Free Cthulhu Lives!: An Eldritch Tribute to H. P. Lovecraft by Greg Stolze, Tim Dedopulos, John Reppion, Lynne Hardy, Gabor Csigas, Gethin A. Lynes

Horstowe, though he couldn’t tell if his house had been built by then. The eighteenth century proved an elusive era, but a plan drawn up in 1667 to document the re-building of London after the Great Fire showed that his district had then been a rural area outside the city.
    On a whim, he tried looking further back, and got lucky with a fifteenth-century charter delineating the various farming interests in the area. Right where his house now stood was a forested area called Hobstone Wood.
    A frisson ran down his spine. “Stone” was a fairly common place name element in English. Hobstone might be a corruption of Hob’s Town. But what if it really meant Stone in this instance? Especially since the name was attached to a wood, and not a town. Then there was the other element: Hob. An old name for the Devil. Was he reading too much into things, or was he on the verge of something?
    He checked his watch, and was amazed to find that it was after three. He stood up, stretching to relieve the cramp in his back and legs. Then he finally noticed the message his stomach had been sending him for some time. Another skipped breakfast, another missed lunch. He recalled there being a cafeteria in the basement of the library, so he headed down there.

    ♦

    James was standing with a loaded tray, looking for a free table, when a voice hailed him.
    “Jamie lad, over here.” Angus, flame-haired and bearded, was the rising star of the chess club. He’d once beaten James in sixteen moves despite starting the game without his queen. Prodigious drinker, too. James sat down opposite him.
    “Wild night, Friday, eh?”
    “What? Oh, yes,” James replied. Angus had been at Paul’s party. It might’ve been him who kicked off the nonsense with the tequila shots. James attacked his cottage pie.
    “Did ye get off wi’ Mel, then?”
    James stopped in mid-mouthful and grinned.
    “Oh aye,” said Angus, sceptically. He was from Bedfordshire, but claimed Scottish nationality on the basis of distant ancestry. His accent was a bit too forced – and had a tendency to vanish when he was excited.
    A thought struck James. “You’re doing physics, aren’t you?”
    “Aye, ye ken verra well.”
    “So could you do me a favour?”
    “Mebbe.”
    “I need to borrow a Geiger counter.” If that stone was radioactive, it would be good to know. Maybe he could sue his landlord for damages and never have to worry about his student loan ever again.
    Angus’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “What,” he asked slowly, “would ye be wantin’ wi’ a Geiger counter?”
    “Oh, the usual. Plus a five minute crash course on using it.”
    “The usual, he says. D’ye think we hand them oot like sweets?”
    “No, but you’ve got one? In your department, I mean.”
    “Aye...”
    “And could you, er, borrow one? In theory?”
    “Ye can borrow anything in theory, if naebody sees ye stuff it in yer rucksack.”
    “Well, then?”
    “Well, what?”
    “Can I borrow a Geiger counter?”
    Angus had a well-developed sense of mischief. James waited for it to over-ride his good judgment.
    “Ach, OK,” Angus said at last, “but it’ll cost ye.”
    “How much?”
    “Bottle of tequila.”
    It had been him. “Deal. This afternoon?”
    “Nae chance. Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, the green by St Michael’s. Jesus, I sound like I’m in a Le Carre novel. Come alone. Make sure ye’re no followed, and pay in advance. Got it?”
    “Got it.”
    “And return it in twenty-four hours or ye’re a dead man.”
    Angus left, shaking his head. James finished his meal and went back upstairs. This time he went after newspaper records. How often had his street been mentioned in the press? Rarely, it turned out, and mostly regarding matters of no great significance. After being lured down a few dead-ends however, he found something interesting from 1944. The headline read Germans Dropping Chemical Bombs?
    One night during the Little Blitz – the Luftwaffe’s attempt,