Free The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler Page A

how you like to wear them.” Doyle leaned over and dropped them by Lovecraft’s inert body. “I thought they might . . . make things easier.” Doyle felt a curdling in his stomach at the thought of doing this all without Lovecraft’s aid. The man’s intellect and knowledge of occult matters might help to put the pieces together. Without him . . .
    “Thank you.” The words hung in the air, childlike.
    It was the first time Doyle had ever heard Lovecraft utter those words. “You’re very welcome, Howard.”
    “I’m afraid . . .” Lovecraft shifted “ . . . that they won’t do me much good.” He lurched out of the shadows, tied in a straitjacket stained with vomit and food. His ink-black hair, normally pasted to his scalp and parted with razor precision, hung greasily into his deeply sunken eyes. Patchy stubble dotted his cheeks. He tilted his head, doglike, taking Doyle’s measure. “Arthur.”
    “How . . . how are you feeling?”
    “Marvelous. Can’t complain.”
    Doyle could not determine the level of damage to Lovecraft’s mind, nor could he interpret the peculiar expression on his face. “I’ve come here to help you, Howard. And in turn, I want you to help me.”
    “Really?” Lovecraft stared into Doyle’s eyes as if keen to look through him.
    “What I’m about to tell you may come as a shock, Howard. Duvall is dead.”
    Lovecraft’s breathing quickened. “You’re lying.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Lovecraft worked his way back into the shadows, away from Doyle. “What the hell do you want?”
    “I know it wasn’t an accident. Something was taken from the Hall of Relics. A book. An important book.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Of course you do. This is your field—”
    “Get out of here. Get away from me.” Lovecraft scuttled farther back.
    “Duvall was killed for this book, I know it.”
    “I don’t know about any book. Guard,” Lovecraft shouted. “Guard!”
    Doyle took Lovecraft by the shoulders and shook him. “Duvall had a map in his office—”
    “Don’t touch me! Get away from me!”
    Doyle shook him harder. “Howard, what are the secrets of Enoch?”
    Lovecraft let loose a high-pitched shriek. He tore himself from Doyle’s grasp and slammed his body against the door. Then he whirled around and stared at Doyle. “Who are you? Why are you using his face, damn you? Show yourself!” Lovecraft crumpled to the floor. “Why don’t you kill me? Just kill me . . .”
    “No, Howard, it’s Arthur. Arthur Conan Doyle.”
    Lovecraft scrambled across the floor in a pathetic attempt to escape. “No, no.”
    Suddenly, Doyle understood. He crossed the room and turned Lovecraft’s face toward him, holding it there.
    Lovecraft moaned.
    “No. Listen to me, Howard. Duvall’s last words were: ‘There’s someone in my mind.’ Howard, tell me. Who’s after us? Who’s framing you? Who stole the Book?”
    Lovecraft suddenly looked as if a pinprick of light had pierced the end of his dark tunnel.
    “You are H. P. Lovecraft,” Doyle insisted. “And I am Arthur Conan Doyle. And you know what the truth is!”
    “They’re in my mind.” It was almost a gasp of relief. Tears slid down Lovecraft’s cheeks. “They’re in my mind, Arthur. Help me!”
    “They won’t take you,” Doyle said softly. “I’m here. They can’t beat us. Your mind is your own. You are Howard Phillips Lovecraft. We’ve faced darker than this, you and I.”
    Lovecraft’s teeth chattered, though his raging had subsided. “The Arcanum.”
    Doyle nodded. “Yes, the Arcanum.”
    Lovecraft shivered like a broken child. “Is this real? I don’t know what’s real.”
    Doyle slapped Lovecraft hard across the face. Lovecraft’s head jerked, and a welt rose on his face. He turned back, furious, but his eyes were sane.
    “That is real,” Doyle offered.
    “Arthur?”
    “Yes, Howard?”
    Lovecraft started to cry. Doyle patted his shoulder awkwardly. “You all left,” he gasped,