Haggopian and Other Stories

“Now see here—” Harry began, irrational alarm and irritation building in him, welling inside.

Möhrsen’s attitude, however, changed on the instant. “A myth, a superstition, a fairy story!” he cried, holding out his hands in the manner of a conjurer who has nothing up his sleeve. “After all, what is a stone but a stone?”

“We’ll have to be going,” Julia said in a faint voice. Harry noticed how she leaned on him, how her hand trembled as she clutched his arm.

“Yes,” he told their wretched host, “I’m afraid we really must go.”

“But you have not seen the beautiful books!” Möhrsen protested. “Look, look—” Down from a shelf he pulled a pair of massive antique tomes and opened them on the table. They were full of incredible, dazzling, illuminated texts; and despite themselves, their feelings of strange revulsion, Harry and Julia handled the ancient works and admired their great beauty.

“And this book, and this.” Möhrsen piled literary treasures before them. “See, are they not beautiful? And now you are glad you came, yes?”

“Why, yes, I suppose we are,” Harry grudgingly replied.

“Good, good! I will be one moment—some refreshment—please look at the books. Enjoy them…” And Möhrsen was gone, shuffling quickly out of the door and away into the gloom.

“These books,” Julia said as soon as they were alone. “They must be worth a small fortune!”

“And there are thousands of them,” Harry answered, his voice awed and not a little envious. “But what do you think of the old boy?”

“He—frightens me,” she shuddered. “And the way he smells!”

“Ssh!” He held a finger to his lips. “He’ll hear you. Where’s he gone, anyway?”

“He said something about refreshment. I certainly hope he doesn’t think I’ll eat anything he’s prepared!”

“Look here!” Harry called. He had moved over to a bookshelf near the window and was fingering the spines of a particularly musty-looking row of books. “Do you know, I believe I recognise some of these titles? My father was always interested in the occult, and I can remember—”

“The occult?” Julia echoed, cutting him off, her voice nervous again. He had not noticed it before, but she was starting to look her age. It always happened when her nerves became frazzled, and then all the makeup in the world could not remove the stress lines.

“The occult, yes,” he replied. “You know, the ‘Mystic Arts’, the ‘Supernatural’, and what have you. But what a collection! There are books here in Old German, in Latin, Dutch—and listen to some of the titles:

“De Lapide Philosophico…De Vermis Mysteriis…Othuum Omnicia…Liber Ivonis…Necronomicon.” He gave a low whistle, then: “I wonder what the British Museum would offer for this lot? They must be near priceless!”

“They are priceless!” came a guttural gloating cry from the open door. Möhrsen entered, bearing a tray with a crystal decanter and three large crystal glasses. “But please, I ask you not to touch them. They are the pride of my whole library.”

The old man put the tray upon an uncluttered corner of the table, unstoppered the decanter, and poured liberal amounts of wine. Harry came to the table, lifted his glass, and touched it to his lips. The wine was deep, red, sweet. For a second he frowned, then his eyes opened in genuine appreciation. “Excellent!” he declared.

“The best,” Möhrsen agreed, “and almost one hundred years old. I have only six more bottles of this vintage. I keep them in the catacombs. When you are ready you shall see the catacombs, if you so desire. Ah, but there is something down there that you will find most interesting, compared to which my books are dull, uninteresting things.”

“I don’t really think that I care to see your—” Julia began, but Möhrsen quickly interrupted.

“A few seconds only,” he pleaded, “which you will remember for the rest of your lives. Let me fill your glasses.”

The wine had warmed her, calming her treacherous nerves. She could see that Harry, despite his initial reservations, was now eager to accompany Möhrsen to the catacombs.

“We have a little time,” Harry urged. “Perhaps—?”

“Of course,” the old man gurgled, “time is not so short, eh?” He threw back his own drink and noisily smacked his lips, then shepherded his guests out of the room, mumbling as he did so: “Come, come—this way—only a moment—no more than that.”

And yet again they followed him, this time because there seemed little else to do; deeper into the gloom of the high-ceilinged corridor, to a place where Möhrsen took candles from a recess in the wall and lit them; then on down two, three flights of stone steps into a nitrous vault deep beneath the ruins; and from there a dozen or so paces to the subterranean room in which, reclining upon a couch of faded silk cushions, Möhrsen’s revelation awaited them.