Indiana Jones and the Nightmares of Lovecraft...Part I

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Posted by The Spatsman from spider-wd064.proxy.aol.com on October 02, 2000 at 04:45:45:

"Irene?"
The lady at the small and unassuming desk turned around.
She was obviously engaged in her never-ending quest of conquering the immense stacks of unorganized files and papers that constantly threatened what little space she had in the tiny office. Her eyes glinted with the impatience of having that vendetta interupted.
"Yes, Dr. Jones?"
Dr. Jones fidgeted a moment, his crooked smile speaking
an apology.
"I know you're busy, but this package...was this in todays mail?"
Irene squinted at the paper-bound bundle in his hands.
"It was on my desk this morning when I arrived, just as it is. No stamp or return address. Why, is it ticking?" She grinned.
Jones chuckled. "Not this time. It does state 'handle with care' on it, though. I just wondered if it was a flat fruitcake or something."
Irene shook her head with a laugh.
"It's October, Dr. Jones. No fruitcake until December."
The professor turned back into his office and left Irene to her
herculean efforts. He picked his way through myriad statues, weapons and pottery until he found his tiny, cluttered desk and sat to the best of his ability. Staring at the package, he decided he didn't like it. He hadn't liked packages since that spring. He shook off the distaste, however, and he began to tear away at the paper wrapping, reminding himself that his father was lecturing in Baltimore. As the layer of paper fell away, a large sheet of metal appeared, with a finish that desperatly required a polish.
Jones stood as he finished unwrapping the object, and he found
himself scratching his head as he stared at what lay before him.
It appeared to be a book, a book bound in thin sheets of tarnished silver.
A simple glance at the side of the strange text gave the professor cause to believe that the book might be entirely silver, as no vellum or parchment was visible. The notion that each sheet of the text might be silver was rather unlikely to Jones, however, so he retrieved his padded foreceps so as to give each layer of the book the delicate treatment one always accorded ancient papers. Only after he had the foreceps firmly in hand did he spot the lock on the text, a fastening that secured the book cover to cover. The large keyhole yawned at him.
As he gave the paper wrapping a second check for a key, his eyes fell upon a manilla folder, which lay partially hidden under the book.
He slid the folder out onto his desk, clearing away small greco-roman lamps and norse cloak brooches. The folder contained only three papers, two of which were handwritten, the other a modern city roadmap.
Jones loosened the half-Windsor knot at his throat and sat.
Once his spectacles were rescued from the interior pocket of his tweed coat and perched on the bridge of his nose, he began to read the handwritten message. The writing was sloppy, but the lettering was round enough for him to to pick his way through it;

Dr. Jones,
My most sincere apologies for
involving you in this situation, but
your reputation for the safe aquisition
and recovery of historic antiquities,
as well as the convenience of your
present location, has led me
to the conclusion that you are my best
hope. The enigmatic text you have recieved
is the hinge on which this present
conflict swings. The delusional claims
of the books' subject matter are my fault
entirely, it would seem. Having liberally
sprinkled fantastic images in my writing,
I have inadvertantly created a fringe
element amongst my readers, an element
that believes my work to have some
anchoring to a core truth, which is
entirely untrue. To say that such claims
border on madness is, I believe, rather
gentle to be completely accurate.
My readers are, for the most part,
thoroughly decent people, and some even
pursue their education to the highest level.
My constant references to ancient and
somewhat unfamiliar cultures has proven to
be a fertile ground for readers to debate,
and it was one reader, a Mr. Thomas Crayton,
who sent me the silver book you have now.
His conclusions were that the book was a
seventeenth century creation, containing
a series of codes designed to translate
the ancient carvings of the Pictish nations
into a viable language. The choice of silver
and the success of the unknown authors
attempts are unknown, and I believe that
the book should recieve further academic
attention. I find it difficult to believe
such a potentially groundbreaking work
could end up in the hands of a rare book
dealer, but stranger things have been known.
I would have presented this piece
to you personally, were I not so harassed,
yet the fringe element I mentioned previously
have convinced themselves that the text is
actually a grimoire or a religious writing,
and my safety has been threatened. Should you
wish to remain uninvolved in this matter,
I have provided a roadmap with directions,
which should be useful in locating my home
in Providence. I am quite aware of the
inconvenience this must have caused. Therefore,
I have wired funds in the amount of $500 to
your department, and I would be more then
happy to fund any projects your department
may wish to pursue in the future. Any
information you can provide or assistance
you can render would be most gratefully
appreciated.
Regretfully,
Howard Philips Lovecraft
Providence, Rhode Island

Jones sighed and leaned back, removing his glasses.
"There's no key, Howard," he mumbled, "You forgot the key."
He considered the letter, and city map of Providence, with Mr. Lovecraft's address indicated in pencil.
He wasn't an antique appraiser, and he certainly wasn't for sale. His office was small, though.
Granted, the offer of funds for future projects was tempting, but it left Jones with the feeling that he would be catering to rich eccentricities if he accepted. It would be too close to what a particular french archaeologist once refered to as being "...fallen from the purer faith."
His office was small, though.
Providence wasn't that far, and he knew a couple of profs that could give the text a thorough looking. All things considered, he should at least help dispell some of the superstition the book had bred...and his office was so small.
Jones rubbed his temples. Well, he thought, at least the package wasn't from Venice.




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