Taking a letter opener from the desktop, Keith slit the flap and extracted a yellowed oilskin, sealed at one end. Waverly watched, expressionless, as the opener slashed and the oilskin fell away, exposing a single creased sheet of folded notepaper.
    Placing the sheet on the desk, Keith unfolded it and stared down.
    “Well?” said Waverly, softly.
    “It’s some sort of map.” Keith frowned. “I can’t make out the details—the ink is faded. Mind if I turn up the lamp?”
    “The details aren’t important.” Waverly shook his head. “What I want to know is—do you recognize the handwriting?”
    Keith squinted, then looked up in surprise. “Lovecraft’s!”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Of course. Nobody could duplicate his penmanship. I saw specimens in that book you showed me, Marginalia. Didn’t that include a map too?”
    “Yes. A street plan of Arkham.” Waverly cleared his throat, then chuckled hoarsely. “Can you imagine drawing up such a thing, inventing all those street names and then lettering them in just as though they actually existed? The man had a strange sense of humor.”
    “You think he did this as a put-on?”
    “Of course.” Waverly peered at Keith through the dark lenses. “Remember the letter he wrote giving another author permission to use him as a character in a story? He even included signatures of imaginary witnesses, written in German, Arabic and Chinese. Then HPL compounded the fake by writing a sequel to the other author’s story—killing him off. He even used his own home in Providence as the setting, just to make it seem more authentic. Lovecraft was an inveterate and elaborate practical joker. Once you realize this, it explains everything.”
    “I don’t follow you,” Keith said. He picked up the creased sheet of notepaper for a closer inspection, but Waverly’s words distracted him.
    “That picture you bought—Upton painted it, but that didn’t inspire Lovecraft’s story. I think it was the other way around. The story was done first, and then HPL had Upton illustrate what he’d written. How he would have laughed if he knew the way we were taken in! For a while he almost had us believing in ghouls and all that morbid nonsense in the Cthulhu Mythology he invented.” Waverly chuckled again. “Don’t you see? It’s all a hoax.”
    The air beneath the beamed ceiling was close. From somewhere down the hall came the faint sound of footsteps—probably Peters had returned from the pharmacy with the prescription.
    Keith ignored the sound, staring at the figure seated in the shadows. “You’re forgetting one thing,” he said. “Santiago and Beckman were murdered. It can’t be a hoax.”
    “Yes it can.” Waverly’s voice rose suddenly, sharp and shrill. “Peters—get the map!”
    Keith turned.
    The black man advanced upon him from the doorway. He