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The Lovecraft Affair, Chapter 4
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
As soon as possible Illya made a beeline for his rooms and with exasperation bordering on anger he tore the bowtie from his neck and slumped against the window frame. The fading light through the glass did little to warm him or dispel the aura of fear and loathing he had for this place.
He watched as two robed figures entered via a coal cellar into the basement each carrying relics Illya was hard pressed to identify. One looked to be a chalice the second was most certainly a knife but of which era it belonged he could only guess.
Vague wraithlike figures moved in the unseasonable mist as his eyes wandered to the perimeter of the grounds and he found himself peering into the encroaching gloom. A noise filled his head, soft voices almost like whispers echoed across his skin as he fought a sudden malaise and clutched at the white painted frame. His skin crawled as he heard the noise coalesce into a voice one that chanted his name. More arcane words and clearly his name invoking Yog Sathooth to come through the gates. He understood more than he should the meaning of the words invoking the ancient God’s, the Old Ones through the gate. The great destroyer of men, breaking the barriers between the worlds to come into his own and reign supreme once more. His acolytes burning in a pit of desire for his great tentacles to wrap around them and hold them secure in his arms. And Illya felt nauseas and elated at the same moment.
He shook his head desperately trying to clear the cobwebs from his foggy brain and felt the ground beneath his feet pitch and yaw as he fell heavily to his knees. He clutched his head trying to stop the whispering, to ease the sound as bile rose in his throat.
The door opened, robed figures came forward and loomed over him one carrying an ancient book and with fear filled eyes he recognised the book. The Necrinomicon open and bound in human parchment. The stories of the mad Arab El Hazrid sprang to mind and he knew that this was no joke. These creatures of myth and lore existed and sought to seep into this world.
“He is succumbing.” Mr. Perkins said around a cadaverous grin.
“Yes, it will not be long now. Twilight is upon us and the ritual can begin in a few hours.”
“He will do well at the séance; already he understands the ancient incantations to free our lord and master.”
“He is of true Romany blood, we had guessed as much and that old fool Waverly.”
“What of him?” Perkins asked softly.
“So close to his own mortality that he would sacrifice this one for him.” Illya looked up and saw grey eyes bare down upon him, stripping is soul from him in a fleeting second. His bride smiled maliciously and turned on a dainty heel, the dark crimson robe flowing around her tiny frame as she exited the room, Mr. Perkins on her heel.
Illya’s world shrunk to a tiny cacoon of pain as he curled foetal on the bare wooden floor and rocked his stricken body to erase the voices.
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