“Not in that kind of thing, Mr. Corelli. Junk is one thing, but this…”
“Aw, Jack, c’mon, can’t you see the humor of this whole situation?”—laughed the heavy-set man behind the luxurious desk, puffing at his cigar. “I can see the poor nuts… surrounded by all their occult garbage, reading from their useless books, that crazy Arab no doubt reciting the Necronomicon or some such crap! Ha! And no doubt encouraged because nothing happened when their instruments succeeded in opening the box, that lunatic collector, Dr. Carl Ericson, had the Iraqui creep read from the Arabic text of the Necrotic Book as soon as they got the thing open. Jeez, they even had three rats in cages around the book, as if the book could have affected them! The idiots never realized that the necrotic powers of the book composed by Tomeron, that renegade priest of the corpse-eating cult of Leng, do not act upon him who touches it, or on those around it! Hey, Jack, you look pale… I bet you yourself do not know how the thing acts!”
“Mr. Corelli, do you know what powers are behind that demon book? Do you understand what makes it work?”—the smaller man shuddered.
“No, Jack, not precisely—but then, I don’t know exactly how this watch works”—Corelli pointed at his expensive digital wristwatch—“or what makes a jet fly, or how acid consumes a man’s head. And I don’t know how the H-bomb works, either—but let me assure you, old boy, I wouldn’t hesitate using any of those things if necessary, available, and convenient… You don’t have to be a mechanic to drive an automobile. It was fortunate that the old chink told us all we needed to know about that crazy book before he died—he must have really hated the guy that did him in. Those collectors are something else! No, Jack, I don’t understand the damn book, and I’m no mechanic… but I know how to drive a car, and how that book must be used!”
“But this is different, this is not at all like a car, a flask of acid, or a bomb—there is something devilish about it, Mr. Corelli. I don’t like it!” Davis shuddered visibly, and seemed to become even smaller for a moment.
“Aw, don’t be a fool, old boy. I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you. You have too much imagination! Here, you can look at this article—I think you will be able to figure out for yourself exactly how and when and where our little toy took effect. Look…”
Carlo Corelli turned the newspaper around, and pointed at several paragraphs in the report of the strange deaths which had shocked the Boston community that morning. Davis read, feeling a deep chill inside, in spite of himself:
The condition of the two bodies was described by the janitor who discovered them as having suffered partial decomposition, “puss-like rotting,” although the unusual condition was apparently localized in specific areas. Dr. Ericson’s body exhibited the puzzling condition on the sides of the head—particularly the ears, which seemed to have melted away, along with adjacent areas of the skull and the brain—while his butler showed similar decomposition in the mouth area, as well as on the sides of his head.
According to Jim Martin, the janitor, the butler’s mouth had completely rotted away, exposing parts of the jaw and mandible bones. The police have refused to comment on the Martin story, or to allow examination of the remains by members of the press. The officer in charge of the investigation also refused to indicate whether or not the autopsy reports would be made public.
Dr. Ericson owned a valuable collection of occult and rare books. The presence of gaps in the shelves of the room where the bodies were found has led some friends to speculate on theft as a possible motive, although the evidence for foul play is not clear, since the cause of death has not been determined, much less any possible weapon. The possibility of acid has been suggested, although Martin rejects this explanation, insisting that the heads of the victims looked as if they had burst from inside, which is patently absurd. He also admitted having had several drinks earlier that evening.
Jack Davis had paled considerably while reading the report, and now stood up, his face as gray as his unkempt beard, only to stagger and grab hold of the lamp-post decorating a corner of the room, for support.
“My God, Mr. Corelli, the same as with the other—there must be things that are truly unspeakable, horrors that cannot be tolerated by a human brain or heard by a human ear… this is sheer madness… this is more than madness… if I hadn’t seen that other one with my own eyes… Gawd, Corelli, how can you be so calm? I don’t… I don’t want to have anything more to do with this kind of thing… no more!” Davis’s eyes protruded slightly as he addressed the plump man sitting at the gold and onyx desk, peacefully puffing at his cigar.
“Aw, Jack, c’mon! Too much imagination, I tell you. And besides, surely you haven’t forgotten your daughter, have you? Cynthia Davis is such a pretty girl, such a little innocent birdie… Now, we wouldn’t like for anything like this to happen to little Cindy, would we, eh, Jack? Sit down, old boy, and calm down.”
Davis remained standing for a moment, then collapsed on his chair as if all his strength had left him. He was a broken man, and a resigned look appeared on his face.
“Did… did… did the thing… come back?”—he asked with a tremulous voice.
“Yup, never fails!” laughed Corelli, and opened a large drawer in his desk. “Here, buddy-boy.” His thick, bejeweled fingers removed a large black box, with an ornate design on the top. “Just like the old chink said—look!”
Jack Davis recoiled in horror as his boss removed from the inside of the black box the smaller box he knew so well, the hellish Pandora’s box of the demented Tomeron the Decayed, with all its waxen seals intact.
“Here, Jack, take it…”
“Please, Mr. Corelli, I’m afraid, dammit, I’m scared, hell, aren’t you human—doesn’t this thing bother you? Such things should not be! Please, Mr. Corelli, couldn’t someone else?…”
“Enough! Basta!” Corelli’s fist slammed on the top of his desk. “Don’t you be a fool, Davis! This has been a most profitable enterprise for both of us—you know I can’t use anyone else. You have the connections and the reputation as a dealer in kook books. No one else would do. Here, take that crazy toy—c’mon, it won’t bite you. And I know you can’t read Arabic, so you are pretty safe, even if curiosity got the best of you—not that I think you’d ever open the little box! You’d rather open your own coffin, huh? Ha! Take it, and perhaps I won’t have to give your little Cindy a personal visit, not yet, anyway!” He winked an eye and flashed a lascivious smile.
Visibly shaken, Jack Davis accepted the odd-looking box with the waxen seals with obvious repugnance, and immediately proceeded to wrap it with the newspaper pages on the desk, as if anxious to avoid further physical contact with the instrument of death and madness it contained.
Corelli laughed loudly. “My, Jack, old boy, one would think I had asked you to finger a snake! Well, you’ll get over it, won’t you? Yeah—well, those crazy book freaks do get good stuff, you know? The quality of the latest batch was the best ever. The poor nuts will do anything to get the book they want. Well, to each his fetish, no, Jack? Gimme good ol’ greenbacks any time, and I’ll give you the world… how about you, Jack—what is your fetish?”
Davis did not reply, sullenly staring straight ahead.